Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Three Girls from School
By L.T. Meade
Illustrations by Percy Tarrant
Published by W and R Chambers, Ltd, London, Edinburgh.
This edition dated 1907.

Three Girls from School, by L.T. Meade.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
THREE GIRLS FROM SCHOOL, BY L.T. MEADE.

CHAPTER ONE.

LETTERS.

Priscilla Weir, Mabel Lushington, and Annie Brooke were all seated
huddled up close together on the same low window-sill.  The day was a
glorious one in the beginning of July.  The window behind the girls was
open, and the softest of summer breezes came in and touched their young
heads, playing with the tumbled locks of hair of different shades,
varying from copper-colour to dark, and then to brightest gold.

Priscilla was the owner of the dark hair; Mabel possessed the
copper-colour, Annie Brooke the gold.  All three girls looked much about
the same age, which might have been anything from sixteen to eighteen.
Priscilla was perhaps slightly the youngest of the trio.  She had
dark-grey, thoughtful eyes; her face was pale, her mouth firm and
resolved.  It was a sad mouth for so young a girl, but was also capable
of much sweetness.  Mabel Lushington was made on a big scale.  She was
already well developed, and the copper in her lovely hair was
accompanied by a complexion of peachlike bloom, by coral lips, and
red-brown eyes.  Those lips of hers were, as a rule, full of laughter.
People said of Mabel that she was always either laughing or smiling.
She was very much liked in the school, for she was at once good-natured
and rich.

Annie Brooke was small.  She was the sort of girl who would be described
as _petite_.  Her hair was bright and pretty.  She had beautiful hands
and feet, and light-blue eyes.  But she was by no means so
striking-looking as Mabel Lushington, or so thoughtful and intellectual
as Priscilla Weir.

The post had just come in, and two of the girls had received letters.
Priscilla read hers, turned a little paler than her wont, slipped it
into her pocket, and sat very still, Mabel, on the contrary, held her
unopened letter in her lap, and eagerly began to question Priscilla.

"Whom have you heard from?  What is the matter with you?  Why don't you
divulge the contents?"

"Yes, do, Priscilla, please," said Annie Brooke, who was the soul of
curiosity.  "You know, Priscilla, you never could have secrets from your
best friends."

"I have got to leave school," said Priscilla; "there is nothing more to
be said.  My uncle has written; he has made up his mind; he says I am to
learn farming."

"Farming!" cried the other two.  "You--a girl!"

"Oh, dairy-work," said Priscilla, "and the managing of a farm-house
generally.  If I don't succeed within six months he will apprentice me,
he says, to a dressmaker."

"Oh, poor Priscilla!  But you are a lady."

"Uncle Josiah doesn't mind."

"What an old horror he must be!" said Annie Brooke.

"Yes.  Don't let us talk about it."  Priscilla jumped up, walked across
the room, and took a book from its place on the shelf.  As she did so
she turned and faced her two companions.

The room in which the three found themselves was one of the most
beautiful of the many beautiful rooms at Mrs Lyttelton's school.  The
house was always called the School-House; and the girls, when asked
where they were educated, replied with a certain modest pomposity, "At
Mrs Lyttelton's school."  Those who had been there knew the value of the
announcement, for no school in the whole of England produced such girls:
so well-bred, so thoroughly educated, so truly taught those things which
make for honour, for purity, for a life of good report.

Mrs Lyttelton had a secret known but to a few: how to develop the very
best in each girl brought under her influence.  She knew how to give
liberty with all essential restraints, and how to cultivate ambition
without making the said ambition too worldly-minded.  She was adored by
all the girls, and there were very few who did not shed tears when the
time came for them to leave the School-House.

The said School-House was situated in the most lovely part of Middlesex,
not very far from Hendon.  It was quite in the country, and commanded a
splendid view.  The house was old, with many gables, quaint old windows,
long passages, and innumerable rooms.  Each girl over fifteen had a
bedroom to herself in Mrs Lyttelton's school, and each girl over fifteen
who deserved the privilege was accorded the _entree_ to the older girls'
sitting-room.  Into this room no teacher was allowed to enter without
permission.  The room as completely belonged to the girls as though
there were no teachers in the school.  Here they could give
entertainments; here they could conduct debates; here they could lounge
and read and chatter and enjoy themselves to their hearts' delight.

The room wanted for no lack of dainty furnishing.  There were cosy nooks
in more than one corner; there were easy-chairs galore; and from the
low, old-fashioned windows could be seen the most perfect view of the
outside world.

Priscilla Weir now turned to look at this view.  She had a passionate
love for all beautiful things.  There was a dimness before her eyes.
From the view she glanced at Mabel Lushington; then she looked at Annie
Brooke.

Both girls sympathised with her; and yet, not in the way she wanted.
She turned abruptly and left the room.

When the door closed behind her Mabel immediately rose, and as she did
so the unopened letter tumbled from her lap.  Annie Brooke took it up
and handed it to her.

"How upset she is!" said Annie.

"Oh yes," replied Mabel; "but I only wish I were in her shoes.  Oh, I
know, of course, Annie, it is jolly here, and Mrs Lyttelton is a
darling; but I want to get into the big world I shall be eighteen in a
month, and it seems absurd to keep any girl at school after that age.
Aunt Henrietta is in Paris, too, and is going, I believe, to one of the
German spas by-and-by for gout treatment.  Aunt Henrietta spends the
entire year in a round of gaieties.  I'd just give the world to join
her."

"And why don't you?" asked Annie.  "A great many girls leave school at
eighteen."

"She seems determined that I shall stay on for at least another year.
It is quite nonsense.  She seems to think I am _not_ clever enough to
leave school."

"Well, you are not specially brilliant, are you, dear Lushie?" asked
Annie in that soft little voice of hers, which could nevertheless be
intensely aggravating.  "Now, for instance, prize day is close at hand--
the day after to-morrow, no less--and what prize is the fair Mabel
likely to carry off?"

"I don't care twopence for prizes," was Mabel's reply; "and I don't
specially want to be clever, if I can be beautiful.  You think I am
beautiful, don't you, Annie?"

"Oh, my dear, of course there is no denying that," said Annie.  She
looked up with admiration at her friend, and Mabel at that moment, with
an added colour in her cheeks and displaying all the charm of her lovely
figure, seemed to justify the remark.

"Why don't you read your letter?" said Annie.

"Oh, it is only from Aunt Henrietta, and she does worry me so by the
sort of lecturing tone she has taken up of late.  She is a dear, good
old thing--not so very old, either--at least she doesn't think so; but
when I know how she fritters her time and just lives for pleasure, and
pleasure only, it is aggravating to be told that I must be earnest and
embrace my opportunities, and endeavour to become really well informed;
and that, of course, I must on no account hurry from school, for
school-time is the best time; and all that sort of nonsense.  You
understand, don't you, Annie?"

"Yes," said Annie in a low voice, and with a sigh, "I quite understand.
I have had a great deal of that myself.  Uncle Horace lectures me
awfully.  I hate being lectured.  Don't you?"

"Loathe and detest it," said Mabel.

"My plan," said Annie, "is to shut my ears; then the lectures don't seem
to matter much.  Do you know how to manage that?"

"I am sure I don't," said Mabel.  "Being possessed of good hearing, I
have to listen to words when they are addressed to me, however annoying
they may happen to be."

"Oh, well," said Annie, "it is quite easy to cultivate the art of
shutting your ears.  It is done in this way.  The very moment the
lecturer begins, you fix your mind, instantly, on that thing that
captivates you most--your next new dress, for instance, or your future
lover, or something else all-absorbing.  It is possible to do this and
to keep your mind absolutely abstracted, fixed on your own delicious
thoughts, and yet your eyes may be directed to the face of the lecturer.
You try it next time, Mabel.  The very next time your aunt Henrietta
begins to talk to you of the advantages of school, you think of--of--oh,
that exalted, that exquisite time when _he_ proposes.  You won't hear a
word of the rasping talk then; not a word, I do assure you."

Mabel laughed.

"What a goose you are, Annie!" she said.  "But really, I suppose it is a
good plan."

"Once I overdid it," said Annie.  "Uncle Horace was talking on, oh! so
gently.  He was looking a little sad, too, and I knew I should have to
make my subject very absorbing not to take in his words.  So I had my
hero down on his knees, and his hand was clasping mine, and he was
talking, oh! most eloquently.  I really forgot that Uncle Horace was by,
and I burst out: `I can't marry you quite yet, Clement!'  I thought
Uncle Horace would have a fit.  He was convinced for the remainder of
that day that I had been for a short time touched by lunacy.  I
explained to him as best I could that I was only reciting something I
had learned at school; but of course he didn't believe me."

"He never understood you; that is one comfort," laughed Mabel.

"No, my dear, he didn't.  But to this day I do believe he is looking out
everywhere for my imaginary Clement.  He is convinced that I shall run
away with him some day."

Mabel was silent for a minute.  Then she said, "You are too comical,
Annie.  It is well to have your powers of imagination; but the worst of
it is that in my case I get the lectures by letter.  Oh, it's enough to
sicken one!"

"Well, read your letter--do," said Annie.

Mabel sank into the nearest chair, and languidly tearing open the thin
envelope of her aunt's letter, unfolded the sheets and began to read.
Annie's first impulse was to rise and leave the room.  She had her own
interests to see after, and Mabel would be lost to external things for a
bit.  But a sudden exclamation from her companion caused her to change
her mind.  Mabel uttered something between a groan and a laugh, and
then, tossing her aunt's voluminous sheets across to Annie, said:

"Read that letter, and just tell me if Aunt Henrietta isn't quite enough
to drive anybody mad."

"May I read it all?" asked Annie, who adored confidences, and whose
principal power in the school lay in the fact that she was more or less
in everybody's secret.

"Yes, yes; read it aloud.  I declare I have hardly taken it in, I am so
bewildered at Aunt Henrietta's point of view."

Annie accordingly picked up the sheets, put them in order, and proceeded
to read the following words:

  "`Grand Hotel, Paris, _July_ 10.

  "`My dear Mabel,--Your last extraordinary letter and your unladylike,
  and frantic desire to leave such a desirable place as Mrs Lyttelton's
  school have affected me a great deal.  You speak with great
  intemperance, my dear, and annoy me much.  You seem to forget that my
  one sole object in treating you as I do is for your good.  But really,
  after your last letter, I do not think school can be doing you much
  good, and provided you will subject yourself to a test which I am
  about to set you, I will yield to your request.  I may as well tell
  you first of all that I strongly disapprove of girls coming out too
  young.  It is quite true that many girls do enter upon life and go
  into society at eighteen years of age; but, to begin, my dear Mabel,
  you are hardly that age yet; and, to go oh, I personally consider
  eighteen too young.  At nineteen you are steadier, older, more formed.
  During that last precious twelve months between eighteen and nineteen
  you are capable of learning more than you have done in all your life
  previously.  During those months you are becoming fitted for your
  future position--'"

"Doesn't she lecture?" said Mabel.  "Didn't I tell you so?  Do go on
quickly, please, Annie.  Skip that part; I want you to come to the
test."

"I don't mean to skip a single word," said Annie.

"Well, be quick," groaned Mabel.  Annie proceeded, her level voice,
which neither rose nor fell, but kept on in a sort of even monotone,
reaching Mabel's ears, who was far too interested to allow her thoughts
to wander: "`My dear' (continued Aunt Henrietta), `on receiving your
last letter I wrote to Mrs Lyttelton; I could not reply to your letter
until I had first heard from your excellent governess.  I was pleased to
find that on the whole she gave me an admirable report of you.  She says
that she considers you a promising pupil, not especially brilliant, but
plodding and conscientious.'"

"I plodding and conscientious!" said Mabel.  "Oh, the horrid epithets!"

"Keep quiet, Mabel," said Annie.  "These are the sort of remarks that
are likely to impress your aunt Henrietta."

"Are they?" said Mabel.  "Then in that case I suppose I must endure
them."

"Well," said Annie, "let me proceed.  `Mrs Lyttelton is pleased with
you, my dear.  She says your music is up to the average, your drawing
not bad'--"

"Not bad, indeed!" burst from Mabel.  "I have a _genius_ for black and
white."

"Mrs Lyttelton evidently does not see it, Mabel.  But stop talking, and
let me go on.

  "`Your English education, dear Mabel, is, however, your weak point.
  Mrs Lyttelton considers that you have no love for the good things of
  literature or history.  This she much deplores.  She mentions in her
  letter that she thinks more of the literature prize than any other
  prize the school offers, and wishes most heartily that you should
  obtain it.  Now, my dear Mabel I make you a proposal.  Win the first
  prize for literature on the coming prize day, and I will take you from
  school.  You shall join me in Paris, and, in short, may consider
  yourself an emancipated young lady.  If, on the other hand, you do not
  win the prize, you must patiently submit to another year of education,
  at the end of which time you shall again hear from me.  Now, no more
  grumbles, my dear.  Win the prize, and you are free; lose it, and you
  remain for another year at school.'"

"There!" said Mabel; "isn't it like her?  Did you ever in all your life
hear of anything more aggravating?  She dangles liberty before my eyes,
and shows me at the same time that I can as little hope to obtain it as
to--well, to fly.  _I_ obtain the literature prize!  Oh Annie, Annie,
isn't it enough to make one mad!"

"I don't see," said Annie very gravely, "why you have not a chance of
the prize.  You have written your essay, haven't you?"

"Oh yes; I have written something."

"Of course," said Annie in a low, thoughtful tone, "you were not likely
to be keenly interested until you received this letter, but now matters
are very different.  You haven't sent in your essay, have you?"

"No; all the essay? go in after breakfast to-morrow."

"Well," said Annie, "you have got to-night."

"It is hopeless--quite hopeless," said Mabel; and she began to pace up
and down the room.

"I don't consider it so for a minute," said Annie.

"If it were not for Priscilla there would be a chance.  The only one of
us who is really clever at composition is Priscilla."

"She is the one you have to fear.  I believe that with a great deal of
pains, and perhaps just a little help from me, you could manage to do
something quite excellent."

"I can't, I can't!" said Mabel.  "There is no good trying."

Annie's eyes were very bright, and there had come vivid spots of colour
into her cheeks.

"You have got to-night," she said suddenly, "and you must not lose the
chance."

"Oh! it is useless," said Mabel.

"Leave it to me," remarked Annie.  "I will come to your room after you
go to bed to-night; I will tap twice on the wall, and you will know it
is I.  I am so sorry for you, Mabel; it is really too bad of your aunt
Henrietta."

"It is just like her," said the angry Mabel.  "She knew I could not
possibly win the prize, and so she set me this test.  Now, when I have
to write to her meekly and say, `Dear, kind Auntie,--Your Mabel came out
worst of all the girls who tried for the literature prize,' she will
write again and say, `Who was right, Mabel, you or I?'  Oh, I would give
all the world to prove her wrong!"

"I quite understand," said Annie; "I'd feel precisely the same if it
were Uncle Horace; but then, with all his faults, Uncle Horace would not
set me an impossible task.  How queer, how queer is the world; you pine
to leave school, and Priscilla Weir would give her eyes to stay!  Yet
poor Priscilla, who is almost a genius, has to go, and you, who are not
a bit of a genius, and will never appreciate the learning that is given
at the school, will have to stay."

"Yes; things are most horribly contrary," said Mabel.

"Unless I can set them right," thought Annie to herself.

There was an expression on her face which Mabel could not fathom when
she suddenly ran up to her, kissed her, and said, "Leave it to me."

CHAPTER TWO.

THE TEMPTATION.

Priscilla, when she left the girls' special sitting-room, went out into
the grounds.  She saw a group of her young companions standing on the
lawn.  She was, on the whole, a favourite in the school, particularly
with the younger girls, for she was gentle and good-natured, often
helping them with their studies and sympathising with their small
sorrows.  But now she avoided her companions, and going to a shrubbery
at one side of the grounds, paced up and down a shady walk.

Priscilla was very ambitious, and the letter she had received was the
end of everything.  She was an only child.  Her father was in India, her
mother dead.  She was left under the care of an uncle, her mother's
brother, a rough, fairly good-natured, but utterly unsympathetic person.
Priscilla's father was a clerk, with only a very small salary, in one
of the Government Houses at Madras.  He could do little more than
support himself, and Priscilla was therefore left to the care of Uncle
Josiah.  It was he who paid for her schooling, who received her during
the holidays, who gave her what clothes she possessed--in short, who
supplied what he considered her every want.

Occasionally she heard from her father; but by this time he had married
again, had one or two little children, and found it more than ever
impossible to do anything for Priscilla.  When he wrote he urged her to
make the most of her education, for when she was really properly
educated she could support herself as a governess, or a coach, or a
mistress at one of the high schools.

Priscilla was full of ambition, and the letter which she had just
received seemed at that moment like her death-blow.

"What am I to do?" she thought.  "When I am with Uncle Josiah, he and
Aunt Susan will make me nothing whatever but a household drudge.  Does
not his letter--his horrid letter--say so?"

She took it out of her pocket and read the contents:

"You have had sufficient money spent on your schooling.  You will be
eighteen your next birthday, and surely by then you can earn your
living.  I don't want you to take a post as teacher, for by all accounts
teachers are badly paid.  You can stay with us for six months and learn
dairy-work under your aunt, and how to manage a household.  There will
be plenty for a hearty lass to do in looking after the little ones and
attending to the linen, and helping your aunt, whenever you have an odd
minute, at making the children's clothes.  If you don't turn out a
success--and your aunt Susan will tell you that pretty smart--I will
apprentice you to Miss Johnson in the village, where you can learn
dressmaking--a fifty times better thing, in my opinion, than teaching.
We will expect you this day fortnight, and I will come to the station in
the spring-cart to meet you.--Your affectionate uncle, Josiah
Henderson."

Priscilla crushed up the letter, flung it from her, and stamped on it.
She was employed in this way when a voice behind caused her to turn her
head, and she saw Annie Brooke running to meet her.

"Oh Priscie, whatever is the matter?  What _are_ you killing?  You are
stamping your foot with all your might.  What poor creature has been
silly enough to offend you?"

"It is this poor creature," said Priscilla.  She lifted the mangled
letter and held it between her finger and thumb.  "It is this horror,"
she said.  "I am nearly mad.  If you had a future like mine hanging over
you, you would be off your head too."

"Oh, poor Priscie!" said Annie.  "I do sympathise--I do really.  Your
uncle must be a dreadful man.  Why, of course you must not leave school;
you are cleverer than all the rest of us put together.  Mrs Lyttelton
thinks no end of you.  She is prouder of you than of any other pupil she
possesses.  Of course you must not go."

"It is very kind of you to be so sympathetic, Annie, replied Priscilla;
person who pays for my schooling is Uncle Josiah.  He has paid for it
ever since father went back to India, and he doesn't mean to pay any
more.  He says so in this letter.  He says I am to go back to help Aunt
Susan; and if I fail in pleasing her I am to be apprenticed to a country
dressmaker.  He considers either occupation preferable to that of a
teacher.  So here I am, Annie, and no one can alter the state of
things."

"But you would give anything in the world to stay, notwithstanding your
uncle's letter?"

"Anything," cried Priscilla.  "I said just now what is true, that I
would give ten years of my life; I would be twenty-eight instead of just
eighteen, and you know what that means--all one's youth gone."

"You must be desperately in earnest," said Annie, "if you mean that, for
of course to be twenty-eight means to be quite an old maid.  I do pity
you, poor Priscilla!"

Priscilla did not reply.  She walked on a little faster.  She wanted
Annie to leave her, but instead of doing this, Annie Brooke slipped her
hand through Priscilla's arm.

"Have you written your prize essay yet?" she said.

Priscilla brought herself back to the subject of the essay with an
effort.

"Oh yes," she replied; "I finished it last night."

"I suppose it is very good?" said Annie.

"I thought it was at the time," answered Priscilla; "but where is the
use of worrying about it?  Uncle Josiah wouldn't think a scrap more
about me if I wrote the finest prize essay in the world.  On the
contrary, he would be more disgusted than pleased.  If I had received
this letter a week ago I should not have bothered about the essay.  I
don't even know now that I shall compete."

"I wonder," said Annie.

"What is the matter with you, Annie?"

"I have a thought in my head, Priscie--such a funny thought.  You know
Mabel Lushington?"

"Why, of course."

"She is just as angry as you are.  You remember you both got letters at
the same time.  You read yours and told us about it.  Then you left the
room.  Afterwards she read hers.  What do you think her letter was
about?"

"I am afraid I neither know nor care," replied Priscilla.

"That is very selfish of you, for you ought to care.  Well, I will tell
you.  She has got to stay at school, whether she likes it or not."

"Lucky, lucky girl!" said Priscilla.

"But that is just the point, you old silly.  She doesn't consider
herself at all lucky.  She hates and detests school, and wants to go;
she would give all the world to go."

"And can't she?"

"No; at least there is scarcely a chance.  Her aunt has subjected her to
a ridiculous test.  She says that if by any chance Mabel wins the first
prize in the literature competition she may leave school and join her in
Paris.  If she does not win it, she has to stay here for another year.
Mabel is nearly mad, for of course she has not a chance of the prize."

"Not a chance," said Priscilla.

"But you don't care about winning it, and you are the one who is sure to
do so."

"I don't greatly care," said Priscilla.  "Of course, I would rather win
than not win; that is about all."

"Suppose--suppose," said Annie--"I am not saying it could be done, and I
am not saying it is right--I am not pretending to any conscience in the
matter; but--_suppose_--you and Mabel changed essays; and--suppose _you_
had your dearest wish, and Mabel _her_ dearest wish--you stayed at
school for another year and Mabel went to Paris to join her aunt.  Now--
just suppose."

CHAPTER THREE.

TO CATCH AT A STRAW.

Priscilla's eyes, large, dark, grey, and full of feeling, opened to
their widest extent as she turned them now and fixed them on her
companion.

"What do you mean?" she said.  "Do you know that you are a horrible girl
to propose anything of this sort.  How dare you?  I don't want to speak
to you again."

"Very well, Priscilla," replied Annie, by no means offended, and
speaking in a gentle, meek little voice.  "I _have_ heard of worse
things being done before, and I only meant to help you both.  You are
both my greatest friends.  One of you wants to stay at school; the other
wants to leave school.  It can be done by such a very simple matter as
changing your essays."

"It is horrible--quite too horrible even to think about," was
Priscilla's response.

"But you said you didn't care about the prize."

"No; but I do care about honour.  I am bad, but I am not as bad as all
that."

"Well," said Annie, a little frightened at Priscilla's manner and the
look on her face, "the whole thing can do me no good; I don't profit by
it.  I have got to stay at school, _nolens volens_; and I think I should
prefer Mabel as my greatest friend for the next twelve months to you.
You won't say anything about it, Priscie, for that would indeed be to
ruin me, and I only meant to make you both happy."

"Oh, of course I won't tell," said Priscilla.  "I shall be leaving
school in a fortnight, and then you won't ever see me again.  I can
promise you to keep quiet with regard to this proposal of yours for that
time."

"Very well," said Annie; "then that is all right.  I will tell poor
Mabel."

"You don't mean that you have suggested the thing to her?"

"Not exactly, but I have hinted at it--I mean at something--and she is
very much interested.  I'll have to tell her that my little scheme is up
a tree.  Poor old Mabel!  She is such a dear, too.  We shall be glad to
keep her at school."

"Really, Annie, you are too extraordinary.  Have you written a paper for
the literature prize yourself?"

"I?  Oh yes.  But I have no imagination; not a bit.  The subject is
`Idealism'--such an odious, impossible subject; but it has appealed to
you."

"It did appeal to me very strongly; I loved to write about it."

"I can fancy you at it; you are just full of imagination."

"It is my dearest possession," said Priscilla.  A _new_ look came into
her eyes.  She turned her fine face and looked at her companion.  "And
when I leave school," she added, "I shall take it with me.  Even when I
am working in the dairy and mending the children's socks I shall still
rejoice in it.  I am glad you reminded me of it--very glad."

"Well, I wish you joy of your future life.  I would have helped you, but
you won't be helped."

"You don't suppose," said Priscilla suddenly, "that I don't just long to
catch at any straw?  You don't suppose that I am not tempted?  But
even--even if I were to consider your base proposal for a single minute,
what good on earth would it do me?  The reason I am leaving school is
because Uncle Josiah will not pay for my schooling.  He certainly won't
pay for it any more because I have not won the literature prize."

"But if I can positively promise you--and I am almost sure it can be
done--that your schooling will be paid in another way, what then?"

"Annie, you cannot make me that promise.  Say nothing more about it."

"Oh, well, if you won't talk of it, it can't be helped.  I am going to
Mabel now."

"Annie, I suppose you mean kindly, and I suppose I ought to feel that
you do; but you don't understand.  It is a case of _noblesse oblige_
with me.  If I did stoop to what you suggest I should never, never have
a happy hour again."

"Very well," said Annie.  "I am glad I have not such a troublesome
conscience."

As she spoke she skipped away from her companion and joined the other
girls on the lawn.  Two little girls of about eleven and twelve years of
age ran up to her.  Their names were Flora and Violet Frere.

"What are you looking so solemn about, Annie?" asked Violet.

"Oh, I am worried.  Poor old Priscie has got to leave school.  Isn't it
an awful shame?"

Violet gave a sort of howl.  "I can't live without Priscie.  I don't
believe it for a single minute.  Where is she?"

"She is walking up and down in the shrubbery.  I tell you what it is,
Vi.  You have great influence with her.  You and Flora both go to her
now, and put your arms about her, and pet her a lot, and tell her that
she simply must not go--that she must stay with you whatever happens."

"Come, Flora," said Violet--"Thank you, Annie, for telling us.  We'll
certainly go and _make_ dear Priscie stay."

"Yes," said Flora.  "I wouldn't stay at school myself if Priscie were to
leave.  I should be a very naughty girl; I would run away."

"And so would I," said Violet.  Annie stood still for a minute or two
after the little girls had left her; then she went into the house.  She
felt troubled.  Annie was by no means the best of girls.  She had
naturally a turn for crooked and underhand ways.  She was ambitious and
discontented with her own lot.  When she left school she would go to
stay with her uncle, the Rev Maurice Butler.  She would live in a
musty old rectory in a very dull part of England, and see hardly any
people, and try to devote her time to mothers' meetings and school
feasts, and all the thousand and one things which occupy a young girl's
time when she happens to be the niece or daughter of the rector.  Now,
Annie had no taste for these occupations.  She hated the holidays, which
she had invariably to spend at Burfield Rectory.  She had no
appreciation for Uncle Maurice, although he was the best and kindest of
men.  She wanted to get into the world.  She pined to enjoy herself.
She was neither very pretty nor very clever.  She was, as far as
appearance went, an everyday sort of girl.  It is true, she had lovely
golden hair, but that was about all.  At school she was the sort of girl
who, apparently good-natured, makes many friends.  Her object was to
make friends.  Her one desire in life was to secure the goodwill of her
school companions, so that by-and-by they might invite her to their
houses and give her the sort of good time she had always pined for.  She
knew in a vague sort of way that if she could get one of these girls
more or less into her power, she might dictate her own terms.  And now
her chance had come.  No prickings of conscience held her back; it did
not even occur to her that she was acting badly.  If she thought at all,
it was but to pronounce Priscilla's ideas of honour obsolete and
impossible.  She had little doubt that she could get Priscilla to yield
to the plan which was forming itself in her own brain; and she was also
pretty sure that Mabel would be even a more easy victim.  Many of her
school friends were fond of asking small services of Annie; for she was
invariably good-natured, and had a sunny, pleasant temper.  She was
rather amusing, too, and to all appearance never thought of herself.

Now she ran up to the elder girls' sitting-room, threw the door open
wide, and entered.  A tall, pale girl, with an aristocratic face was
seated by an open desk busily writing.  She looked annoyed when Annie
entered.

"Am I in your way, Constance?" asked Annie.

"No, Annie.  Of course you have a right to sit here, but I do hope you
will keep quiet.  I am busy writing my prize essay--not that I have a
chance of the prize, but of course I want to do my very best.  The
subject interests me."

Annie said nothing.  She flung herself into a chair, and taking up a
story-book, tried to read.  But her thoughts were too busy with the
scheme which was forming itself in her brain.  She threw down the book,
and drawing her chair to the opposite window, looked out.

Constance Hadley seemed to feel her presence, for after a time she sank
back in her chair with a sigh.

"Finished, Constance?" cried Annie.

"No; I can't manage the end.  I want to do something really good, but
the something won't come."

"I wonder you bother," said Annie; "that is, of course, unless you are
sure of the prize."

"I sure of the prize!" laughed Constance.  "Why, there are at least four
girls in the school who will do better work than I.  You, for instance,
Annie; you have an audacious, smart little way of writing which very
often takes."

"But I can do nothing with such a subject as `Idealism,'" replied Annie,
"except to laugh at it and thank my stars that I have not got it."

Constance looked at her gravely.

"I wonder who _will_ get the prize," she said.

Annie did not reply.  Constance rose, stretched herself slightly, and
putting her papers together, laid them in orderly fashion in her desk.

"I shall get up early to-morrow," she said, "and come down here and
finish my paper.  There is no time so good as before breakfast for
brain-work."

"Well, thank goodness, my attempt is quite finished," said Annie.

"I suppose," remarked Constance, "that Priscilla will get the prize.
She is the cleverest of us all."

"Oh, I'm not at all sure of that," said Annie.  "Priscie is clever, no
doubt; but Mabel is clever too--very clever."

"Mabel Lushington!  What do you mean?"

"What I say.  She is awfully clever when she takes pains."

"I must say I have never found it out."

"Well, I have," said Annie, her cheeks brightening and her eyes growing
deeper in hue, "and I will just tell you how.  She is always scribbling
poetry.  I found her at her desk one day, and taxed her with it.  She
was frightfully annoyed, and begged and implored of me not to mention
it, for she said she would be ragged by every one if it were discovered.
Then she confessed that her one ambition was to be a poet.  Isn't it
absurd?  Just think of her, with her pretty, round, dimpled sort of
face, a poet, forsooth!  But, nevertheless, appearances deceive, and
Mabel is a poet already.  I should not be a scrap surprised if she did
very well with such a subject as Idealism."

"You astonish me!" said Constance.  "She must be far cleverer than I
gave her credit for; and her very genius in hiding all trace of her
talent is much to be commended."

"Oh, now you are nasty and satirical," said Annie, "and you don't
believe a word I say.  Nevertheless, it is all true; our Mabel is a
poet."

"Well, poet or not," remarked Constance, "she is a very jolly girl; I
like her just awfully."

"You would not want her to leave the school, would you?"

"Leave the school!  Why, there isn't a chance of it, is there?"

"I don't know.  I hope not.  But I must go to her now, poor old darling!
She is worrying over her prize essay, doubting her own ability, and all
that sort of thing, whereas I know she could do capital work if she
pleased."

"And beat Priscilla?"

"Oh, Priscilla would not be in it if Mabel chose to exercise her powers.
But the fact is, she is terribly afraid of your all finding her out.
You won't breathe what I have told you to a living soul, will you,
Connie?"

"Not I.  I am glad you confided in me.  I shall listen to her essay with
special pleasure this day fortnight, now that you have really
enlightened me with regard to the order of her mind."

Annie left the room and ran up to Mabel's bedroom.

Mabel's room and Annie's adjoined; but one of the strictest rules of the
house was that after bed-time each girl should be unmolested by her
schoolfellows.  One of the worst offences at Lyttelton School was for a
girl, after bed-time had arrived, to infringe the rules by going into
the room of her schoolfellow.  Before bed-time full liberty was,
however, given, and Annie tapped now with confidence at Mabel's door.

Mabel said, "Come in," and Annie entered.

"Well, May," she cried, "has any light dawned on you?"

"Light dawned on me?" replied Mabel in a tone almost of passion.  "None
whatsoever.  I am just in pitch darkness.  I can't write a word that any
one will care to listen to.  I never could, as you very well know, and
certainly am less capable than ever now of doing so.  The very thought
of all that hangs on my efforts quite unnerves me.  I shall write
twaddle, my dear Annie; in fact, I don't think I'll write at all."

"Oh, but you must; that would seem very bad, and make your aunt so
angry.  She might think that you had refused to do so out of temper, and
might keep you two years at school instead of one."

"Do you think so, really?  That would be too appalling."

"I am not at all sure; from what you tell me of her character, I think
it would be extremely likely."

"Well, I will do something.  For that matter, I _have_ done something.
Can't I send it in?"

"No, no!" said Annie.  "You showed it to me, and I never read such
rubbish in all my life.  Now, look here, Mabel.  You shall write a
paper, and it must be the very best paper you can put together; and I
will help you all I can."

"But there is no time."

"Yes, there is.  We can do it to-night."

"To-night?  You know we can't."

"I know we can.  Miss Phillips goes round to see that all the girls are
tucked up properly at ten o'clock.  Soon afterwards she goes to bed,
poor old dear!  When the cat's away the mice will play.  I will tap
three times on my wall, and you must tap three times on yours.  Not
another soul will hear us.  Then we'll both get up and slip stockings
over our shoes, and we'll go down, hand-in-hand, through the silent
house until we find ourselves on the ground-floor.  I know a window
where the hasp is broken.  We'll raise the sash and go out.  We will go
to the summer-house at the far end of the grounds.  I will have candles
and manuscript paper and ink there all ready.  You will write your essay
there, in the summer-house, and I will help you."

"It is a very dangerous thing to do, Annie, and it strikes me we risk a
great deal for very little.  For if I were to steal out every night
between now and prize day, and write an essay every night in the
summer-house, I should not get a prize."

"You certainly wouldn't get a prize in that way; but what you do
to-night will lead you to the prize."

"Now I don't understand you."

"I will tell you, Mabel.  You must listen very attentively, and if you
positively decide to have nothing to do with it, you must not be shocked
with me or attempt to betray me.  What I do I do for your good--
although, I will confess, partly for my own also."

"Ah, I thought a little bit of self would come in," said Mabel, who knew
her school friend better, perhaps, than most people did.

"Yes," said Annie quite calmly; "I don't pretend for a moment that I
haven't a bit of self at the bottom of this.  But let me tell you my
scheme.  Only before I breathe it, you will promise most, most
faithfully not to betray me?"

"Of course I will.  I know you better than you imagine, Annie.  You have
your good impulses, but you are not the very straightest girl in all the
world."

"Oh, thank you so much," said Annie.  She coloured faintly.  "Perhaps
you would not be straight," she said after a minute, "if you had no
prospect whatever in life but Uncle Maurice--Uncle Maurice, and all the
old women in the parish, every one of them, setting their caps at him,
and knitting comforters for his dear throat, and working slippers for
his dear feet, and asking about his precious cough, and if he would like
some more red-currant jelly.  Perhaps _you_ would be a little crooked if
you had to sit by the hour holding slobbering babies on your lap at
mothers' meetings, and getting your best frock jammed over by the horrid
village children.  Oh, it is not a life to recommend itself, I can tell
you!"

"Poor Annie!" said Mabel, "I do pity you.  But, of course, you won't be
always with your uncle Maurice.  Now forgive me for speaking as I did,
and tell me your plan."

[This page missing.]

nest you are trying to land me in, Annie!  As if Priscilla would
consent!"

"Priscilla will consent.  I have sounded her, and I know she will.  She
fights shy of it, of course, at first, but she will consent, and before
morning."

"But, Annie, what good will it do her?  My going away from the school
won't give her money to stay here."

"Ah," said Annie, "now comes the crux.  You must give her money to stay;
you must manage it.  You always have heaps of pocket-money.  You must
undertake to pay all her school expenses for at least a year."

"Now you are a silly!" answered Mabel.

"To begin with, I have not the slightest idea what Priscilla's school
bills amount to.  I know nothing about my own school bills, far less
hers.  Aunt Henrietta pays for me, and there's an end of the thing."

"Mabel," said Annie, who was now very much excited, "don't be horrid,
please.  Listen to me."

"I am listening.  You are propounding an impossible plan, and I am
telling you my opinion.  Have you anything further to say to me?"

"A great deal.  Your aunt is very rich."

"Rich?  Oh, I imagine so.  My aunt Henrietta--Lady Lushington--can go
where she likes and do what she likes.  She never denies herself
anything at all."

"Nor you, Mabel, anything at all."

"Isn't she denying me my liberty, and is that nothing?"

"She does it for your good," said Annie; "there is no question of money
in the matter.  Now do listen to me.  I happen to know what dear
Priscie's school bills amount to.  She is taken cheaper than the other
girls, and all her expenses for one term are abundantly covered by
thirty pounds.  Now most likely your expenses for a single term would
amount to fifty or sixty pounds, perhaps even to more; but poor old Pris
is taken, on special terms.  Mrs Lyttelton doesn't wish it to be known,
but I found out; for one day I came across a letter from her uncle, in
which he enclosed a cheque to Priscie for last term's expenses, and I
know exactly what it amounted to: twenty-seven pounds seventeen
shillings and fourpence.  I thought it rather funny of him to enclose
the cheque to her, and spoke to her about it.  You know she is fearfully
untidy, and she had left it with her handkerchiefs and ribbons and
things in her top drawer.  She told me then, poor girl! that her uncle
always sent her the cheque, expecting her to hand it over at once to Mrs
Lyttelton.  `He hates even paying that much for me,' she said, `and I do
wish I could get away from him altogether.  He is horrid to me, and I
lead a hateful life on account of him.'"

"Poor thing!" said Mabel.  "It must be disagreeable for her.  In some
ways she is worse off than I am."

"She would give all the world to stay here for another year," continued
Annie; "and it's most cruel of that horrid old uncle Josiah of here to
take her from school; for I know quite well that if she were allowed
another twelve months here she could try for a big scholarship, and go
to Girton or Newnham, and than be able to support herself in the way she
likes best."

"Yes, of course," said Mabel, yawning and walking over towards the
window, which she flung wide-open.  "But still, I don't see how I can
help."

"I know how you can help quite well, and how you shall help, and must
help," said Annie, speaking with great deliberation.  "You must do what
may seem just a _leetle_ crooked in order that good may come Priscie's
life shall not be spoiled; you shall not have a dull year; and I--poor
little Annie--must also have my fan, and perhaps before long.  Now I
will tell you at once, Mabel, how you can do it."

Mabel sank down in a chair, and her face became quite white.

"This is what you must do," continued Annie.  "Mrs Priestley lends money
to several ladies.  I happen to know, for a maid Uncle Maurice had in
his house last summer told me so.  Mrs Priestley has made your dresses
ever since you came to school; and your aunt pays the bills, doesn't
she, without worrying you much?"

"Yes."

"And no one dresses so beautifully as you do in the whole school,
Mabel."

"Oh, well," said Mabel, "it isn't necessary for me to be careful--that
is just it."

"You will come to Mrs Priestley to-morrow, and I will go with you; or,
if you like best, I will go alone and take a note from you to her.  You
have but to ask her to lend you thirty pounds, and to put it down in the
bill, and there you are.  She will have to lend it to you in notes and
gold--of course a cheque would never do--and then you can give Pris the
money for her next term's schooling, and Mrs Lyttelton will accept it as
a matter of course, and your aunt Henrietta will never know, for, at the
worst, she will only scold you for being especially extravagant."

"Yes--but--but," said Mabel.  Her cheeks were crimson and her eyes
bright, and there was no doubt whatever that the temptation presented by
cunning Annie was taking hold of her.  "That is all very fine.  But even
if I dared to do the thing, the difficulties of keeping Priscie at the
school might be got over for one term; but what about the two other
terms?  I can't go on borrowing money from Mrs Priestley, more
especially if I am not at the school myself."

"As your aunt is so very rich, and as she will be taking you into
society, it will be quite possible for you to spare thirty pounds each
term out of your own allowance," said Annie.  "But even if you don't
wish to do that, I have no doubt at all that Lady Lushington is very
generous, and that she will lend you the money for poor Priscie, if you
only talk to her judiciously."

"She might and she might not," said Mabel; "there is no saying.  And as
to an allowance, she may not give me any, but just buy my things
straight off as I want them.  Oh dear, dear!  I don't see my way with
regard to the other terms, even if I could borrow the money for this
one."

"You will see your way when the time comes; and, remember, you will have
from now till Christmas to think of ways and means.  In the meantime you
will go to Paris, and from Paris to the different foreign spas, and, oh,
won't you have a jolly time, and won't you be admired!"

"It certainly sounds tempting," said Mabel, "although it seems to me
that it is awfully wicked--"

"As to its being so wicked," interrupted Annie, "I can't quite see that.
Think what good it will do--helping poor old Pris, and giving yourself
a right jolly time, and me also."

"I can't see where you come in," said Mabel.

"Oh, but I do.  You don't suppose I am going to leave myself out in the
cold, when I am managing so cleverly all these jolly things for you.
You have got to get your aunt to invite me to join you in Paris.  She
will, I know, if you manage her properly.  What fun we shall have
together, May!  How we shall enjoy ourselves!  Of course I'll have to
come back here at the end of the holidays; but the summer holidays are
long, and, oh!  I shall be a happy girl."

"You might certainly, if you came to visit me, think out a plan for
paying Priscie's school fees for the other terms," said Mabel.  "But,
dear, dear! it is awfully dangerous.  I don't know how I can consent.
If the whole thing were ever found out I should be disgraced for life!"

"If," said Annie.  "If is a very little word and means a great deal,
May.  These things won't be found out, for the simple reason that it is
to your interest, and to my interest, and to Priscie's interest to keep
the whole matter in the dark."

CHAPTER FOUR.

"I DON'T WANT TO DO WRONG."

When Annie had ended her conference with Mabel Lushington--a conference
which left that young lady in a state of intense and even nervous
excitement, in which she kept on repeating, "I won't; I daren't.  Oh!
but I long to.  Oh! but I just wish I could," until Annie felt inclined
to beat her--she went away at last with the quiet assurance of a girl
who had won a victory.

Her scheme was ripening to perfection.  Mabel, of course, would yield;
the money would be forthcoming.  Priscilla would stay at the school, and
Annie would have her hour of triumph.

It was half-an-hour before bed-time on that same evening when clever and
wicked Annie had a further conference with Priscilla.  She found poor
Priscilla looking very pale and woe-begone, seated all by herself at one
end of the long schoolroom.

"Come out," said Annie; "it is a perfectly lovely evening, and we need
not go up to our horrid beds for another half-hour."

"You want to tempt me again," said Priscilla, "I won't go with you."

"You needn't," said Annie with emphasis.  "I have only this to say.
Your prize paper is finished?"

"Yes."

"I will come to your room for it very, very early to-morrow morning."

"You know, Annie, you daren't come to my room."

"I dare, and will," said Annie.  "I will be with you at five o'clock,
before any of the servants are up.  At that hour we will safely transact
a very important little piece of business."

"You mean," said Priscilla, raising her haggard face and looking with
her dark-grey eyes full at the girl, "that you want me to go down for
ever in my own estimation, and to proclaim to my good teachers, to dear
Mrs Lyttelton, and to all the girls here that I am not myself at all.
You want me to read an essay written by one of the stupidest girls in
the school as my own, and you want her to read mine--which may probably
be the best of those written--and you want her to win the prize which
ought to be mine."

"Yes, I do want her to win the prize," said Annie, "and for that reason
I want her to read your essay as though it were her own."

"You forget one thing," said Priscilla.  "Mabel writes so atrociously
that no one will believe for a single moment that my paper _could_ be
her work; and, on the other hand, people will be as little likely to go
down in their high estimation of my talent as to suppose that I have
seriously written the twaddle which she will give me.  You see yourself,
Annie, the danger of your scheme.  It is unworkable; our teachers are
all a great deal too clever to be taken in by it.  It cannot possibly be
carried out."

"It can, and will," said Annie.  "I have thought of all that, and am
preparing the way.  In the first place, the paper you will read will be
by no means bad.  It will be the sort of paper that will pass muster,
and long before prize day there will be an undercurrent of belief in the
school that Mabel is by no means the dunce she is credited to be."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You had best not know, Priscilla.  The main thing for you to consider
is this: You do not go to your horrid uncle Josiah.  You spend your
summer holidays with him, I know; but you return here afterwards.  You
have another happy year at Lyttelton School, and at the end of that time
you win a splendid scholarship for Newnham or Girton, and go to
Cambridge for three happy years.  Think of it, Priscilla; and you can do
it so easily.  Do think of it, darling Pris.  You are either a household
drudge or a country dressmaker if you don't do this thing; and if you
do--and it's really such a _very_ little thing--you may be anything you
like."

Priscilla sat very still while Annie was talking to her, but in each of
her cheeks there rose a brilliant spot of colour.  It spread and spread
until the whole young face looked transformed, the eyes brighter and
darker than before, the lips quivering with suppressed excitement.  The
girl's figure became suddenly tense.  She stood up; she caught Annie's
hands between her own.

"Oh, how you tempt me!" she said.  "_How_ you tempt me!  I did not know
I could be so wicked as to listen to you; but I am tempted--tempted!"

"Of course you are, darling.  Who would not be who was in your shoes?
Isn't it the law of life to do the very best for one's self?"

"Oh, but it isn't the right law!" gasped poor Priscilla.

"Well, right or wrong," answered Annie, "it is the wisest law."

"But even--even if I did it," said Priscilla, "how is the money to be
got?"

"You leave that to us," said Annie.  "Your term's fees will be paid, and
there will be something over.  Leave all that to us."

"Go away now," said Priscilla; "don't talk to me any more at all; I must
have time to think.  Oh!  I don't want to do wrong.  I must pray to God
to help me not to yield to you."

"You will not do that," said Annie, "for your own heart, and every
argument in your mind, are inclining you in the other direction.  I
leave you now, for I feel certain of you; but Mabel and I will visit you
to-morrow morning at five o'clock."

"You can't come in, for the door will be locked."

"You know," said Annie, staggered for a moment, "that it is against the
rules for any girl to lock her door at night."

"It will be a much lesser transgression on my part to lock my room door
than to allow you and Mabel in," answered Priscilla.

"Well, we will come on the chance," replied Annie.  "Ta-ta for a time,
Pris.  Oh, what a jolly year you will have, and how hard you will work!
How I shall rejoice to see it!--for, whatever you must think of me, I at
least am not selfish.  I lose my dear friend Mabel by this scheme, and I
keep you, who have never yet been my very special friend; but you will
be when we return together to Lyttelton School next autumn.  Good-bye,
till to-morrow morning."

Annie tripped from the room.

CHAPTER FIVE.

ANNIE'S SCHEME.

There are at all schools girls of different degrees of talent.  There
are the brilliant girls, the idle girls, the plodding girls.  Now Annie
belonged to the middle class.  She knew how essential it was for her to
work hard unless she were to accept a fate which she considered too
horrible to contemplate--namely, that of companion to kind Uncle Maurice
in the country rectory.  Her hope was to do so well at school that she
might, when she left, induce her uncle to send her for at least a year
to Paris in order to put what might be called the final polish on her
education.  Then, if her present plans went well, she might go into
society with the aid of Mabel Lushington, who of course would be from
henceforth in her power.

Now Annie had a fairly good gift for writing, and this gift on the
present occasion she put absolutely at the disposal of her friend.  Poor
Mabel, excited by the scheme which Annie had proposed, trembling with
fear that it might be found out, could not have written a single line of
coherent English were it not for Annie's clearer and cleverer brain.

As they sat for hours together in the summer-house, Annie's thoughts
really filled Mabel's manuscript.

"I will dictate to you, and you will put down exactly what I say,"
remarked Annie.  "Now then, fire away.  Idealism.  You must get a sort
of epitome of what your thoughts are on the subject."

"I have not any," said Mabel.  "I can't give an epitome of what I know
nothing about."

"Oh, come, Mabel; you are a goose!  Here, let me dictate."

She began.  Her sentences had little depth in them, but they were at
least expressed in fairly good English, and would have passed muster in
a crowd.  After a long time the task was completed, and an essay was
produced--an essay, compared to the one which poor Mabel had already
written, almost fine in its construction.  Annie, as she read it over,
was in raptures with it.

"I only trust it is not too good," she said.  "Don't you think it sounds
very nice when I read it aloud, Mabel?"

"I suppose it does," answered Mabel.  "I have got a horrid headache; I
hate sitting up all night."

"You will have to sacrifice something to your year's bliss," replied
Annie.  "Now then, May, that is done.  I have given you a paper.  At
five o'clock we will both go into Priscie's room.  When there, a little
transaction will very briefly take place.  You will have to promise Pris
that you will pay her school fees for another year--namely, for three
whole terms; and she, in return for this kindness, will sign this essay
as her own, and will hand it in as her essay during the course of the
morning.  Miss Phillips will lock it up, and it will lie _perdu_ until
the great prize day.  Pris meantime will have given you a really good
paper, which you will sign and give in as your own.  Thus your victory
will be accomplished, and you need dread nothing further."

"But," said Mabel, "I am looked upon as rather a fool in the school; no
one for a moment thinks me clever."

"I am coming to that point.  For the next fortnight I shall make myself
intensely busy in circulating a little story.  You must pretend to know
nothing about it, and in all probability the tale will not reach your
ears.  But this story is to the effect that you are in reality a sort of
hidden genius; in short, that you are a poet and write verses in
private.  Now what do you think of that?  Am not I a friend worth
having?"

"You are wonderfully clever," said Mabel.  "I begin to be almost afraid
of you."

"Oh, you needn't be that, dear.  Who would be afraid of poor little
Annie?"

"I don't know," said Mabel.  "Your eyes look quite wicked sometimes.
You must be frightfully wicked, you know, to have thought out this
scheme so cleverly."

"I am not more wicked than you are--not one single bit," cried Annie.
"Only I have the courage of my convictions, and the ability to think
things out and to save my friends.  If you imagine that I am unhappy
now, you are vastly mistaken.  Far from being unhappy, I feel intensely
triumphant; for I have managed to help three people--Priscie, you, and
myself."

"Oh Annie!" said Mabel, "I am not at all sure that Aunt Henrietta will
invite you to Paris."

"Aren't you?" said Annie.  She took the essay as she spoke, and rolled
it up.  She then proceeded to gather up some loose pages of foolscap
paper, pen and ink, and blotting-paper, and finally she blew out the
candles and added them to a little parcel which she proceeded to stow
away in a small basket.

"We will go back to the house now," she said.  "We must tread very
softly."

Mabel found herself trembling a great deal and wishing most heartily she
was out of this scrape as she followed Annie across the grass.  There
was a brilliant moon in the sky, and there was a little piece of lawn,
bare of any shelter, which they had to cross in order to get to the
home.  Should any one happen to be looking out of a window, that person
could not fail to see the girls as they crossed this moonlit lawn.
Mabel thought of it with growing terror as they returned home, and when
they found themselves standing at the edge of a belt of dark pine-trees
preparatory to rushing across the lawn, she clutched her companion by
the arm.

"Oh, I know we shall be seen!" she cried.  "Oh, I wish I had not done
it!"

"It is too late to go back now, Mabel," said Annie; "there is nothing
for it but forward--right forward.  Don't be a coward;--no one will see
us.  What teacher is likely to be out of bed at two o'clock in the
morning?  We shall be in the house in next to no time.  We'll then creep
upstairs to our private sitting-room, and all danger will be over.
Come, May, come; there's no holding back now."

Annie took her companion's hand, and they rushed tremblingly across the
lawn, each of them devoutly hoping that no one was up.  A minute or two
later they were safely inside the shelter of the house, and then, again,
in another minute Annie had softly opened the door of the girls'
sitting-room, where they were to stay until the time for invading
Priscilla arrived.

"You may go to sleep if you like," said Annie.  "I will hold your hand;
you needn't be at all alarmed, for I have drawn the bolt of the door, so
that if any one should come prying, that person would be prevented
entering.  But just before you drop asleep I want to arrange my part."

"I wish I were well out of the whole thing," said Mabel.

"You _can_ be, of course," said Annie.  "It is but to destroy, this
paper that we have just composed together."

"Oh no, Annie; it isn't mine at all."

"Well, at least you have done the writing of it; if the thoughts are
mine, the penmanship is yours.  Come, Mabel, don't be a goose.
Everything is in progress, and you'll be as happy as the day is long by
this time to-morrow."

"You forget that I have still to get that horrid money."

"Of course you have; but as you seem so nervous and faint-hearted, you
had much better write a little note now to Mrs Priestley.  I will light
one of the candles, and you can get that over.  I will take it to-morrow
afternoon, and trust me not to return without your thirty pounds safe
and sound.  But the one thing which must be settled, and positively
settled, is my little part.  You have got solemnly to promise that I
shall spend the summer holidays with you."

"Suppose Aunt Henrietta refuses."

"But she is not to refuse, Mabel.  If this thing were completed and I
found that you had backed out of your honourable bargain with me, I
should find it my duty to--Oh Mabel, need I go on?"

"No, no," said Mabel, "you needn't; I understand you.  I don't expect I
shall be as happy as I thought, even if I have my year of liberty; but
still, I suppose I must make the best of a bad bargain, and of course I
should like to have you with me in Paris."

"It will be necessary for you to have me with you, if you are to manage
the money for the two remaining terms," said Annie.

"Very well; I will agree, I will agree."

"You promise that I shall spend the holidays with you?"

"Yes; that is, after the first week or so.  I must have at least a week
to get round Aunt Henrietta."

"Oh, I will give you a week, my dear; for I also must have that week to
get round Uncle Maurice.  Now then, all is right.  Give me a kiss, dear;
we shall have fun!  You will never regret this night, I can tell you,
Mabel."

"I hope I sha'n't.  I do feel mean and small at present.  But what about
the note to Mrs Priestley?  What am I to say?"

"Dear, dear," said Annie, who was now in the highest spirits, "what it
is to have brains!  Come and sit in this corner, over here.  Now I will
light the candle for you; no one can see any light under the door.  Here
we are: and here's our little candle doing its duty."

As Annie spoke she swiftly struck a match.

"Here is your sheet of paper, Mabel; and here is your pen.  And now I
will dictate the note.  Write what I say."

Mabel began:

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"`Dear Mrs Priestley,--My friend Annie Brooke is taking this letter to
you.  The business is of great importance, and she will explain and make
the necessary terms.  I want you to lend me thirty pounds, please.
Annie will arrange the terms; and I want you, please, not to tell
anybody.  You know Annie Brooke--she is my greatest friend.  Aunt
Henrietta will want me to have a specially beautiful dress to wear at
the break-up, for I expect to take a most distinguished position
there.'"

"Oh, must I put that in?" said Mabel.

"You must put what I tell you," answered Annie.  "Go on.  Have you
written `distinguished position'?"

"Yes--oh yes.  This letter sounds perfectly horrid, and not a bit like
me."

"It will soon be finished now," said Annie.

"Come, Mabel; you _are_ chicken-hearted.  You most pay something for
your thirty pounds, you know."

"Yes; but how on earth am I to return it to her?"

"I'll manage that, goosey, goosey.  Now then, proceed.

"`I will call on you to-morrow in order to choose the dress.  It must be
very rich indeed, and with real lace on it.  My aunt would wish me to
look well dressed on the prize day.--Yours, Mabel Lushington.'

"Now, the date, please," said Annie.

Mabel inserted it.

"Fold it up, please, and direct this envelope," continued practical
Annie.  This was done and the letter slipped into Annie's pocket.  She
then, to Mabel's surprise, put another sheet of paper before that young
lady.

"What does this mean?" said Mabel.

"You will write these words, please, Mabel:

"In acknowledgment of thirty pounds, I, Mabel Lushington, faithfully
promise to invite Annie Brooke to spend the summer holidays with Lady
Lushington and myself in Paris."

"But, Annie," cried poor Mabel, "I am terrified at having to write
this."

"Don't write it, and the thing is off," said Annie.

She moved to the other end of the room.  Mabel sat the very picture of
misery by the little table where the one candle burned.  Some minutes
went by.  After a time Annie said:

"You may as well go on, for I hold your letter to Mrs Priestley in my
pocket."

"Oh, oh!" said Mabel, "I get more frightened of you, Annie, each moment.
Well, what am I to say?  I forget."

"Darling, it is so easy," said Annie in her gentlest tone.  "Now then, I
will dictate once more."

She did so.  The words were put down.  Annie herself folded up this
precious piece of paper, and put it for safety into the bosom of her
dress.

"Now we are all right," she said; "and I've got some chocolates to give
you, and we can both curl up on the sofa and go to sleep until it's time
to wake Pris."

Mabel and Annie were about to retire to the comfortable old lounge which
occupied a place of honour in the sitting-room, when they were at once
frightened and rejoiced by hearing a voice say very distinctly outside
the schoolroom door:

"It is I--Priscie.  Let me in."

Annie immediately flew to the door, drew back the bolt, and admitted
Priscilla.  Priscilla was wearing a long, ugly, grey dressing-gown; her
face looked nearly as grey.  She came swiftly forward and put her
manuscript on the table.

"Sign it," she said to Mabel.  "Be quick.  Don't hesitate, or I will
draw back.  I have lived through the most awful night; but there's no
use in waiting until five o'clock.  I was up, and saw you two run across
the lawn.  I guessed you would come here, and I made up my mind.  Be
quick, Mabel Lushington--sign."

"Here is your pen," said Annie.--"Pris, you are a plucky girl.  You'll
never repent of this."

"You promise," said Priscilla, "to pay me a year's schooling?"  She did
not glance at Annie; her eyes were fixed on Mabel.

"Yes," said Mabel, nodding to her and speaking with difficulty.

"You will get your money to-morrow evening, dear, at latest," said
Annie; "I mean the money for the autumn term."

Still Priscilla did not look at Annie.

"Where is your paper?" she asked, her eyes still glued on Mabel's face.

Annie supplied it.

"It is a very good paper," she said.  "You won't be at all ashamed to
read it.  I only trust," she added, "that it is not too good."

One very bitter smile crossed Priscilla's face for a moment.  Then,
going on her knees, she deliberately wrote with a defiant air her own
signature at the foot of the essay which Annie had dictated and Mabel
had written.  Mabel's weaker handwriting signed Priscilla's paper.  Then
Priscilla, gathering up the false essay, folded it within her
dressing-gown, and, without glancing at either girl, left the room.

"There," said Annie when the door had closed behind her, "isn't she just
splendid?  Haven't we managed well?  Oh!  I am tired and sleepy.  Aren't
you, Mabel?"

"I don't know," said Mabel.  "I am bewildered.  I never knew what it was
before to feel just awfully wicked."

"You will get over that, dear.  We'll just wait a minute longer, and
then we'll creep up to our rooms.  What a good thing it was that I oiled
the locks!  There is no fear of any one finding us out."

CHAPTER SIX.

MRS PRIESTLEY.

The town of Hendon was only a mile away from the school, and the girls
constantly rode there on their bicycles.  They were never allowed to go
without a teacher accompanying them.  Quite a favourite exercise was to
ride through the little town and out into the country at the other end.

Mrs Priestley was one of the most fashionable dressmakers at Hendon, and
had the custom of most of the best girls of the school.  Those, however,
who were a little poor or short of funds employed a certain Mrs Arnold,
who was also fairly good, but did not produce nearly such stylish gowns
as those which issued from the Priestley establishment.

When Annie, in her pretty way--for her manners could be exceedingly
pretty when she chose--asked Mrs Lyttelton for permission to go to Mrs
Priestley on the afternoon of the following day, that lady neither
expressed nor felt surprise.

"You can certainly do so, my dear," she said; "only don't stay long.
And why is not Mabel Lushington going herself?  I did not know, Annie,
that you had your dresses made by Mrs Priestley."

"I don't as a rule," replied Annie in her sweet little, gentle voice.
"My uncle can't afford it.  But on this special occasion--oh, it is a
great secret, Mrs Lyttelton!--Uncle Maurice will let me have a very
plain white muslin made by Mrs Priestley.  You know it isn't the
material that counts so much; it is the way a dress is cut and made up.
Mrs Priestley has such exquisite style."

"That is certainly the case," said Mrs Lyttelton.  "Then you are going
there about your dress?"

"I am; but, please, you won't betray me?"

"Betray you, dear Annie?  What do you mean?"

"I don't want the girls to know that I am to wear a Priestley dress
until the great day.  It is just my own little secret.  You won't
breathe it, dear Mrs Lyttelton?"

"Certainly not, my child.  I am glad that such a small thing gives you
pleasure.  And it is quite natural," she added, "that a young girl
should wish to be well dressed.  But don't think too much of it, Annie.
Our dresses are by no means the most important things in life."

"I could not live with you," said Annie, "without being well aware of
that."

There came a pretty colour into her cheeks, which always made her look
very nearly beautiful; and her eyes lost that expression which made some
people who were not her greatest friends consider Annie Brooke just a
tiny bit "not straight, you know."

Annie now rushed off in a tumult of happiness.  It was wonderful how
easily her plans were being brought to perfection.  She rode into Hendon
on her nice free-wheel bicycle, accompanied by two or three other girls
and also by a teacher.  The teacher and the girls were to leave Annie at
Mrs Priestley's, and to come again for her on their return from their
own ride into the country.  Annie would thus have plenty of time for her
purpose.

When she was admitted into Mrs Priestley's very fashionable
waiting-room, hung round with dresses in various stages of development,
and all equally fascinating according to Annie's ideas, she felt her
heart beat with satisfaction.  By-and-by the mistress of the
establishment made her appearance.

"I want to speak to you," said Annie, rising.  "In one moment, miss."

Mrs Priestley would not have treated Mabel Lushington in so off-hand a
manner; but Annie Brooke was not one of her customers--at least, had not
been up to the present; and as she was very busy sending off a large
order to Paris, she did not trouble her head about keeping the young
lady waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour.  During this time Annie
felt very indignant.  Mrs Priestley dared to sit by a large desk in her
presence and to write several orders which her forewoman was dictating
to her.  At last the letter was finished.  Mrs Priestley said, "Get this
posted immediately."  Then she turned to Annie:

"What can we do for you, miss?"

"I have come to see you on a matter of some importance," said Annie.  "I
have come from Miss Lushington."

"Oh, indeed, miss?  We are very sorry that we were obliged to keep you
waiting, but we have a wedding order at present on hand, and it is
necessary to get some special laces and flowers from Paris without any
delay.  What can we do for Miss Lushington, miss?"

"First of all," said Annie, "I want to know if you will make a dress for
me.  I want to wear it on the prize day at Mrs Lyttelton's school."

"Yes, miss, we could manage; although the time is not very long.  Still,
we have so many of Mrs Lyttelton's pupils on our books that we should be
sorry not to oblige."  Mrs Priestley spoke as though she were royalty.
"What sort of dress did you think of our making for you, miss?"

"It must not be expensive," said Annie, whose secret thought was that
she might purchase it partly out of her own money and partly out of
Mabel Lushington's very abundant pocket-money.  "I think a pale-blue
muslin; and can you make it for about two guineas?"

Mrs Priestley raised her eyebrows in a somewhat scornful manner.

"Quite impossible, miss.  But perhaps Mrs Arnold could do it for you."

Whenever Mrs Priestley wanted to crush a customer she alluded to Mrs
Arnold, whose style was so execrable, and whose "ladies"--as Mrs
Priestley spoke of them--could be known at any distance by the bad hang
of their garments.  Annie argued a little longer on the subject of her
own dress, and finally a very simple frock was arranged for her, which
would not cost the young lady much over three pounds.

Mabel's letter was then produced.

"This is very, very private," said Annie Brooke as she gave it to Mrs
Priestley.

"Dear Miss Lushington!" murmured Mrs Priestley.  "We always take such a
great interest in her clothes.  It is our wish to do our very utmost to
mould our garments round her fine figure."

"Read the note, please," said Annie.

Mrs Priestley did so.  If she felt surprise at the contents, her face
expressed nothing.

"You will excuse us, miss," she said when she came to the end; "we will
return in a few minutes."

She left the room.  Annie sank down into a chair, feeling limp.  What if
Mrs Priestley were to refuse?  Such a possible and awful contingency had
never even occurred to her.

Mrs Priestley was away for some time, quite half-an-hour.  When she did
return the expression on her face had slightly changed.

"We will come into our private sitting-room, miss," she said.

She went first; Annie followed her.  Mrs Priestley's private room was
very small and very much crowded.  Nearly the whole of it was taken up
by an enormous desk containing various pigeon-holes.  There was,
however, room for two chairs.  Annie was asked to seat herself in one.

"We have been looking," said Mrs Priestley, "into our accounts.  You, we
understand, miss, are acquainted with the contents of the letter of our
much-esteemed client, Miss Lushington."

"Yes," said Annie; "I know all about it.  As well as I remember, my
great friend, Mabel Lushington, said that I could arrange the matter
with you."

"We are coming to that--if you have no objection, miss."

Annie felt snubbed.  It so happened that she had never before had any
personal contact with the great Priestley.  She had seen her beautiful
gowns on several ladies at Hendon and on some of the best-dressed girls
of the school, but not until now had she been face to face with this
awful priestess of the art of dressmaking.

"We would not wish," said Mrs Priestley, "to do anything to disoblige
our clients and it is true that there have been times when it has been
our pleasure to assist a lady in the manner indicated, but there has
usually been a little sort of arrangement made in order to secure our
money.  You, we understand, come here to-day with such a proposal, do
you not, miss?"

Annie felt more and more uncomfortable.

"I simply thought," she said, "that you would oblige.  You see, Mabel is
very rich."

"If we were not firmly convinced on that point," interrupted Mrs
Priestley, "we would not entertain the proposal for a quarter of a
minute."

"Mabel is very rich," continued Annie.  "I mean that her aunt, Lady
Lushington, is enormously wealthy."

"We have that distinguished lady's patronage," said Mrs Priestley.  "We
have made gowns for her as well as for the young lady, her niece."

"You send Miss Lushington's accounts to Lady Lushington?" said Annie.
The high priestess of the art of dressmaking thought it only necessary
to bow her stately head.  "Then perhaps you will lend Mabel the money?"
said Annie, who felt herself getting into greater and greater hot water.

"It can be done," said Mrs Priestley, "but only in one way.  We must
treat our young customer as we do the other clients whom it has been our
privilege to oblige on more than one occasion.  We must either have the
lady's jewels to the value of the sum borrowed, or we must add the
thirty pounds to Miss Lushington's account in our books.  At the present
moment Miss Lushington's bill amounts to close on forty pounds, and if
we add thirty more it will make seventy.  Are we to understand that Lady
Lushington will pay so large a bill without comment for a young lady who
is only a schoolgirl?"

"Oh, I am sure she will," said Annie, whose one desire at that moment
was to get the money and leave Mrs Priestley's presence.  "She is so
enormously rich," continued the girl, "she thinks nothing of spending a
hundred pounds on one dress for herself.  Why, seventy pounds," said
Annie, who would have rejoiced just then to possess three, "is a mere
nothing to her--just a bagatelle.  I know it."

"Your statement, miss, is satisfactory, as far as it goes.  We will
therefore, being assured by our own experience that you are right, lend
Miss Lushington the required sum, but on the distinct understanding that
if Lady Lushington raises any question with regard to the account, we
are at liberty to mention your name in the matter."

"How so?" asked Annie, very much alarmed.  "I am only a little
schoolgirl," she added, "with no money at all."

"Nevertheless, miss, we must mention your name--Miss Annie Brooke, is it
not?"

Annie nodded.  Mrs Priestley made a note of it, adding the date of
Annie's visit and the fact that she was a resident at Lyttelton School.
She then, without any further ado, produced gold and notes to the amount
of thirty pounds, which she folded up into a little parcel and gave to
Annie.

"You will give us a receipt for this, miss," she said; and Annie did so
in due form.  "And now, miss," continued the woman, "all is well, and
you will never hear any more with regard to this matter if we are paid
our account in full; but if there is difficulty--and even rich ladies
sometimes grumble at a bill such as we shall be forced to produce--then
you may get into hot water.  We will now wish you good-afternoon, miss,
for our time is not our own but our customers'."

How flushed Annie was!  When she got into the open air she panted
slightly.  She looked up the street and down the street.  She had had an
awful time with Mrs Priestley, and she had quite forgotten the dress
which was to be made for Mabel.  She could not remedy that omission now,
however; for nothing would induce her to see the terrible Mrs Priestley
again.  Her companions were not yet in sight, and she paced up and down
thinking her own thoughts.

After a time she felt calmer.  The money was safe in her pocket.  There
would be no fuss for three months at least.  Annie was a sort of girl
who could not think of trouble three months ahead.  In half-an-hour she
felt quite happy.  The memory of her depression vanished, and when the
girls on their bicycles hove in sight she met them with a gay word.

"You _have_ had a ride!" she said.  "I have been out of Mrs Priestley's
for ages."

"I thought," said Agnes Moore, one of the girls, "that you would never
be tired of an interview with a dressmaker, Annie.  Is she quite as
imposing as people describe her?  I go to Mrs Arnold, you know."

"She is withering," said Annie, with a laugh.  "She invariably speaks of
herself as `we,' and is a perfect mass of pomposity.  I do wish, Agnes,
you could have heard the withering tone in which she alluded to `Mrs
Arnold's ladies.'  Oh dear, oh dear!  I nearly died with laughter."
During the rest of the ride home Annie amused herself in taking off Mrs
Priestley, which she did to the life.  That very same evening thirty
pounds in gold and notes had been transferred, first from Annie's pocket
to that of Mabel Lushington, and then from Mabel Lushington to Priscilla
Weir.

Priscilla turned very white when her hand touched the little packet.

"It hurts me," she said aloud.  Mabel and Annie were both present when
she made this remark, but neither of them asked her to explain herself.
On the contrary, Mabel took Annie's arm and hurried her away.

"How did you manage with Mrs Priestley?" she asked.

"It is all right, love," said Annie.  "She has added thirty pounds to
your account."

But Mabel looked not at all satisfied.  "I didn't want it to be done in
that way," she said.  "Aunt Henrietta will be wild.  She is always
quarrelling with me about my dresses, and says that I spend twice too
much on them.  Good gracious!  I do trust that I sha'n't get into
trouble about this."

"You must not," said Annie; "for if, by any chance, such a thing were to
happen, I should never hear the and of it.  Oh Mabel!  I have done a lot
for you.  I have in a way made myself responsible.  I had to.  Mabel--I
must tell you, for I think you ought to know--if there is any difficulty
in paying Mrs Priestley's bill, she means to tell Mrs Lyttelton about
me--about me!--how I visited her, and asked her for the money; and she
has my receipt to show.  She put a stamp on it, and made me write my
name across the stamp.  Oh Mabel!  I have done wonderful things for you,
and you know it.  You can never, never be grateful enough."

"I suppose I am grateful," said Mabel.  "It was plucky of you to do that
for me, Annie, and I am not one to forget."

"We will enjoy ourselves in Paris," said Annie.  "I know Mrs Priestley
won't send in the account for about three months, so we'll have a good
time first, whatever happens."

"Oh, if the thing is three months off, I'm not going to fret about it in
advance," said Mabel, who instantly became very talkative and lively.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE POET.

The days which passed between the occurrences related in the last
chapter and the great prize day went on wings.  The girls were all
exceedingly busy.  If there were many prizes to be won, and there was
hard work beforehand to win them, there was the thought, too, of the
long and delightful summer holidays to gladden each young heart; the
reunion with fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters; the pleasures
of the seaside resort or the country house; the knowledge that lessons,
however useful in themselves, might be put away for six long, delightful
weeks.

The girls were in the best of humour; and, as though Nature herself were
in sympathy with them, the sun rose day by day in a cloudless sky, the
flowers bloomed in more and more profusion, and the whole world seemed
preparing for a grand holiday.  Lyttelton School was famed for its
roses, and the profusion of roses that blossomed during this special
summer was long remembered by every member of the school.

Mabel Lushington was not a girl especially remarkable for
conscientiousness.  She was now completely under Annie's spell, who,
having won her point, was determined that there should not be a single
flaw in her grand scheme.  Her whispers about Mabel had spread a rumour
in the school that Mabel Lushington, who had long been remarkable for
her fine figure, handsome face, and a certain haughtiness of bearing,
was also exceedingly clever.  It is no easy matter to convert a girl who
has hitherto been renowned as a dunce into a genius.  Nevertheless,
clever Annie managed to effect this object.

"She writes such good verses, you know," Annie said first to one girl,
and then to another; and as Mabel had been forewarned on the subject,
she was not taken by surprise when the girls used to crowd round her and
beg to see some specimens of her art.

"Oh, I can't, I can't!"  Mabel would say, blushing and even giggling a
little.  "Don't, don't ask me; I should die of shame."

These were her invariable retorts, and, as a rule, she managed to excuse
herself with a certain amount of success.  But schoolgirls are
tenacious.  The subject of Mabel's gift for poetry became the general
talk of the school, and finally a whole bevy of girls waited on Miss
Lushington with the request that she would allow them to sample her
poems.

"The fact is," said Constance Smedley, "seeing is believing.  You most
read us something, Mabel; you really must."

Mabel found herself turning pale, and Constance, who was a remarkably
keen observer of character, noted the fact.  Annie was nowhere within
reach.  Mabel began to feel as though a torture-screw were put on.

"Come, Mabel," said Constance, "it is but fair.  We love poetry, and
will not be hard on you."

"What I think is this," said another girl.  "Mabel is a satirist; she
has been laughing at us all in her sleeve.  She writes about us, and
doesn't want us to know.--Come, May, I know that is the case, otherwise
you would not be so red."

"She was pale a minute ago," said Constance.--"What are you changing
colour about, you silly old May?  We won't mind whether you satirise us
or not.  Come, get your verses."

"I--I--can't; I--won't," said Mabel.  She had not an idea what the girls
meant when they spoke of her as a satirist.  She wished herself far
away.  As she said afterwards, she could have sunk through the ground at
that moment.  Her tortures were at their height when Annie Brooke
appeared.  Annie and Priscilla were crossing the lawn arm-in-arm.  Annie
had been talking eagerly.  Priscilla, very grave and quiet, was replying
in monosyllables.  Suddenly Priscilla looked up.

"What is the matter with Mabel?" she said.

"How queer she looks!"

"I had best go to her, I suppose," said Annie.  "She is such an old
silly that unless I keep by her side she is sure to do some thing
wrong."

"Here you are, Annie," cried Constance.  "Now you will be on our side.
You have assured us that Mabel is not the dunce of the school, but the
genius."

"So she is," said Annie indignantly.  "Who dares to deny it?"

"None of us," said Constance; "only we want proof."

"What do you mean?" said Annie, still quite calm in appearance, but
feeling a little uncomfortable nevertheless.

"We want proof," repeated Constance.

"Yes," said Agnes--"proof."

"Proof, proof!" echoed several other voices.  "Mabel writes verses--very
clever verses.  We want to see them."

"So you shall," said Annie at once.

"Oh Annie, I won't show them," said poor Mabel.

"Nonsense, May! that is absurd.  Girls, you can see them to-morrow
afternoon.  To-morrow is our half-holiday; Mabel will read her verses
aloud herself to you at four o'clock to-morrow on this identical spot.
She has no time now, for the gong has just sounded for tea."

Mabel turned a flushed, surprised face towards Annie.  Priscilla stood
perfectly still in unbounded astonishment.  The girls were not quite
satisfied; still, there was nothing to complain of.  They must go to tea
now.  Immediately after tea school-work would recommence; there would
not be a moment of time to read the verses before the following day.
Annie, leaving Mabel to her fate, marched into the house, her hand on
Constance Smedley's arm.

"I am glad I came out," she said.  "Poor May is quite abnormally
sensitive on the subject of her verses."

"Nonsense!" said Constance.  "If she writes verses she won't mind our
seeing them."

"She ought not to mind; and if she were an ordinary girl she would not,"
said Annie.  "But, you see, she is not ordinary.  There is many a girl
with a genius who, as regards other matters, is even a little silly.
The fact is, Mabel is frightened of her own talent."

"Well, we are glad you came up, for we are quite determined to get a
specimen of our genius's work," said Constance.

"You shall know all about it; she will read them to you herself.  Ta-ta
for the present."

Annie marched to her own place at the tea-table, and nothing more was
said.  But she was not comfortable.  She had got herself and her
unfortunate friend into a hornet's nest.  Verses of some sort must be
produced; but how?  Annie could not write the most abject doggerel.
Clever enough with regard to her prose, she was hopeless as a rhymster.
Perhaps Priscie could do it.  Annie looked wildly at Priscie, but as she
looked even this hope faded away.  She had had a conversation with that
young lady on that very afternoon, and Priscie, although she was to have
her extra year at school--for everything was quite arranged now--did not
seem to be happy about it.  She had even gone to the length of telling
Annie that she would prefer learning how to manage a farm-house or
becoming a country dressmaker to staying on at Lyttelton School under
the present conditions.  Annie had assured her that if she failed them
now, the mischief she would do would be so incalculable that it would
practically never end, and Priscilla had been quieted for the time
being.  But Priscilla's conscience must not be further tampered with;
Annie was resolved on that point.  What, oh! what was she to do?

During the rest of that evening, while apparently busy over her studies,
the mind of Annie Brooke was in a whirl.  In what sort of way was she to
fulfil her promise made to all those odious girls that Mabel would read
her verses aloud?  She saw that the girls were already slightly
suspicious.  She knew it was all-important for Mabel's success when she
won the literary prize that the girls' minds should be already prepared
with regard to her genius.  If they were really satisfied that she wrote
even moderately good verse, they would accept without comment the fact
that she had won the prize over Priscilla's head.  But how--oh! how--in
what sort of fashion were these verses to be produced?

Annie was in the mood when she would have stopped short at very little.
Could she have safely pilfered the verses of anybody else she would have
done so; but there was no great store of poetry at the school.  The few
books out of which the girls learned their different pieces for
recitation were too well-known to be tampered with, and yet Annie must
do something.  Her head ached with the enormity of the task which she
had so unwittingly undertaken.  Why, oh! why had she started that awful
idea of Mabel's poetical genius in the school?  Far better would it have
been even to have the girls' suspicions slightly aroused by the
excellence of her prize essay.  Poor Annie had not only to think of this
and to solve the riddle set her, but she had to appear before the eyes
of her schoolfellows as utterly calm and cool.  She was at her
wits'-end, and certainly matters were not improved when Mabel that night
tapped at her wall--the signal that the girls had arranged between them
when it was necessary for one to speak to the other.

It was about eleven at night when Annie, feeling miserable beyond words,
crept into Mabel's room.  Mabel was sitting up in bed with all her fine
hair hanging about her shoulders.

"I have not had a minute to speak to you before," said Mabel.  "You know
perfectly well, Annie, that I never wrote a line of poetry in my life.
I can't abide the stuff; I can't even read it, far lees write it.  And
now what is to be done?  You are going to produce a specimen of my verse
which I am to read aloud before all those odious girls to-morrow!"

"Oh, I'll manage it," said Annie; "only don't keep me now, May.  I had
to start that little rumour in order to make it all safe for you on
prize day.  You don't suppose, darling did May, that I have brought you
as far as this with such wonderful success in order to desert you now?
You leave it to me, May Flower.  I'll manage it for you somehow."

Mabel lay back on her pillow.  "I did get an awful fright," she said.
"I can't tell you how terrible it was when they all clustered round me,
and Agnes remarked one thing about me, and Constance another.  Agnes
said I was a satirist.  What on earth is a satirist, Annie?"

"Oh, not you, darling, at any rate," said Annie, kissing her friend.
"Poor May! that is the very last thing you could ever be."

"I know you think me very stupid," said Mabel in an offended tone.  "It
is too awful to give a girl the imputation of a genius, when you know
all the time that she is an absolute fool."

"A very pretty one, at any rate," said Annie, kissing her friend again.
"You're not offended, silly May, because I said you were not a satirist?
Why, a satirist is an _awful_ creature, dreaded by everybody.  A
satirist is a person who makes fun of her best friends.  Now, you would
never make fun of your own Annie, would you?"

"No, indeed!  I am glad I am not a satirist," said May.  "What a horror
those girls must think me!"

"Go to by-by now, May, and leave me to settle things for you," said
Annie; and she crept back to her own bed.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A TOUCH OF THE SUN.

Towards morning a thought came to Annie.  She could not quite tell when
it first darted through her brain.  Perhaps it came in a dream.  She was
never quite certain, but it certainly caused her to jump, and it made
her heart beat tumultuously.

"I wonder," she said aloud; and then she added, "The very thing!"  Then
she said once more, "I will do it, or my name is not Annie Brooke."

That morning the mistress and the girls missed the pleasant face of
Annie Brooke from the breakfast-table.  Mabel Lushington, as her
greatest friend, was begged to go to her room to see if anything was the
matter.  She tapped at Annie's door.  A very faint reply came, and Mabel
entered in much consternation.  She found her friend lying in bed, a
handkerchief wrung out of eau-de-Cologne and water on her brow, her hair
dishevelled, her face pale.

"Oh Annie, you are ill!" said poor Mabel.  "What is wrong?"

"My head, dear; it aches so badly."

"Oh, I am sorry!" said Mabel.  "Mrs Lyttelton sent me upstairs to know
what is wrong."

"Tell her she must not be at all alarmed," said Annie.  "It is just one
of my very worst headaches, no more.  I sha'n't be able to do any
lessons to-day.  But I will creep out into the garden presently.  I want
air and perfect quiet.  I'll get into one of the hammocks in the garden
and lie there.  Tell them all not to be a bit anxious, for I know what I
want is rest."

"You do look bad," said Mabel.  "Dear Annie, I know I am the cause of
it."

"You are most truly," thought Annie under her breath.  But aloud she
said, "No, dear, not at all; I am subject to headaches."

"I never knew you with one before," said Mabel.

"I have kept them to myself, darling; but Mrs Lyttelton knows, for I
told her.  This is just worse than the others, and I can't keep it to
myself.  If Miss Phillips likes to come up, she might bring me a cup of
tea and a little toast.  I couldn't eat anything else, indeed.  Now,
love, go down; don't be distressed; your Annie will be all right in the
afternoon."

Mabel longed to say, "What are you going to do about the poem?" but in
sight of that pale presence with its look of suffering, and the bondage
on the head, she thought that such a remark would be quite too
heartless.  She stepped, therefore, very softly out of the room, and
going downstairs, made a most effective announcement with regard to
Annie.

"She says it is nothing," remarked Mabel, who was almost in tears; "but
she looks quite dreadful--so ghastly white."

Little did Mabel know that Annie had smeared powder over her face to
give it that death-like appearance.  She had managed it with great
skill, and trusted to its not being noticed.

"Miss Phillips," said Mrs Lyttelton, "will you go and see what is wrong?
If Annie is feverish we must get a doctor.  She may have a little touch
of the sun, my dears; it is always unwise to be out too much this hot
weather."

"She looked awfully flushed," said one girl, "when we met her in the
High Street yesterday.  It was after she had been with Mrs Priestley."

"It must be a touch of the sun," said Mrs Lyttelton; "perhaps I had
better go to her myself."

"Let me go first, dear Mrs Lyttelton," said Miss Phillips; "I can soon
let you know if there is anything wrong."

Accordingly, Miss Phillips went gently upstairs Annie had the curtains
drawn at the windows, but the windows themselves had their sashes open.
She was lying in such a position that the powder on her face could not
be noticed.  When Miss Phillips came in Annie uttered a groan.

"Oh, why do you trouble?" she said, opening half an eye and looking at
the mistress.

Her dread was that Mrs Lyttelton herself might appear.  It would be
difficult to hide the powder from her.  Old Phillips, however, as she
termed her, was a person easily imposed upon.  "Don't fuss about me,
please," said Annie.  "I have just a bad headache.  I am sorry I can't
be in the schoolroom this morning; but I just can't.  I am not a bit
hot--not a bit--but my head is dreadful.  I want to go out and lie in
one of the hammocks in the garden.  Do you think Mrs Lyttelton will let
me?"

"Indeed she will, poor dear!" said Miss Phillips.  "She is ever so sorry
for you.  You do look bad, Annie.  Wouldn't you like me to draw back the
curtain, dear?  Your room is so dark."

"Oh, please don't!" said Annie.  "I can't bear the light."

"Well, my dear--well, of course--how thoughtless of me!  I have brought
you some tea."

"Thank you; I shall be glad of a cup."

"Poor child!  Then you wouldn't like to see Mrs Lyttelton herself?"

"Not for the world," said Annie with unnecessary vehemence.  But then
she added prettily, "It is so sweet of her to think of it, and for
little me--as if I were of any consequence.  It's just a headache, and
I'll be all right in the garden, and at dinner-time you will see me
looking just as usual."

"I hope so, indeed," said Miss Phillips, who went downstairs to report
that Annie was singularly pale, but not in the least feverish, and that
her great desire was to lie in a hammock during the entire morning in
the shady garden.

"Go up at once and tell her that she has my permission," said Mrs
Lyttelton.

Miss Phillips opened the door very softly.  Annie was still lying with
her eyes shut, the bandage at once shading and concealing her face; but
the cheeks, the tip of the little nose, and the chin were all dreadfully
white; only the pretty lips were still rosy.

Annie just opened languid eyes.

"I am better, really," she said in the faintest and most patient voice.

"You poor, sweet thing," said Miss Phillips.  "How I sympathise with
you!  I get those frantic headaches myself sometimes."

"It hurts me even to talk," said Annie.  "I do value your sympathy, but
I can't express what I feel.  May I go into the garden?  Did you find
out?"

"Yes; Mrs Lyttelton has given you her permission.  I am so sorry, dear,
that none of us will be able to be with you.  Mrs Lyttelton herself is
going to drive to London, and of course the rest of us will be busy; but
if you want any one, love, I could send one of the maids to you."

"I shall want nothing," said Annie, whose voice, in her eagerness, had
suddenly become strong.  Any one who was not poor Phillips would have
been suspicious on the spot.  "I am so dreadfully sorry," said Annie,
"that you should be put out about me; but if I am allowed to treat my
headache in my own way, I shall be all right by early dinner.  Now go,
dear, won't you?  I will get dressed and creep down to the garden as
soon as lessons begin."

"You are such a thoughtful, unselfish girl," said Miss Phillips.
"Anybody else who looked so terribly ill would make a fuss."

"Sweet Miss Phillips!" murmured Annie; and with these words sounding in
her ear Miss Phillips left the room.

The moment she did so Annie sprang to a sitting position on her bed.
She flung the bandage across the room with a petulant movement, and the
next instant she had locked the door and begun an active and hurried
toilet.  The powder was removed.  The small, fair face assumed its
normal complexion, and by the time prayers were over and the girls were
all assembled in the different class-rooms, Annie, in her neat cotton
dress, wearing a big shady hat, with gloves drawn over her small white
hands, and a parasol ready to shade her from the sun, stood waiting by
her open window.

Presently she heard a welcome sound--the noise of wheels disappearing
down the avenue.  Now was her time.  Across the lawn she went.  The
hammocks were there, but Annie had no use for them at present.  Until
she was well out of sight of the house she did not dare to run, but when
a depression in the ground hid the house from view she put wings to her
feet, and flew panting and racing along by the shrubbery, until, at the
farthest end, she found a small postern door.

This door opened by means of a certain catch, so that to the uninitiated
it always seemed locked, whereas to the initiated it would open any
minute.  Annie was one of the initiated.  She let herself out being very
careful to close the door after her, so that it would respond to that
same apparently gentle touch when she wished to come back.  It was most
important that she should make all things right with regard to the door,
as by that means she saved at least half-an-hour of her precious--her
most precious time.  Oh, if only Miss Phillips could see her now!  Where
was the pallid, suffering girl?  Surely she was not represented by this
red-faced, panting, strong-looking creature who was careering along the
dusty roads _en route_ for Hendon.

By-and-by she reached the suburbs, turned down a side street, and
knocked loudly at a little green door.  The door was opened by a woman
who was evidently at once the owner of the house and her own servant.

"How do you do, Miss Brooke?" she said, looking at Annie in some
astonishment.  "I am very sorry indeed, miss, but Susie has been having
her bad days, and your dresses are not ready for you.  She'll send them
down this evening, if possible; but when her back aches at its worst she
cannot manage the machine, miss; so I do hope, Miss Brooke, that you
won't be hard on her."

"Not at all; I am very sorry for her," said Annie in her gentle voice.
"May I go in and talk to her for a few minutes, Mrs Martin?"

"To be sure, miss; you will find her upstairs in the sewing-room."

Annie seemed to know her way quite well about this house.  She ran up
some very steep stairs and entered a low room which had at the end a
sloping roof.  There was a bed tucked as it were out of sight under the
eaves; but right in the fall blaze of the summer sun, and where the room
was most stiflingly hot, sat a very pallid girl with a large, over
hanging brow, pale, tired-looking eyes, and a sensitive mouth.

The girl was bending over a large sewing-machine, the work of which she
was guiding with her hand, while her feet worked the treadles.  The
moment she saw Annie she looked at her with a great rush of colour
spreading over her face.

"Why, Miss Brooke!" she said.

"Ah," said Annie, "you are behaving very badly indeed to me, Susie.  I
have just seen your mother, and she says that your back is so bad you
can't do your machining, and in consequence my work--_mine_, Susan--is
not finished.  Oh Susan! it is somebody else's dress you are making now,
and you are quite well enough to do your machining.  I am surprised."

"It is true what mother said, all the same, miss," replied the girl,
interrupting her words as she spoke with a great and exhausting fit of
coughing.  "I ain't fit for no work, and this room is that stifling with
the sun pouring in and no means of opening more than that little crack
of the window.  I haven't done your work, miss, for I knew you 'ud be
kind, and Mrs Hodge at the mill is so cross if I don't carry out her
least wish.  But I meant--I did indeed, miss--to go on with your things
this afternoon.  I did most truly, miss, for it's a real pleasure to
work for you, Miss Brooke."

"Never mind my things to-day," said Annie; "you're not fit, and that is
the simple truth.  You ought to go downstairs, Susan, and get your
mother to take you into the park; that is what you want."

"I may want it, miss," said Susan, "but I won't get it, for mother have
her hands full with the parlour lodger and the drawing-room lodger.
Much time she do have for walking out with me as though I were a fine
lady."

"Poor Susie!" said Annie; "and you so clever, too."

"Ah, miss, nothing frets mother like me thinking myself clever.  She
says that all I want is to know the three R's--reading, writing, and
'rithmetic--that's how she calls 'em.  She hates my books, miss; and as
to my thoughts--oh, dear Miss Brooke! you are the only one in all the
world as knows about them."

"And I want to help you," said Annie.  "I have come here all the way
this morning to ask you to lend me that manuscript book of yours.  I
mean to show your lovely poems to a great, clever, and learned man, and
if by chance he should publish any of them, you would be famous, Susan,
and you need never do this horrible grinding work any more."

"Oh, miss," said the poor girl, "you don't say so!"

"I do say so, Susie; and I suppose I ought to know.  Give me the book,
dear, at once; don't keep me, for I haven't a minute.  These are school
hours, and I had to pretend I had a headache in order to get away to see
you.  You must let me manage about your poetry, Susie; and of course you
will never tell."

"Why, miss, is it likely?"

"Well, fetch the book, then."

Susie crossed the room, went on her knees before an old chest of
drawers, and with the colour now high in her wasted cheeks and her light
eyes darker with emotion, she presented the treasured book to Annie.

"There is my last bit, miss; you will find it at the end.  It's
`Thoughts on the Sunset' I was thinking them in reference to my own
early death, miss, and they're very affecting indeed.  Perhaps you will
show them the first, miss, for they seem to me the very best I have
done."

Susie looked with a world of pathos at Annie.  Her eyes said as plainly
as eyes could speak, "Oh! do read the poem before you go, and tell me
what you think of it."  Annie read the message in the eyes, but had not
an idea of acceding to poor Susie's wish.

"You will have your book back in a few days," she said, "and I do hope
I'll have good news for you; and here is half-a-crown, and you needn't
hurry about my things.  Good-bye, Susie.  Do go into the park if you
can."

Susan nodded.  She felt so grateful to Annie, and so excited, that she
could not speak.  With the book tucked under her arm, Annie flew
downstairs.

She was much annoyed at being intercepted in the passage by Mrs Martin.

"I do 'ope, miss," said that poor woman, "that you ain't been 'ard on my
girl.  She does do her very best; for, what with the unpickin' of your
old dresses, and what with tryin' to turn 'em into new ones, it don't
seem as though it were worth while.  You pays her very little, miss; and
what with never givin' her anythin' new, it don't seem worth the
trouble, that it don't."

"Oh!  I am so sorry," said Annie, who in her moment of victory was
inclined to be kind to any one; "but, you see, I take an interest in
Susan for other matters.  She is not well, and she wants rest.  I am so
glad to have some one to alter my old things, and if I did not give the
work to Susan, I should have to employ a girl I know at home.  But I
will try--I really will--to give her some new plain cotton dresses to
make for me later on.  In the meantime, Mrs Martin, I have been
recommending her to go for a walk in the park.  She has great talent,
and her life ought not to be sacrificed."

"There, miss!" said Mrs Martin, putting her arms akimbo and looking with
great dissatisfaction at Annie.  "It's _you_ as encourages her in
scribblin' of that poetic stuff.  Never did I hear such rubbish in all
my born days.  If it wasn't for you, miss, she would burn all the stuff
instead of sittin' up a-composin' of it.  What with sunsets, and
deathbeds, and heartaches, and green grass, and other nonsense, I don't
know where I be when I listen to her words; I don't really.  I see
you've got the book under your arm now, miss; and I do wish you'd burn
it--that I do!"

"It would hurt her very much indeed if I did," said Annie; for a further
thought had darted through her brain at Mrs Martin's words.  Here would
be an easy way to hide her own deed for ever and ever.  If Mrs Martin
sanctioned the burning of her daughter's book, surely Annie's wicked
scheme would be concealed for ever.

"I agree with you," said Annie, "that it is bad for poor Susan to write
so much poetry.  Her heart is set on it, I know; still, if you
disapprove--"

"That I do, miss; I wish you'd give me the book now, and I'll keep it
under lock and key."

"No, no," said Annie eagerly.  "Don't do that on any account whatever.
I have thought of a much better plan.  She has lent me the book, for I
promised to read her poems, poor girl! and to talk them over with a
friend of mine.  I need not give them back to her for the present."

"Oh, miss!  I'd be _that_ grateful if you'd keep them altogether."

"I don't see that I can quite do that.  Still, if you wish it--"

"I do, miss; that I do."

"Well, good-bye for the present.  You mustn't keep me now, as I am in a
great hurry."

Mrs Martin moved aside, and once more Annie pursued her way up the dusty
road.  The postern door presented no hindrance when she reached it, and
by-and-by, with a sigh of relief, she found herself in the cool shade of
the grounds.  How inviting looked that hammock under the trees!  But she
had not a moment of time to indulge in rest just then.  Unperceived by
any one, she managed to reach her room.  She locked the door.  She made
a quick selection from poor Susan's verses.  She then calmly dressed,
washed her face and hands, and when early dinner was announced, took her
place at table.

The girls were all pleased to see her, and when she assured them that
she was as well as ever they all congratulated her.  Priscilla Weir sat
at table near Annie.  Priscilla was not looking well.  The headache
which Annie pretended to have was in reality possessed by poor
Priscilla.  She was easily startled, too, and changed colour when any
one addressed her in a hurry.

Towards the end of the meal, as the girls were about to leave the room,
she bent towards Annie and said:

"Is it really true that Mabel Lushington is going to read some poems at
four o'clock this afternoon?"

"She is going to read some of her _own_ poems.  Why not?" said Annie.
She spoke defiantly.

"Her own poems?" echoed Priscilla, a world of scorn in her voice.

"Yes.  Why not?" said Annie.

Priscilla was silent for a minute.  Then she said in a very low voice:

"I know how clever you are; but even your genius cannot rise to this.  I
have seen you struggle to make even the slightest rhyme when we have
been playing at making up verses.  You can't manage this."

"Never mind," said Annie.  She jumped up almost rudely.  The next minute
she had seized Mabel by the arm.  "We have half-an-hour.  Come with me
at once to my room."

Mabel did so.  When they reached the room Annie locked the door.

"Now then," she said, "who's a genius?  I said I would find a way out.
Sit down immediately before my desk and write what I tell you."

"Oh Annie, what do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say, and the fewer questions you ask the better.
I will dictate the poem, and you shall copy it."

"But--but," said Mabel, turning from red to white--"it isn't, I hope,
from a printed book.  I have thought of that I have been so frightfully
miserable that I've thought of everything; but that would be so terribly
unsafe."

"This is not unsafe at any rate," said Annie, "Now you begin.  Write
what I tell you."

Annie's look of triumph and her absolutely fearless manner impressed
Mabel.  She wrote as best she could to Annie's dictation, and soon two
of poor Susan Martin's attempts at verse were copied in Mabel's writing.

"There you are!" said Annie.  "That `sunset' one will take the cake, and
that pretty little one about `my favourite cat' will come home to every
one."

"But I haven't a favourite cat," said Mabel, "and why ever should I
write about it?"

"Did you never in the whole course of your life," was Annie's answer,
"hear of a poet's licence?  You can write on anything, you know, if you
are a poet."

"Can I?" replied Mabel.  "Then I suppose the cat will do."

"It will do admirably."

"I hope," said Mabel, "they won't question me afterwards about the
animal.  It sounds exactly as though it were my own cat, and every one
in the school knows that I can't even touch a cat."

"What a pity you didn't tell me that before," said Annie, "and I would
have chosen something else!  But there's no time now; we must fly
downstairs immediately."

"You are clever, Annie.  I can't think how you got these poems.  But the
`sunset' one sounds dreadful too.  I never even looked at a sunset.  And
then there's the thoughts about dying--as if--as if I _could_ know
anything of that."

"You must read them as pathetically as you can," said Annie, "and make
the best of a bad job.  I believe they'll go down admirably.  Now then,
fold them up and put them away; and don't let's be found closeted
together here."  Sharp at four that afternoon Mabel appeared before her
assembled schoolfellows and read--it must be owned rather badly--first
some "Lines to a Favourite Cat," and then "Thoughts on the Sunset."  The
poems were not poetry in any sense of the word; nevertheless, there was
a vague sort of far-off suggestion of poetry about them.  It is true the
girls giggled at the thought of Mabel and her cat, and were not
specially impressed by the violet and rose tints of the sunset, or by
the fact that florid, large, essentially living-looking Mabel should
talk of her last faint breath, and of the time when she lay pale and
still and was a corse.

She read the lines, however, and they seemed thoroughly genuine.  When
she had finished she looked at her companions.

"Well, I'd like to say, `I'm blowed!'" said Agnes; while Constance
Smedley, the head-girl of the school, said in a low tone:

"I congratulate you, Mabel; and I'm very much surprised.  There is no
saying what you will do in the future, only I hope you won't speak of
dead people as corses, for I dislike the term."

"And of course after this," said a merry, round-faced girl who had
hitherto not spoken, "we will expect to have further lines on pussie,
poor, pussie; and, oh, Mabel, _what_ a cheat you are!  And you always
said you loathed cats!"

At this instant one of the youngest girls in the school rushed up and
flung a tabby-cat into Mabel's lap.  The cat was large; a very rough
specimen of the race.  Being angry at such treatment, it unsheathed all
its claws.  Mabel shrieked with terror, and flung the poor animal aside
with great vehemence.

"Oh, poor pussie, poor pussie!" laughed the others; "but she loves you
all the same.

  "When pussy comes, so sleek and warm,
  And rubs against my knee,
  I think we're safe from every harm,
  My pretty cat and me.

"Oh Mabel, Mabel! you are a humbug."

"I hate cats!" burst from Mabel.

Annie turned pale for a minute; but her self-composure did not long
desert her.  "Being a poet, you know, you're quite certain to be a
little mad at times," she remarked.  "All poets are.  I suppose you had
a mad fit, dear Mabel, when you wrote about your favourite cat.  I
thought so."

"I think so, and I think I am mad now," said Mabel, marching away from
the others as she spoke, and plunging into the cool depths of the
paddock.

At that moment, more than cats, she hated herself; she hated Annie; she
hated Priscilla.  What an awful tissue of lies she was weaving round
herself!  Surely another year at Mrs Lyttelton's school would have been
much better than this.  But, alas! it is not given to us to retrace our
steps.  Mabel had taken up a position, and there was nothing for it now
but to abide by it.  To confess all that she had done, to demand the
money back from Priscilla, to stay on at school, were greater feats than
she had courage to perform; and even if she were willing to do this, was
not Annie always by her side--Annie, who did not repent, who was
feathering her own nest so nicely, and who was priding herself on having
overcome the immense difficulty of proving poor, stupid Mabel a poet?

The great day of the prize-giving followed soon after, and, to the
unbounded astonishment of the girls, Mabel Lushington's essay on
"Idealism" won the first literature prize.

The essays were not read by the girls themselves, but by one of the
teachers who had a beautiful voice and that dear enunciation which makes
every word tell.  The vote in favour of Mabel was unanimous.  Her paper
had thought; it had even style.  In all respects it was far above the
production of an ordinary schoolgirl, and beyond doubt it was far and
away the best essay written.

Priscilla's paper passed muster, but it did not even win the second
prize.  Mabel looked quite modest and strikingly handsome when the great
prize was bestowed upon her--a magnificent edition of all the great
English poets, bound in calf and bearing the school coat-of-arms.

Mrs Lyttelton, more astonished than pleased, was nevertheless forced to
congratulate Mabel.  She turned soon afterwards to one of the girls.

"I must confess," she said, "that I never was so surprised in my life."

"I should have been just as amazed as you," answered Constance, "but for
the fact that there is far more in Mabel than any one has the least idea
of.  She is a poet, you know."

"A poet, my dear?"

"Yes; indeed she is.  We simply would not believe it; but she read us
some of her verses.  A few, of course, were nothing but drivel; but
there were lines on the sunset which quite amazed me, for they were full
of thought."

"I am glad to hear it, Constance; nevertheless, I may as well confess to
you that my feelings at the present moment are mingled ones.  I wanted
Priscilla to win the prize."

Meanwhile Mabel, surrounded by glory--her schoolfellows and the
different visitors who had come to the school for the occasion crowding
round her and congratulating her--had no longer any feeling of remorse.
She acknowledged that Annie was right, and loved Annie, for the time
being, with all her heart.

It was Annie herself who took the telegram to the post-office to convey
the great information to Lady Lushington.  It was Annie herself who was
the happy recipient of the reply which came later on that evening.  The
words of Lady Lushington's telegram were brief:

"Congratulation.  True to my word.  Join me in Paris on Friday.  Writing
to Mrs Lyttelton."

The three girls with whom this story first opened were together once
more in the private sitting-room at Lyttelton School.  When Mabel had
read her telegram she flung it across to Priscilla.

"Then all is well," she said; "and we owe it to Annie."

"Yes," said Priscilla.  "And I have had a telegram," she added, "an hour
ago.  It is from Uncle Josiah.  He wishes me to remain with Mrs
Lyttelton daring the vacation.  He doesn't care that I should return
home at present."

"Well, that will suit you exactly, won't it?" said Annie.

"I suppose so.  I only wonder what Mrs Lyttelton will say."

"And I am going to my uncle.  We all break up to-morrow; but you and I
shall meet again in the autumn, Priscilla.  You will have to say
good-bye to dear old Mabel now."

"You must wish me luck," said Mabel.  "I won't forget my part; you need
have no anxiety about your school fees."

"Uncle Josiah seems pleased on the whole that I should remain," answered
Priscilla, "although I cannot make out the wording of his telegram; but
I do wonder what arrangement he will make for paying Mrs Lyttelton."

"If he cannot pay her you ought to go back," said Annie, who did not at
all wish to have this additional expense laid at Mabel's door.  She
wished as much as possible of Mabel's money should be devoted to
herself.  "But I suppose you will hear in the morning."

"Yes; I suppose so," said Priscilla.

"You look pretty miserable, Priscie.  I wonder why, seeing all that
Mabel and I have done for you."

"All that _I_ have done for _you_, you mean," said Priscilla.

"Well, I like that," said Annie.

"I will speak out for once," said Priscilla, her eyes flashing fire and
her pale face becoming suffused with colour.  "I have gone under, and I
hate myself.  The hour of triumph to-day ought to have been mine.  Don't
you suppose that I feel it?  I loathe myself so deeply that I don't
think I am even a good enough girl to help my aunt in the house-work at
home; and I pity the village dressmaker who would have me apprenticed to
her.  I am so bad that I loathe myself.  Oh, you think that I shall be
happy.  You don't know me; I can never be happy again!"

Mabel's face immediately became pale.  She looked at Priscilla as though
she were going to cry.  It was Annie who took the bull by the horns.

"Now, this is sheer nonsense," she said.  "You know perfectly well,
Priscilla, that no better thing could have been done than what has
happened to-day.  In the first place, you are not disgraced, for the
essay you read was quite creditable.  It ought to have been, indeed,
seeing that it was my work.  And, in the second place, you have a year's
schooling guaranteed.  With your brains, think what you will achieve--a
fine scholarship at least, and then Girton as your reward.  You mean to
say that for the sake of some little pricks of conscience you would not
take these advantages?  Of course you will!  Indeed, you have done so,
so there's no good saying anything more about it."

"I know there isn't," said Priscilla.  "I don't expect sympathy; I
deserve all that I can get."  She left the room as she spoke.

"Oh, isn't she quite too dreadful?" said Annie.

"I don't know," answered Mabel; "I expect I'd feel much the same if I
were she."

The next day Priscilla received a letter from her uncle.  She had
written to tell him that the funds for another year's schooling had been
provided for her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"My dear Priscilla," he wrote, "I am more disappointed than glad at your
news; but of course, if a friend wants to pay for your schooling, I
don't interfere.  You say that you hope to win a scholarship at the end
of the term.  That may or may not be the case.  All that I can say is
that I hope you will get it, for it is my intention to wash my hands of
you.  I made you a sensible offer, and you have rejected it.  Your aunt
and I agree that as you are too grand for us, _we_, on our part, are too
poor for you.  Henceforth you may look to your father in India for any
assistance you may require.  But as I don't want to be hard on you, I am
willing to pay a small sum for your support during the coming holidays,
which I wish you to spend at Lyttelton School.  I enclose money
herewith--five pounds.  I have no doubt the mistress will keep you for
that for it will more than cover your consumption of food.

"Good-bye, my dear Priscilla.  I look upon you as an instance of want of
gratitude.  You are too fine a lady for your aunt and me.--Your uncle,
Josiah."

CHAPTER NINE.

THE RECTOR.

It was a pretty old Rectory to which Annie Brooke was going in order to
spend the first week of her holidays.  It was situated on the borders of
Wales, and the scenery was superb.  Mountains surrounded it, and seemed,
after a fashion, to shut it in.  But these glorious mountains, with
their ever-changing, ever-shifting effects of light and shade, their
dark moments, their moments of splendour, were all lost upon such a
nature as that of Annie Brooke.

She hated the Rectory.  Her feelings towards Uncle Maurice were only
those of toleration.

She loathed the time she spent there, and now the one thought in her
breast was the feeling that her emancipation was near, and that very
soon she would be on her way to gay Paris to join Mabel Lushington.

Yes, Annie had achieved much, if those actions of hers could be spoken
of in such a light; she had won that which she desired.  Priscilla
remained at school.  Mabel had left Lyttelton School, and she (Annie)
was to join her friend on the Continent.

Still, of course, there was a small thing to be done.  Uncle Maurice
must produce the needful.  Annie could not travel to Paris without
money, and Uncle Maurice must supply it.  She did not anticipate much
difficulty in getting the necessary sum from her uncle.  Her dress was,
of course, very unsuitable for the time of triumph she hoped to have in
the gay capital and during her time abroad with Lady Lushington and
Mabel.  But nevertheless, she was not going to fret about these things
in advance, and perhaps Uncle Maurice would be good for more than the
money for her journey.

She was seated now in a high gig, her uncle himself driving her.  He had
come to meet her at the nearest railway station ten miles away, and as
the old horse jogged along and the old gig bumped over the uneven road
Annie congratulated herself again and again on having such a short time
to spend at home.

Mr Brooke was an old clergyman approaching seventy years of age.  He had
lived in this one parish for over forty years; he loved every stone on
the road, every light on the hills, every bush that grew, every plant
that flowered; and as to the inhabitants of the little parish of
Rashleigh, they were to old Maurice Brooke as his own children.

He was pleased to see Annie, and showed it now by smiling at her from
time to time and doing his best to make her comfortable.

"Is the rug tucked tightly round you, Annie?" he said.  "You will feel
the fresh air a bit after your time down south.  It's fine air we have
in these ports--none finer in the land--but it's apt to be a little
fresh when you come new upon it.  And how are you, my dear girl?  I've
been looking, forward to your holidays.  There's a great deal for you to
do, as usual."

"Oh uncle!" said Annie, "but you know I don't like doing things."

"Eh, my love?" said the old clergyman.  "But we have to do them, all the
same, when they come to us in the guise of duty."

"That is what I hate," said Annie, speaking crossly.  "Don't let's worry
about them to-night, Uncle Maurice; I have had a long journey, and am
tired."

"Poor bit thing!" said the old man.  He stopped for a minute to pull the
rag up higher round Annie's knees.  "Mrs Shelf is so pleased at your
coming back, Annie.  She looks to you to help her with the preserving.
She is not as young as she was, and her rheumatism is worse."

"Oh, I hate rheumatic old folks!" thought Annie, but she did not say the
words aloud.

By-and-by they reached the Rectory, and while the rector took old Rover
back to his stable Annie ran into the house.

The Rectory was large and rambling, and had

[This page missing]

"You are looking well, my dear," said the woman, "and I am glad you are
back, for we want young life about the old place."

"You won't have it long," said Annie.

Mrs Shelf took no notice.  "The raspberries are past," she said; "but
there are a good few gooseberries still to preserve, and there are the
early pears coming on; they make beautiful jam, if boiled whole with
cloves and lemon-peel and a little port wine thrown in.  But you must
stand over them the whole time in order to keep them from breaking.
Then there are the peaches; I set store by them, and always put them in
bottles and bury them in the garden.  There are gherkins, too, for
pickling; and there are a whole lot of walnuts.  We mustn't lose a day
about pickling the walnuts, or they'll be spoiled.  We might begin over
some of the jams to-morrow.  What do you think?"

"You may if you like, Shelfy," said Annie; "but I sha'n't.  I have only
come here for a visit.  I'm off to Paris immediately."

"You off to Paris!" said the old woman.  "Highty-tighty! what will your
uncle say?"

"Uncle Maurice will say just what I like him to say," answered Annie.
"Please have a chop or something nice for my supper, for I can't stand
slops.  And is my room ready?"

"I hope so, child.  I told Peggie to see to it."  Peggie was not the
best of servants, and Annie's room was by no means in a state of
immaculate order.  It was a large room, but, like the rest of the house,
very badly furnished.  There was a huge old four-poster for the girl to
sleep in, and there was a little rickety table which held a
looking-glass with a crack down the middle, and there was a cracked
white basin and jug on another table at the farther end of the room.  Of
wardrobe there was none; but a large door, when opened, revealed some
shelves and a hanging press.

"Oh! it is just as of old," thought the girl--"an intolerable, horrid
place.  I could never live here--never; and what's more, I won't.  How
wise I was to make provision for myself while at school!  I declare, bad
as I thought the old place, I didn't imagine it to be quite so
ramshackle."

While these thoughts were rushing through Annie's mind she was brushing
out her pretty golden hair and arranging it becomingly round her small
head.  Then she straightened and tidied her dress, and presently ran
downstairs, her trim little figure quite stylish-looking for that old
house, and pretty enough, in the rector's opinion, to gladden any place
which she chose to grace.

Old Mr Brooke loved Annie.  She was all he possessed in the world.  He
had never married, and when his only brother, on dying, had left the
child to his care, he had vowed to be a father to her, to bring her up
well, and to do the best he could for her.  Annie was the child of an
English father and an Italian mother.  In appearance she had taken in
every respect after her father's race, being fair, with all the
attributes of the Saxon, but in her nature she had some of the
craftiness which distinguishes the Italian.  Hers was a difficult nature
to fathom, and to a very high-minded man like the Rev Maurice Brooke
she was a problem he could never solve.  For a couple of years past he
had owned himself puzzled by Annie.  When she was a little child she
delighted him; but more and more, as she returned from school for each
holiday, he felt that there was something behind.  She was frank with
him; she grumbled quite openly in his presence.  These things he did not
mind, but he was sure there was something behind the grumbling, and that
fact puzzled and distressed him.

Still, he looked forward to the weeks which Annie spent at Rashleigh
Rectory as the golden periods of his life.  All the little pleasures and
indulgences were kept for this time.  "When my niece comes back we'll do
so-and-so," was his favourite remark.  "When Annie comes, Mrs Shelf, we
must have that new tarpaulin put down; and don't you think her room
ought to be repapered and painted for her?  Girls like pretty things,
don't they?"

But Mrs Shelf read Annie's nature far more correctly than did her old
uncle.

"If I were you, Mr Brooke," she said, "I wouldn't spend money on that
girl until I knew what she was after.  Maybe she won't take to the room
when it's painted and papered."

"Won't take to it?" he replied.  "But naturally she'll take to it, Mrs
Shelf, for it will be her own room, where, please God, she will sleep
for many long years, until, indeed, she finds another home of her own."

Mrs Shelf was silent when the rector said these things.  But, somehow,
the room was not papered, nor was the old paint renewed; and Annie
failed to notice these facts.

"Well, my little girl," he said on the present occasion, as they both
sat down to supper in a small room which opened out of the study, "it's
a sight for sair een to see you back again; and well you look, Annie--
well and bonny."  He looked at her admiringly.  She was not at all a
beautiful girl, but she was beautiful to him.  "You have a look of my
brother Geoffrey," he said.  "Ah, Geoffrey, dear fellow, was remarkably
good-looking.  Not that looks signify much, Annie; we ought never to set
store by them.  It is the beauty of the mind we ought to cultivate, my
love."

"Well," said Annie, "I'd like to be handsome.  I don't see, for my part,
why I should not have both.  What do you think, uncle?"

"That would be as the Almighty chose," he replied.  "But come now, my
love; time passes quickly.  I often forget, myself, how the years run
on.  How old are you, my dearie?"

"I was seventeen my last birthday, Uncle Maurice; quite grown up, you
know."

"Why, to be sure, to be sure," he replied.

"Your mother was married at seventeen, poor young thing!  But in these
days we are more sensible, and girls don't take the burden of life on
them while they are still children.  You are a schoolgirl yet, Annie,
and won't be anything else for another year at least."

"Oh, all right, uncle," said Annie, who had no wish to change Lyttelton
School for the dullness of Rashleigh Rectory.

"But the months fly on," said the old man.  "Help yourself to a
roast-apple, my dear.  And before we know where we are," he continued,
"you'll have left school and be back here with me.  I look forward to
that time, my little Annie; there will be a power of things for you to
do, and the parish will be all the better for your society."

Annie shuffled her feet and grew red.  The old rector did not especially
notice her.  He was absorbed in contemplation.  He had eaten his large
bowl of Quaker oats, and now he laid the spoon on his plate and gazed
into the fire.

"It's a fine thing," he said, "to be able to help the poor and needy.  I
always say to myself, `When my bit Annie comes back we'll do so-and-so.
We'll have more mothers' meetings and classes for young women.'  There
are some mill-hands near here, Annie, who are neglected in their
spiritual part shamefully.  They want a lady like yourself to understand
them and to show them what girls ought to know.  You might have
sewing-classes, for instance; and you might read aloud to them just to
interest them, you know.  I have been thinking a lot about it.  And then
what do you say to a Sunday afternoon class, just in one of the big
rooms here, for the mill-hands?  It would be a pretty bit of work, and I
wouldn't be above catching them, so to speak, by guile--I mean that I
would give them tea and cake.  Mrs Shelf wouldn't mind.  We'd have to
manage her, wouldn't we, Annie?"

"Yes, uncle," said Annie, yawning; "yes."

"Then there's a carving-class for the young men."

"I wouldn't mind that so much as the other," said Annie suddenly.

"Now, that is really nice of you, my child, for those rough mill-hands
are often very troublesome.  I would always accompany you myself to the
carving-class.  We'd get our patterns from London, and you would
encourage them a bit."

"Only I can't carve," said Annie.

"Well, well, that needn't be a difficulty; for it is easy to learn, I am
told; and you might have lessons during your last term at school.  Oh,
there'll be a deal for you to do, my pretty one, and no minute left
unemployed; and you, all the time while you are so busy, the very
sunshine of your old uncle's life."

"Am I, Uncle Maurice?" she asked.

"Are you that?" he replied.  He rose and held out his arms to her.
"Aren't you just all I've got," he said--"all I have got?"

She allowed him to kiss her, and even faintly responded, for she had
made up her mind not to trouble him about Paris that night.

After a time he allowed her to go to bed, which she was exceedingly glad
to do.  But when she had flung herself in her bed and was quickly lost
in slumber, the old man himself sat up and thought a great deal about
her, and prayed for her not a little.

"She is a bonny lass, and a pretty one," he said to himself; "and, thank
the Lord!  I don't see a trace of that dark-eyed mother about her.  She
takes after Geoffrey, the best of men.  Yes, she is a good child, and
will settle down to my busy life here, I make no doubt, with great
equanimity.  I have much to be thankful for, and my Annie is the apple
of my eye.  All the same, I wish--I do wish--that she was just a
_little_ more responsive."

The next day Annie awoke with the lark.  She jumped up, and long before
breakfast was out of doors.  The house was shabby enough, but the
Rectory garden was a place to revel in.  The rector cared nothing about
indoor decoration, but his hobby was his garden.  Lawns with some of the
finest turf in England rolled majestically away from the house towards
the swift-flowing river at the other end of the grounds.  There were gay
parterres filled with bright flowers.  There were shrubberies and
paddocks, and even a labyrinth and an old Elizabethan walk where the
yew-trees were cut into grotesque forms of foxes and griffins.  There
was an old sun-dial, which at one time used to interest Annie but which
she had long ceased to notice; and there was a kitchen-garden, which
ought to have delighted the heart of any young person; for not only were
the vegetables first class, but here was to be found the best fruit in
the neighbourhood.  The rector was celebrated for his peaches and
apricots, his pears, his apples, his nuts.  He had a long vinery full of
choice grapes, and there were hotbeds containing melons of the finest
flavour; and there were even--and these were as a crown of all crowns to
the old rector--pines growing here in perfection.

Annie was too self-loving and too keenly appreciative of the good things
of life not to like the old garden.  She forgot some of her grievances
now as she walked here and there, helping herself indiscriminately to
the ripest and beet fruit.

By-and-by the postman was seen coming up the avenue.  Annie ran to meet
him.  She had been delayed for a day in leaving Lyttelton School, and
she knew, therefore, that Mabel's invitation would probably arrive at
Rashleigh Rectory this morning.  Yes; here it was in Mabel's own
writing.  Annie looked at the outside of the envelope for a minute or
two with intense appreciation; then she deliberately opened it and took
out two letters.  The first was from no less a person than Lady
Lushington herself:

"My dear Miss Brooke,--I write by Mabel's wish to beg of you to join my
niece and myself here early next week.  We are going to Switzerland,
where we hope you will accompany us, but will remain here at the `Grand'
until Wednesday.  If you can manage to be with us on Tuesday night, that
will be quite time enough.  I hope your uncle will spare you to us; and
you may assure him that while you are my guest you will be treated as
though you were my child, and will have no expense of any sort.

"Looking forward to making your acquaintance, and with my compliments to
your uncle, believe me, yours sincerely, Henrietta Lushington."

"Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Annie.  She read the other letter, but more
carelessly; Lady Lushington's was the important one.  Mabel wrote:

"Dear Annie,--It is all right.  Don't fail to be with us on Tuesday
night.  Aunt Henrietta will send Parker to meet you at the Gare du Nord,
and you will doubtless find some escort to bring you to Paris.  It's
great fun here, although the weather is very hot, and we are dying to be
away amongst the cool mountains of Switzerland.  Aunt Henrietta goes to
all the fashionable hotels, and dresses exquisitely, so if you can screw
a little money out of that old flint of an uncle of yours, so much the
better; but even if you are shabby, I dare say I can manage to rig you
up.--Your affectionate friend, Mabel Lushington."

"_P.S._--That awful bill has not come yet!  I shake when I think of it.

"_P.S._ Number 2.--I am very glad now that I took your advice.  It is
heavenly to be emancipated.  I wouldn't be back at that odious school
for a kingdom.  Do come quickly."

Armed with these letters, Annie now entered the same little room where
she and her uncle had partaken of their supper on the previous night.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE ILLNESS.

Mr Brooke was not very well.  He was subject to very severe headaches,
and had at these times to stay quiet.  Annie might have noticed by his
languid brown eyes and his slow and somewhat feeble step that something
was wrong with him, had she not been so absorbed in her own pleasure.

"Good-morning, Uncle Maurice," she said.  "I hope you are hungry for
breakfast; for if you are not, I am."

"I can't manage much this morning, my love," said the old rector.  "Just
a cup of tea, please, and--and--well, yes--a very small piece of toast."

"Are you ill?" said Annie a little crossly, for she had small sympathy
for suffering.

"Not exactly, my love.  I have a headache; but it will pass."

"Oh, if you only knew how I suffered from them at school," said Annie in
a careless tone.  "Dear me! isn't this room too hot, Uncle Maurice?  Do
you mind if I open the window?"

"No, my love," he answered.  But when she flung wide the window he
shivered slightly, although he would not show his discomfort for the
world.

Annie helped herself to the excellent breakfast provided by Mrs Shelf.
She was really hungry, and was in excellent spirits.  Things were
turning out well.  Even the Rectory would be endurable if she might
leave it on Monday.  She made a careful calculation in her own mind.
This was Friday morning.  She would have to go to London on Monday
night.

She must sleep at a hotel; that would be all the better fun.  Then she
would start on Tuesday from Victoria Station and arrive in Paris that
night.  Nothing mattered after that; all would be golden after that.
Her reaping-time would arrive; her harvest would be ready for her to
gather.  Oh yes, she was a happy and contented girl this morning!

"How nice the home-made bread is!" she said; "and the butter is so good!
Have you got Cowslip and Dewlip still, Uncle Maurice?"

"Yes, my dear," he answered, brightening up at her interest in the
Rectory animals; "and Dewlip has such a lovely calf with a white star on
her forehead.  We have called it after you--Annie.  I hope you don't
mind.  Mrs Shelf would do it; for she took it into her head that the
calf had a look of you."

"Really, uncle!  That's not a compliment; but I don't care.  I'll have
some of that strawberry jam, if you please."

"The jam is good, isn't it?" said Mr Brooke.  "It is made from the last
crop of strawberries.  Mrs Shelf is a first-rate housekeeper."

Annie helped herself plentifully.  She poured rich cream on the jam, and
ate with an epicure's appreciation.  At last her appetite was satisfied,
and she had time to consider as to when she would break her tidings to
Uncle Maurice.

"Are you coming out with me?" she asked.  "What are we going to do with
ourselves this morning?"

"Well, my love--I am really sorry--it is most unlucky--I haven't
suffered as I am doing to-day--I may say for months.  I suppose it is
the excitement of having you back again, little Annie; but I really do
fear that until my head gets better I must remain quiet.  I get so
giddy, my darling, when I try to walk; but doubtless by lunch-time I
shall be better.  You must amuse yourself alone this morning, my little
girl; but I have no doubt that Mrs Shelf has all kinds of plans to
propose to you."

Annie stood up.  Outside, the garden smiled; but the little room in
which they breakfasted, warm enough in the evening, was somewhat chilly
now, for it faced due west.

"I do want to talk to you so badly," she said; "and--can I just have a
few words with you between now and post-time?  I must write a letter for
the post, and I have to consult you about it.  I won't worry you, dear;
only the thing must be talked about and arranged, so when shall I come
to you?"

"The post goes early from here," said the rector--"at one o'clock.  It
is nine now; come to me at twelve, Annie.  I dare say I shall be all
right by then."

"All right or not," thought Annie, "he'll have to hear my little bit of
information not later that twelve o'clock."

She went out of the room.  The rector watched her as she disappeared.
He did not know why he felt so depressed and uneasy.  His headache was
rather worse, and he felt some slight shivers going down his old frame,
caused no doubt by the open window.

He left the breakfast-room and entered his study, where a fire was
burning, and where, in his opinion, things were much more comfortable.
He did not feel well enough to settle down to any special work.  He drew
up an easy-chair in front of the fire and sat there lost in thought.

His darling was safe at home; the apple of his eye was with him.  She
was all he possessed in the wide, wide world.  There was nothing he
would grudge her--nothing in reason; but, somehow, he dreaded the time
when she would return and talk to him about that letter which must catch
the post.  Anxiety was bad for him, and his head grew worse.

Meanwhile Annie, avoiding Mrs Shelf, took her writing materials into the
garden, and in the sunniest corner penned a long letter to her friend.

"Of course I am coming, dear Mabel," she wrote.  "I have got to tackle
the old uncle at twelve o'clock, but it will be all right.  When I have
seen him and got the needful, or the promise of it, I will write to Lady
Lushington.  I am looking forward beyond words to our time together.
You need not be uneasy; I will manage the horrid bills.  Whatever else
your Annie lacks, she is not destitute of brains.  Trust to me, dear, to
see you through.  Oh!  I am glad that you appreciate my efforts on your
behalf.--Your loving friend,--

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Annie Brooke."

This letter was just written when Mrs Shelf approached Annie's side.

"I wonder now, Annie," she said, "if you would mind riding into
Rashleigh to fetch Dr Brett.  I don't like the state your uncle is in.
You could have Dobbin to ride; he's not up to much, but really I think
Dr Brett should come.  I don't like Mr Brooke's appearance.  He is so
flashed about the face, and so queer in himself altogether."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE LETTER.

"I will go, of course," said Annie, jumping up; "what is the hour, Mrs
Shelf?"

"It is a quarter to twelve.  You had best go at once; if you don't delay
you will catch Dr Brett when he returns home for lunch.  Billy can put
the saddle on Dobbin for you, and there's the old habit hanging on the
peg in your bedroom."

"Detestable old habit," thought Annie, "and horrid Dobbin, and shocking
side-saddle!  Oh dear! oh dear!  But whatever happens, I must get that
letter off immediately."

"Why are you so slow?" said Mrs Shelf, looking at the girl with great
annoyance.  "Your uncle wants medical aid, and he ought to have it."

"I will go, of course," said Annie, "but not for a few minutes.  Don't
fidget, please; I don't believe there is anything serious the matter
with Uncle Maurice.  He often has these headaches."

She went slowly towards the house.  Mrs Shelf stood and watched her.

"Well, if there is a heartless piece in the whole of England, it is that
girl," thought the good woman.  "What my dear master finds to like in
her beats me.  If she doesn't go off immediately for Dr Brett, I'll put
Dobbin to the gig and drive to Rashleigh myself."

Meanwhile Annie entered the house.  Mr Brooke was lying back in his
chair, his face flushed, his hands tremulous.

"I am very sorry, my darling," he said when he saw Annie, "but I have
been a little bit faint.  It will pass, of course; but poor Mrs Shelf is
nervous about me, and wants Brett to be called in.  I don't suppose it
is really necessary."

"Of course it isn't a bit necessary, uncle," said Annie.  "You are just
excited because I have come back.  Now do listen to me, darling.  Your
Annie has such a big favour to ask of you.  You must not think it unkind
of me to speak of it now, but it is so tremendously important.  I will
go and fetch the doctor immediately afterwards--I will indeed--if you
really want him; but don't you think you are just a wee bit nervous?"

"No, dear, not nervous," said the old man.  "I am really ill.  This
attack is sudden, but doubtless it will pass, and I must not be
selfish."

"It is horrid to disturb you when your head aches," said Annie, "I wish
now I had spoken to you this morning.  I did not like to when you seemed
not quite the thing.  I am naturally thoughtful, you know."

"Yes, yes, my little girl," he answered, patting her hand.  "I shall be
well very, quickly now you are back."

"But, Uncle Maurice, dear--oh, Uncle Maurice! you won't say no?  I have
an invitation.  I--I--_want_ to accept it.  It is from a very great
lady.  Here it is; can you read it?"

She put Lady Lushington's letter into the old rector's hand.  He read
the words slowly and with apparent calm.  Then he laid it on his knee.
For a minute there was silence between the two.  Annie's heart was
beating hard.  At last Mr Brooke said:

"You want to go?"

"I want to go," said Annie with emphasis, "more than I want anything
else in all the wide world."

"You understand," said the rector very slowly, "that I am old and not
well.  This will be a keen disappointment to me."

"I know, I know, darling Uncle Maurice; but you are _so_ unselfish.  You
would not deprive your own Annie of her pleasure."

"No, Annie," said Mr Brooke, rousing himself, no longer lying back in
his chair, but sitting upright; "God knows that I should be the last to
do that.  You are young, and want your pleasure."

"Oh, so much!  Think what it means."

"But what sort of woman is Lady Lushington?"

"Uncle Maurice, she is delightful; she is the aunt of my greatest
friend, Mabel Lushington, one of my schoolfellows."

"And yet," said the rector, "the aunt of one of your schoolfellows may
be the last person I should think it desirable to send you to.  I pray
God to keep me from the great sin of selfishness, but I would not have
you spend your holidays with a woman, whom I know nothing about.  Before
I allow you to accept this invitation, Annie, I must inquire of Mrs
Lyttelton something with regard to the character of Lady Lushington."

"Oh uncle! uncle!"

"My mind is firmly made up, child.  I will write to Mrs Lyttelton by
this post.  If her report is favourable I will give you money to go to
Paris--not a great deal, for I am poor, but sufficient.  This is all
that I can say."

"But listen, darling uncle.  Lady Lushington wants me to meet her at the
Grand Hotel in Paris on Tuesday night.  You cannot hear in time from Mrs
Lyttelton.  I shall lose my chance of joining Lady Lushington and Mabel.
Oh, do--do be reasonable!"

"Annie, I have made up my mind.  I will not give you one farthing to
join this woman until I know something about her from one who is at
least acquainted with her.  My child, don't be angry; I am absolutely
determined."

"Then you are unkind.  It is dreadful of you," said Annie.

She burst into petulant tears and ran out of the room.  Here was a
checkmate.  What was to be done?  She was trembling from head to foot.
Her heart was full of anger--such anger as she had not known for years.
Mrs Shelf was hovering about outside.

"Oh, what is it?" said Annie.  "Why do you follow me?"

"I want you to go at once to fetch the doctor.  I have ordered Dobbin to
be saddled, and Billy will bring him round to the front door for you.
Do rush upstairs and put on your riding-habit.  Be quick, child; be
quick."

Annie flew upstairs.  The village of Rashleigh was between three and
four miles away, for the old parish was a very extensive one, and the
Rectory happened to be situated a long way from the village.

Annie had just sprung into the saddle, and was arranging her habit
preparatory to riding to Rashleigh, when Mrs Shelf came out.

"Take this to the butcher's, Annie," she said, handing the girl a
letter, "and be sure you get a receipt from him.  Ask him to give you
what I have ordered on this piece of paper, and bring it back with you."

"All right," said Annie carelessly.  She started on her ride.  When she
had gone a very short way she dropped the reins on the old pony's neck
and began to think.  She had never for a single moment expected the
obstacle which now stood between her and her desires.  She had thought
that she could easily get round Uncle Maurice, but she had not really
analysed his character.  He was unselfish of the unselfish--that she
knew; but she had failed to remember that he was a man who was always
actuated by the very highest religious principles.  He was, in short,
unworldly.  To do right meant far more with him than to be great and
grand and rich and powerful.  All those things which to Annie meant life
and happiness were less than nothing to Uncle Maurice.  Lady Lushington
might be the richest and the grandest woman on earth, but if she was not
also a good woman nothing would induce him to entrust one so precious as
Annie to her care.  The rector would make his inquiries; nothing that
Annie could do would stop him.  Even supposing the result were
favourable--which Annie rather doubted, for she knew quite well that
Lady Lushington was a most worldly woman--the plans made for her by the
great lady in Paris could not be carried out.  It was already too late
to post a letter to Mrs Lyttelton that day; even if she were still at
Lyttelton School, she could not get it before Sunday morning, and her
reply, under the most favourable circumstances, could not reach the
little old Welsh Rectory until Tuesday morning.  But in all probability
Mr Brooke's letter would have to follow Mrs Lyttelton, who had doubtless
long before now left Hendon.  Mrs Lyttelton's answer would, therefore,
be late, and when it came it would most likely not be what Annie
desired.  Whatever happened, Mrs Lyttelton would tell the truth; she was
the sort of woman who never shirked her duties.

At the best, therefore, Annie could not reach the Grand Hotel in Paris
by Tuesday night, and at the worst she could not go at all.  Was she,
who had sinned so deeply in order to obtain her heart's desire, to be
balked of everything at the eleventh hour?  Was Priscilla to have things
to her liking?  Was Mabel to have a great and royal time?  And was Annie
to be left alone--all alone--in the hideous Rectory, with one stupid
woman to talk to her about preserves and pickles, and one stupid old
man?  Oh, well, he was not quite that; he was a dear old uncle, but
nevertheless he _was_ rather prosy, and she was young; she could not
endure her life at the Rectory.  Something must be done.

She was thinking these thoughts when she suddenly saw advancing to meet
her a gig which contained no less a person than Dr Brett.

"Oh doctor!" cried the girl, riding up to him, "will you please call at
the Rectory?  How lucky it is that I should have met you!  I was going
to Rashleigh to leave you a message."

"Welcome back from school, Miss Annie," said Dr Brett, a stout, elderly
man with a florid face.  "Is anything wrong, my dear?" he added.

"I don't think that there is; but Uncle Maurice is fanciful, and Mrs
Shelf more so.  Will you just look in and give uncle something to put
him right?"

"Of course I will go at once.  But, my dear Miss Annie, you are mistaken
when you call the rector fanciful; I never knew any one less so.  I have
often told him that he overworks, and that he ought to be careful.  It
is in the head that the mischief lies; and he is an old man, my dear
Miss Annie, and has led a strenuous life.  I am glad that you met me; it
will save time."

The doctor drove away, and Annie's first intention was to turn her
pony's steps back again in the direction of Rashleigh Rectory, but as
she was about to do so her hand came in contact with the letter
addressed to Dawson the butcher.  She might as well take it on; anything
was better than dawdling away her time at the dull Rectory.  Then, too,
she could post her letter herself to Mabel, adding something to it so as
to assure her friend that the question of joining her was only
postponed.  Besides--but this was an afterthought--there were some
things wanted at Dawson's.  Annie again touched the letter, and as she
did so her eyes rested on the signature.  It was in her uncle's
well-known hand.  She was to give this letter to Dawson, and he was to
give her a receipt.  A receipt meant that he was to acknowledge some
money.

Annie's heart gave a sudden leap.  Was it possible that there was money
in the letter?  She felt the crimson colour rushing to her cheeks; a
suffocating feeling just for a minute visited her heart.  Then, urging
the pony forward, she rode as fast as she could in the direction of
Rashleigh.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

HER GREAT SIN.

No one would have supposed that Annie Brooke, brought up so carefully by
such an uncle as the Rev Maurice Brooke, would so easily yield to one
temptation after another.  But it is one of the most surprising and true
things in life that it is the first wrong-doing that counts.  It is over
the first wrong action that we struggle and hesitate.  We shrink away
then from the edge of the abyss, and if we do yield to temptation our
consciences speak loudly.

But conscience is of so delicate a fibre, so sensitive an organisation,
that if she is neglected her voice grows feeble.  She ceases to reproach
when reproach is useless, and so each fall, be it great or little, is
felt less than the last.

A few months ago, even in her young life, Annie would not have believed
it possible that she could have brought herself to open her uncle's
letter.  Nevertheless, a mile out of Rashleigh she did so.  Within the
letter lay a cheque.  It was an open cheque, payable to bearer and
signed by the rector.  The cheque was for twenty pounds.  A bill of the
butcher's lay within.  This bill amounted to twenty pounds.  The rector,
therefore, was sending Dawson, the well-known village butcher, a cheque
for twenty pounds to pay the yearly account.  It was the fashion at
Rashleigh for the principal trades-people to be paid once a year.  This
twenty pounds, therefore, stood for the supply of meat of various sorts
which was used at the Rectory during the year.

Twenty pounds!  Annie looked at it.  Her eyes shone.  "Take this, and
you are all right," whispered a voice.  "With this you can easily get
off to London, and from there to Paris.  All you want is money.  Well,
here is money.  You must write to your uncle when you get to Paris, and
confess to him then.  He will forgive you.  He will be shocked; but he
will forgive you.  Of course he will."

Annie considered the whole position.  "I have done a lot of
uncomfortable things," she thought.  "I managed that affair of the
essays, and I used poor Susan Martin's poems for my purpose; and--and--I
have got Mabel into no end of a scrape; it is my duty to see poor Mabel
through.  This thing is horrid!  I know it is.  I hate myself for doing
it; but, after all, the money has been thrown in my way.  Twenty pounds!
I can buy some little articles of dress, too.  Dawson will cash this
for me; oh, of course he will.  It does seem as if I were meant to do
it; it is the only way out.  Uncle Maurice is terrible when he takes, as
it were, the bit between his teeth.  Yes, I must do it; yes, I will.  It
is the only, only way."

Before Annie and her pony had gone another quarter of a mile Dawson's
bill had been torn into hundreds of tiny fragments, which floated away
on the summer breeze, and the open cheque in the old rector's
handwriting, with his signature at the bottom and his name endorsing it
behind, was folded carefully up in Annie's purse.

It was a pretty-looking girl--for excitement always added to Annie's
charms--who rode at last into the little village.  She went straight to
Dawson's, sprang off her pony, and entered the shop.

Old Dawson, who had known her from her babyhood, welcomed her back with
effusion.

"Dear me, now, miss," he said, "I am that glad to see you!  How I wish
my missis was in!  Why, you have grown into quite a young lady, Miss
Annie."

"Of course," replied Annie, "I am grown up, although I am not leaving
school just yet.  Please, Mr Dawson, I want you to give me--"

She took a piece of paper from her pocket and laid it on the counter.
The man glanced at Mrs Shelf's orders, and desiring a foreman to attend
to them, returned to talk to Annie.

"And please," continued the girl, her heart now jumping into her mouth,
"uncle would be so much obliged if you could cash this for him."

Dawson glanced at the cheque.

"Of course, miss," he said.  "How will you have it?"

"In gold, please," said Annie.

"I can give you fifteen pounds in gold, miss.  Will you take the rest in
a five-pound note?"

Annie agreed.  Two or three minutes later, with her little parcel of
meat put into a basket for her, and twenty pounds in her pocket, she was
riding towards the post-office.

There she dismounted, and asking for a sheet of the best note-paper,
wrote a line to Lady Lushington.  It ran as follows:

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Dear Lady Lushington,--Thank you ever so much for your most kind
invitation, which I take pleasure in accepting.  My uncle is so glad
that you have asked me, and I thank you now in his name as well as my
own.  I shall be in Paris on Tuesday night, so will you kindly send your
maid, as you suggest, to meet me at the railway station?  Please give my
love to Mabel.--Yours very sincerely and gratefully, Annie Brooke."

When the letter was finished it was put into a separate envelope from
the one which had already been written to Mabel, and then the two were
addressed and stamped and dropped by Annie's own hand into the box of
the village post-office.  How excited she felt, and how triumphant!
Yes--oh yes--she had surmounted every difficulty now, for long before
her theft with regard to the cheque had been discovered she would have
left the country.  She could be agreeable now to every one.  She could
smile at her neighbours; she could talk to the village children; and,
above all things, she could and would be very, very nice to Uncle
Maurice.

When she arrived back at the Rectory such a rosy-faced, bright-eyed,
pretty-looking girl walked into Mrs Shelf's presence that that good
woman hardly knew her.  The sulky, disagreeable, selfish Annie of that
morning had vanished, and a girl who was only too anxious to do what she
could for every one appeared in her place.

"I met Dr Brett, Mrs Shelf--wasn't it a piece of luck?--and sent him on
to see Uncle Maurice.  Has he been, Mrs Shelf?"

"Oh yes, my dear, he has; and I am glad to tell you he thinks that your
dear uncle, with care and quiet, will soon be himself again.  The doctor
thinks a great lot of your being here, Annie, and says that your company
will do your uncle more good than anything else in the world.  He wants
cheering up, he says, and to have his mind distracted from all his
parish work.  I know you will do what you can--won't you?"

"Of course I shall," said Annie.  "And here are the things from the
butcher's," she added.

"It was very thoughtful of you, Annie, to ride on to Rashleigh," said
Mrs Shelf.  "I did want these sweetbreads.  I mean to make a very
delicate little stew out of them for your uncle's dinner.  The doctor
says that he wants a lot of building up.  He is an old man, my dear, and
if we are not very precious of him, and careful of him, we sha'n't keep
him long.  There are few of his like in this world, Annie, and it will
be a sad day for many when the Lord calls him."

"Oh, but that won't be for years and years," said Annie, who disliked
this sort of talk immensely.  "Well," she added, "I will go and sit with
uncle now for a bit, and will make his tea for him presently; I know
just how he likes it."

"Do, my dear.  You know where his favourite cups and saucers are, and I
am baking some special tea-cakes in the oven; and you can boil the
kettle yourself, can't you, Annie? for I shall be as busy as a bee
looking after Peggie and the churning.  That wench would try any one;
she hasn't a bit of head on her shoulders.  And, by the way, Annie, what
about the receipt?  You paid Dawson, didn't you?"

Annie was leaving the kitchen.  She turned her head slightly.  "Dawson
will send the receipt," she said.  "To tell you the truth, I was in such
a hurry to get back that I didn't wait for it."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs Shelf, "that is all right; I expect it will
arrive on Monday.  The cart won't be here before then, for we've got our
week's supply of meat in.  It came this morning."

"Splendid," thought Annie.  "By Monday I shall be away."

She almost skipped into her uncle's study.  The old man was better
already.  He was lying back in his chair, and was reading a paper which
had come by the afternoon's post.

"Ah, here you are, my love!" he said.

"Here I am, uncle.  I am so glad I met Dr Brett; he has made you better
already."

"He has, child; he always does me good."  Annie drew a chair forward,
and pushed her hair back from her forehead.  The impatient look had left
her face.  It looked tranquil and at its best.

"By the way, child," said Mr Brooke, "you will want me to write that
letter for you."

"You must not worry about it now, really, uncle," said Annie, laying her
hand on his.

"It will do quite well to-morrow--quite well," she added.  "You know
that whatever your Annie is, she would do nothing to make you worse."

"My dear little girl," said the old man, deeply affected by what he
considered such thoughtfulness, "you may be sure that all my thoughts
with regard to you are prompted by real love for you.  I don't pretend
that I have not looked forward very much indeed to these holidays.
Nevertheless, I cannot forget that I am old, my love, and you are young.
The young must have their day, dear, and the pleasure of the old is to
watch them enjoying it.  While you were out I have been thinking over my
little money matters, and I think I can quite manage to give you a few
extra pounds over and above your fare to Paris--a ten-pound note,
perhaps, to buy some pretty little articles of dress."

"Thank you so much, uncle," said Annie, speaking in her sweetest tone.

"But my dear child, this will depend altogether on what Mrs Lyttelton
says.  But I expect the best, dear; for all her girls are nice, and you
say that Miss Lushington is your special friend."

"My very greatest," said Annie--"a sweet girl--a poetess!"

"Indeed, Annie?  She shows gifts at this early age?  How very
interesting!  I am always impressed by young efforts; I like to
encourage them.  You have not by chance any of her little effusions by
you?"

Now Annie had brought poor Susan Martin's manuscript book with her to
the Rectory.  She thought for a minute.  Would it be safe to show these
verses to the Rector?  After a minute she said:

"I think I have.  I will look in my trunk after tea."

"Do, my love; I shall be much interested.  I used to indulge in verses
when I was young myself, dear.  Ah, those far-off days!  And I had my
dreams of greatness too.  We all have our little ambitions when we are
young.  I wonder what yours are, my little Annie."

"Oh, I don't want to be clever at all," said Annie; "I just want to have
a good time--and to make you happy," she added as an afterthought,
putting out her small hand and laying it on his.

"Bless you, my darling--bless you!  You are the sunshine of my life.
Yes--thank God, I am much better this afternoon; that horrid feeling in
my head has passed away.  It gives me anxiety now and then, but only on
your account, my child.  As far as I am concerned, I am ready and
waiting--only waiting to obey.  I have had my warning--most old people
have, dear; but for your sake I would live a little."

"Of course you will live for many, many years longer, Uncle Maurice,"
said Annie, rising and kissing him.  "And now you are not going to be
dismal, or to talk horrid things about--about dying.  I am going to give
you your tea; you always love the tea that Annie makes for you."

She flitted out of the room.  She was the gayest of the gay during the
rest of that evening.  She chatted, and laughed, and made herself
pleasant to every one; and when Uncle Maurice went to bed, feeling
almost quite well again, he thanked God on his knees for having given
him so bonny a creature as Annie to be the light and joy of his old age.

Meanwhile Annie herself, seated by her open window, with the moonlight
falling full upon her, was counting her money--that money which she had
stolen from the faithful and affectionate old man.  She put it in rows
before her on the table.  Fifteen beautiful, bright golden sovereigns;
and there was also a five-pound note!  The note looked a little dirty
and as though it had passed through many hands.

Annie sat by the window and made her plans.  Whether her conscience
would prick her by-and-by remained to be proved; but on the present
occasion it was quite tired out, stupefied by all those things which
miserable Annie had done to try it.  She felt, therefore, quite at her
ease, and made her arrangements with care.

It would not do for her to arrive in Paris before the appointed evening.
She had, therefore, the whole of to-morrow to spend at the Rectory, and
also the whole of Sunday.  Monday, too, might be spent there; and she
would have done this but for the fact that the butcher's cart called on
Monday morning, and that Mrs Shelf would notice the absence of Dawson's
receipt.  At first, of course, she would not be greatly surprised, and
would content herself with writing him a note demanding it.  It might be
possible, however, that she would go to Rashleigh to see him.  In great
astonishment, he would ask many questions of Mrs Shelf, and would
naturally tell her that Annie had cashed the cheque for twenty pounds.

Annie was positively sure that her uncle would forgive her even so great
a sin as this, but she did not want to be in the house when he knew of
her guilt.  She resolved, therefore, to leave the Rectory on Monday
morning, of course first writing a little note to her uncle telling him
what she had done--in fact, making her confession to him, and begging
him to forgive her.

"There is nothing else for it," she thought.  "I know the dear old man
will be dreadfully disappointed, but he will forgive me; I know he
will."

That evening Annie neglected even to say that semblance of prayer which
she was accustomed to utter before she laid her head on her pillow.
Somehow, she dared not pray.

The next morning she was up, bright and early, singing gaily about the
house.  Mr Brooke had quite recovered.  He came to meet her as she ran
down into the garden.

"Why, Uncle Maurice!" cried the girl.  "Oh, you are naughty!"

"I am quite well," he answered, "and I have good news for you.  Who do
you think is coming to stay here to-day?"

"Whom?" asked the girl.  "My cousin's son from Australia--John Saxon.  I
have not seen him since he was a baby.  You will have some fun now,
Annie, with a young person in the house."

"Is he really young?" said Annie.

"Young, my dear?  I should think so; about five or six and twenty.  He's
as good a lad as ever walked.  I had a long letter from his mother.  She
says he is going to pay me a visit, and I may expect him--yes, to-day.
You will have something to look forward to now, Annie, if Lady
Lushington's character as a worldly-minded woman prevents my sending you
to Paris."

"But I think I shall go to Paris," said Annie.  She looked very pretty
and expectant.  The rector uttered a slight sigh.

"Come in, uncle; I must give you your breakfast, even if fifty John
Saxons are coming to pay you a visit.  Oh yes, of course I am glad."

But she did not feel so; she had a dim sort of idea that this young man
might interfere with her own plans.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

ANNIE'S APPEAL.

John Saxon was big and square and muscular.  Under ordinary
circumstances Annie would have been charmed with his society.  He was
frankly glad to meet her, and they had not been half-an-hour in each
other's company before they were chatting together as the best of
friends.

"We are distant cousins, you know," said the young man.  "I am so glad
you are here, Miss Brooke."

"I am glad to be here, too," said Annie, "to welcome you; but you won't
have much of my society, for I am going to Paris in a few days."

"Are you?  I am sorry for that."

"Oh, you won't stay long either," said Annie; "you won't be able to
stand the place."

"But I think I shall like it very much," he replied.  "I love the
country, and have never seen English country life before; this place
doesn't seem at all lonely to me after our life in Tasmania.  You
haven't an idea what real loneliness is in any part of England; but if
you lived fifty or sixty miles away from the nearest neighbour, then
you'd have some idea of it."

"It must be horrible," said Annie, who was standing that moment in the
sunlit garden with an apple-tree behind her and her pretty little figure
silhouetted against the evening sky.

"Not for me," said young Saxon; "I love the life.  Your England seems to
suffocate me.  In London I hadn't room to breathe, and in that Paris to
which you are going, Miss Brooke, I really felt ill."

"Oh dear!" said Annie; "then you have not my sort of nature."

He looked at her tentatively.  She was fresh and young, and he had never
talked to a real English girl before.  But, somehow, she did not quite
suit him.  He was a keen judge of character, and those eyes of hers did
not look long enough at any one.  They soon lowered their lids as though
they were keeping back a secret; and her pretty little mouth could also
look unamiable at times.  He hated himself for finding these flaws in a
creature whom the rector worshipped, but nevertheless he could not help
observing them.

Saxon arrived at the Rectory on the afternoon of Saturday, and he and
Annie had already become, to all appearance, excellent friends.

When Sunday dawned he accompanied her to church, where the old rector
preached one of the best sermons his affectionate congregation had ever
listened to.  Saxon and Annie were both long to remember that sermon and
all that immediately followed, for on the afternoon of that same day the
old man had another attack of drowsiness and giddiness.  The doctor was
sent for, and shook his head.

"He is not at all well," said Dr Brett; "he is in no condition to stand
the slightest shock.  He did far too much when he preached to-day.  Oh,
Miss Annie, you need not look so dismal; I make no doubt we shall pull
him round, but we have got to be _very_ careful."

Annie felt puzzled.  Of course she was sorry for her uncle, but she had
by no means reached the stage when she would give up her pleasure for
him.  She was, however, alarmed when the doctor said that the old man
was in no condition to stand a shock.  Was not a shock being prepared
for him?  Annie knew well how he loved her.  She also knew how strong
were his opinions with regard to right and wrong, with regard to
goodness and wickedness.  To old Mr Brooke Annie's deed would bring such
sorrow that his life, already in danger, might go out under the shock.

The girl felt herself trembling.  She turned away from Saxon.  He
noticed her agitation, and went into the garden.  Saxon felt that he had
never liked Annie so much before.

"I thought her a rather pretty, rather heartless little thing," he said
to himself; "but I am mistaken.  She does love the dear old man very
truly."

Meanwhile Annie was pacing up and down wondering what was to be done.
Nothing would induce her to give up Paris; but if only she could go
without giving her uncle that terrible shock with regard to the money!

All of a sudden a thought darted through her brain.  Why should she not
ask her cousin, John Saxon, to lend her twenty pounds?  He had talked
quite carelessly about his life in Tasmania last night, and, without
intending to do so, had given Annie to understand that he was very
comfortably off.  The more she thought of borrowing money from her
cousin, the more easy did it seem to her.  If he gave it to her, she
would go very early to-morrow to Rashleigh, pay Dawson, and bring back
the receipt.  Then all would be well.  She could write a letter to her
uncle explaining that she was forced to go to Paris for a little, but if
he were really ill, she would not stay very long.  In the meantime John
Saxon would look after him.  As to the money which she was about to
borrow, Annie gave her shoulders a shrug.

"I'll manage to let John have it some time," she thought.  "I don't know
how or when--but some time, and I don't think he will be hard on me."

Having made up her mind, she returned to the house.  Mrs Shelf, who had
been talking to Saxon, came up to her.

"You mustn't fret really, missie," she said.  "All the doctor requires
is that my dear master should have no anxiety of any sort.  I am sure,
miss, you would be the very last to give him any; and as we will all be
equally careful, he will soon come round again."

"Of course I wouldn't hurt Uncle Maurice," cried Annie.  "What is he
doing at present?" she added.

"He is asleep in his study, my dear; and I am going to watch by him this
afternoon, for Dr Brett has given him a composing draught, and would
like him to have a long rest.  When he wakes I shall be handy to give
him his tea.  So I was thinking that if you and Mr Saxon went for a long
walk it would do you both a sight of good."

"Yes, do come, please," said Saxon, who approached at that moment.  "I
want to see some of the country that you think so wild."

"I shall be delighted," said Annie, who felt that this proposal of Mrs
Shelf's would exactly fit in with her own plans.

Soon after three o'clock the young people started on their walk.  Annie
took her cousin on purpose up the hill at the back of the old Rectory
and into the wildest part of the pariah, for she was determined to have
him quite to herself.  At last, when she was too tired to go any
farther, they both sat down on the edge of a beetling crag, from where
they could obtain a superb view both of land and ocean.

"Now," said Annie, with a smile, "if you don't call this a wild and
desolate spot, I don't know the meaning of the word."

"The view is exceedingly fine," replied Saxon; "but as to its being
wild--why, look, Miss Annie, look--you can see a little thread of smoke
there"--and he pointed to his right--"and there"--he pointed to his
left; "in fact, all over the place.  Each little thread of blue smoke,"
he continued, "means a house, and each house means a family, or at least
some human beings; and in addition to the human creatures, there are
probably horses, and dogs, and cats, and barn-door fowls.  Oh, I call
this place thickly-peopled, if you ask me."

Annie shuddered.

"I hate it," she said with sudden emphasis.

"You what?" asked Saxon, bending towards her.

"Hate it," she repeated.  "I want to get away."

"You can't just now," he said, speaking in a low, sympathetic tone.  "It
would be impossible--would it not?--while your uncle is so ill."

"He isn't really ill," said Annie; "he just wants care."

"He wants the sort of care you can give him," repeated Saxon.

"Or you," said Annie.

"I?" said the young man.  "How can I possibly do what you would do for
him?"

"You can do far better than I," said Annie restlessly.  "And the fact
is, Cousin John--may I call you Cousin John?"

"Call me John, without the `cousin,' as I will call you Annie if you
don't mind."

"Then we are Annie and John to each other," said the girl; "that means
that we are friends.  Give me your hand, John, to close the compact."
She laid her little white hand in his, and he grasped it with right
goodwill.

"John," said Annie, "I must confide in you; I have no one else."

"Of course if I can help you I shall be glad," he said a little coldly;
for there was something in her words which brought back his distrust of
her.

"Well, it is just this: I have to go to Paris for a short time--"

"You have--I don't understand."

"And the painful part," continued Annie, "is this--that I am unable to
explain.  But I can tell you this much.  I have a school friend--indeed,
two school friends--who are both in--in trouble; and they can't possibly
get out of their trouble without my help.  If I go to Paris now to join
my friend, things will be all right; if I don't go, things will be all
wrong."

"But, excuse me," said Saxon, "how can you go when your uncle is so
ill?"

"That is it," said Annie.  "Of course, if he were in real danger I
should be obliged to give my friends up.  But he is not in danger, John;
he only wants care.  What I mean to do is this--or rather, I should say,
what I should like to do.  I would go, say, to-morrow to London, and
then across to Paris, and there get through my little business and put
things straight for those I love."

Annie spoke most pathetically, and her blue eyes filled with tears.

"She has a feeling heart," thought the young man.  Once again his
suspicions were disarmed.

He drew a little closer to her.  She felt that she had secured his
sympathy.

"Can't you understand," continued Annie, "that things may happen which
involve other people?  Can't you understand?"

"It is difficult to know why you cannot speak about them, Annie,"
replied the young man.  "Nevertheless, if you say so, it is of course
the case."

"It is the case.  I undertook, perhaps wrongly--although I don't think
so--to get a school fellow what she wanted most in the world last term.
I wish you knew her; she is such a splendid, noble girl.  She is very
clever, too.  I will tell you her name--Priscilla Weir.  She has such a
fine face, with, oh! so much in it.  But she is unhappily situated.  Her
father is in India, and either cannot or will not help her; and she has
no mother living, poor darling! and her uncle, her mother's brother, is
quite a dreadful sort of creature.  Priscilla is, oh, so clever!  She
has quite wonderful talents.  And what do you think this uncle wants to
do?  Why, to apprentice her to a dressmaker.  Think of it--a
dressmaker!"

John Saxon did think of it but he showed no surprise.  One of the nicest
girls he knew in Tasmania was a dressmaker.  She was very well informed,
and could talk well on many subjects.  She read good books, and had a
dear little house of her own, and often and often he sat and talked with
her of an evening, when the day's work was done and they were both at
leisure to exchange confidences.  John Saxon was not the least bit in
love with the dressmaker, but for her sake now he could not condemn the
occupation.  He said, therefore, quietly:

"As long as women wear dresses there must be other women to make them, I
suppose.  I see nothing derogatory in that, Annie, provided your friend
likes it."

"Oh, how can you talk in such a way?" said Annie, her tone changing now
to one of almost petulance.  "Why, if Priscie were turned into a
dressmaker she would lose her position; she wouldn't have a chance; she
would go under; and she is so clever--oh, so clever!  It does not
require that sort of cleverness to be a dressmaker."

"Perhaps not," said Saxon.  "I begin to understand; your English view of
the calling is not ours in Tasmania.  And so you want to go to Paris to
help this girl?"

"Yes; principally about her.  In fact, I may say I am going almost
wholly about her."

"I am not to know the reason?"

"I cannot tell you, for it would betray her."

"Have you spoken to your uncle on the subject?"

"Yes."

"And what did he say?"

"Well," said Annie eagerly, "it was this way.  My other great friend is
a certain Mabel Lushington.  She is staying with her aunt Lady
Lushington; and Lady Lushington most kindly sent me an invitation to
join them both on Tuesday evening.  They are going to take me to
Switzerland and pay all my expenses, and of course I shall have a jolly
time."

"But would that help your friend, the prospective dressmaker?"

"Yes.  It may sound very puzzling; but if I were to join Mabel
Lushington, it would put things all right for my friend."

"It is puzzling, of course, for me to understand, Annie; but I must take
you at your word and suppose that it is so."

"Indeed it is, John; indeed it is.  And I am, oh, so unhappy about it!"

The blue eyes filled with tears.  They looked very pretty as they
brimmed over and the tears rolled down the smooth young cheeks.  Annie
could cry just a little without her appearance being at all spoiled
thereby.  On the contrary, a few tears added to a certain pathos which
came at such times into her face.  John Saxon found himself looking at
the tears and accepting Annie's view of the matter as quite plausible.

"It is very good of you to give me a little of your confidence," he
said.

"I do!" she answered resolutely; "for I want you to help me."

"Anything in my power that is not wrong I will do," he replied.

The firm tone of his voice, and the way in which he said, "Anything that
is not wrong," damped Annie's hopes for a minute.  Then she continued:

"I spoke to Uncle Maurice, not telling him, of course, anything about
Priscie, but simply expressing a desire to accept the invitation, and he
said that I should go and he would find the money if Lady Lushington was
all right."

"What does that mean?" asked Saxon.

"Oh, really, John, it was too bad.  You know Uncle Maurice is very
narrow-minded.  He wanted to write first to Mrs Lyttelton to discover
what sort of person Lady Lushington was, whether she was worldly or not;
but, you see, there is no time, for if I don't join Mabel and Lady
Lushington on Tuesday night in Paris I shall not be able to join them at
all, for they begin their travels on Wednesday morning, and I have not
the slightest idea where I can pick them up.  Besides, I don't know
foreign countries.  I could perhaps get to Paris, where I should be met;
but I couldn't manage Switzerland or any place farther afield.  Don't
you see that for yourself?"

"I do."

"Well, John," continued Annie, imperceptibly coming a little nearer to
him, "I want you to do this for me.  I want to go to Paris, but only for
a day or two.  I want to see Mabel and put that thing right with regard
to poor, dear, clever Priscie; and then, if Uncle Maurice is really ill,
I will come back.  I know he would let me go if you persuaded him; and I
want you to do so, dear John; and as he must not be worried in any way,
will you lend me twenty pounds until Uncle Maurice is well enough to be
troubled?"

"But you cannot go without telling him, Annie.  Of course, my dear, I
could and would lend you the money, but even your friend is not so
important just now as your uncle.  He loves to have you near him.  I
wish you could have heard how he spoke of you to me.  You were his
sunshine, his darling, the joy of his heart."

"I know I am," said Annie; "and it is what I want to be, and love to
be," she added.  "But you are here, and there is my dear friend, oh! in
such trouble; and she trusts me, and I can put everything right for her.
Oh! if you would only lend me twenty pounds--and--and--tell Uncle
Maurice yourself that I am going away for a few days and will be back
again very soon.  Won't you lend it to me, John--just because we are
cousins, and you have come all the way across the seas--the wide, wide
seas--to help me at this pressing moment?"

"You affect me, Annie," said the young man.

"You speak very strongly.  I did not know schoolgirls desired things so
badly as all this.  Twenty pounds--it is nothing; it is yours for the
asking.  Here, I will give it to you now."

He put his hand into his pocket and took out four five-pound notes.

"Here," he said, "if this will make you happy and save your friend from
the fate of being a village dressmaker, take it, and welcome."

"I don't know how to thank you," said Annie, trembling all over.  "Oh!
I don't know how."

"Don't thank me," he replied a little stiffly.  "The thing is a mere
bagatelle."

"You shall have it back as soon as possible," said Annie.

"At your convenience," he replied.  He still spoke stiffly.

She folded up the money and pushed the notes inside her gloves.  Her
whole face had changed, and to John Saxon, who watched her, it had not
changed for the better.  The pathos and entreaty had gone out of it.  It
was a hard little face once more; and again he noticed that want of
candour and that inability to look any one straight in the face which he
had already observed in her eyes.  He wondered uneasily if he had done
wrong in lending her the money; but what was he to do?  She must really
want it, poor little thing! and after all, to Saxon, who was accustomed
to great journeys taken at a moment's notice, and who had visited
America and most of the habitable globe--although this was his first
visit to England--a little trip to Paris meant less, than nothing.

"When do you propose to go?" he said to the girl when they presently
rose to their feet.

"I should like to go to-morrow; in fact.  I must if I am to meet Mabel
and Lady Lushington."

"Then perhaps it would do if I broke the information to your uncle
to-morrow morning?"

"Yes; that will do _quite_ beautifully.  Oh!  I don't really know how to
thank you."

"Effect your worthy object, Annie, and I shall have obtained all the
thanks I need," was the young man's reply.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"IT RELATES TO YOUR NIECE ANNIE."

It seemed to Annie that she had got quite close to John Saxon when he
and she sat together on that boulder overhanging the valley below.  But
when they returned to the Rectory a barrier was once again erected
between them.

She had little or nothing to say to her cousin, and he had little or
nothing to communicate to her.  Mr Brooke was better.  He was awake and
inclined for company.  Annie and Saxon both sat with him after supper.
He asked Annie to sing for him.  She had a sweet though commonplace
voice.

She sat down by the little, old piano, played hymn tunes, and sang two
or three of the best-known hymns.  By-and-by Saxon took her place.  He
had a lovely tenor voice, and the difference between his singing and
Annie's was so marked that Mrs Shelf crept into the room to listen, and
the old clergyman sat gently moving his hand up and down to keep time to
the perfect rhythm and the exquisite, rich tones of the singer.

"Nearer, my God, to Thee," sang John Saxon.

Mr Brooke looked at Annie.  Her head was bowed.  Instinctively he put
out his hand and laid it on her shoulder.  "E'en though it be a cross
that raiseth me," sang the sweet voice.

"A cross that raiseth me," murmured old Mr Brooke.  His hand rested a
little heavier on the slim young shoulder.  Annie felt herself
trembling.  Her worldly thoughts could not desert her even at that
sacred moment.

She had escaped a terrible danger, for even she, bad as she was, would
not jeopardise the life of the old man who loved her best in the world.
All fear of that was over now, and she would win a delightful time in
Paris into the bargain.  She was quite sure that John could manage her
uncle.

The next morning the strange attack which had rendered Mr Brooke's
condition one of such anxiety had to all appearance? passed away.  He
was a little weak still, and his head a trifle dizzy; but he was able to
potter about the garden leaning on John Saxon's arm.

Annie, who was anxious to go as soon as possible to Rashleigh, ran up to
John for a minute.

"I have to ride to Rashleigh to get some things for Mrs Shelf," she
said.  "While I am away tell him--I know you will do it beautifully--
tell him how necessary it is, and that I shall come back whenever he
sends for me.  Do it now, please; for you know that I must leave here
this afternoon."

Accordingly, while Annie was trotting on horseback in to Rashleigh with
that money which was to be exchanged for the necessary receipt from
Dawson, Saxon broached the subject of Paris to the old man.

"There is a little matter, sir," he said, "which I should like to speak
to you about."

"And what is that, John?"

"It relates to your niece Annie."

"Ah, dear child!" said the old man; "and what about her?"

"She seems to be in distress," continued Saxon.  "Oh, please don't
worry, sir; her great anxiety is to prevent your worrying."

"Dear, dear child!  So thoughtful of her," murmured the clergyman.

"You were rather bad, you know, yesterday, and she and I took a walk
together while you were having your sleep.  It was then she confided to
me that she has been invited to Paris."

"I know, John," said old Mr Brooke, turning and looking fixedly at the
young man; "and I am the last to prevent her going; but, naturally, I
want to know something about the woman who has invited her--a certain
Lady Lushington.  I never heard her name before.  Annie tells me that
Lady Lushington's niece is her greatest school friend; and I feel
assured that my Annie would not have a school friend who was not in all
respects worthy--that goes without saying; nevertheless, a young girl
has to be guarded.  Don't you agree with me, John?"

"Certainly I do, sir.  Still, if you will permit me to say so, Annie
seems very sensible."

"She is wonderfully so; my Annie's little head is screwed the right way
on her shoulders--not a doubt whatever on that point.  But the thing is
this.  I can inquire of Mrs Lyttelton what she knows with regard to Lady
Lushington.  If matters are favourable the child shall go.  Can anything
be more reasonable?"

"In one sense, sir, nothing can be more reasonable; but in another, your
making this condition forces poor Annie practically to give up her
invitation."

"Eh?  How so?  How so?"

"Well, you see, it is this way.  If she cannot join Lady Lushington on
Tuesday evening--that is, to-morrow--she cannot join her at all, for
this lady is leaving Paris on the following day.  Annie can either go
with her or not go with her.  There is, therefore, you will perceive,
sir, no time to communicate with Mrs Lyttelton."

"That is true," said Mr Brooke.  "But why didn't Annie tell me so
herself?"

"She couldn't bear to worry you.  Poor child! she was put out very much,
but she meant to give up her visit rather than worry you."  Saxon
wondered, as he was uttering the last words, if he were straining at the
truth.  He continued now abruptly: "And that is not all.  From what your
niece tells me, she goes, or hopes to go, to Paris for a very different
reason from mere selfish pleasure.  There is a young friend of hers whom
she hopes most seriously to benefit by this visit.  She will not tell me
how, but she assures me emphatically that it is so."

"Dear, dear!" said the old man.  "Sweet of her! sweet of her!  And you
think--you really think I ought to waive my objection and trust my
child?"

"She earnestly hopes that you will do so, sir--that you will permit her
at least to go for a day or two, and then recall her if it is
essential."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that; I wouldn't for a moment be so selfish."

"But she herself would wish to come back to you if you were really
indisposed."

"I would not be so selfish, John--not for a moment.  Yes, you have
opened my eyes; the dear child shall certainly go.  It is a
disappointment not to have her, but if we old folks cannot take a few
little crosses when we are so near the summit of the hill, and all the
crosses and all the difficulties are almost smoothed away, what are we
worth, my dear young sir?  Oh, I should be the last to stand in the way
of my dear little girl."

"On the other hand," said Saxon, "Annie would be extremely unworthy if
she stayed away from you did you really need her.  To go to Paris, to
transact her necessary business, and then quickly to return is a very
different matter.  And now, sir, don't let us talk any more about it.
Let me bring you back to your study, and let me fetch you a glass of
good port wine."  Saxon met Annie as she was returning with Dawson's
receipt in her pocket.

"Good news!" he said, smiling at her.  She felt herself turning pale.

"Oh, does he consent?"

"He does, and only as he could--right willingly and with all his heart.
He is a man in ten thousand!  I told him that you would not stay if he
were really ill I shall trust you, therefore, to come back as soon as
ever I send you word that it is necessary.  Will you promise me that?"

"Of course, of course," she replied.

"Well, go to him now.  Don't stay long.  Remember that he is weak and
will feel the parting.  He has said nothing about money; and as you have
sufficient you had better not worry him for the present."

Annie's conference with her uncle was of short duration.  He kissed her
two or three times, but there were no tears in his eyes.

"You should have confided in me, Annie," he said once.  "I am not an
unreasonable man.  I thought this was a pleasure visit; I did not know
that my dear little girl had a noble and unselfish project at the back
of everything.  My Annie will herself know if Lady Lushington is the
sort of woman I should like her to be with.  If you find her as I should
like her to be found, stay with her, Annie, until I recall you.  You see
how I trust you, my darling."

"You do, you do," answered the girl; "and I love you," she added, "as I
never loved you before."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A TRAVELLING COMPANION.

Nothing interfered with Annie's arrangements.  She left Rashleigh by the
train by which she had always intended to go up to town.  She took a
room at the Grosvenor Hotel for the night, spending what little time she
had in doing some necessary shopping.

Her intention was to write to Uncle Maurice for further funds on her
arrival at the Grand Hotel.  She would know there Lady Lushington's
movements, and could tell her uncle where to forward letters.  There was
one thing, however, which brought rather a sting with it.  There was a
memory which she did not care to recall; that was the look on John
Saxon's face when he bade her good-bye.

John Saxon had been her very good friend.  He had helped her with funds
so that her wicked action with regard to Dawson's cheque would never now
be discovered.  He had also smoothed the way for her with her uncle.
She had gone away from the Rectory with Uncle Maurice's blessing
sounding in her ears; and although Mrs Shelf was decidedly chuff, and
muttered things under her breath, and declared resolutely that she had
no patience with gadabouts, and that there was a time for preserving,
and not for preserving, and a time for nursing, and not for nursing; and
a time for pleasuring, and not for pleasuring, these things made little
impression on Annie; but John Saxon, who was silent and said nothing at
all, made her feel uncomfortable.  Just at the end he made a solitary
remark:

"Give us your address as soon as possible; for, if necessary, I will
telegraph for you.  And now good-bye.  I trust you will enjoy yourself
and--and--save your friend."

Then the train had whizzed out of sight.  She no longer saw the upright
figure and the manly face, and she no longer felt the disapproval in the
voice and the want of confidence in the eyes.  But the memory of these
things remained with her, and she wanted to shut them away.

The next morning she was in good time at Victoria Station.  But what was
her amazement to find standing on the same platform, and evidently
intending to go to Dover by the same train, no less a person than her
old schoolfellow, Priscilla Weir!

"You look surprised, Annie," said Priscilla.  "Nevertheless, no less a
thing has happened than that I am going to Paris too.  Lady Lushington
has invited me, and as she is good enough to pay all my expenses, you
and I are travelling together.  I had no time to let you know, or I
would have done so.  I hope you are pleased.  But I don't suppose,"
added Priscilla, "that it makes much difference whether you are pleased
or not."

"I don't suppose it does," answered Annie, who was secretly very much
annoyed.  "Well, of course," she continued, "we had best travel in the
same carriage."

The girls found their seats, and after a time, when the bustle of
departure was over, Annie turned to Priscilla.

"How has this come about?" she asked.

"It was Mabel's doing;" said Priscilla--"Mabel's, and partly, I think,
Mrs Lyttelton's.  Mrs Lyttelton found it rather inconvenient to keep me
at the school during the holidays, for a good many of the rooms are to
be redecorated.  I couldn't go to Uncle Josiah; and I cannot tell you
how or why, but I had a long letter from Mabel, most jolly and
affectionate, asking me to join her aunt and herself, and telling me
that you would be sure to be of the party.  There was enclosed a letter
from Lady Lushington, sending me a cheque; and although I scarcely care
for this sort of invitation, yet I have been forced to accept it.  I am
on my way now to share your fun.  I can quite well believe that this is
not agreeable to you, but it really cannot be helped."

"Oh, agreeable or disagreeable, we must make the best of it," said
Annie.  "Of coarse," she added, "I am glad to have a companion.  There's
no reason, Priscilla, why we should not be the best of friends.  It did
seem rather funny, at first, to think of you, of all people, joining
this expedition.  But if you are not sorry to be with me, I don't see
why I should not be pleased to be with you."

"Were I to choose," said Priscilla, "I would much prefer not to be
either with you or Mabel.  But that is neither here nor there.  I have
done wrong; I am very unhappy.  I suppose I shall go on doing wrong now
to the end of the chapter.  But I don't want to bother you about it.
Let us look out of the window and enjoy the scenery.  I suppose that is
the correct thing to do."

Annie still felt a strong sense of irritation.  How hard she had worked
to get this pleasure for herself, and now, was Priscilla, of all people,
to damp her joys?  Whatever her faults, however, Annie Brooke was
outwardly good-natured and essentially good-tempered.  There are a great
many people of this sort in the world.  They are lacking in principle
and sadly wanting in sincerity, but nevertheless they are pleasant to be
with.  They show the sunny side of their character on most occasions,
and in small matters are fairly unselfish and inclined to make the best
of things.

Annie now, after a brief time of reflection, made up her mind to make
the best of Priscilla.  Priscilla was not to her taste.  She was too
conscientious and, in Annie's opinion, far too narrow-minded.
Nevertheless, they were outwardly very good friends, and must continue
to act their parts.  So on board the steamer she made herself pleasant,
and useful also, to poor Priscilla, who felt the motion of the boat
considerably, and had, in short, a bad time.  Annie, who was never
seasick in her life, won golden opinions while on board for her goodness
and consideration to Priscilla; and when, finally, they were ensconced
in two comfortable seats _en route_ for Paris, her spirits rose high.
She put aside all disagreeable memories and gave herself up to
enjoyment.

"We shall have fun," she said.  "We must make the very best of things;
we must forget all school disagreeables."

"I only hope one thing," said Priscilla, dropping her voice to a low
tone, "and that is that the subject of the prize essay won't be
mentioned in my presence.  You know how I acted with regard to it.
Well, I have done the wicked deed, and want if possible, to forget it."

"But why should it be spoken about?"

"Surely," remarked Priscilla, "Lady Lushington is very likely to talk on
the subject.  You know it was on account of Mabel winning the prize that
she has been taken away from school."

"Oh yes," said Annie in an off-hand way; "but I could quite imagine,
from what I have heard of Lady Lushington, that she will forget all
about the matter in an incredibly short space of time."

"I hope so," said Priscilla; "it will be all the better for me if she
does."

"There is one thing you must remember, Priscie," said Annie; "if by any
chance she alludes to it, you must keep up the deception."

Priscilla looked at Annie with very wide-open, grey eyes.

"I shall leave the room," she said; "I am not good at being deceitful."
Then she added quickly, "There are times when I feel that I can only
recover my self-respect by making a clean breast of everything."

"Oh!" said Annie, in some alarm, "you could not possibly do that; think
what awful trouble you would get poor Mabel and me into."

"I know," said Priscilla; "and that is the one thing which keeps me
back."

"If I might venture to make the remark," said Annie, "it is the one
thing which in honour _ought_ to keep you back.  There is honour even
amongst thieves, you know," she added a little nervously.

"And that is what I am," said poor Priscilla.  "I have practically
stolen my year's schooling; I have, like Esau, sold my birthright for a
mess of pottage.  Oh! what shall I do?"

"Nothing," said Annie; "and please don't talk any more in that
particularly intense way, for people will begin to stare at us."

Priscilla sank back in her seat.  Her head was aching.  Annie, on the
contrary, sat very upright, looking fresh, bright, and happy.  After a
time, however, something occurred which made her feel less comfortable.
Priscilla bent towards her and said:

"By the way--I was almost forgetting, and she begged of me so hard not
to do so--but will you return her book to Susan Martin?"  Annie's face
became crimson, then pale.

"Susan Martin?" she said.  "Do you know her?"

"Of course I know her, Annie.  What a queer colour you have turned!  She
has been making several things for me during the last few days.  She is
very much excited, poor girl, about a manuscript book of poems which you
borrowed from her.  She said you wanted them to show to a judge of
poetry in order to help her to get them published.  I had not an idea
that the poor girl was a poet."

"Oh, she is," said Annie, who by this time had recovered her
self-possession, and whom the very imminence of the danger rendered cool
and self-possessed.  "She writes quite wonderfully.  I did borrow her
book to show to Uncle Maurice; he is such a good judge."

"Oh, was _that_ all?" said Priscilla.  "I thought from Susan's manner
that you knew some publisher.  She thinks a great deal about her poems."

"Yes, poor girl!" said Annie; "I must write to her."

"Have you shown the poems to your uncle, Annie?"

"Not yet, Priscilla.  Uncle Maurice has not been well; I could not worry
him with those sort of matters."

"Not well?" said Priscilla.  "And you have left him?"

"Yes, my dear, good Priscilla," said Annie; "I have been wicked enough
to do so.  He is too ill to be bothered with Susan Martin's productions,
but not too ill to afford me a pleasant little holiday.  Now do let's
change the subject."

"With pleasure," said Priscilla.  "I wish to change it, if you don't
mind, by shutting my eyes, for I have a very bad headache."

While Priscilla slept, or tried to sleep, Annie sat back amongst her
cushions lost in thought.

"Really," she said to herself, "if all the things that I have done
lately were discovered I should have but a poor time.  I forgot all
about Susan Martin and her manuscript book.  It came in very handily at
the time, but now it is no end of a bore.  I ought to have cautioned her
not to speak of it to any one.  It is a great pity that Priscilla knows
about it, for if by any chance she asks Susan to show her the book, the
two poems attributed to Mabel will immediately be discovered.  Certainly
Priscilla is a disagreeable character, and I cannot imagine why I have
bothered myself so much about her."

The railway journey came to an end, and a short time afterwards the
girls found themselves greeted by Lady Lushington and Mabel at the Grand
Hotel.

Lady Lushington was a tall, slender woman of from thirty-eight to forty
years of age.  Her face was rather worn and pale.  She had a beautiful
figure, and was evidently a good deal made up.  Her hair was of a
fashionable shade of colour.  Annie concluded at once that it was dyed.
Priscilla, who had never heard of dyed hair, thought it very beautiful.

"My dears," said the good lady, advancing to meet both girls, "I am
delighted to see you.--Mabel, here are your two young friends.--Now,
will you go at once with Parker to your rooms and get ready for dinner?
We all dine in the restaurant--demi-toilette, you know.  Afterwards we
will sit in the courtyard and listen to the band."

"I will come with you both," said Mabel, who, dressed with extreme care
and looking remarkably fresh and handsome, now took a hand of each of
her friends.--"This is your room, Priscilla," she said, and she ushered
Priscilla into a small room which looked on to the courtyard.--"Parker,"
she continued, turning to the maid, "will you see that Miss Weir has
everything that she wants.--Now, Annie, I will attend to you.  You don't
mind, do you?--for it is only for one night--but you have to share my
room; the hotel is so full, Aunt Henrietta could not get a room for you
alone.  But I will promise to make myself as little obtrusive as
possible."

"Oh May!" said Annie, "I am just delighted to sleep in a room with you.
I have so much to say--dear old May!" she added suddenly, turning and
kissing her friend.  "I _am_ glad to see you again!"

"And I to see you, Annie," replied Mabel.  "I am having a glorious time,
and want you to share it with me.  Aunt Hennie has just been splendid,
and has given me a completely new wardrobe--the most exquisite dresses,
all bought and made at the best shops here, quite regardless of expense,
too.  I cannot tell you how much they have cost.  How do you like this
pink silk?  Isn't it sweet?"

"Yes, lovely," said Annie, thinking with a sigh of her own poor clothes.
But then she added, "Rich dresses suit you, Mabel, for you are made on
a big and a bountiful scale.  It is lucky for me that I can do with lees
fine garments."

"Oh, but I assure you, Annie, you are not going to be left out in the
cold.  You must have no scruples whatever in wearing the clothes that
Aunt Hennie has got for you.  She wants to take some young girls about
with her, and she would not have you a frump for all the world; so there
are a few pretty, fresh little toilettes put away in that box by Parker
which I think will exactly fit you.  There is a dress on that bed--oh,
only white lace and muslin--which you are to wear this evening at the
restaurant dinner; and there is a smart little travelling-costume for
you to appear in to-morrow.  You can leave them all behind you at the
end of your jaunt, if you are too proud to take them; but, anyhow, while
with us you have to wear them _nolens volens_."

"Oh dear!" said Annie, almost skipping with rapture, "I am sure I am not
a bit too proud."

"We have got things for Priscie too," said Mabel, "and I do hope she
won't turn up crusty; she is such a queer girl."

"Why ever did you invite her, Mabel?" asked Annie.

"Why did I invite her?" said Mabel.  "It was not my doing, you may be
sure.  Not that I dislike the poor old thing; far from that.  She is
quite a dear.  But, of course, what I wanted was to have you to myself;
but no--Aunt Hennie wouldn't hear of it; she said that nothing would
induce her to take two girls about with her.  Her remark was that we
should always be together, and that she would be _de trop_.  Now she
doesn't mean to be _de trop_, so one of us is always to be with her, and
the other two can enjoy themselves.  She said at once, when I broached
the subject of your joining us, that you might come with pleasure, and
she would be only too delighted if another of our schoolfellows came as
well.  My dear, I argued and argued, but she was firm.  So then I had to
think of poor Priscilla, for really there was no one else to come; none
of the others would dream of giving up their own friends and their own
fun; and there was Priscilla landed at the school.  So I told Aunt
Hennie what she was like--grave and sedate, with grey eyes and a nice
sort of face.  I assured her that Priscie was a girl worth knowing, and
Aunt Henrietta took a fancy to my description, told me to write off to
her and to Mrs Lyttelton; and she wrote herself also; and, of course,
Mrs Lyttelton jumped at it.  So here we are, saddled with Priscie, and
we must make the best of it.  Dear Annie, do take off your hat and
jacket, and get into your evening-dress; we shall be going down to
dinner in a few minutes.  I will help you with your hair if you need it,
for I expect Parker is having a war of words with Priscilla.  There's
such a sweet dress waiting for Priscie to wear--dove-coloured silk, made
very simply.  She will look like a Quakeress in it; it will suit her to
perfection."

Just at that moment a commotion was heard on the landing outside; a
hurried knock came at the room door, and Priscilla, flushed, untidy, and
wearing the same dress as she had travelled in, stood on the threshold.
Behind Priscilla appeared the equally disturbed face and figure of
Parker.

"Really, Miss Lushington," began Parker, "I have done all I could--"

"Your conduct is not justifiable," interrupted Priscilla.  "I am very
sorry indeed, Mabel; you mean kindly, of course, but I cannot wear
clothes that don't belong to me.  I would rather not have dinner, if you
will excuse me.  My head aches, and I should much prefer to go to bed."

"Oh dear," said Mabel, "what a fuss you make about nothing, Priscie!
Why, the dress is all part of the play.  Let us think of you as acting
in a play while you are with Aunt Henrietta and me; if you take a part
in it, you must dress to fit the part.  Oh, put on your lovely grey
silk--you will look perfectly sweet in it--and come down to dinner with
Annie and me.  See Annie; she is in her white muslin already, and looks
a perfect darling."

"I feel a perfect darling," said Annie.  "I love this dress.  I adore
fine clothes.  I am not one little bit ashamed to wear it."

"Well," said Priscilla, "Annie can please herself; but if I have to wear
other people's clothes, or clothes that don't belong to me and that I
have no right whatever to accept, I shall have to give up this trip and
go back to England to-morrow."

"Oh dear!" said Mabel, "you are queer, Priscilla.  I do wish--I do
_wish_ I could persuade you."

"It is all useless, miss," said Parker in an offended tone; "I have
spoken to Miss Weir until I am tired, and she won't see reason.--You
see, miss," continued Parker, "the dresses are bought, and if you don't
wear them they will be wasted.  I understand proper pride, miss, but
this does not seem to me reasonable, miss.  You will forgive my saying
so?"

"Yes, Parker, of course I forgive you," said Priscilla; "but all the
same," she added, "I shall go on this expedition in my own clothes or I
don't go at all."

"You will be a fright," said Annie.

"I would rather be a fright and myself; I should not feel myself in
other people's clothes."

"You are very silly," said Mabel.  "Can I do nothing?"

"I will talk to you afterwards, Priscilla," said Annie.--"Let her alone
now, May.  She had a bad time crossing, and I dare say would rather go
to bed.--You will look at all these things in a different light in the
morning, Pris."

"We shall have to be off fairly early in the morning," said Mabel, "so
you may as well go to bed if you are dead-tired, Priscie.--Parker, will
you get some tea and anything else that Miss Weir may require, and have
it brought to her room?"

"Thank you," said Priscilla.  She stood, tall, awkward, and ungracious,
before the other two.  They felt that she was so, and that there was
something in her expression which made them both, deep down in their
hearts, feel small.  Annie could not help saying to herself, "I wouldn't
give up the chance of wearing pretty clothes;" and Mabel was thinking,
"If only Priscilla were well dressed she would look handsomer than
either of us."

A minute later Priscilla turned to leave the room.  "I am very sorry,
girls," she said.--"Perhaps, Mabel," she added, "as you are leaving in
the morning, I ought to see Lady Lushington now."

"Oh, dear me!" said Mabel; "you will put Aunt Hennie out enormously if
you worry her now."

"Still, I think I ought.  I am terribly sorry, but she ought to
understand immediately my feelings in this matter."

"Let her go; let her speak to your aunt," whispered Annie.

"Very well," said Mabel.  "You will find Aunt Henrietta," she continued,
"waiting for us all in the drawing-room."

Priscilla immediately left the room.  She walked across the broad
landing to the private sitting-room which Lady Lushington occupied in
the hotel.  The latter was standing by a window, when the door opened,
and a tall, rather untidy girl dressed in dark-blue serge of no graceful
cut, with her hair brushed back from her forehead and her face much
agitated, appeared before that lady.

"I have something to say to you, Lady Lushington," said Priscilla.

"You are Priscilla Weir?" said that lady.  "There is a great difference
between you and the little girl with the blue eyes.  What is her name?"

"Annie Brooke."

"You are very great friends, are you not?"

"We are schoolfellows," was Priscilla's reply.  Lady Lushington looked
all over the girl.  The expression of her face signified disapproval;
but suddenly her eyes met the large, grey ones of Priscilla and a
curious feeling visited her.  She was a kindly woman, although full of
prejudices.

"Sit down, child," she said.  "If you have something really to say I
will listen; although, to tell you the truth, I am exceedingly hungry,
and am waiting for you all to dine with me in the restaurant."

"I am not hungry," said Priscilla, "and, if you will excuse me, I will
not go to the restaurant to-night; your kind maid will bring me
something to eat in my bedroom."

"You are tired from your journey, poor girl!  Well, then, go to bed and
get rested.  We start for Interlaken in the morning."

"That is why I must trouble you to-night," said Priscilla.

"Why, my dear?  Do sit down."

But Priscilla stood; only now she put out a slim hand and steadied
herself by holding on to the back of a chair.

"It was a great delight to come to you," said Priscilla, "and a very
great surprise; and when you arranged to pay all my travelling expenses
and to take me about with you from place to place, I consented without
my pride being especially hurt; for I felt sure that in many small ways
I could be of use to you.  I thought over all the different things I
could do, and, somehow, it seemed to me that I might make up to you for
the money you are spending on me--"

"But when we ask a guest," interrupted Lady Lushington, "to go with us
on a pleasure-trip, we don't form a sort of creditor and debtor account
in our minds; we are just glad to give pleasure, and want no return for
it beyond the fact that we _are_ giving pleasure."

"I understand that," said Priscilla, her eyes brightening; "and the
pleasure you would give me would be, oh! beyond any power of mine to
describe, for there is something in me which would appreciate; and if I
were to see great, grand, beautiful scenery, it would dwell always in my
mind, and in the very darkest days that came afterwards I should
remember it and be happy because of it."

"Sit down, child.  How queerly you speak!  You have very good eyes, let
me tell you, child--fine, expressive, interesting eyes."

Priscilla did not seem to hear, and Lady Lushington was more impressed
by this fact than she had been yet by anything she had discovered about
her.

"There are the clothes," said Priscilla, bursting into the heart of her
subject, and interlacing her long fingers tightly together.  "I--you
will forgive me--but I am too proud to wear them.  I cannot, Lady
Lushington.  If you won't have me shabby as I am--and I am sure I am
very shabby--I cannot come with you.  You will be so exceedingly
generous as to let me have my fare back to Lyttelton School, and I shall
always thank you for your best of best intentions.  But I cannot wear
clothes that I have not earned, and that I have no right to."

"But Annie Brooke?" interrupted Lady Lushington.

"I am not here to answer for Annie Brooke," replied Priscilla with great
dignity.  "If you want me, you must take me as I am."

"I declare," said Lady Lushington, "you are a queer creature.  And you
really mean it?"

"Yes--absolutely.  It is just because I am too proud.  I have no right
to my pride, perhaps; still, I cannot let it go."

There was a world of pathos in Priscilla's eyes now as they fixed
themselves on the worldly face of the lady.

"You are quaint; you are delightful," said Lady Lushington.  "Come as
you are, then.  You will perhaps not be too proud to allow Parker to
arrange your hair so as to show off that fine head of yours to the best
advantage.  But even in rags, child, come with us; for any one fresh
like you, and unselfconscious like you, and indifferent to outward
appearance like you, carries a charm of her own, and I do believe it is
beyond the charm of dress."

When Lady Lushington had uttered these words Priscilla went up to her
and took her hand, and suddenly, before the great lady could prevent
her, she raised that hand to her lips and kissed it.  Then she hurried
from the room.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A DELICIOUS DINNER.

After a time Annie Brooke and Mabel Lushington joined Lady Lushington in
their smart dresses.  Mabel looked most imposing in her pretty pink
silk, and no one could look fresher and more charming than Annie in the
white lace and muslin which fitted her trim little figure so nicely.

Lady Lushington was standing very much in the same position in which she
had been when Priscilla left her.  She turned now as the two girls
entered.  There was a frown between her brows, and she scarcely glanced
at either of them.

"Come, come," she said crossly, "how much longer must I be kept waiting?
We will go down in the lift, Mabel; you lead the way."

Mabel immediately went first, Lady Lushington followed, and Annie
brought up the rear.  They entered a large lift, and presently found
themselves on the ground-floor of the great hotel.  In a very short time
they were in the restaurant, which was quite the most brilliant and
dazzling place Annie Brooke had ever seen.  It seemed to be almost
filled with gay ladies all in full evening-dress, and gentlemen in
immaculate white shirt-fronts, white ties, and dinner-jackets.  There
were waiters rushing about here, there, and everywhere; and the tables,
covered with their snowy napery, were further adorned with dazzlingly
bright glass and silver; and, to add magic to the general effect, a
little electric lamp with a silk shade over it stood in the centre of
each table.  There were flowers, also, in abundance.  In short, the
whole place seemed to Annie to be a sort of fairyland.

A few people glanced up from their own tables when Lady Lushington,
accompanied by the two girls, crossed the huge room to the table set
aside for her party.  She sat down, and Mabel and Annie found places at
each side of her.  A menu was immediately presented to her by a most
gentlemanly man whom Annie thought perfectly fascinating in appearance,
but who only turned out to be the head-waiter.  Lady Lushington ordered
certain dishes and two or three kinds of wine, and the meal began.

Annie was both hungry and agitated; Mabel was somewhat indifferent.
Lady Lushington ate steadily and with considerable appetite, but all the
time wearing that slight frown of disapproval on her forehead.  Annie
glanced at her, and made up her mind that Lady Lushington was a very
grand person indeed; that she (Annie), in spite of all her temerity, was
going to be a little bit afraid of her; and that, of course, the reason
for the great lady's present discontent was the fact of Priscilla's
outrageous conduct.

The three ladies hardly spoke at all, Mabel having quite sufficient tact
to respect her aunt's present mood.  But as the dinner came to an end,
concluding with the most delicious ice Annie had ever tasted in all her
life, she could not help bending forward and saying in a low tone to
Mabel:

"What a great pity it is that our Priscie is such a fool!"

Low as her tone was, it reached lady Lushington's ears, who immediately
turned and said in a snappish voice:

"Whom do you mean by our Priscie, Miss Brooke?"

"Why, Priscilla Weir, of course," answered Annie, colouring as she
spoke, and looking particularly sweet and innocent.

"And why did you call her a fool?" was Lady Lushington's next remark.

"Oh," said Annie--"oh"--Mabel longed to kick Annie's foot, but could not
manage to reach it.  Annie plunged desperately into hot water.  "Oh,"
she added, "Priscilla--oh, Priscilla is so ridiculous; she has lost this
delicious dinner and--and--rejected your kindness in giving her such
dainty garments.  I do pity her so much, and am so sorry that your great
kindness should be thrown away."

"Then, pray," said Lady Lushington, "keep your pity for me entirely to
yourself, for I can assure you, Miss Brooke, that I do not need it.  As
to Miss Weir, she may or may not be a fool--I do not know her well
enough to be able to give an opinion on that point--but she is at least
a thorough lady."

Annie gazed, with her coral lips slightly open.

"A thorough lady," continued Lady Lushington, glancing with cruel eyes
at the white muslin and lace frock which adorned Annie's little person.

"Then you are not angry with her?" said Annie.  "I thought, after your
kindness--But of course she is going in the morning, isn't she?"

"Miss Weir accompanies us to Interlaken," said Lady Lushington, rising.
"That is settled; and she wears her own dress, as an honest girl should.
She may look peculiar; doubtless she will; but she is unaffected and
has a noble way about her.  Now let us change the subject--Girls, would
you like to come out into the court for a few minutes to listen to the
band, or are you, Miss Brooke, too tired, and would you prefer to go to
bed?"

"I think I will go to bed, please," said Annie in a small, meek, crushed
sort of voice.

"Very well," said Lady Lushington; "you are quite wise.--Mabel, take
your friend to the lift and give her over to Parker's care.--Goodnight,
Miss Brooke.  Remember we start very early in the morning, but Parker
will wake you and bring you your coffee."

When, ten minutes later, Mabel joined her aunt Henrietta in the court of
the famous hotel, Lady Lushington turned to her.

"May I ask," she remarked, "what earthly reason induced you to ask a
commonplace person like Miss Brooke to join our expedition?"

"Oh, I thought you would like her," said Mabel.  "She--she is a great
friend of mine."  Mabel spoke in considerable alarm, for if indeed Aunt
Henrietta turned against Annie, she would find herself in a most serious
position.  Lady Lushington was silent for a minute or two; then she
said:

"To be frank with you, Mabel, I don't at the present moment like her at
all.  Whether I change my mind or not remains to be proved.  Priscilla
Weir is a fine creature, and worth twenty of that blue-eyed doll; but I
suppose, as they have both come, we must put up with Miss Brooke for a
short time.  I may as well tell you frankly, however, Mabel, that I
shall send her back to England, if she does not please me very much
better than she has done on this first evening, at the first possible
opportunity."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

INGRATIATING SECRETARY.

But Lady Lushington, when she took a prejudice against Annie Brooke,
reckoned without her host.  Annie was far too clever to allow this state
of things to continue long.

The next day the three girls and Lady Lushington started _en route_ for
Interlaken.  There they put up at one of the most fashionable hotels,
and there Annie began to find her feet and gradually to undermine Lady
Lushington's prejudice against her.  Even if Mabel had not whispered the
disconcerting fact to her that she had not made a good, impression on
her aunt, Annie was far too sharp not to discover it for herself when
Mabel said to her on that first night in the Grand Hotel in Paris, "I
must tell you the truth, Annie; you are a failure so far; you have not
pleased Aunt Henrietta, and Priscie has.  I don't know what I shall do
if you leave me, but I know Aunt Hennie will send you back pretty sharp
to England if you don't alter your tactics, and how I am ever to meet
all that lies before me if this happens is more than I can fathom."

Annie had assured her friend that she need not be the least afraid, and,
knowing the truth, or part of the truth, took her measures accordingly.

They had not been settled at the Belle Vue Hotel, Interlaken, more than
two days before Lady Lushington, who was an exceedingly selfish, worldly
woman, although quite kind-hearted, began to alter her mind with regard
to both Annie Brooke and Priscilla Weir.

Priscilla, notwithstanding her fine and impressive eyes, her honest
manner, and her earnest wish to make herself pleasant, looked
undoubtedly _gauche_ in the old-fashioned garments which were mostly
made for her by poor Susan Martin.  Lady Lushington found that though
people remarked on Priscilla when she walked with the others in the
fashionable part of the town or sat with them when they listened to the
band or took her place in the _salle-a-manger_ by their sides, yet those
glances were by no means ones of admiration.  The girl looked oppressed
by a certain care, and dowdy beyond all words.  Lady Lushington liked
her, and yet she did not like her.  She felt, however, bound to keep to
her compact--to make the best of poor Priscilla.  Accordingly, she told
her friends that Priscilla Weir was a genius, and a little quaint with
regard to her clothes, and that, in consequence, she had to put up with
her peculiar dress.

"But she is such an honest good creature," said Lady Lushington in
conclusion, "that I am quite glad to have her as a companion for Mabel."

Now the people to whom Lady Lushington gave this confidence were by no
means interested in Priscilla's predilection for quaint clothes.  They
pronounced her an oddity, and left her to the fate of all oddities--
namely, to herself.  Annie, on the contrary, who made the best of
everything, and who looked quite ravishingly pretty in the smart frocks
which Parker, by Lady Lushington's desire, supplied her with, came in
for that measure of praise which was denied to poor Priscie.  Annie
looked very modest, too, and had such charming, unaffected, ingenuous
blue eyes, the blue eyes almost of a baby.

Lady Lushington found her first prejudices melting out of sight as she
watched Annie's grace and noticed her apparent unselfishness.

It was Annie's cue to be unselfish during these days, and Lady
Lushington began to form really golden opinions with regard to her
character.  She had been very nice on the journey, taking the most
uncomfortable seat and thinking of every one's comfort except her own.
She had been delightful when they reached Interlaken, putting up with a
very small and hot bedroom almost in the roof of the hotel.  And now she
began to make herself useful to Lady Lushington.

This great lady had a vast amount of voluminous correspondence.  She
liked writing to her friends in her own illegible hand, but she hated
writing business letters.  Now Annie wrote an exceedingly neat and
legible hand, and when she offered herself as Lady Lushington's
amanuensis, making the request in the prettiest voice imaginable, and
looking so eagerly desirous to help the good woman, Mabel's aunt felt
her last prejudice against Annie Brooke melting out of sight.

"Really, my dear," she said, "you are good-natured.  It would be a
comfort to dictate my letters to you, but I am stupid about business
letters.  You do not mind if I dictate them very slowly?"

"Oh no," said Annie, "by no means; and I should so love to write them
for you.  You do such a great deal for poor little me that if there is
any small way in which I can help you I shall be more than glad.  Dear
Lady Lushington, you don't know how I feel your kindness."

"You are very good to say so, Miss Brooke.  I have invited you here
because you are Mabel's friend."

"Sweet Mabel!" murmured Annie; "her very greatest friend.  But now, may
I help you?"

"Well, bring those letters over here--that pile on the table.  We may as
well get through them."

Annie immediately found note-paper, blotting-paper, pens and ink, also a
supply of foreign stamps and post-cards.  She laid the letters in a pile
on Lady Lushington's lap.

"Now," she said, "if you will read them aloud to me and tell me what to
say, I will write as slowly as ever you like.  You can lean back in your
comfortable chair; we will get through them as quickly as possible."

This conversation took place on the first day when Annie wrote letters
to Lady Lushington's dictation.  Soon the thing became a habit, and Lady
Lushington secured the services of Miss Brooke for a couple of hours
daily.  She quite enjoyed it.  It was so much less trouble, sitting
lazily in her chair and getting that smart, pretty little thing to do
the toilsome work for her.  She felt that Annie was assuredly pretty,
and much more interesting than poor Priscilla.

At last, on a day when the ladies had been at Interlaken for over a
week, and were meaning to move on to Zermatt, Lady Lushington opened a
letter, the contents of which caused her face to flush and her eyes to
blaze with annoyance.

"Really," she said, "this is too bad; this is simply abominable!"

"What is the matter?" asked Annie.

She had guessed, however, what the matter was, and her heart beat as she
made the remark, for that morning she had seen, lying on the
breakfast-table amongst a pile of letters directed to Lady Lushington,
one in the well-known writing of Mrs Priestley; and if Annie had any
doubt on that point, the dressmaker's address was printed on the flap of
the envelope.  Her innocent eyes, however, never looked more innocent as
she glanced up now from the blank sheet of paper on which she was about
to write.

"Of course you know nothing about it, child," said Lady Lushington, "but
it is beyond belief; Mabel's extravagance exceeds all bounds; I will not
permit it for a single moment."

"Mabel's extravagance?" said Annie, looking surprised.  "But surely dear
Mabel is not extravagant.  I have never, never noticed it; I assure you
I haven't."

"Then what do you say to this?" said Lady Lushington.  "That odious
woman Priestley sends me a bill for one term's clothing; total amount
seventy pounds!"

"Seventy pounds," said Annie, "for Mabel's dress?"  She pretended to
look shocked.  "It is impossible," she said slowly.  "There must be a
mistake."

"Of course there is a mistake.  That abominable woman thinks that I am
so rich that I don't mind paying any amount.  But she will learn that I
am not to be imposed upon."

"What do you think you will say to her?" asked Annie.

"I am sure I don't know.  I had best speak to Mabel herself."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," said Annie.  "May gets so confused; dear May
has no head for business; she won't have the slightest idea what dress
she did get.  I know there was that lovely, expensive white satin for
the school dance, and that beautiful dress of _crepe-de-Chine_ with
pearly trimmings which she wore on the day of the break-up--the day when
she received her great honour, her prize for literature; and there was
that pale-blue evening-dress of hers, and the rose-coloured silk."

"But I don't remember those dresses at all.  Where are they now?"

"I dare say she has left them at school," said Annie.

"Left them at school?"

"She would probably not think them fine enough for you."

"What absurdity!  And even if she did get such uncalled-for, such
unsuitable dresses, the sum total from a country dressmaker would not
amount to seventy pounds."

"Well, I tell you what I would do if I were you," said Annie.  "If you
will let me, I will write in your name for the items.  Mrs Priestley has
only sent you `To account rendered,' has she not?"

"That is a good idea," said Lady Lushington.  "I must speak to Mabel
about her frocks when she appears.  As a matter of fact, I do not mind
what I spend on her now that she has come out, or partly come out, for
of course she won't be really introduced into society until she is
presented next year.  But seventy pounds for one schoolgirl's wardrobe
for a single term is too much."

"Then I may write?" said Annie, her hand trembling a little.

"Certainly.  Tell the woman to send all items at once here.  Really,
this has worried me."

Lady Lushington did not notice that, notwithstanding all Annie's
apparent coolness, there were additional spots of colour on her cheeks,
and that her hand shook a little as she penned the necessary words.
Suppose the majestic Mrs Priestley recognised her handwriting!  There
was no help for it now, however, and any delay in grappling with the
evil hour was welcome.

The letter was written and laid with several others on the table.  Lady
Lushington remarked after a minute's pause:

"I may as well confide in you, Miss Brooke, that nothing ever astonished
me more than Mabel's success in gaining that literature prize; for you
know, my dear, between you and me, she is not at all clever."

"Oh, how you mistake her!" said Annie, with enthusiasm.  "Dear Mabel
does not care to talk about her deepest feelings or about those
magnificent thoughts which visit her mind."

"She has no thoughts, my dear, except the silliest," said Mabel's aunt,
with a laugh.

"Oh, how you wrong her!  Why, she is a poetess."

"A what?" said Lady Lushington.

"She writes poems."

"Nonsense!  I don't believe you."

"I can show them to you."

"Pray do not; I would not read them for the world.  I class all rhymes
as jingles.  I detest them.  Even Will Shakespeare could never gain my
attention for more than half-a-minute."

"Nevertheless, Mabel is clever, and her prize essay on `Idealism' was
undoubtedly the best in the school."

"Yes?  Wonders will never cease," remarked Lady Lushington; "but, to
tell you the truth, I was more annoyed than pleased when she got the
prize.  I did not want her to leave school for a year, and I only made
that rash promise believing it to be quite impossible for me to fulfil.
However, now I must make the best of it; and as, thank goodness! she
does not pose as a genius, and is a fine, handsome girl, I have no doubt
I shall get her married before long."

"Oh, Lady Lushington!  Could you bear to part with her?"

"Indeed I could, my dear, to a good husband.  I mean by that a man in a
high position in society."

Annie was silent, looking prettily down.  Lady Lushington glanced at her
and noticed the charming contour of her face.

"If only her eyelashes were a little darker and her eyebrows more
marked, she would be a sweetly pretty girl," she thought.  But the lack
of distinction in her face was not apparent at that moment.

"You will have a good husband yourself some day, Miss Brooke; and if
ever I can help you to bring such a desirable matter about, you may rely
on me."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" said Annie.  "Poor little me!  But I am only
an orphan with just one dear uncle and little or no money.  Lady
Lushington, I am so happy here, and you are so very kind to me."

"Well, my dear, you are kind to me too.  I believe we are of mutual
benefit each to the other.  Now, will you put on your hat and take those
letters to the nearest post?  You will just have time to get them in
before we go downstairs to _dejeuner_."

Nothing could be more welcome to Annie than this last remark, for while
she was talking she was wondering much in her clever little brain if she
could carry out a scheme which had darted through it.  The opportunity
of posting the letters gave her just the loophole she desired.  Taking
the pile from the table, she accordingly ran out of the room, and a few
minutes later was walking down the street which led to the post-office.

On her way there she met Mabel Lushington and Priscilla.  They were
coming back after a long, rambling walk, and both girls were rather
tired.

"Whither away, Annie?" said Mabel in her cheerful voice.

"To post some letters for your aunt, Lady Lushington."

"But the post does not go out until the evening, and that hill is so
steep and difficult to climb, and it is almost the hour for _dejeuner_,"
objected Mabel.  "Do turn back with us now, Annie; I shall so hate
waiting lunch for you."

"Oh, give me the letters if you like," said Priscilla; "I will run down
the hill in no time, and come back again as quickly.  I do not mind
climbing hills in the least."

"They exhaust me frightfully," said Mabel; "and I notice, too, that
Annie gets a little out of breath when she walks up these impossible
mountains too fast.  That is a good idea, really.  Give Priscie the
letters, Annie, and come home with me; I want to talk to you."

"No, I can't," said Annie.  "I must post them myself; they are
important."

She darted away, pretending not to notice Mabel's flushed, indignant
face and Priscilla's look of grave surprise.  She reached the
post-office and dropped all the letters she had written, except that one
to Mrs Priestley, into the box.  Mrs Priestley's letter she kept safely
in her pocket.

"This must be delayed for perhaps a couple of days," thought Annie.  "In
the meantime I shall have to talk to May.  What a mercy," was her next
reflection, "that I was given the writing of the letter, and also the
posting of it!  Oh dear, dear!  I think I can almost manage anything.  I
am sure May ought to be obliged to me, and so ought that tiresome
Priscie.  I would do anything for dear old May; but as to Priscie, I get
more sick of her each minute.  If only Lady Lushington would send her
back to England I should feel safer.  She is just the sort of girl who
would wind herself to a grand confession, never caring how she dragged
the rest of us into the mire with her.  She is just precisely that sort
of detestable martyr being.  But she sha'n't spoil my fun, or May's fun
either, if we can help it."

Annie appeared at lunch just a wee bit late, but looking remarkably
pretty, and apologising in the most amiable tones for her unavoidable
delay.

"I am not very good at hills," she explained to Lady Lushington.  "They
always set my heart beating rather badly.  But never mind; the letters
are posted and off our minds."

"One of those letters is by no means off my mind," said Lady Lushington
in a fierce tone, and glancing with reproachful eyes at Mabel.  Annie
bent towards her and said in a whisper (she could not be heard by Mabel
and Priscilla as some servants came up at the moment to present dishes
to the two young ladies):--

"Please say _nothing_ before Priscilla, I beg of you."

The voice was so earnest and so sympathetic, and the little face looked
so appealing, that Lady Lushington patted the small white hand.
Priscilla's voice, however, was now heard:

"It was a great pity, Annie, that you did run so fast to the post and
then toil up that steep hill, for I offered to go for you; and besides,
the English post does not leave before five o'clock."

Annie felt furious, but replied in her meekest voice:

"I felt responsible for dear Lady Lushington's letters."

Nothing more was said on the subject during lunch, and afterwards the
ladies went off on a long expedition up into the mountains with some
other friends whose acquaintance they had made in the hotel.

It was not until that evening, when they were going to bed, that Mabel
heard a light tap at her door, and the next moment Annie, in her pretty
blue dressing-gown, with her fair hair falling about her shoulders and a
brush in her hand, entered.

"Have you time for a talk with poor little me, and has Priscie gone to
bed?"

"Dear me! yes," said Mabel.  "Priscilla has been in bed and asleep an
hour ago.  Come in, Annie, of course.  I am dead with sleep myself, and
if Aunt Hennie knew she might be annoyed.  Now, what is it you want?"

Annie took the letter addressed to Mrs Priestley out of her pocket.

"To talk to you about this," she said, and she sat calmly down on a
chair and faced her tall companion.  Mabel was also in the act of
brushing out her luxuriant hair, and looked as handsome a creature as
could be found anywhere, in her long, flowing, white dressing-gown.
When she read the address on the letter her eyes darkened and some of
the colour left her cheeks.

"Are you writing to Mrs Priestley?" she said.  "What about?"

"I wrote that letter to-day," said Annie, "to Lady Lushington's
dictation.  The account has come in; total amount seventy pounds.  Lady
Lushington is furious.  I told her all the lies I could, dear Mabel,
about the dresses you had _never_ got, and in the end I managed to avert
the evil day by asking Mrs Priestley to send the items.  That satisfied
Lady Lushington for the time.  You will understand now why I could not
accept Priscilla's offer to post the letters, because I happened to have
this one in my hand and did not wish it to _go_.  It must not go for a
day or two.  In the meantime we must do something."

"What--what?" said Mabel.  "Oh Annie, I am so frightened!  I knew quite
well that you would get me into an awful scrape about this.  What is to
be done?  Nothing will ever make Aunt Hennie believe that I spent
seventy pounds on my dress during my last term at school.  I know she is
very generous about money, but she is also careful and particular.  You
will see; I know her so well, Annie; and she will just get into a real
passion about this and write to Mrs Lyttelton, and Mrs Lyttelton will go
to see Mrs Priestley, and--"

"Oh, I know," said Annie, trembling a good deal.  "But that must never
be allowed."

"How are we to manage?" said Mabel.  "Annie, we must do something;" and
she dropped on her knees by her companion's side and took one of her
hands.  "You came out here on purpose to help me," she said.  "You knew
that I should get into trouble, and you said you would find a way out."

"Am not I trying to with all my might and main?" said Annie.

"Well, but are you succeeding?  I cannot see that keeping back that
letter means much.  Aunt Hennie will expect an answer, and--and--wire
for it; she will really, if it does not come within a specified time;
and she will give me such a talking to.  Why, Annie, if the thing is
discovered I shall be sent back to school--I know I shall--at the end of
the holidays, and poor Priscie's prospects will be ruined, and--and--you
will be disgraced--"

"We all three will be disgraced for ever and ever," said Annie; "there
is no doubt on that point.  That is what makes the thing so terribly
important.  Something must be done, and at once--at once!"

"But, Annie, what?"

"I have a little scheme in my head; if you will keep up your courage and
help me I believe we shall be successful."

"But what is it?  Oh, do tell me!  Oh, I am so terrified!"

"The first thing we must be positive about is this," said Annie:
"Priscilla is to know nothing."

"Of course not," said Mabel.  "Mabel, I do wish we could get her back to
England; she is so tiresome and in the way, and I have a great fear in
my head about her."

"What is that?  She is harmless enough, poor thing!  Only, of course,
she does look such a dowd.  But, then, Aunt Henrietta has taken such a
fancy to her."

"Oh, you are absolutely quite mistaken about that.  Your aunt took a
fancy to her on the first night because she spoke in rather an original
way and, I suppose, looked handsome, which she does occasionally; and
your aunt is very easily impressed by anything that she considers rather
fine.  But I assure you that it is my private opinion that she is sick
of Priscilla by this time, and also rather ashamed of her appearance.
Priscilla has no tact whatever--simply none.  When does she help your
aunt?  When does she do anything to oblige others?  She just flops about
and looks so _gauche_ and awkward."

"Well, poor thing! she can't help that.  With Susan Martin as her
dressmaker what chance has she?"

"She is just an oddity," said Annie; "and it is my impression that your
aunt is tired of oddities.  I can make her a little more tired, and I
will."

"Oh Annie!  Poor Priscie! and she does enjoy the mountain air so, and is
such a splendid climber.  You might as well let her have her holiday
out.  You are so frightfully clever, Annie; you can always achieve your
purpose.  But I think, if I were you, I would let poor old Priscie
alone."

"I would if there were no danger," said Annie.

"Danger--in her direction?  What _do_ you mean?"

"There is very grave danger," said Annie--"very grave indeed.  I am more
afraid about Priscie than about anything else in the whole of this most
unfortunate affair."

"Annie, what _do_ you mean?"

"She is troubled with a conscience, bless you! and that conscience is
talking to her every day and every night.  Why, my dear Mabel, you can
see the gnawings of self-reproach in her eyes and in her horrid
melancholy manner.  She is always in a dream, too, and starting up and
having to shake herself when one talks to her suddenly.  I know well
what it means; she is on the verge of a confession."

"What?" said Mabel.

"Yes, that is the danger we have to apprehend; at least it is one of the
dangers.  One day, for the sake of relieving her own miserable
conscience, she will go to your aunt and tell her everything.  Then
where shall we be?"

"But she could not be so frightfully mean; I never, never would believe
it of her."

"Mark my words," said Annie--"people with consciences, who believe they
have committed a crime or a sin, never think of anybody but themselves.
The thought of relieving their own miserable natures is the only thought
that occurs to them.  Now, we must get hold of that conscience of
Priscie's, and if it is going to be a stumbling-block we must cart her
back to England."

"We must indeed," said Mabel.  "For all that I say I don't believe that
she could be so mean."

"Oh, nonsense," said Annie; "I know better."  Mabel crouched on the
floor by Annie's side, her hand lying on Annie's lap.

"You are wonderful," she said after a pause, "quite wonderful.  I can't
imagine how you think of all these things, and of course you are never
wrong.  Still--poor Priscie! you won't make things very hard for her,
Annie, will you?"

"I know exactly what I mean to do," said Annie.  "First of all I have to
get you out of your present scrape, and then I shall go boldly to
Priscie and find out her pent-up thoughts, and if they are in the
direction I am fearing, I shall soon find means to protect ourselves
from her and her conscience.  But perhaps that is enough about her.  On
the present occasion we have got to think of you and Mrs Priestley."

"Oh, indeed, yes!  Oh, I am terrified!"

"Listen to me.  But for my management at lunch to-day, Lady Lushington
was so indignant that she would have blurted out the whole thing and
asked you what you meant by running up such an outrageous bill.  You
would have given yourself away on the spot, for you have no presence of
mind in an emergency.  Now I am preparing you.  Lady Lushington will
speak to you to-morrow, and you are faithfully to describe the dresses
that I have, told her you possess.  Oh, I know you have not got them at
all, but that does not matter; I will give you a list of them in the
morning, and you are to hold to that list.  But now, listen.  This is
the main point.  At the same time you are to assure your aunt that Mrs
Priestley has made a mistake and put down some one else's dresses to
you, for you are positive your bill is nearer forty pounds than
seventy."

"Then how in the world am I to pay the thirty pounds to Mrs Priestley?"

"I am coming to that.  There is a lovely, lovely necklace in one of
those shops full of articles of _vertu_ in the town.  It is worth, I
know for a fact from fifty to sixty pounds; but I think your aunt could
get it for forty.  Now I want you to coax her to give it to you."

"Oh Annie, what _is_ the use?  Is it likely that Aunt Henrietta, when
she is so furious with me about a bill at my dressmaker's, would spend
forty pounds on one necklace just for me?"

"She is absolutely certain to do it if you manage her rightly; and I
will help you.  The necklace is a great bargain even at forty pounds.
It is of real old pearls in a wonderful silver setting.  Now a beautiful
old necklace, once the property of a French marquise, which can be
bought for forty pounds is a bargain.  Lady Lushington loves making
bargains.  You must secure it."

"Well, Annie, even if I do get it--and I am sure I do not care a bit for
the old thing at the present moment--what am I to do with it?"

"You are a stupid, May; you really are.  Your aunt, Lady Lushington,
will go with you, and probably with me, to the shop.  We must take her
there early for fear that some one else snaps up the bargain.  She will
buy the necklace and give it to you.  She will tell you to be careful of
it, and then, according to her way, she will forget all about it."

"Yes, perhaps so; but still, I do not see daylight."

"Well, I do," said Annie.  "We will sell the necklace at another shop
for thirty pounds, and send the money immediately to Mrs Priestley.  At
the same time I will write her a long letter and tell her that she must
take thirty pounds off her bill, and apologise for having, owing to a
press of customers, put some one else's account to yours.  Thus all will
be right.  Your aunt Hennie will not object to paying forty pounds for
your school dresses, so that will be settled; and we may be able to get
a little more than thirty pounds for the pearl necklace, and thus have
some funds in hand towards Mrs Lyttelton's Christmas school bill."

"Oh," said Mabel, "it is awful--awful!  Really, I sometimes think my
head will give way under the strain.  Of course it may succeed; but
there are so many `ifs.'  Suppose the man to whom we are selling the
necklace shows it in his window the next day; what will Aunt Henrietta
say then?"

"You goose!" replied Annie.  "We shall be in Zermatt by then; and I will
make an arrangement with the shopman to keep the necklace out of the
window until we are off.  Now I have everything as clear as daylight.
You must coax and coax as you know how for the beautiful necklace, and
you must get your aunt Henrietta, if possible, to pay forty pounds for
it.  That is the only thing to be done, but it just needs tact and
resource.  I shall be present with my tact and resource.  I will allow
you to be alone with your aunt to-morrow morning, and then, when I think
she has scolded you long enough, I will come innocently into the room,
and you must start the subject of the necklace; then trust to me for the
rest.  Mrs Priestley is asked in this letter, which will never go--for
the one with the thirty pounds will take its place--to send the full
items of her account to Zermatt.  She will do so; and your aunt will be
so much in love with you for your economy, and so full of remorse at
having accused you of extravagance, that she will probably give you
another necklace when there, which one you can keep.  The main thing,
however, is to get through this little business to-morrow.  Now go to
bed and to sleep, May Flower, and never say again that your Annie does
not help you out of scrapes."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

DAWN AT INTERLAKEN.

The next day dawned, fresh, clear, and beautiful, with that exquisite
quality in the air which so characterises Interlaken.  Priscilla, when
she opened her eyes in the tiny bedroom which was close to Annie's and
just as much under the roof--although no one thought her unselfish for
selecting it--sprang out of bed and approached the window.  The glorious
scene which lay before her with the majestic Jung Frau caused her to
clasp her hands in a perfect ecstasy of happiness.  The pure delight of
living was over her at that moment.  It was permeating her young being.
For a time she forgot her present ignoble position--the sin she had
sinned, the deceit in which she had had such an important share.  She
forgot everything but just that she herself was a little unit in God's
great world, a speck in His universe, and that God Himself was over all.

The girl fell on her knees, clasped her hands, and uttered a prayer of
silent rapture.  Then more soberly she returned to her bed and lay down
where she could look at the ever-changing panorama of mountain and lake.

They were going on to Zermatt on the following day; and Zermatt would be
still more beautiful--a little higher up, a little nearer those
mountains which are as the Delectable Mountains in Bunyan's _Pilgrim's
Progress_, past the power of man to describe.  Priscie owned to herself,
as she lay in bed, that she was glad she had come.

"It was not going to be nice at first," she thought.  "But this repays
everything.  I shall remember it all for the rest of my days.  I am not
a bit good, I know; I have put goodness from me.  I have chosen
ambition, and the acquiring of knowledge, and the life of the student,
and by-and-by an appointment of some worth where I can enjoy those
things which I thirst for.  But whatever is before me, I am never going
to forget this scene.  I am never going to forget this time.  It is
wonderfully good of God to give it to me, for I am such a wicked girl.
Annie and Mabel are wicked too, but they could never have done what they
did without my help.  I am, therefore, worse than they--much worse."

A servant knocked at the door and brought in Priscilla's first
breakfast.  The man laid the coffee and rolls on a little table by the
girl's bedside, and Priscilla sat up and enjoyed her simple meal, eating
it with appetite When she had come to the last crumb a sudden thought
forced itself on her mind: "What is the matter with Annie?  How
strangely Annie looked at me last night!  Why has she taken each a
violent antipathy to me?  What have I done to annoy her?"

The thought had scarcely come to Priscilla when she heard a light tap at
her door, and in reply to her "Come in," Annie entered.

"I thought you would be awake and having your breakfast, Priscie."

Annie tripped lightly forward.  She seated herself on Priscie's bed.

"Isn't it a glorious morning?" said Priscie.  "Isn't the view lovely?"

"I suppose so," replied Annie in an indifferent tone.  "But, to tell the
truth," she added, "I have not had time either to think of the beauty of
the morning or the beauty of the view."

"You surprise me," said Priscilla.  "I can never think of anything else.
Why, we are just here for that," she continued, fixing her great
dark-grey eyes on Annie's face.

"Just here for that?" laughed Annie.  "Oh, you oddity! we are not here
for anything of the kind.  We are staying at Interlaken because Lady
Lushington thinks it fashionable and correct to spend a little time here
in the autumn.  From Zermatt, I understand, we are going to Lucerne, and
then presently to the Italian lakes; that is, Mabel and Lady Lushington
are going to the Italian lakes.  Of course, you and I will have to go
back to the dreary school."

"Oh, but the school is not dreary," said Priscilla.

"I am glad you find it agreeable; it is more than I do."

"But I thought you loved your school."

"It is better than my home--that is all I can say; but as to loving it,"
Annie cried, "I love the world, and the ways of the world, and I should
like some day to be a great, fine lady with magnificent clothes, and
men, in especial, bowing down to me and making love to me!  That is my
idea of true happiness."

"Well, it is not mine," said Priscilla.  She moved restlessly.

"How white you are, Priscie!  You don't look a bit well."

"I am quite well.  Why do you imagine I am not?"

"You are so sad, too.  What are you sad about?"

As Annie boldly uttered the last words Priscilla's face underwent a
queer change.  A sort of anguish seemed to fill it.  Her mouth quivered.

"I shall never, never be quite happy again, Annie Brooke; and you know
it."

"Oh, you goose!" said Annie.  "Do you mean to say you are letting your
little fiddle-faddle of a conscience prick you?"

"It is the voice of God within me.  You _dare_ not speak of it like
that!"

Annie settled herself more comfortably on the bed.  She faced her
companion defiantly.

"I know what you are about to do," she said.

"What do you know?"

"And if you do it," continued Annie, "and turn traitor to those who have
trusted you--to your own schoolfellows--you will be the meanest Judas
that ever walked the earth!"

Priscilla's face was very white, almost as white as death.

"Leave my room, please," she said.  "Whatever I have done, I have done
at your instigation; and whatever I do in the future is my affair and no
one else's.  Leave the room immediately."

"I won't until you make me a promise."

"I will make you no promise.  I have had too many dealings with you in
the past.  Leave the room, please."

Priscilla spoke with such dignity that Annie, cowed and almost
terrified, was forced to obey.

She went out on the landing.  Priscilla, for the time being, had
completely routed her.  She scarcely knew how to act.

"Of one thing I am certain," she said to herself when she reached the
shelter of her own tiny room, which had not nearly such a magnificent
view of the mountain and lake as Priscilla's chamber, but was a little
bit larger, and therefore suited Annie better--"of one thing I am indeed
certain," said Annie to herself: "Priscilla means to make grave trouble,
to upset everything.  Oh, well, I am glad I know.  Was I ever wrong in
my intuitions?  I had an intuition that Priscilla was going to set her
foot on all my little plans.  But you sha'n't, dear old Pris.  You will
go back to England as soon as ever I can get you there, and trust Annie
Brooke for finding a way.  This clinches things.  As soon as ever I have
settled Mrs Priestley and the affair of the necklace I must turn my
attention to you, Priscie.  There is no earthly reason, now I come to
think of it, why everything should not be managed within the scope of
this little day.  Why should Priscie accompany us to Zermatt?  I am sure
she is no pleasure to any one with those great, reproachful eyes of
hers, and that pale face, and those hideous garments that always remind
me of poor consumptive Susan Martin and her silly poems.  Yes, I think I
can manage that you, dear Priscie, return to England to-morrow, while
Lady Lushington, Mabel, and I proceed to Zermatt.  Your little
schoolfellow Annie Brooke, I rather imagine, is capable of tackling this
emergency."  Accordingly, Annie dressed swiftly and deftly, as was her
way, coiling her soft golden hair round her small but pretty head,
allowing many little tendrils of stray curls to escape from the
glittering mass, looking attentively into the shallows--for they
certainly had no depths--of her blue eyes, regretting that her eyelashes
were not black, and that her eyebrows were fair.

The day was going to be very hot, and Annie put on one of the fresh
white cambric dresses which Lady Lushington's maid kept her so well
supplied with.  Then she ran downstairs, as was her custom, for she
always liked to be first in the breakfast _salon_ in order to look over
the morning's post.

A pile of letters lay, as usual, by Lady Lushington's plate.  These
Annie proceeded to take up one by one and to look at carefully.  A lady,
a certain Mrs Warden, who had made the acquaintance of Lady Lushington
since she came to the hotel, came into the breakfast-room unobserved by
Annie, and noticed the girl's attitude.  Her table was, however,
situated in a distant part of the room, and Annie did not know that she
was watched.  Amongst the pile of letters she suddenly saw one addressed
to herself.  It had evidently been forwarded from the Grand Hotel in
Paris, and was written in a bold, manly hand.  Annie felt, the moment
she touched this letter, that there was fresh trouble in store for her.
She had an instinctive dislike to opening it.  She guessed immediately
that it was written by her cousin, John Saxon.  Still, there was no use
in deferring bad tidings, if bad tidings there were, and she would do
well to acquaint herself with the contents before Mabel or Lady
Lushington appeared.

It was one of Lady Lushington's peculiarities always to wish to have her
coffee and rolls in the breakfast _salon_.  She said that lying in bed
in the morning was bad for her figure, and for this reason alone took
care, whatever had been the fatigues of the previous day, to get up
early.  Priscilla, strange as it may seem, was the only one of the party
who had her rolls and coffee in her own room.  But that Priscilla liked
to rush through her breakfast, and then day after day to go out for a
long ramble all alone, whereas Lady Lushington preferred to linger over
her meal and talk to those acquaintances whom she happened to meet and
know in the hotel.

Annie glanced at the clock which was hung over the great doorway,
guessed that she would have two or three minutes to herself, and, taking
a chair, seated herself and opened John Saxon's letter.  It was very
short and to the point, and Annie perceived, both to her annoyance and
distress, that it had been written some days ago.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Dear Annie," it ran, "I promised to let you know if your uncle was
worse and if your presence here was a necessity.  I grieve to say that
it is; he is very far from well, and the doctor is in constant
attendance.  Your uncle does not know that I am writing this letter; but
then, I am sorry to tell you that he has not often known during the last
few days what is passing around him.  He is quite confined to his bed,
and lives, I believe, in a sort of dream.  In that dream he is always
talking of you.  He often imagines that you come into the room, and over
and over he begs that you will hold his hand.  There is not the least
doubt that he is pining for you very much, and it is your absolute duty
to return to him at once.  I hope this letter will be forwarded from the
Grand Hotel in Paris, as you have forgotten, my dear Annie, to give us
any further address.  I am, therefore, forced to send it there.  If you
will send me a wire on receipt of this, I will manage to meet you in
London; and in case you happen to want money for your return journey--
which seems scarcely likely--I am enclosing two five-pound notes for the
purpose.  Do not delay to come, for there is imminent danger, and in any
case your place is by the dear old man's bedside.--I am, dear Annie,
your affectionate cousin, John Saxon."

Annie had barely read this letter and crushed it with its precious two
five-pound notes into her pocket before Lady Lushington and Mabel made
their appearance.  Mabel looked rather white and worried.  Lady
Lushington, on the contrary, was in a good-humour, and seemed to have
forgotten her vexation of the previous day; but Annie's scarlet face and
perturbed manner could not but attract the good lady's attention.

"What is the matter, Miss Brooke?  Is anything troubling you?"

"Oh no; at least, not much," said Annie.  She reflected for a minute,
wondering what she could safely say.  "The fact is, Uncle Maurice--the
dear old uncle with whom I live--is not quite well.  He is a little
poorly, and confined to bed."

"Then you would, of course, like to return to him," said Lady
Lushington, speaking quickly and with decision.

"Oh," said Annie hastily and scalding herself with hot coffee as she
spoke, "that is the very last thing Uncle Maurice wishes.  It is quite a
passing indisposition, and he is so glad that I am here enjoying my good
time.  I will wire, dear Lady Lushington, if you will permit me, after
breakfast, and give my uncle and the cousin who is with him our address
at Zermatt.  Then if there should be the slightest danger I can go to
him immediately, can I not?"

"Of course, child," said Lady Lushington, helping herself to some toast;
"but I should imagine that if he were ill your place now would be at his
bedside."

"Oh, but it would distress him most awfully--that is, of course, unless
you wish to get rid of me--"

"You know we don't wish that, Annie," said Mabel.

"Certainly we don't," said Lady Lushington in a more cordial tone.  "You
are exceedingly useful, and a pleasant, nice girl to take about.  I have
not half thanked you for all the help you have given me.  If you can
reconcile it to your conscience to remain while your uncle, who must
stand in the place of a father to you, is ill, I shall be glad to keep
you; so rest assured on that point."

"I can certainly reconcile it to my conscience," said Annie, breaking a
roll in two as she spoke; "for, you see, it is not even as though my
uncle Maurice were alone.  My cousin can look after him."

"Oh, you have a girl cousin?  I did not know of that."

"Not a girl; he is a man.  His name is John Saxon."

"What!" said Lady Lushington, her eyes sparkling; "Mr Saxon, the young
Australian?  Why, I met him in London last year.  What a splendid fellow
he is!  I have seldom met any one I admired so much; and they say he is
exceedingly rich.  I want him to come over to London and enjoy himself
for one of the seasons.  I could get him no end of introductions."

"He is with my uncle now," said Annie, speaking rather faintly, for it
seemed to her as though entanglements were spreading themselves round
her feet more and more tightly each moment.  "Doubtless he is a good
nurse," said Lady Lushington.  She then turned the conversation to other
matters.

After breakfast Annie went out and sent her telegram.  In this she gave
the address of the hotel where they were going to stay at Zermatt, at
the same time saying that she much regretted, owing to the grave
complications, that she could not leave Lady Lushington for a few days.
She spent a fair amount of John Saxon's money on this telegram, in which
she begged of him to give her love to Uncle Maurice, and to say that if
he really grew worse she would go to him notwithstanding that business
which was involving all the future of her friend.

The telegram was as insincere as her own deceitful heart, and so it read
to the young man, who received it later in the day.  A great wave of
colour spread over his face as he read the cruel words, but he felt that
he was very near the presence of death itself, and not for worlds would
he disturb the peace of that departing saint who was so soon to meet his
Maker face to face.

"I will not wire to her," he said to himself; "but if the old man still
continues to fret, and if the doctor says that his longing for Annie is
likely to shorten his days, I shall go to Zermatt and fetch her home
myself.  Nothing else will bring her.  How could dear old Mr Brooke set
his affections on one like Annie?  But if he can die without being
undeceived as to her true character, I at least shall feel that I have
not lived in vain."

Meanwhile, as these thoughts were passing through the mind of a very
manly and strong and determined person, Annie herself was living through
exciting times.  She was not without feeling with regard to her uncle.
After a certain fashion she loved him, but she did not love him nearly
as well as she loved her own selfish pleasures and delights.  She was
sadly inexperienced, too, with regard to real illness.  Her belief was
that John Saxon had exaggerated, and that dear, kind Uncle Maurice would
recover from this attack as he had done from so many others.  Now she
had much to attend to, and forced herself, therefore, after the telegram
had gone, to dismiss the matter from her mind.

As Annie had predicted, Lady Lushington did call Mabel into her private
sitting-room soon after early breakfast on that eventful day, and did
speak very seriously to her with regard to Mrs Priestley and her bill.

"I don't pretend for a single moment," said Aunt Henrietta, "that I am
poor, and that I am unable to meet a bill of three times that amount;
but I do not choose you to be wantonly extravagant, Mabel, and it is
simply an unheard-of and outrageous thing that a schoolgirl should spend
seventy pounds on dress during one short term.  You know I invariably
pay your dressmaker at the end of each term.  Now this bill is more than
double the amount of any that I have hitherto paid for you.  Will you
kindly explain why it rises to such enormous dimensions?"  Mabel was
very much frightened, and stammered in a way that only increased her
aunt's displeasure.

"What is the matter with you, May?  Can't you speak out?  Are you
concealing anything from me?"

"Oh no, no, indeed, Aunt Hennie--indeed I am not!  Only the fact is, I
am quite certain Mrs Priestley must have made a mistake."

"What is all this about?" said Annie Brooke, who entered the room at
that moment.

"Oh, we were talking business."

"I beg your pardon.  Shall I go away?"

"No, don't, Miss Brooke," said Lady Lushington rather crossly; "you are
really wanted here to help to clear matters.  Seeing that I am honoured
by the possession of so clever a niece as Mabel, I wish she would not on
every possible occasion act the fool.  She is as stupid over this
outrageous bill as though she were an infant."

"Well, Mabel," said Annie, "you know quite well that you had some nice
dresses, hadn't you?"

"Yes," said Mabel, who seemed to have a wonderful amount of added
courage now that Annie had appeared on the scene.  Then she nimbly
quoted a description of the beautiful gowns which Annie had falsely
described the day before.

"Most unsuitable for a schoolgirl," said Lady Lushington.  "And where
are they, may I ask?"

"Oh, I--I--left them at school," said Mabel.

"Worse and worse; you seem to have lost your head."

"Poor May!" said Annie; "no wonder.  You must know, Lady Lushington,
that after your letter came May nearly worked herself into a fever to
get that literature prize.  She could think of nothing else.  She did so
long to be with you; didn't you, May?"

"Indeed I did," replied Mabel.

"Well, that is gratifying, I suppose," said Lady Lushington; "although I
am by no means certain, my dear May, that I return the compliment.  My
impression is that another year at that excellent school would do you no
end of good.  Well, you lost your head trying to get that prize.  But
how could that fact affect Mrs Priestley's bill?"

"I mean," said Mabel, "that I forgot about packing my dresses and taking
them away, and I had not an idea that my bill amounted to that.  In
fact," she added, meeting Annie's eyes, "I am quite positive that Mrs
Priestley has made a mistake, and that you will find the bill--"

Here she hesitated.

"I," said Annie, "happen to know pretty well what May's lovely dresses
cost.  Oh, you know, Lady Lushington, _we_ thought them perfectly
ruinous in price--we schoolgirls; for _our_ best dresses usually come to
from three to four pounds.  But May's--oh, some of hers were up to ten
or twelve guineas.  Even so, however, I don't think May can owe Mrs
Priestley more than forty pounds."

"Then the woman's a thief and a cheat!" said angry Lady Lushington.

"I think, perhaps," said Annie, speaking in her gentlest tones, "it
might be fairest to let her explain.  She has probably--oh, she has such
numbers of customers!--put down some items that don't belong to Mabel in
her account."

"Well, well, we shall see," said Lady Lushington.  "You posted that
letter, didn't you, Miss Brooke?"  Then she added, hastily and without
waiting for an answer, "I shall be glad if it is so.  I make no
objection to paying forty pounds, but I do draw the line at seventy."

"Thank you, auntie; thank you so much," said Mabel, running up to her
aunt and kissing her.

"Now don't, my dear!  You disturb the powder on my cheek.  Do sit down;
don't be so impulsive."

"I know what you are wanting to do; I know what is in your head, you
silly Mabel," said Annie at this juncture.

Lady Lushington looked up.  "What is it?" she asked.

"Oh," said Annie, "it is that necklace--that wonderful, amazing
bargain."

Lady Lushington pricked up her ears.  She could not--and all her friends
were aware of the fact--ever resist a bargain.  She would have gone from
one end of London to the other to secure the most useless old trash if
she was firmly convinced in her own mind that she had to get it as a
bargain.  She now, therefore, sat up with sparkling eyes, and Mrs
Priestley and her bill were as absolutely forgotten as though they had
never existed.

"There are no bargains at Interlaken," was her next remark.

"Oh, are there not?" said Annie.  "Mabel and I know something very
different from that."

"What is it, my dear?  What is it?"

"Well," said Annie, "it was I who found it out.  I showed it to May
yesterday.  You know Zick the jeweller in the little High Street?"

"Of course; his shop is full of rubbish."

"There is a necklace there which is not rubbish," said Annie, "and the
best of it is that he is not a bit aware of its value himself."

"A necklace?  What sort?"

"He can't be aware of its value," said Annie, "which is very surprising,
for these Swiss are so sharp; but I can assure you I was taught to
recognise the beauty of good pearls, and there are some lovely ones in
that necklace.  Now nothing in all the world would be so becoming to May
as real, good pearls; and this necklace--it belonged to an old French
marquise, who was obliged to sell it, poor dear! to get ready cash.
Zick paid--oh, he would not tell me what; but he is offering it for a
mere bagatelle."

"My dear Miss Brooke--a bagatelle!"

"Yes; only forty pounds."

"Nonsense!" said Lady Lushington.  "Forty pounds!  All the contents of
his shop are not worth that sum."

"I dare say you are right," said Annie, by no means abashed; "with the
exception of the necklace.  But now, you are a judge of jewels, aren't
you?"

"Well, I rather flatter myself that I am."

"I saw two or three ladies from this hotel looking at the necklace
yesterday.  I was dying to tell you, but I had not an opportunity.  I am
so awfully afraid it may be snapped up.  Do, do come at once and look at
it!"

"If they are really fine pearls," said Lady Lushington--"and the old
French _noblesse_ were noted for the beauty of some of their gems--it
would be exceedingly cheap--exceedingly cheap at forty pounds.  But
then, of course, the whole thing is a hoax."

"Oh, do, do come and see!  It would be such a beautiful present for
May."

"She can't wear ornaments until she is presented," said Lady Lushington.

"Well, but think what even a string of pearls would cost, you know, in
Bond Street."

"Of course I know I could not get anything decent under a hundred
pounds.  You say forty pounds.  Of course, the thing could be re-set--
Would you really like it, May?"

"Like it?" said Mabel, trembling.  "I'd--I'd adore it, auntie!"

"Well," said Lady Lushington, "if your conjecture, Miss Brooke, with
regard to Mrs Priestley is correct and Mabel has really only spent forty
pounds on her dress, I should not mind doing a deal for the necklace;
but as things are--"

"As things are," said Annie, "I should not be one scrap surprised if Mrs
Warden has the necklace already in her possession.  It is certain to be
bought up immediately, for it is a real bargain."

"In that case," said Lady Lushington, "I had better, Mabel, ring for
Parker.  I will just walk down with you to Zick's.  You can both come
with me."

Annie skipped as she ran up to her attic bedroom.  Mabel, it may be
mentioned, had a very nice room on the same floor as her aunt.

Priscie was out and all alone among the mountains.  So much the better.
Uncle Maurice, in his room which faced west, was listening for a light
footstep that did not come, for the pressure of a little hand that was
not present, for the love that he imagined shone out of blue eyes, but
which in reality was not there.  Annie forgot both Priscie and Uncle
Maurice.  Things were going swimmingly.  How clever she was!  How
abundantly Mabel would thank her and love her and help her all the rest
of her days!

Lady Lushington, accompanied by the two girls, went to Zick's, and soon
began the fierce war of words over the necklace.  She perceived at once
that Annie was right, and that the pearls were a very great bargain even
at forty pounds; but she would not have been a true bargain-hunter if
she did not try to bring Zick to accept lower terms.  Unfortunately for
her, however, two other ladies had been in the shop that morning, had
examined the necklace, and had promised to call again.  Lady Lushington,
in the end, was afraid of losing it.  She paid the money, and the
necklace became her property.

"Oh May, you are in luck!" said Annie.  "Lady Lushington has bought this
for you."

Mabel looked longingly at the little box in her aunt's hand.

"Take it, child," said Lady Lushington impulsively.  "Be sure you don't
lose it.  Let Parker pack it for you to-night with your other small
trinkets; but on no account wear it until after your presentation.
Really, those pearls are so fine that I think they might be re-set for
the occasion.  It is my strong impression that I have only given half
the worth of that necklace to Zick.  What an idiot the man must be to
sell it so cheap!"

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A PROFITABLE TRANSACTION.

Annie Brooke was the sort of girl who was sure to be popular wherever
she went.  She had already made many friends in the Hotel Belle Vue at
Interlaken.  Amongst these was a quaint old gentleman with shaggy hair,
deep-set eyes, a much-hooked nose, and a decidedly Jewish appearance.
Few people were attentive to the old man, and he used to be glad when
Annie came and sat next him in the big lounge after dinner, and listened
to his rather rambling and rather meaningless talk.  But Annie Brooke
was the sort of person who does nothing without intent.  She never met
any one without trying to learn something with regard to that person's
peculiarities, that person's past, and, if possible, that person's
present history.

Now Mr Manchuri was a dealer in gems, and it darted through Annie's
fertile brain as she was returning to the hotel with Lady Lushington and
Mabel that she might do a little stroke of business both for herself and
her friend if she showed the precious necklace to him.  The more she
thought on this, the more did this idea fascinate her.  It would be
_very_, very much better than taking the necklace back to Zick or
offering it for sale to some other dealer at Interlaken.  The jewellers
there were not so clever with regard to the true value of gems as was Mr
Manchuri; and besides, it was quite on the cards that they might exhibit
the necklace in their windows for sale during the afternoon of that same
day, and there was also a possibility that Lady Lushington, who was
always rather wayward and uncertain in her movements, might postpone
going to Zermatt for a day or two; in short, it would be very much safer
to consult Mr Manchuri with regard to the necklace.  He was going to
return to England that very afternoon.  If he took the necklace with him
all would be safe; but Annie did not dare to confide her thoughts to
Mabel.  She was certain Mr Manchuri would not betray her, but she had to
act warily and with tact.

Now Priscie had gone for a long walk into the mountains, and when she
came back she was very tired.  She went accordingly to sit in the lovely
shady garden which was one of the principal features of the hotel.  She
chose a comfortable rustic seat under a wide-spreading tree, and sat for
some time with a book on her knee lost in thought.  By-and-by Annie
entered the garden.  She saw Priscilla, and was much annoyed.  She knew
that it was Mr Manchuri's custom to smoke in the garden before lunch.
She meant to join him and have a pleasant little talk.  But the most
shady seat--the seat, in fact, which he generally occupied--was now
filled by the--to Annie--ungainly figure of Priscilla Weir.

"Oh dear me, Priscilla!" said Annie, pausing when she saw her friend,
and looking at her with a great deal of exasperation.

"Yes," said Priscie; "what is the matter?"

"I want to sit just where you are."

"Well, I suppose you can; there is room for two."

"But there isn't room for three," said Annie.

"Three?" said Priscilla.  "Who is the third?"

"Oh, never mind," said Annie; "I suppose we'll find another seat.  It is
Mr Manchuri; he is going to England, you know, to-day.  He is such a
nice old man, and I did think I could send a little present by him as
far as London, and then it could be posted to dear old Uncle Maurice.  I
wanted to give him a _special_ message about it.  But there, never
mind."

"I will go in if I am in the way," said Priscie.  She rose hastily and
went towards the house.  She felt that Annie was becoming almost
unendurable to her.  Such a queer, sore sensation was in her heart that
she almost wondered if she could live through the next term at Mrs
Lyttelton's school in the presence of this girl--this girl so devoid of
principle.  But then, where were Priscilla's own principles?  What right
had Priscilla to upbraid another when she herself was so unworthy?  She
crushed down the dreadful thought, and went back into the house feeling
limp and miserable.

Meanwhile Mr Manchuri walked slowly down the garden in his meditative,
cautious fashion, never hurrying in the very least, and gazing
abstractedly at a view which he did not in the least admire, for he had
no eyes for the really beautiful things of nature.  Nevertheless he
considered the strong, sweet air of the Swiss mountains good for him,
and as such was the case, was satisfied with his surroundings.
Presently he caught sight of Annie's white frock.  He liked Annie
Brooke; she was a pretty little thing, very good-natured and amusing.
He thought to himself how much nicer she was than any other girl in the
hotel.  She had no nonsensical airs about her, and could listen to an
old man's maunderings without showing the slightest sign of weariness.
Her eyes were very blue, too, and her hair golden.  He did not consider
her pretty; no one ever thought Annie Brooke quite pretty; but then she
was charming, and had a way of making a man feel at his very best while
he talked to her; and she did not object to his smoking.

He accordingly made his way as straight as an arrow from the bow to the
comfortable seat where Priscilla had been reposing, and which Annie had
left vacant for him.  Annie was seated on a far less comfortable chair
herself.  She was looking straight before her, her hands lying idle in
her lap, her hat slightly pushed back.  She did not appear to notice Mr
Manchuri until he was close to her side.  But when he said, "Hallo, Miss
Brooke!" she looked up, and a happy smile parted her childish lips.

"Oh, now, this is nice!" she said.  "I was wondering if I should see you
before you went."

"I am not going until late this evening," was the answer.

"I thought you were going this afternoon."

"No; I have decided to travel by night.  It is too hot for day
travelling at present."

He sank into a seat and began to pull at his pipe vigorously.  Annie
gave a gentle sigh.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

She looked at him, glanced round her, and then, dropping her voice to a
whisper, said:

"I wonder if I might confide in you."

"Of course you may, Miss Brooke," he said.

"But it is," said Annie, "a most sacred confidence.  I mean that if I
tell you, you must never tell anybody else."

"I am very honoured, I am sure," said Mr Manchuri.  "Now what is this
confidence, young lady?"

"You will respect it?" said Annie.

"Here is my hand on it," he said; and he laid his wrinkled hand for a
minute in her little white one.

"Then it is just this," said Annie.  "I have a dear, dear uncle in
England--Uncle Maurice.  He is a clergyman; he is awfully good and
sweet, and he is not at all well, and he is not rich, although he has
enough.  I am most anxious to send him a little present, something all
from myself.  Now I happened to get this to-day," and she took a box
from where it lay concealed in the folds of her dress.  "I got this
to-day at Zick's, the jeweller's.  You must not ask me what I paid for
it.  I assure you it was not a great deal, but I am under the impression
that it is worth far more than Zick has any idea of.  I--I want to sell
it in order to send a little present to dear Uncle Maurice, and you are
such a judge of gems and precious stones of all sorts.  May I show it to
you?  The fact is, I got it as a great bargain; but if you could tell me
what I ought to ask for it, it would be such a help in disposing of it
again.  Do you think you could--and--_would_?"

Mr Manchuri gave Annie a long glance.  It was the first very observant
glance that he had given her.  Hitherto he had simply regarded her as a
nice, well-mannered, pleasant little girl, who did not mind amusing an
old man with little nothings of conversation and little scraps of local
news; but now it seemed to him all of a sudden that he saw something
more in her face.

"And how," he asked after a pause--"how is it, Miss Annie Brooke, that
you happen to know that I am a judge of gems and precious stones?"

Annie did not expect this question, and in consequence she coloured very
vividly.  After a pause she said:

"I am always fond of putting two and two together; and don't you
remember that evening when you told me the wonderful story of the
Duchess of Martinborough's bracelet, and--and--about the ring that was
stolen and sought for afterwards by the Secret Service people?"

"Yes, I remember quite well.  Well, go on."

"I thought what a lot you knew about those things.  Don't you?"

"Bless your heart, child!" he said, "I am in that trade myself; I have
made a pretty snug fortune in it.  Yes, I can glance at your little
bargain and tell you, if you like, whether it is a bargain or not."

"And you remember your promise; you will never tell any one?"

"Honour bright," was his answer.

She then put the box into his hand.  He opened it, and took out the old
necklace with its pearls of various sizes and different shapes, and its
very quaint, old-world setting.  Annie glanced at him and saw a subtle
change creep over his face.  He had hitherto regarded the whole thing as
a joke.  Annie Brooke, child as she was, could not possibly know a
bargain when she saw it, and those Swiss fellows were as sharp as knives
and never let anything good escape them.  And yet, and yet--here was
something of real merit.  Those centre pearls were distinguished--round
and smooth and of the most exquisite colour.

He dangled the thing lightly in his hand.

All the tricks of the trade, all that which had made him the rich old
man what he was, rushed quickly through his brain, and yet he looked
again at Annie Brooke.  For the life of her, Annie could not keep the
eagerness out of her eyes.

"Is it a bargain, or is it not?" she said.  "Have I been fooled about
it?"

"Will you tell me in strict confidence what you gave for it?" he asked.

Annie had hoped he would not put this question to her.

"I was a little mad, I think," she said.  "I gave my all for it."

"That tells me nothing.  What is your all?"

"Forty pounds," she said in a choked sort of voice.

"Were you not rather unwise to part with your last penny?"

"You don't understand," said Annie, who, having at last declared a part
of the truth, felt better able to go on.  "I have studied pearls a great
deal; and Uncle Maurice, dear Uncle Maurice, has taught me their true
value and something of their history, and I guessed that this was really
cheap, and thought I could sell it for more."

"By Jove!" said Mr Manchuri, "you are the sharpest girl I ever saw.  How
old are you?"

"Seventeen," said Annie.

"God help the man who marries you!" said Mr Manchuri under his breath.

"What did you say?" asked Annie.

"Nothing, nothing, my dear.  Of course I admire your cleverness.  Well,
you have come to the right person.  I will give you one hundred pounds
for this necklace; there, now."

"And you won't say anything about it?" said Annie, who felt at once
faint and delighted, overpowered with joy, and yet subdued by an awful
weight of apprehension.

"Nothing to any one in this hotel.  But the thing is a curio, and I
shall probably sell it for double what I give you.  I do not conceal
anything from you.  Miss Annie Brooke.  You might try for ever, and you
would find it difficult to get your forty pounds back.  But I, who am in
the trade, am in a different position.  Had I gone to Zick before you, I
would have probably bought the thing for thirty pounds and thought no
shame to myself for doing so.  But I won't cheat a young lady,
particularly such a very clever young lady, and you shall have your
hundred pounds at once.  Here; I have notes on my person.  You would
prefer them to a cheque?"

"Oh yes, please!"  Annie trembled with joy.

Mr Manchuri counted out ten ten-pound notes, and Annie gave him the
quaint pearl necklace.

She then lingered a little longer trying to talk on indifferent matters,
but her interest in the old Jew was gone, and, as a matter of fact, she
did not want to see him any more.

As to the old man himself, he felt that he hated her; but he was glad to
have made a good stroke of business, although he was very rich.  That
was always worth something.  He would in all probability clear one
hundred and fifty pounds on the necklace, which would more than pay for
his trip abroad and for the benefit he had derived from the air of the
Swiss mountains.

Annie went into the house, rushed up to Mabel's room, and, taking three
ten-pound notes out of her pocket, said exultantly:

"There, I have done it!  Now who is clever?"

"Oh, you are," said Mabel.  "But where did you sell it, and to whom?  We
must keep Aunt Henrietta from going to any of the shops to-day."

"Oh, we will easily manage that," said Annie.  "She is going to have a
little drive after lunch, and I am going with her--trust me.  We must
get to Zermatt to-morrow.  Now I am going to write a long letter to Mrs
Priestley enclosing this.  I shall barely have time before _dejeuner_."
When that day Annie Brooke did sit down to _dejeuner_ she considered
herself a remarkably wealthy young woman, for she had in her possession
nearly eighty pounds, every one of which she intended to keep for her
own special aggrandisement; and Mrs Priestley was paid--paid in full,
with a long explanatory letter desiring her emphatically to send an
account to Lady Lushington which would only amount to forty pounds.

Annie was exceedingly pleased.  The colour of excitement bloomed on her
cheeks; her eyes looked quite dark.  At these times she was so nearly
pretty that many people remarked on her and turned to look at her again.
She was in her wildest, most captivating mood, too, and Priscilla
looked by her side both limp and uninteresting.  If only Priscilla would
go.  Her very face was a reproach.  Annie wondered if she could
accomplish this feat also.  Mr Manchuri could take her to England.  What
an excellent idea, if Annie could only work it!

"I have had everything else I wanted to-day," thought the girl, "and if
I can do this one last thing I will see the pinnacle of my success
reached."

"You will come for a drive, won't you?" said Annie, bending towards Lady
Lushington as the tedious meal of _dejeuner_ was coming to an end.

Lady Lushington yawned slightly.

"Oh, I don't know," she said; "the heat is so great that I have not
energy for anything.  I wonder if I ought to travel to-morrow."

"Oh yes," said Annie; "it will be cooler at Zermatt."

"That is true; but the journey--"

"We have taken our rooms in the hotel, have we not?" said Annie.

"Well, that is just it; I am not sure.  I telegraphed this morning to
the `Beau Sejour,' but have not had a reply yet.  I insist on staying at
the `Beau Sejour.'  There is no hotel like it in the place."

"There are such a lot of us, of course," said Annie; "but Priscie and I
do not mind sharing the tiniest little room together; do we, Pris?"

Here she glanced at Priscilla.  Priscilla looked up.

"I don't want to be unpleasant," she said, "but I certainly should like
a room to myself."

"Of course, my dear," said Lady Lushington.

"Dear, dear!  I must consult with Parker.  There's a room for me, a room
for Mabel, a room each for you two girls--that makes four; and Parker's
room, five.  You two girls would not by any chance mind sleeping in
another hotel, would you?"

Here she looked first at Annie and then at Priscilla.

"Certainly not," said Annie.  "I do not mind anything."

Priscilla was quite silent.  Just then one of the waiters appeared with
a telegram.  It was to Lady Lushington.  She opened it.  There were only
four bedrooms available at the "Beau Sejour."

Annie spoke impulsively.  "I tell you what," she said.  "I won't be in
the way; I won't.  I will go back to England to-night.  I can go with Mr
Manchuri, that funny old Jew gentleman whom I have been so friendly
with.  I know he will let me travel with him.  It is just too bad, Lady
Lushington; you must let me.  I have been, oh! so happy, and it will be
a cruel disappointment to go; but I will.  Yes, I will go."

"Seeing that your uncle is ill, perhaps--" began Lady Lushington.

"Oh, please don't think that it is on account of that.  Uncle Maurice
constantly has these attacks.  He is probably as well as ever by now;
but it is just because I _won't_ crowd you up."

"But, Annie," said Mabel in a troubled voice, "you know I can't live
without you."

"It is very awkward indeed," said Lady Lushington--"very awkward.  The
fact is, I can't very well spare you; you are of great use to me."

Priscilla rose from the table.  She had scarcely touched anything during
the meal.

"I think I know what Annie Brooke means," she said.  "She means that one
of us two girls is to offer to go back, and she naturally does not
intend to go herself."

"But I offered to go.  How cruel you are!" said Annie.  "I _will_ go,
too," she added, pouting and looking at once pretty and petulant.  "Yes,
Lady Lushington, I will go.--Mabel, I can't help it.  You are my very
dearest ownest friend; but I won't crowd you up.  You will have
Priscie."

"No," said Priscilla mournfully; "I am no use.  I don't think at present
I love people, and I can't talk much, and I can't wear"--she
hesitated--"the dresses that other people wear.  I will go.  I have had
a beautiful time, and I have seen the mountains.  It is something to
have had even a glimpse of the higher Alps; they are like nothing else.
A little disappointment is nothing when one has had such great joy.  I
will go to-night if Mr Manchuri will let me accompany him."

"It does seem reasonable, Miss Weir," said Lady Lushington.  "We can't
stay on here, for our rooms are let, and I won't go anywhere at Zermatt
except to the `Beau Sejour.'  As to one of you girls sleeping out it
cannot be thought of, although I did propose that two of you might--that
is, together; but there seem to be difficulties.  You have not been very
happy with us, have you, Miss Weir?"

"You have been the cause of great happiness to me, and I thank you from
my heart," said Priscilla.

"Well, my dear, I will of course pay your fare back.  I hope we may meet
again some day.  Then that is settled.--Annie, please go at once and
wire that we will engage the four rooms, and--who will see Mr Manchuri
and arrange with him to let Priscilla accompany him to England?"

"I will do both," said Annie.

She hastily left the _salle-a-manger_ and ran through the great lounge
with a sort of skipping movement, so light were her steps, and so light
and jubilant her heart.  The old Jew did not make any demur when he was
told that the tall, slender young lady was to accompany him home.

"I will look after her," he said.  "Don't thank me, please, Miss Brooke;
I don't suppose that she will be the slightest trouble."

Priscilla went up to her room, flung herself on her bed, and wept.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

A CONFESSION AND A FRIEND.

It is quite true that very clever people are sometimes apt to overstep
the bounds of reason and prudence; and whether all that befell Annie
Brooke and all that retribution which she so richly merited would have
fallen so quickly and so decisively on her devoted head had she not been
anxious to get rid of poor Priscilla must remain an unsolved question.
But certain it is that Priscilla Weir's departure in the company of Mr
Manchuri was the first step in her downfall.  Annie, with eighty pounds
in her pocket and with all fear of Mrs Priestley laid at rest, felt that
she had not a care in the world.

But Priscilla, when she stepped into the first-class carriage which was
to convey her _en route_ for England, was one of the most perplexed and
troubled girls who could be found anywhere.  Mr Manchuri, with all his
faults, his love of securing a bargain, his sharpness, had a kindly
heart.  He saw that the girl was in trouble, and took no notice at all
of her for more than an hour of the journey.

It so happened, however, that very few people were returning to England
so early in the season, and the pair had the railway carriage for a long
time to themselves.  When Priscilla had sat quite silent for a
considerable time, her eyes gazing straight out into the ever-gathering
darkness, Mr Manchuri could contain himself no longer.

He had scarcely ever glanced at Priscilla Weir when she was at the
hotel.  She was not pretty; she was not showily dressed; she was a queer
girl.  He knew that she belonged to Lady Lushington's party, but beyond
that he was scarcely aware of her existence.  Now, however, he began to
study her, and as he did so he began to see marks of what he considered
interest in her face.  What was more, he began to trace a likeness in
her to some one else.

Once, long ago, this queer, dried-up old man had a young daughter, a
daughter whom he loved very passionately, but who died just when she was
grown up.  The girl had been tall and slender, like Priscilla, and
strangely unworldly and fond of books, and, as the old man described it,
good at star-gazing.  He did not know why the memory of Esther, who had
been in her grave for so many years, returned to him now.  But, be that
as it may, Priscilla, without being exactly like Esther, gave him back
thoughts of his daughter, and because of that he felt inclined to be
kind to the lonely girl.  So, changing his seat which he had taken at
the farther end of the carriage, he placed himself opposite to her and
said in a voice which she scarcely recognised:

"Cheer up now, won't you?  There is no good in fretting."

Priscilla was startled at the kindness of the tone.  It shook her out of
a dream.  She turned her intensely sorrowful eyes full upon Mr Manchuri
and said:

"I shall get over my disappointment, I am sure; please don't take any
notice of me."

"But, come now," said Mr Manchuri, "what are you fretting about?  You
are going home, I understand."

"Oh no, I am not," said Priscilla; "I am going back to school."

"Oh, so you are a schoolgirl?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old are you, my dear?"

"I am nearly seventeen," said Priscilla.

Now Esther had been nearly seventeen when she died; she was not _quite_
seventeen.  Mr Manchuri felt glad that Priscilla was not quite
seventeen.

"I thought of course, you were going home," he said--"that perhaps you
had some one who wanted you very much.  Why should you, I wonder, leave
Lady Lushington's party?"

"There was not room for all of us at the hotel at Zermatt, so I am going
back to England."

"But why you?" said Mr Manchuri.  He felt quite angry.  How furious he
would have been if any one had treated his Esther like that!--and this
girl had a voice very like Esther's.  "Why you?  Why should this be your
lot?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Priscilla.  "Some one had to do it."

"I see; that little Annie Brooke would not go, for instance--not she;
she is far too clever."

"She offered to go," said Priscilla, who would not allow even Annie to
appear at a disadvantage.

Mr Manchuri laughed.

"There is a way of offering, isn't there, Miss--Forgive me, my dear; I
have not caught your name.  What is it?"

"Priscilla Weir."

"I like the name of Priscilla; it is so quaint and old-fashioned.  Do
you know that I once had a girl called Esther.  She was my only child.
That is a quaint name too, if you like.  Don't you think so?  Don't you
think that Esther is a very pretty name?"

"Very," said Priscilla.  "It is a beautiful name," she added; "and that
story about Queen Esther is so, _so_ lovely!"

"Isn't it?" said Mr Manchuri.  "And my girl was like her--a sort of
queenly way about her.  Do you know, miss--you don't mind if I call you
Priscilla?"

"Please do," said Priscilla.

"Do you know that in a sort of manner you remind me of my dear Esther.
She was darker than you; but she was like you.  God took her.  Shall I
tell you why?"

"Please," said Priscilla.  She had come back to the present world now,
and was gazing, with all her heart in her eyes, at the queer old man.

"She was too good for earth," said Mr Manchuri; "that is why God took
her.  He wanted her to bloom in the Heavenly Gardens.  She wasn't a bit
like me.  I am all for money and bargains--I made a rare one to-day; but
I mustn't talk of that.  That is a secret.  I am a rich man--very rich;
and when I die I will leave my money to different charities.  I have not
kith or kin to leave it to--neither kith nor kin, for Esther is with God
and the angels.  But, all the same, I can't help making money.  It is
the one pleasure I have.  If a week goes by when I can't turn over a
cool hundred or even sometimes a thousand I am put out and miserable.
You don't understand that feeling, do you?"

"No; I don't," said Priscilla.

"No more did Esther; I could not get it into her.  I tried to with all
my might, but not one little bit of it would get through that pure white
armour she wore--the armour of righteousness, I take it."

"Tell me more about her," said Priscilla, bending forward and looking
full into Mr Manchuri's eyes.

"I could talk about her for ever to you," was the answer; "although, as
a matter of fact, I have not mentioned my child's name to a living soul
for going on thirty years.  It is thirty years since she went to God,
and she is as young as ever in the Heavenly Gardens--not seventeen yet;
just like you."

"Yes," said Priscilla.  "It is very, very interesting," she added.  "It
seems to me," she continued, "as if I knew now why I am taking this
journey, and why God did not want me to see the lovely mountains that
surround Zermatt."

"You are more and more like Esther the more you talk," said Mr Manchuri.
"She was all for star-gazing and that sort of thing.  I take it, that
includes mountain-gazing and going into raptures at sunsets and at
sunrises, and going into fits at shadows on the hills and lights across
the valleys, and little flowers growing in clumps by brooks, and living
things that you can see if you look deep into running water, and the
songs of birds, and the low hum of insects on a summer evening.  After
these things, which she liked best of all, she loved books that made her
think, and I could not get her to take the slightest interest in what
she wore, or in money, bless you!  But she was sweet beyond words with
children, and with people who were in trouble; and there were girls of
her own class in life who adored her.  They are elderly women now--
oldish, almost--with children of their own; but two or three of them
have called their girls Esther after her, although they don't resemble
her one little bit.  You are the first girl I ever came across who in
the very least resembles her.  I wish I could see your face in the
light."

"I love the things she loved," said Priscilla.

"Hers must have been a most beautiful nature."  Then she added
fervently, "It was very lucky for her that she died."

"Why do you say that?" said Mr Manchuri.  "Lucky for her?  Well, perhaps
so, for God and the angels and the Gardens of Heaven must be the very
best company and place for one like my Esther; but nevertheless, she
would have had a good time down here."

"No, she wouldn't," said Priscilla stoutly.  "The world is not made for
people like her."

"Then _you_ don't find the world a good place?" said Mr Manchuri,
speaking in an interested voice.

Priscilla took a long time before she replied.  Then she said very
gravely:

"I don't find the world a good place--I mean the people in it; and I
want to say something"--her voice broke and changed--"I _must_ say
something; please let me."

"Of course you shall, my dear Priscilla.  My dear girl, don't agitate
yourself; say anything you like."

"You have been so kind comparing me to your child--to your beautiful
child," said Priscilla.  "But I must undeceive you.  Although I love the
mountains and the things of nature, and although I cry in my heart for
goodness, and although I am the same age as your Esther was when she
went away to God, I am not a bit like her, for I am not good.  I am--
wicked."

Mr Manchuri was startled at this statement, which he took to be the
exaggeration of a young and sensitive girl.

"You must not be too introspective," he said after a pause.  "That is
very bad for all young things.  Esther was not.  She had a beautiful
belief in God, and in goodness, and in joy.  She was never, never
discontented--never once.  If you are not like her in that, you must try
to grow like her.  I tell you what; you interest me tremendously.  You
shall come to see me in London, and I will show you Esther's portrait."

"I can't come," said Priscilla.  "You talk to me out of your kind, very
kind heart; but you don't know.  I am not a good girl.  I have done
something far and away beyond the ordinary bad things that girls do, and
I cannot possibly come to you under false colours.  If I could, I would
be friendly with worldly people, but I am not in touch with them; and
good people I can have nothing to do with.  So I must stand alone.  I
shall never see your Esther; I know that; but thank you all the same for
telling me about her; and--and--I shall never forget the picture you
have given me of her most lovely character."

Mr Manchuri was considerably startled at Priscilla's words, and in some
extraordinary way, as she spoke, the image of Annie Brooke when she
looked at him with that crafty expression in her eyes returned to him,
and he said to himself:

"I will get to the bottom of the secret that is troubling the girl who
is like my Esther; and I have a very shrewd suspicion that Miss Brooke
is mixed up in the affair."  Priscilla closed her eyes after she had
uttered the last words, as though she were too tired to say any more,
and Mr Manchuri sat and watched her.  She had very handsome, long,
thick, black eyelashes, and the likeness to his Esther was even more
apparent in her face when her eyes were shut than when they were open.
The more the old man looked at her, the more did his heart go out to
her.  It had been for long years a withered heart--a heart engrossed in
that most hardening of all things--money-making.  To make money just for
the love of making it is enough to crush the goodness and frankness out
of all lives, and Mr Manchuri had twenty times too much for his own
needs.  Still, his excitement over a bargain or a good speculation was
as keen as ever; and even now, at this very moment, was he not wearing
inside his waistcoat that curious necklace which he had bought from
Annie Brooke that day?  He would make, after paying the hundred pounds
which he had given Annie, at least one hundred and fifty pounds on the
necklace.

Yes; he lived for that sort of thing.  He had a very handsome house,
however, at the corner of Park Lane, and this house was filled with rich
furniture, and he had a goodly staff of servants, and many friends as
rich as himself came to see him, and he drank the most costly wines and
ate the most expensive dinners, and never spent a penny on charity or
did one good thing with all his gold.  There was one room, however, in
that house which was kept sacred from the faintest touch of worldliness.
This room contained the portrait of the child who was taken away from
him in her first bloom.  It was a simple room, having a little white bed
and the plainest furniture that a girl could possibly use.  There were a
few of Esther's possessions lying about--her work-box, her little
writing-desk, a pile of books, most of them good and worth reading; and
Mr Manchuri kept the key of that room and never allowed any one to enter
it.  It was the sacred shrine in that worldly house.  It was, in short
the heart of the house.

But now Mr Manchuri discovered on this midnight journey that that
withered heart of his own, which he had supposed to be dead to all the
world, was suddenly alive and keenly interested in a girl of the age of
his Esther--a girl who absolutely told him that she was not good, and
that because she was not good she must stand alone.

"I will get her secret out of the poor young thing," he said to himself;
"and what is more--what is more, I will help her a little bit for the
sake of my Esther."

Priscilla was really very tired.  She slept a good deal during the
night, all of which time they had the carriage to themselves.  But in
the morning some fresh travellers entered their compartment, and Mr
Manchuri had no opportunity of saying a word in private to Priscilla
until they were on their way to London.  When, however, they had crossed
the Channel, the first thing he did was to engage a private _coupe_ on
the express train, and soon, as they were whirling away towards the
great centre of life and commerce, he was once again alone with his
young companion.

"Now, my dear," he said, "you will just forgive me for asking you a
plain question."

"I am sure I will, Mr Manchuri," said Priscilla.  "You have been most,
most kind to me."

"We shall arrive in London," said Mr Manchuri, "at five o'clock.  Now,
may I ask where you intend to go for the night?"

"I will send a telegram to my schoolmistress, Mrs Lyttelton, and then
take the next train to Hendon," was Priscilla's remark.

"But is your schoolmistress at home?"

"I do not know; but somebody will be."

"Do you want to go back to school in the holidays?"

"Not very specially; but I must go, so there is no use talking about it.
I felt so bewildered yesterday that I did not send a telegram, as I
might have done.  But I know the servants can put me up, and it will be
all right--and you have been, oh! so kind, Mr Manchuri."

"Not at all, my dear Priscilla; not at all.  The fact is, I have never
enjoyed a journey so much; your company has given me real pleasure.  And
now what do you say--"

"Yes?" interrupted Priscilla.

"To coming to me to my house for a few days--even for a night or so--
instead of going back to Hendon?"

"To your house, Mr Manchuri?"

"Yes, my dear; you will have a hearty welcome there, and I assure you it
is quite large enough.  I have got excellent servants, who will look
after you, and you won't see much of me except in the evening, and then
perhaps you will cheer me up a bit; and--and I want to show you what you
know, my dear--"

Priscilla turned first red and then white.

"I have told you why I cannot see that," she said.

"That is the subject I want to discuss with you more fully.  Will you
come back with me to Park Lane, and to-night?  I am an old man and
lonely, and you, my dear little girl, have stirred something within me
which has never been stirred for thirty years, and which I thought was
quite dead.  You won't refuse me, will you?  That, indeed, would be a
sin.  That would be putting a heart back once more into its grave."

Priscilla was startled at the words, and still more at the expression in
the old face; there was such a hungry, pleading look in the eyes.

"Oh no," she said simply, "I am not so bad as that.  If you want me like
that--I, who am not wanted by any one else--indeed, I will come."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

CONFESSIONS.

Mr Manchuri was a person who seldom had his soft moods; but he was very
kind to Priscilla.  She found the house most luxurious, and was allowed
to do exactly what she liked in it.  The housekeeper, Mrs Wolf, petted
her a good deal, and the other servants were most respectful to her.
She was given a large, luxurious room to sleep in, and was allowed to do
what she liked with herself while Mr Manchuri was busy all day long over
his business affairs.

So one day lengthened into two, and two into three; and a week passed,
and still Priscilla was the guest of old Mr Manchuri.  It was a Sunday
evening, the first Sunday after her visit, when she and the old man were
seated together, and the old man put out his hand and touched hers and
said:

"There is a dress of Esther's upstairs; it is all grey and long and
straight, and belongs to no special fashion, and I believe if you put it
on it would exactly fit you; and I think, in this sort of half-light, if
you came down to me in that dress I should almost believe that Esther
had returned."

"But I can't wear the dress," said Priscilla, "because of that which I
have told you; nor can I see the portrait of your Esther for the same
reason."

"Now, my dear," said Mr Manchuri, "I won't ask you to wear the dress and
I won't show you the portrait of my child until you yourself ask me to
do so.  But what I do want to say is this: that whatever happens, I am
your friend; and as to your having done something that you call wicked--
why, there--I don't believe it.  What can a young girl who is not yet
seventeen have done?  Why, look at me, my dear.  I am as worldly an old
fellow as ever lived, and I have made a capital good bit of business
while at Interlaken.  It is connected with that secret that I hinted to
you about when we were on our way back from Interlaken."

"Mr Manchuri," said Priscilla, "what you have done in your life cannot
affect what I have done in mine.  I have done a very bad thing.  It
seems dreadful to me, and"--here she looked at him in a frightened
way--"you attract me very much," she said.  "You have been so
wonderfully kind to me, and the thought of your Esther seems to give me
a sort of fascination towards you, and if you will let me I--I--should
like to tell you what I have done."

"Ay?" said the old man, rubbing his hands.  "Now we are coming to the
point."

"You will send me away, of course," said Priscilla; "I know that.  I
know, too, that you will counsel me to do the only right thing left, and
that is to make a clean breast of everything to Mrs Lyttelton."

"She is your schoolmistress?"

"Yes."

"Then it is something you have done at school?"

"That is it."

"Oh, a schoolgirl offence--a scrape of that sort!  My dear young lady,
my dear Priscilla, when you come to my age you won't think much of
things of that sort."

"I hope I shall never think lightly of them," said Priscilla; "that
would be quite the worst of all."

"Well, out with it now.  I am ready to listen."

"I want you to do more than listen," said Priscilla.  She took one of
his hands and held it in both of hers.  "I want you to be Esther for the
time being.  I want you to judge me as Esther would judge me if she were
here."

"My God!" said the old man.  "I cannot do that.  I cannot look at you
with her eyes."

"Try to, won't you?  Try to, very hard."

"You move me, Priscilla.  But tell me the story."

"It implicates other people," said Priscilla--she sank back again in her
seat--"and in telling you my share in it I must mention no names; but
the facts are simply these.  I have a great and very passionate love for
learning.  I am also ambitious.  I was sent to Mrs Lyttelton's most
excellent school by an uncle in the country.  He could not very well
afford to pay the fees of the school, and his intention was to remove me
from it at the end of last term.  I ought to tell you, perhaps, that I
have a father in India; but he has married a second time and has a young
family, and he is very poor.  Uncle Josiah is my mother's brother, and
he has always done what he could for me.  But he is a rather rough,
uneducated man; in short, he is a farmer in the south-west of England.
Towards the end of the last term I received a letter from him saying
that he could not afford to keep me at school any longer, and that I was
to come back to him and either help my aunt in the house-work--which
meant giving up my books and all my dreams of life--or that I was to be
apprenticed to a dressmaker in the village.

"Now both these prospects were equally odious to me.  I struggled and
fought against them.  The suffering I endured was very keen and most
real.  Then, just when I was most miserable, there came a temptation.
By the very post which brought me the dreadful letter from my uncle
Josiah, there came a letter to another girl in the school who was most
keenly desirous to leave it.  I cannot mention the girl's name, but she
was told that unless she won the first prize for literature at the
break-up she was to remain for another year.  You see, Mr Manchuri, this
was the position.  One girl wanted to go; another girl wanted to stay.
Now I wanted to stay, oh! so tremendously, for another year at school
would give me a chance which would almost have been a certainty of
getting a big scholarship, which would have enabled me to go from Mrs
Lyttelton's school to Girton or Newnham, and from there I could have
continued my intellectual life and earned my bread honourably as a
teacher."

"This is quite interesting," said Mr Manchuri.  "And what happened?  You
are still at school--at least, so you tell me."

"Yes," said Priscilla, "I am still at school; I am there because I--
sinned."

"How, child?  Speak, Priscilla; speak."

"There was another girl in the school, and she was wonderfully clever.
I must not tell you her name.  _She_ managed the thing.  She managed
that the girl who wanted to leave the school should get the prize for
literature, and that I should stay for a year longer at Mrs
Lyttelton's."

"But how?  How _could_ she do it?"

"She was so marvellously clever that she did do it--of course with my
connivance."

"Oh, with your connivance.  How?"

"Well, you see, I could write better essays than most girls in the
school, and--and--it was arranged, and--and I consented to give up my
essay to the girl who wanted to go, and to allow her to put her
signature to it, and I took her essay and put my signature to hers.  So
she got the first prize for literature and left the school, and I stayed
on, my reward being that my fees were to be paid for the ensuing year.
That is the wicked thing I have done, and it has sunk into my heart and
has made life unendurable."

"Thank you; thank you very much," said Mr Manchuri.

Priscilla bowed her head.  The old man started up and began to pace up
and down the room.  After a time he went up to the girl, just touched
her on her bowed head, and said very gently: "We will judge this thing,
if you please, in the presence of my daughter Esther.  Come with me now
to her room; you shall see her.  The portrait of her is so good that you
will almost feel that you are looking at her living self."  Priscilla
rose tremblingly.  She was weak and exhausted in every limb, but it
seemed to her that a powerful hand was drawing her forward, and that she
had very little will to resist.  Mr Manchuri took the girl up to a room
on the first floor.  It was a beautifully large room, but scantily
furnished.  He lit some candles that had been previously arranged in
front of a large picture which stood on an easel.  This picture had been
painted by one of the great portrait-painters of thirty years ago.  It
was a most speaking likeness, and Priscilla, when first she saw it,
started, turned very white, and clasped Mr Manchuri's hand.

"Why, it is I!" she said; "it is I!  I have seen myself like--like that
in the glass."

Mr Manchuri drew a deep breath of relief.

"Didn't I know it?" he said.  "Didn't I say that you were like her?  And
see--she smiles at you.--You forgive Priscilla, don't you, Esther?
Smile at her again, Esther, if you forgive her."  The smile on the young
face of the girl who had so long been dead seemed to become more
pronounced, more sweet, more radiant.

"There," said Mr Manchuri, "Esther has judged just as God does, I take
it; and the thing is forgiven as only God forgives; but what you have to
do, Priscilla Weir, is this.  You have to put yourself right with your
schoolmistress, and in doing so you cannot, in any justice, shield your
schoolfellows.  I am no fool, dear girl, and I know their names well
enough.  One of them is that Miss Lushington whom I met at the Hotel
Belle Vue, and the other--the girl who arranged the plot and carried it
through with such cleverness--is no less an individual than my little
_quondam_ friend, Annie Brooke.  You see, my dear, there is no genius in
my making this discovery, for I have heard them both talk of Mrs
Lyttelton's school, and Miss Brooke often entertained me in the most
charming way by giving me a minute description of Miss Lushington's
talents and how she won the great literature prize.  Little, little did
I then guess that I should be so much interested in you, my dear.  We
will leave Esther now.  Come downstairs with me again."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

CONTRARY INFLUENCES.

Annie's high spirits continued with her during all the somewhat hot
journey from Interlaken to Zermatt.  She was, in truth, the life of the
party, and kept every one in the best possible humour.  Her charm was
undoubted, and her apparent unselfishness made her invaluable.  Even
Parker acknowledged that there never was such an obliging young lady, or
such a thoughtful one, as Miss Annie Brooke.  Mabel could groan at the
heat.  Lady Lushington grumble and complain, even Parker herself could
give way to insupportable headache, but nothing, nothing daunted the
unflagging good-humour of Annie Brooke.  Had she not the eau-de-Cologne
handy for poor Parker's head?  Could she not chat cheerfully to Lady
Lushington and make her laugh, and could she not insist on Mabel's
having the seat where she was at once protected from too much draught
and yet not exposed to the full glare of the August sun?

When they reached the hotel, too, it was Annie who chose, without a
moment's hesitation, the one uncomfortable room of the little suite
which was set apart for Lady Lushington's party.

"Nothing matters for me," said Annie.  "I have got unflagging health,
and I am so happy," she said.  "Every one is so kind to me."

"You really are a dear little thing," said Lady Lushington when Annie
herself entered that lady's room bearing a cup of tea which she had made
from Lady Lushington's own private store, and which smelt so fragrant
and looked so good.  "Oh, my dear Annie," continued the good lady--"I
really must call you by your Christian name--I never did find any one
quite so pleasant before.  Now if Mabel had not been such a goose as to
get that literature prize, which I verily believe has swamped every
scrap of brain the poor girl ever possessed, I could have had you as my
little companion for a year.  How we should have enjoyed ourselves!"

"Oh, indeed, how we should!" said Annie, a bitter sigh of regret filling
her heart, for what might she not have made of such a supreme
opportunity?  "But," she added quickly, "you would not have known me
then, would you?  You would never have known me but for Mabel."

"It is one of the very luckiest things that could have happened to me--
Mabel wishing that you might join us," said Lady Lushington.  "You are
the comfort of my life; you are worth fifty Parkers and a hundred
Mabels.  Yes, is the exact right angle for the pillow, my dear.  Thank
you so much--thank you; that is delicious, and I think I will have a
biscuit.  What a glorious view we have of Monte Rosa from the window!"

"Oh yes," said Annie, "isn't it lovely?"

"By the way, Annie, you are quite sure that Mabel is taking care of
those pearls of hers.  We have to thank you too, you clever little
thing, for discovering them.  I am quite under the impression that I
have come by a good bargain in that matter."

"I am sure you have, dear Lady Lushington; and the pearls are quite,
quite safe."

"I knew you would see to it, dear; you are so thoughtful about
everything.  By the way, I have already seen on the visitors' list the
name of a certain Mrs Ogilvie.  If she is my friend I should like to
show her the necklace."

Annie felt her heart nearly stop for a minute.  "Of course you must show
it," was her gentle response; "and I will see that dear Mabel takes care
of the precious things."

"Well, you can go now, darling; you have made me feel so nice, and this
room is delicious.  Really, the journey was trying.  It is horrible
travelling in this intense heat, but we shall do beautifully here."

Annie tripped out of the room and went straight to Mabel's.  Mabel's
room was not nearly as good as the one which Lady Lushington occupied,
but still it was a very nice room, with two large windows which opened
in French fashion and had deep balconies where one could stand and look
into the very heart of the everlasting hills.  Parker's room was just
beyond Mabel's, and Annie's was at the back.  It was arranged that
Parker should be within easy reach of her mistress and her young lady,
and self-forgetful Annie therefore selected the back-room.  She had no
view at all; but then, what did views matter to Annie, who was blind to
all their beauty?  Mabel was alone.  She felt very hot and dusty after
her journey, and had just slipped into a cool, white dressing-gown.

"Let me take down your hair, dear May," said Annie, "and if you sit in
that deep arm-chair I will brush it for you.  Isn't it nice here, May?"

"Yes," replied Mabel, "I suppose it is; only you have a horrid small
room, Annie."

"I don't care a bit about that," said Annie.  "I am not going to be much
in it except to sleep, and when one is asleep any room suffices.  But,
May, I want to talk to you."

"What about?" said May.  "Anything fresh?"  Annie carefully shut the
door which communicated between Mabel's room and Parker's.

"It is this," said Annie; "Your aunt Henrietta has been talking to me
about the pearl necklace, and says she hopes you have it safe."

"Well, yes," said Mabel, with a yawn; "it is quite absolutely safe,
isn't it, Annie?"

"Yes; but this is the crux: I thought she would have forgotten all about
it, but she evidently hasn't, and she says she thinks a friend of hers--
a Mrs Ogilvie--is staying in the hotel, and if so, she would like to
show it to her."

"Oh, good gracious!" said Mabel, springing to her feet, and knocking the
brush out of Annie's hand in her excitement; "and if such a thing
happens--and it is more than likely--what is to become of us?"

"If such a thing happens," said Annie with extreme coolness, "there is
only one thing to be done."

"Oh Annie, what--what?"

"We must pretend that we have lost it.  So many people are robbed
nowadays; we must be robbed also: that is all Parker is supposed to have
charge of it; you must confess that you never gave it to Parker, but put
it into the lid of your trunk.  You must lose one or two other things as
well.  You must have your story ready in case Mrs Ogilvie is in the
hotel."

"Oh!  I don't think I can stand any more of this," said poor Mabel.
"You seem to lead me on, Annie, from one wickedness to another.  I don't
know where it is to end."

"You must obey me in this," said Annie with great determination.

"Oh, we are both lost!"

"We are nearly out of the wood; we are not going to lose our courage at
the supreme moment.  Come now, Mabel, don't be absolutely silly; nothing
may happen.  But if anything happens, you must be prepared to do what I
tell you."

"You have an extraordinary power over me," said Mabel.  "I often and
often wish that I had not yielded to you at that time when Aunt
Henrietta wrote me that letter and I was so cross and disappointed.  I
think now that if you had not been present I should be a happier girl on
the whole.  I should be going back to the horrid school, of course, and
Priscie would have left; but still--"

"Come, come," said Annie, sitting down determinedly on a low chair by
her friend's side.  "What _is_ the matter with you?  I really have to go
over old ground until things are quite disagreeable.  What have you not
won through me?  A whole year's emancipation, a jolly, delightful
winter, a pleasant autumn at the Italian lakes and in Rome and Florence.
I think, from what she tells me, Lady Lushington means to go to Cairo
for the cold weather.  Of course you will go with her.  Think of the
dresses unlimited, and the balls and the fun, and the expeditions up the
Nile.  Oh, you lucky, you more than lucky Mabel!  And then home again in
the early spring, and preparations for your great _debut_ taking place,
your presentation dress being ordered, and all the rest.  Imagine this
state of things instead of pursuing the life which your poor faithful
little Annie will lead at Mrs Lyttelton's school!  And yet you blame me
because you have to pay a certain price for these enjoyments."

"I do blame you, Annie; I can't help it.  I know it all sounds most
fascinating; but if you are not happy deep down in your heart, where's
the use?"

When Mabel said this Annie looked really alarmed.

"But you are quite happy," she said.  "You are not going to follow that
idiotic Priscie.  You are not going to get a horrible, troublesome
conscience to wake itself up and torment you over this most innocent
little affair."

"I will go through it, of course," said Mabel.  "It seemed very bad at
the beginning, but the amount of badness it has risen to now shocks even
me.  Still, I will go through that, for I cannot go back.  As to
Priscie, I am convinced she would rather be apprenticed as a dressmaker
than live as she is doing with that load on her conscience."

"Oh, bother Priscie!" cried Annie.  "She is one of those intolerable,
conscientious girls whom one cannot abide.  All the same," she added a
little bitterly, "she took advantage of my talent as much as you did,
Mabel."

Mabel sighed, groaned, struggled, but eventually yielded absolutely to
Annie's stronger will, and it was definitely arranged between the two
girls that Mabel was to be fully prepared to declare the loss of her
necklace if Mrs Ogilvie was proved to be in the hotel.

"If she is not it will be all right," said Annie; "for I know your aunt
Henrietta pretty well by this time, and she will have other things to
occupy her mind.  We can soon find out if the good woman is there
through Parker."

"I don't think I would consult Parker if I were you," said Mabel.  "She
talks a great deal to Aunt Henrietta, and of late, somehow, I have
rather imagined that she is a little suspicious."  Annie soon afterwards
retired to her own room, but not like Mabel and Lady Lushington, to
rest.  Those who follow crooked ways have seldom time for rest, and
Annie Brooke was finding this out to her cost.  She was really
exceedingly tired; even her strength could scarcely stand the strain of
the last few weeks.  Priscilla's misery, Mabel's recklessness, Lady
Lushington's anger with regard to Mrs Priestley's bill, the terrible
possibility of being found out--all these things visited the girl,
making her not sorry for her sin, but afraid of the consequences.  Then,
too, in spite of herself, she was a little anxious with regard to Uncle
Maurice.  There was always a possibility--just a possibility--that Uncle
Maurice might be as bad as that tiresome John Saxon had declared him to
be; and if so, was she (Annie) kind about it all?  A great many things
had happened, and Annie had sinned very deeply.  Oh, well, she was not
going to get her conscience into speaking order; that mentor within must
be kept silent at any cost.

Still, she was too restless to lie down on her bed, which, indeed, was
not specially inviting, for the room was a most minute one, and looked
out on a wall of the hotel, which, as with most great foreign hotels,
surrounded a court.  Not a peep of any glorious view could be seen from
Annie's window, and the hot western sun poured into the little room,
making it stiflingly hot; and she could even smell the making of many
dishes from the kitchens, which lay just beneath her windows.

So she changed her dress, made herself look as neat and fresh as
possible, and ran downstairs into the great, cool hall.

It was delicious in the hall.  The doors were wide-open, the windows
also stood apart, and in every direction were to be seen peeps of
snow-clad mountains soaring up far into the clouds.  Even Annie was
touched for a minute by the glorious view.  She went and stood in the
cool doorway, and was glad of the refreshing breeze which fanned her hot
cheeks.

Business, however, must ever be foremost.  She was pining for a cup of
tea, but it was one of Lady Lushington's economies never to allow extra
things to be ordered at the hotel.  She had tea made for herself and her
party in her room every day, and therefore kept strictly to the
_pension_ terms.  Annie, however, suddenly remembered that she herself
was the proud possessor of eighty pounds.  Surely so wealthy a young
lady need not suffer from thirst.  She accordingly called a waiter and
desired him to bring her _the complet_.  This he proceeded to do,
suggesting at the same time that the young lady should have her tea on
the terrace.

The broad terrace was covered by an enormous veranda, and Annie found it
even more enjoyable outside than in.  She liked the importance of taking
her tea alone, and was particularly gratified when several nice-looking
people turned to look at her.  She was certainly an attractive girl, and
when her cheeks became flushed she was almost pretty.  The waiter came
up and asked her for the number of her room.  She gave it; and he
immediately remarked:

"I beg your pardon, madam; I did not remember that you belonged to Lady
Lushington's party."

"Yes; but I wish to pay for this tea myself," said Annie, and she
produced, with considerable pride, a five-pound note.

The man withdrew at once to fetch the necessary change.  As he did this
a party of travellers who had evidently only just arrived turned to look
at Annie.  There was nothing very special about her action; nevertheless
the little incident remained fixed in their memories.  They had heard
the waiter say, "You belong to Lady Lushington's party."  The note of
wonder was struck in their minds that a girl of Annie's age and in the
care of other people should pay for her own tea.  Annie, however,
collected her change with great care, counting it shrewdly over and
putting it into her purse.

She then re-entered the lounge.  When she did so the lady who was seated
near her turned to her husband and said:

"Is it possible that Lady Lushington is here?"

"It seems so," said the gentleman; "but we can soon ascertain, my dear,
by looking at the visitors' list."

"I shall be exceedingly pleased if she is," said Mrs Ogilvie, for it was
she.  "I have not seen Henrietta Lushington for two or three years.  She
used to be a great friend of mine.  But what in the world is she doing
with that girl?"

"Why should not Henrietta Lushington have a girl belonging to her
party?" was Mr Ogilvie's response.  "There is nothing the matter with
that fact, is there, Susan?"

"Oh, nothing; and I know she has a niece, but somehow I never thought
that the niece would look like that girl."

"Why, what in the world is the matter with her?  I thought her quite
pretty."

"Oh, my dear Henry!  Pretty perhaps, but not classy; not for a moment
the style of girl that Lady Lushington's niece would be expected to be.
And then her paying for her own tea--it seemed to me slightly bad form.
However, perhaps the girl does not belong to our Lady Lushington at
all."

Meanwhile Annie was doing a little business on her own account in the
great hall.  She had got possession of the visitors' book, and was
scanning the names of the visitors with intense interest.  Nowhere did
she see the name Ogilvie, and in consequence a great load was lifted
from her heart.  She ran up in high spirits to Mabel's room.

"No fear, May; no fear," she said, skipping about as she spoke.  "Mrs
Ogilvie is not here at all; I have looked through the list."

"Well, that's a comfort," said Mabel, who was lying on her bed
half-asleep before Annie came in.  "But what a restless spirit you are,
Annie!  Can you ever keep still for a minute?  I was certain you were
asleep in your room."

"You could not sleep much yourself in my room, darling.  It is a little
hot and a little--dinnery.  Not that I complain; but there is a
magnificent hall downstairs, and such a terrace!  And, do you know, I
received a wee present of money a couple of mornings ago from darling
Uncle Maurice, so I treated myself to some tea.  I _was_ thirsty.  I had
it all alone on a little table on the terrace.  I can tell you I felt
distinguished."

"You poor dear!" said Mabel.  "Why, of course you ought to have had tea
when we had it.  I will say this for you, Annie, that you are the
queerest mixture I ever came across.  You have--oh, you know the side to
which I allude; but then, on the other hand, you are the most absolutely
unselfish creature that ever lived.  Why, even Parker has been enjoying
delicious tea, and we never thought of you at all."

"Poor little me!" said Annie.  "Well, it doesn't matter, for, you see, I
thought of myself.  Now I will leave you.  Be sure you make an effective
toilet to-night.  There are really some very nice-looking people
downstairs; we shall have a jolly time at this hotel.  What a good thing
it is we got rid of Priscie!  She made us look so odd and peculiar."

"I suppose the poor thing is bored to death at Hendon by this time,"
said Mabel.

"Oh no, she is not quite there yet; she will have plenty of time to
think of her conscience while she is at Hendon.  And now you and I will
forget her."

Annie spent the next hour or two on the terrace--where she pretended to
read--and looked at the different visitors as they came in and out of
the hotel.  She went up in good time to her bedroom, and Parker, who was
always exceedingly particular with regard to the dress of both the young
ladies, arrayed her on this occasion in a dress of the softest, palest,
most becoming blue _crepe-de-Chine_.  This demi-toilet, with its
elbow-sleeves and lace falling away from the young, round throat, was
absolutely the most becoming garment Annie could possibly wear.  It
seemed to add to the blue of her blue eyes and to bring out the golden
shades of her lovely hair.

She felt as she entered the great _salle-a-manger_ that she was looked
at very nearly as much as Lady Lushington and Mabel.  They had a
pleasant little dinner in one of the great bay windows, which commanded
a glorious view of the Alps; and during dinner Lady Lushington was her
most charming self, and continued to be exceedingly friendly to Annie.

It was not until the meal had nearly come to an end that a remark was
made which caused both girls to feel slightly uncomfortable.  Lady
Lushington turned to Mabel.

"My dear Mabel," she said, "I am really rather annoyed."

"What about, auntie?"

"Oh, please don't be annoyed this glorious evening," interrupted Annie;
"we are so happy and you are so sweet.  I thought perhaps we might have
coffee on the terrace; I know the very table where we can sit and we can
watch the moon sailing up from behind that great mountain--I cannot
possibly remember its name; I am not good at all at names."

"We will have coffee on the terrace if I wish it, Annie Brooke.  In the
meantime I want to say what I have to say."

No one knew better when she was snubbed than Annie.  She immediately
retired into her shell and looked very modest and pretty--something like
a daisy when it droops its head.

"I have been asking Parker about the jewels," continued Lady Lushington,
turning to her niece, "and she assures me you did not give her the
necklace to put away with the other things."  Mabel coloured.

Annie said at once, "Mabel dear, did you not put it into the tray of
your trunk?  You know I asked you to be sure to give it to Parker."

"I was in such a hurry at the last minute, I had not time; but it is
quite safe in my trunk," said Mabel.

"Well, I hope it is," said Lady Lushington; "but it is a foolish and
dangerous thing to do; and, Annie, I thought _you_ would see that Parker
had the necklace.  However, no matter now; you will give it, Mabel, to
Parker to-night.  It is not safe to have valuable jewels lying about in
these hotels.  You know that there is a notice in every room that the
proprietors will not consider themselves liable if they are lost.  No
one can tamper with the jewel-case, however, when it is under Parker's
care."

The girls murmured something, and the subject was dropped.  They then
all went out on the terrace.  They had not been there more than a minute
or two when a lady was seen to emerge from a shadowy corner and advance
towards Lady Lushington.  There was an affectionate interchange of
greetings, and Annie whispered to Mabel to come away.

"How tiresome!" said Mabel.  "When once Aunt Henrietta gets hold of an
old friend she is good for nothing.  Now she won't take us anywhere and
we shall be as dull as ditch-water."

"Oh, nonsense, Mabel!  We will make friends on our own account.  What a
good thing the friend is not Mrs Ogilvie!"

"How can you tell that she isn't?" said Mabel.  "Why, of course she
isn't; Mrs Ogilvie's name is not on the visitors' list."

The girls paced up and down.

"I got a great fright at dinner," said Mabel after a pause; "but you
helped me out of it as usual."

"Yes; but it was an awkward moment," said Annie.  "I didn't for a moment
suppose that your aunt would keep on thinking of that necklace.  I hope
she won't insist on seeing it.  I am afraid, after all, even though Mrs
Ogilvie is not here, we must manage to lose it."

"Oh!  I shall go wild if I have to go through that sort of thing," was
Mabel's answer.

"Besides," continued Annie, "the friend your aunt met may be another of
those women who adore looking at bargains and old-fashioned gems.  I am
certain we shall have to lose it; there is no other possible way out."

"And I know I shall die in the process," said Mabel.  "I feel myself
quite wasting away."

"You are too silly," said Annie.  "You look as bonny as ever you can
look, and there isn't a scrap of any appearance of decline about you."

It was at that moment that Lady Lushington's voice was heard calling in
the darkness, "Mabel, come here!"

"Now what does she want?" said Mabel.

"Come with me, for goodness' sake, Annie!  I can't walk a single step of
this tortuous way without your help."

"Really, Mabel," said Annie, "you are using quite a poetic expression.
Your character of a poetess will be established, my dear, if you
continue to speak in that vein."

"Mabel!" said her aunt.

"I will help you through your tortuous way," laughed Annie; and the
girls advanced arm-in-arm.

"Mabel," said Lady Lushington, "I have the pleasure of introducing you
to my dear friend Mrs Ogilvie."

Poor Mabel gave a start; but for Annie's supporting arm, big as she was,
she might have fallen.

The terrace was lighted with Japanese lanterns, which swayed slightly in
the faint breeze.  These cast lights here and there, and immense shadows
in other directions.  Annie and Mabel had now got into the light.  Lady
Lushington moved a step or two, bringing Mrs Ogilvie forward as she did
so, and the four figures were all distinctly visible.

"Which of these girls is your niece, my dear Henrietta?" said Mrs
Ogilvie.

"This is my niece, Susan," was Lady Lushington's response; and Mabel
felt her hand clasped by a kindly but firm palm.  She looked into the
eyes of a tall woman with a pleasant expression of face, who was
becomingly dressed in black lace.

This lady had hair turning grey, and a face which did not show the
slightest trace of being made up.  She might have been fifty years of
age.

"I must also introduce you," said Lady Lushington, "to our little friend
Miss Brooke.  Miss Brooke: Mrs Ogilvie."

Annie's hand was also held for a minute, and Annie instantly remembered
that she had sat next this lady when she was enjoying her tea on the
terrace, and that Mrs Ogilvie had seen her pay for her own meal.  But
she could not allow this trifling circumstance to worry her on the
present occasion; there were too many other rocks ahead.

"We will go into the hall in a minute or two," said Lady Lushington;
"and then, Mabel, you will go upstairs, please, and bring down the pearl
necklace which I bought at Interlaken.  Mrs Ogilvie is so much
interested in antique gems and old settings that I was telling her about
it."

"You sometimes do pick up good things," said the lady, "in
out-of-the-way places.  From what you tell me, Henrietta, you seem to
have hit upon a bargain."

"I must be just," said Lady Lushington.  "I should never even have heard
of the necklace but for this dear, clever little girl, Miss Brooke.  It
was she who discovered it."

Mrs Ogilvie glanced for a minute at Annie.  Annie's eyes were raised and
fixed on the good lady's face.

"How lovely it is here!" said Mrs Ogilvie after a pause.  "I think the
peace of nature the most soothing thing in all the world.  Don't you,
Miss Brooke?"

Annie said "Yes," uttering the word with a little gasp.  She was
wondering in her heart of hearts what to do next.  Whatever happened,
she must rush upstairs with Mabel.  How could she have overlooked Mrs
Ogilvie's name in the visitors' list?  But Mrs Ogilvie's next words
explained the circumstance.

"We too are fresh arrivals," she said.  "We must have come by the very
next train after you, Henrietta."

"Oh dear!" thought Annie.  "If you only would have stayed away!  How one
does get pursued by all sorts of contrary influences when one is just
hoping that one is out of the wood!  The peace of nature indeed!  Much
peace it gives to me."

"It is getting a little chilly here," said Lady Lushington.  "I think,
if you don't mind, Susan, we will go indoors.--Girls, you can follow us
in a few minutes."

Annie gave a deep sigh of relief.  Not a word about the necklace.
Perhaps there might be a few hours' reprieve.  Perhaps it would not be
mentioned again until the morning.

The two elderly ladies moved slowly together into the house, and the
girls were left alone.

"Didn't I tell you," said Mabel, "that she would be sure to be here?
Isn't it just like our bad luck?"

"We must go through with it," said Annie.

"Perhaps it is best in the end.  Of course there will be a commotion and
a great fuss, but nothing ever can be discovered."

"I know what they will do," said Mabel, in an agony of terror.  "They
will search all the jewellers' shops at Interlaken, and of course it
will be found.  Oh Annie, I am fit to die!"

"You must compose yourself," said Annie; "things are not quite as bad as
that.  We should indeed be in a desperate hole if I had sold the
necklace to a jeweller at Interlaken; but I did nothing of the sort."

"Then you didn't sell it at all?  You have it all the time?"

"Now, Mabel, what nonsense you talk!  Didn't I show you three ten-pound
notes, and didn't I send them to Mrs Priestley?"

"Oh, I am bewildered!" said poor Mabel.

"Why did I ever pose as a genius?  I am sure I have no head at all for
the complications of wickedness."

"You are very complimentary to me, I must say," said Annie.  "But
listen; I will calm your poor, palpitating little heart.  I did a
splendid thing; I sold the necklace to Mr Manchuri."

"Who on earth is Mr Manchuri?" said Mabel.

"Mabel, you really are silly.  He is the dear old Jewish gentleman who
took Priscilla Weir home."

"And why did you give it to him?"

"Because, my dear, I invariably use my eyes and my ears and, if
possible, my tongue; and I made a discovery with regard to Mr Manchuri.
He owns a big jeweller's shop in Bond Street; therefore why should not
he have the necklace?  So you see it is safe out of Switzerland by this
time."

"And," continued Mabel, "he gave thirty pounds for it?"

"Oh, he didn't think much of it," said Annie.  "Still, he gave me that,
and I was glad to close with the offer."

"Well," said Mabel, "it is a certain relief to know that it won't be
found in any of the shops in Interlaken."

"It is a very great relief," said Annie.  "And now our object is, if
possible, to make little of it to Lady Lushington.  I think I can manage
that; but come upstairs, won't you?  I am certain your aunt won't say
anything more about the stupid old thing this evening."

"I hope not, I am sure," said Mabel.  "But don't go in for a minute or
two, Annie, for the omnibus has just arrived, and we may as well watch
the fresh visitors."

The girls came forward towards the deep porch.  The large green-and-gold
omnibus, with the words `Beau Sejour' painted conspicuously on its
sides, drew up with a clatter and fuss in front of the hotel.  Waiters
and servants of different sorts darted out to assist the visitors to
alight.  The omnibus was nearly full, and there was a quantity of
luggage on the roof.  Ladders were put up to get it down, and the girls
watched the proceedings with intense amusement--the pearl necklace
forgotten, all cares for the moment laid aside.  They made a pretty pair
as they stood thus side by side.  Annie, in her ethereal blue dress,
might have been taken for that sweetest of all flowers, the blue
forget-me-not; Mabel, in her purest white, for the stately lily.

So thought for a brief instant a certain young man as he alighted from
the omnibus; but the next moment his face changed.  A hard expression
came into his eyes.  He came straight up to Annie Brooke.

"I have come for you, Annie," he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A STERN DECISION.

In the briefest of all instants everything changed for Annie Brooke; the
gay people, the gay hotel, the pleasant, easy living seemed to fade from
her sight.  She trembled all over.  Mabel looked at her in astonishment.

"Come indoors; I must speak to you.  We must go away to-night if
possible," said John Saxon.

"May I introduce my friend Mabel Lushington?" said Annie, making a
valiant effort to recover herself.

Saxon bowed to Mabel as though he did not see her.  Annie whispered to
her friend:

"He is my cousin.  I am afraid, my dear, that Uncle Maurice is very ill.
I will come to you in your room, Mabel, soon.  Please don't say a word
to Lady Lushington."

Mabel nodded.  There was an anxious note in Annie's voice which was
unmistakable.  Mabel was not specially sympathetic, and would never be
so to one she knew as thoroughly as she did Annie.  But even she
recognised the reality of Annie's present trouble.

"What in the world am I to do without her?" she thought as, refusing the
lift, she went up the wide and spacious staircase, up and up to that
fourth floor of the immense hotel where the Lushingtons' rooms were
situated.

Meanwhile Saxon drew Annie aside into a small room which led out of the
great hall.

"Why did not you come when I telegraphed?  I sent you money for the
purpose.  You must come with me now, at once.  A train leaves here for
England at midnight.  Will you go and pack your things?  Take that
off"--he glanced at the pretty blue dress.  "Get ready.  Do you wish to
see him alive?"

"John, don't look at me like that.  Where is the use?  How could I tell
that Uncle Maurice was so ill?  I can't stand it, John, if you look at
me like that.  Although you are my cousin, John, you have no right to."

"No right to?" he said with scorn.  "I know a _woman_ when I see her,
and a butterfly when I look at her.  Do you think it was a pleasure to
me to leave the dying old man, to run the risk of his dying in my
absence, in order to bring you to him?  But he shall have his last great
wish gratified, and I believe God will spare him just that he may see
you again.  But I tell you what it is, Annie Brooke, if we return and
find that saint has left the world before the one wish of his heart is
gratified, I shall feel uncommonly like cursing you.  Now you know what
I think of you.  Go upstairs at once and get ready; we leave here
immediately."

"Oh John!" moaned poor Annie.

But John Saxon was obdurate.  One of the waiters came in and asked the
gentleman if he wanted a room.  John briefly explained his errand.  He
would have a meal of some sort, he said, and must leave by the midnight
train.  The young lady, Miss Brooke, his cousin, would accompany him.

If Mabel scorned the lift in order to get to her room, Annie was glad to
avail herself of it.  She was glad to sink back into a corner of the
spacious lift and close her eyes for a minute and try to recover her
scattered thoughts.  Was the whole world crumbling to pieces around her?
Were all her schemes to come to naught?  The necklace--would her
dealings with Mr Manchuri in the matter of the necklace ever be
discovered?  Would other matters in connection with that disgraceful
affair come to light?  Would Mabel--poor silly Mabel, left all alone
with Lady Lushington and Mrs Ogilvie--confess the truth?  Annie was
terrified that Mabel would do so.  At this moment she dreaded Mabel even
more than she had dreaded Priscilla; for Mabel was essentially weak,
whereas Priscilla was essentially strong.  If Priscilla thought it right
to go through a certain course, she would go through it, come what
might; but Mabel could be moved and turned and tossed about by any wind
of chance.

Mabel was certainly in a tight hole.  To pursue a different metaphor,
her little boat was out on a most stormy sea.  With Annie as pilot it
might get safely to shore, but without Annie it was sure to knock to
pieces on the rocks of circumstance.  Mabel would tell.  What was Annie
to do?  Why had John Saxon come?  How she hated, how she loathed her
manly cousin at that moment!  What a fool she had been to give him her
address!  She had done it in a moment of impulse, little, little
guessing that he would act upon the information so quickly.

He had come in person.  She could not shuffle out of the strong grasp of
that iron determination.  She must leave all her fun just where she
hoped it was really beginning.

It was a pale and worn-out Annie who presently arrived in Mabel's room.
Mabel was pacing up and down, her face quite chalky in colour and her
eyes wild with fright.

"Well, now," she said the moment she saw her friend, "what is to be
done?"

"Oh, _do_ think of some one besides yourself!" said Annie.  "Have you no
pity for me, with my dear uncle so ill--dying?"

"But you don't really care," said Mabel, looking full at Annie.

Annie felt inclined to stamp her foot.

"You little wretch!" she said.  "Do you suppose I have no heart?"

"To be truthful with you, Annie," said Mabel, "I do not think you have
much; but that's not the point.  Are you really going with that--that
dreadful young man?"

"My cousin, Mr Saxon?  Yes; we leave here by the midnight train.  I have
about two hours longer to spend in the hotel."

"Then what am I to do?" said Mabel.

Annie sat down determinedly.

"Let me think," she said.  She covered her face for a moment with her
hand.  Already she was beginning, after a fashion, to recover herself,
to get back her _aplomb_, her great talent for double dealing.  "Let me
think," she said again.

"Well, don't be long," said Mabel, "for time passes."

"Yes; but if you will be silent I will have thought out something after
a minute or two."  Just then Parker tapped at the door.

"Shall I let her in?" whispered Mabel.

In reply to this, Annie herself went to the door, unlocked it, and flung
it wide-open.

"Come in, Parker; come in," she said.

"Why, what is the matter with you, Miss Brooke?" said that astute woman.

"A great deal," replied Annie.  "I have got to go home at once; my
cousin, Mr Saxon, has come to fetch me.  My dear, dear uncle is--is
dying.  He has been as a father to me.  I must leave by the midnight
train."

"So I heard downstairs," said Parker, putting on a certain sympathetic
manner and trying to penetrate beneath Annie's apparent grief.  "I will
pack your things for you, of course, Miss Brooke; you need have no
trouble on that score.  I came up here to offer my services.  What dress
will you wear travelling, miss?"

"Oh, my dark-blue serge will be best; but it doesn't matter," said
Annie.

"I will put in some of the pretty things you wore while you were here,
miss," said Parker.  "I know her ladyship would wish it.  I don't
suppose your trunks will quite hold them all, but I can get in a good
many."

"Thank you, Parker; I don't care about them now.  I am in dreadful
trouble about dear uncle."

"Of course you must be, miss; but I am sure we are all sorry to lose
you, for you do manage her ladyship in the most wonderful way, and I
will say that you are as unselfish and pleasant-spoken a young lady as
ever I came across.  You will find the dresses and other things useful
some time, miss, so I will get as many as ever I can into your trunks."
Annie murmured something.  She would love to keep her pretty dresses;
they would be effective at school.  She could think of school and her
appearance there, and the looks of envy of her companions even at this
supreme moment.

"Then I will go and pack at once," said Parker, preparing to leave the
room.

She had nearly got as far as the door when she turned.

"By the way, miss," she said, looking at Mabel, "my mistress is quite
annoyed about a necklace she bought for you at Interlaken yesterday.
She said that it was valuable, although old-fashioned--a pearl necklace
set in silver.  She thought I had it with the rest of the jewels; but
you never gave it to me, Miss Lushington.  My mistress said that I was
to see it safely in the jewel-case before I went to bed to-night.  Where
did you put it?  Can I get it now, miss?"

Mabel was silent.  Her voice quite choked with the agony of the moment.
Annie, however, took the initiative.

"Of course you can, Parker," she said.  "It was awfully silly of Mabel
not to give you the box that contained the necklace; it was the most
idiotic thing I ever heard of.--I am sure, darling, I urged you to do
so.  But there, no doubt it is safe.  You put it into the lid of your
big trunk."

Mabel nodded.  She could not bring herself to speak.

"Then we will find it immediately," said Annie.  "Notwithstanding my own
great sorrow, it will be a comfort to me to know that the necklace is
safe under Parker's care before I leave; for the fact is, Parker, it was
I who discovered it.  I thought it was quite a valuable thing, but I am
rather afraid now that Lady Lushington paid too much for it.  However,
that is neither here nor there; we have got to find it."

"Here are the keys of Miss Lushington's trunks," said Parker.  She
proceeded as she spoke to unlock the largest of the trunks, which
happened to be a canvas one, and slightly the worse for travel.

"I am very sorry indeed, miss, you put it in here," said Parker.  "Why,
see how loose the cover is.  A person could almost put his hand in
between the cover and the inside of the trunk.  Well, where did you put
it, miss?"

"I will find it; I will find it," said Annie.

She stooped as she spoke and began that examination which she knew
beforehand must be fruitless.  Mabel stood with her back to the two,
looking out of the window.  Annie longed to shake her.  Was not her very
attitude giving the whole thing away?

"I really can't find it," said Annie after a moment's pause.  "Do come
and look yourself, May.  Are you dazed?  Have you lost your senses?  Oh,
I know, poor darling May! it is sorrow at parting with poor little me.--
Parker, Miss Mabel just adores me; don't you, precious one!  Well, well,
Parker will do all she can for you when I am gone."

"I can't take your place, Miss Brooke.  I am really sorry you have to
go.--But now, Miss Mabel, the best thing to do is just to empty the lid
of the trunk.  We'll get to the box that way without disarranging all
your pretty things."

The lid of the trunk was speedily emptied, and of course no necklace was
found.

"There!" said Annie.  Her heart was beating so fast that the pallor of
her face was far from assumed.  The fear in her eyes, too, seemed only
too natural.

"Some one has stolen it!" she said to Parker.  She clasped the woman's
arm.  "What _are_ we to do?"

Parker looked distinctly annoyed.  Mabel stood stonily silent,
apparently almost indifferent.

"Miss Lushington," said the woman--"do wake up and consider, miss.
Perhaps you _didn't_ put it into the lid of the trunk; perhaps you put
the box that held the necklace somewhere else."

"No, I didn't; I put it into the lid," said Mabel.  "I won't say I put
it anywhere else; the lid will do; I put it there.  I won't be bothered
about it!"

She marched out of the room, got as far as the wide landing, and burst
out crying.  Her queer conduct and queer words terrified Annie and
amazed Parker.

"What _is_ the matter with Miss Mabel, miss?" said the maid, turning to
the girl.

Annie put her pretty, white hand on Parker's arm.

"Leave her alone with me for a little, please, Parker.  Just go off and
pack my things, like the jewel you are.  She is awfully upset at my
going--and you know I must, on account of my dear uncle."

Annie's voice quavered.  Indeed, she herself was very nearly breaking
down.

"I must go, you know, Parker," she said, her pretty eyes filling with
tears which only added to their beauty.  "But I'll manage Mabel.  It
_is_ dreadful about the necklace; but perhaps you will recover it."

"We never will," said Parker.  "It's a dreadful bit of business.  Her
ladyship will be wild.  She does so hate it when anything is stolen.
But there are lots of robberies taking place on the railways of late.
It is a perfect disgrace.  Even the registering of your goods seems not
to secure things.  Of course I always carry the jewels in my own hand;
it's the only safe way.  Miss Mabel must have been mad to put a valuable
necklace such as her ladyship described into that old trunk."

"It wasn't nearly so valuable as Lady Lushington supposed; that is the
only comfort," said Annie.

"But, miss, I don't understand.  I thought it was you who urged her
ladyship to get it, and that you had quite a knowledge of gems."

"I found out afterwards--I will tell you the secret, Parker, and you can
break it to her ladyship when I am gone--I found out afterwards that I
had made a slight mistake.  The necklace was worth, say, about twenty
pounds, but no more, for some of the pearls were quite worthless.  I
happened to show it to a gentleman I knew very slightly at the Belle Vue
Hotel, and he deals in that sort of thing.  He disappointed me in his
estimate of the necklace; but that doesn't matter.  It is terrible that
it should be lost.  Still, you might tell Lady Lushington what he said.
There is no use in telling Mabel.  She doesn't care twopence about it,
poor child, at the present moment; she is so broken down at my leaving."

"Well, miss, I must be off to do the packing.  I will make the best of
things and never forget how pleasant you have been during your visit,
miss.  I will see, too, that you have a basket of sandwiches and some
wine packed for your journey."

Parker went off.  The moment she did so Annie went into the corridor and
fetched Mabel in.

"Oh, you goose of all geese!" she said.  "Now the worst is over; I tell
you the worst is over.  You don't suppose for a single moment your aunt,
Lady Lushington, will think that you stole the necklace or that I stole
it.  She will suppose, most assuredly, that it was stolen on the journey
between Interlaken and Zermatt.  Parker is convinced on the subject and
I have let Parker understand that it was not nearly as valuable as I
supposed.  Lady Lushington won't trust me to manage a bargain for her
again; that is the worst that can happen.  Now, May, do cheer up.  You
are all right.  I will manage things for you when Priscilla's Christmas
bill comes round.  You will see plenty of me, I fancy, between now and
then.  Dry your eyes, darling.  I know you are sorry to part from me."

"I can't go on being wicked without you; that's the principal thing,"
said Mabel.  "I know I'll give in."

"Think what injury you'll do me; and do you really want to go back to
that horrid school?"

"I don't think I'd mind so very much; it was peaceful, at least at
school."

"You would soon be sick of that sort of peace."

"I suppose I should," said Mabel.

She had already wiped her eyes, and she began slightly to cheer up.

"Annie," she said eagerly, "is your uncle really dying?"

"John Saxon says so; otherwise, of course, he would not have come," said
Annie.

"If," said Mabel, trembling a good deal--"if afterwards you could come
back--"

Annie's heart bounded.

"I can't talk of it," she said; "don't speak of it now.  When the time
comes, if you--were--to write I will write to you, that is, if I have
strength to write to any one.  You have my address.  You know how deeply
I shall always love you.  You know there is no good turn I would not do
for you."

"I want you to help me until Priscilla's year at school is out," was
Mabel's matter-of-fact retort.  "Of course, dear, of course; and I will.
Your Annie will never forsake you.  But now perhaps we had better go
downstairs."

The girls made a quite picturesque appearance as they went slowly down
the broad staircase.  Mabel had not cried enough to look ugly, and
Annie's few tears and pallor and evident distress gave to her face the
depth of expression which in her lighter moments it had lacked.

John Saxon was seated close to Lady Lushington.  Lady Lushington had
recognised him as a friend and a favourite.  He rose when the girls
appeared, and Lady Lushington went at once up to Annie.

Her manner was very cold and distant.  "You did not give me the
slightest idea, Miss Brooke, how ill your uncle was when you received
your cousin's letter."

"I didn't know that he was especially ill," said Annie.

Lady Lushington looked full at her.  It seemed at that moment that a
veil had fallen away from Annie's face, and that the gay, proud, and
selfish woman of the world saw the girl for the first time as she was.

Lady Lushington, with all her faults--the faults of her class and her
manner of life--was exceedingly good-natured, and could be remarkably
kind.  She was thoroughly angry with Annie for concealing the truth with
regard to John Saxon's letter.  She could, and would, forgive much to
any young girl who was enjoying herself and who wanted to continue the
good time which had fallen to her lot; but to forget one who stood in
the place of a father, to let him long for her in vain, was more than
Lady Lushington could stand.

"I don't appreciate that sort of thing," she said to herself.  "It is,
somehow, beneath me.  I don't understand it."

She made up her mind on the spot, that, as far as Mabel was concerned,
the friendship between the two girls was to terminate there and then.
Never would she have anything farther to do with Annie Brooke.  As that
was the case, she did not consider it necessary to correct her.

"I am sorry," she said briefly, "that you did not interpret very plain
English in the manner in which it was intended.  I don't think for a
single moment that your cousin meant to complain of you to me, but he
simply quoted some words of his letter, and seemed altogether astonished
that you did not start for England the day before yesterday.  However, I
trust you will find your dear uncle alive when you get home.  I have
desired Parker to pack your things, and now you would doubtless like to
go up and change your dress."

"Thank you," said Annie very meekly.  She glanced in Mrs Ogilvie's
direction; but Mrs Ogilvie took no notice of her.

"Mabel, come and sit here near Mrs Ogilvie," said Lady Lushington as
Annie once again disappeared.  "You can say good-bye to your friend
presently; there is no necessity for you to spend the whole evening
upstairs."

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

HOME NO MORE.

It was all over--the fun, the gaiety, the good things of life, the
delights of fine living, the charm of being with rich friends.  It is
true that Annie Brooke returned to England with a little private fund of
her own in her pocket; but John Saxon insisted on her returning him the
two five-pound notes he had enclosed to her.  Out of these he paid for
her ticket back to England.

John Saxon was a very cold, silent, and unsympathetic fellow-traveller.
He sat moodily in a corner, wrapped in his greatcoat, the collar of
which he turned up; a travelling-cap came well down over his head, so
that Annie could see little or nothing of his face.  He had done what he
could to make her comfortable, and had wrapped her round with warm
things.  Then he had taken no further notice of her.

On the whole, Priscilla Weir had a far more interesting journey to
England than had that spoiled child of fortune Annie Brooke.  Annie,
however, was glad to be left alone.  She did not want to talk to that
odious man, Cousin John Saxon.  But for him, life would not have been
suddenly spoiled for her.  She would not have been found out.  She was
far too clever not to be sure that Lady Lushington had found her out.
Not that Lady Lushington had discovered any serious crimes to lay at her
door, but then she had read her character aright, and that character was
of the sort which the great lady could not tolerate.  Therefore Annie
was--and she knew it well--shut away from any further dealings with
Mabel Lushington.

Poor Mabel!  How would she provide the money for Priscilla's two
remaining terms at school?  How would she go through a stern catechism
with regard to the necklace when Annie was no longer by her side?

"Everything will be discovered," thought Annie Brooke.  "There is no
help for it.  What shall I do?  And I'd managed so well and so--so
cleverly.  There isn't a bit of good in being clever in this world.  It
seems to me it's the stupid people that have the best times.  Of course
that idiotic old Mabel will let out the whole story before many hours
are over.  And then there'll be a frightful to-do, and perhaps Mabel
will be sent back to Mrs Lyttelton's school--that is, if Mrs Lyttelton
will receive her, which fact I very much doubt.  As to me--oh, well,
I'll have to hide somewhere.  I hope to goodness Mr Manchuri will never
tell anybody about the necklace; he faithfully promised he wouldn't and
he seemed an honourable sort of man.  But then, ought I to expect any
one to be honourable in his dealings with me?  I don't know; the world
seems coming to pieces.  Horrid John Saxon!  How I detest him!  Oh, I
feel as though I could go mad!"

Annie started up impatiently.  She went across the carriage and opened
one of the windows, putting her head out at the same time.  She hoped
Saxon would take some notice.  She wanted him to speak to her.  His
silence, his apparent indifference to her, were just the sort of thing
to madden the girl in her present mood.

Saxon was seated facing the engine, and, in consequence, when Annie
opened the window wide he was exposed to a tremendous draught.  He bore
it for a minute or two; then, rising, he said very quietly:

"Will you excuse me?  I don't think the night air is good for you, and
it is certainly bad for me.  I will, therefore, with your permission,
shut the window; it is cold."

"I am suffocating," said Annie.

"I will open it again in a few minutes so that you can have fresh air
from time to time."

"Oh!" said Annie, with a sudden burst of passion, beating one small hand
over the other, "why have you been so cruel to me?"

Saxon glanced at her.  There was only one other occupant of the
carriage--an old gentleman, who was sound asleep and snoring loudly.

"Won't you speak?" said Annie.  "Why do you sit so silent, so
indifferent, when you have spoiled my life?"

"We have different ideas on that point," he said.  "You can do exactly
as you please with your life, as far as I am concerned, by-and-by.  At
present you are under the care of your uncle, the Rev Maurice Brooke.
While he lives you have to do his wishes, to carry them out according to
his views.  I am helping _him_ in this matter, not you.  Afterwards, we
will discover by your uncle's will what he wishes to have done with you.
You are only seventeen; you must yield to the directions and the will
of those who are older than yourself and who are placed by God in
authority over you."

"Oh, how I hate you when you preach!"

"Then perhaps you will not speak to me.  I am exceedingly tired; a
journey to Zermatt and back again without any rest makes a man inclined
for slumber.  I will sleep, if you have no objection.  In the morning
perhaps we shall both be in a better temper than we are at present."

"I wish," said Annie, speaking in sudden passion, "that I could fling
myself out of that window.  You have destroyed every prospect I ever had
in life."

"You talk in an exceedingly silly way," said Saxon.  "Now do try and be
quiet, if you please."

His absolute disregard of her threat to end her own miserable life made
Annie at once furious and also strangely subdued.  She sat back in her
corner like a little wild creature caught in a trap.  There was nothing
whatever to be done but to submit.  To submit as she was now doing was
indeed new to Annie Brooke.  Her head was in a whirl; but by-and-by, to
her own relief, she also slept, and so part of the miserable journey was
got through.

It was late on the following afternoon when Annie and John Saxon found
themselves driving in the gig to Rashleigh Rectory.  They had to pass
through the little village, and Annie looked with a sort of terror at
Dawson's shop.  She wondered if the matter of the cheque would ever be
brought up against her.  So occupied was she with herself and with all
the dreadful things she had done that she could scarcely think of her
dying old uncle at all.

The memory of a text, too, which she had learned as a child began to be
present with her.  Her head was aching, and the text, with its
well-known words, tormented her.

"`Be sure your sin will find you out.  Be sure--your sin--will find you
out,'" murmured Annie in too low a tone for Saxon to hear.

They had been met at the railway station with the information that Mr
Brooke was still alive, and Saxon uttered a sigh of relief.  Then his
journey had not been in vain.  Then the old man would be gratified.  The
greatest longing and wish of his life would be fulfilled.  The darling
of his heart would be with him at the end.

John Saxon turned and looked at the girl.  She was crouching up in the
gig.  She felt cold, for the evenings were turning a little chill.  She
had wrapped an old cloak, which Mrs Shelf had sent, around her slim
figure.

Her small, fair face peeped out from beneath the shelter of the cloak.
Her eyes had a terrified light in them.  Saxon felt that, for Mr
Brooke's sake, Annie must not enter the Rectory in her present state of
wild revolt and rebellion.

He suddenly turned down a shady lane which did not lead direct to the
Rectory.  His action awoke no sort of notice in Annie's mind.  Her uncle
was alive; he probably was not so very bad after all.  This was a plot
of John Saxon's--a plot to destroy her happiness.  But for John, how
different would be her life now!

They drove down about a hundred yards of the lane, and then the young
man pulled the horse up and drew the gig towards the side of the road.
This fact woke Annie from the sort of trance into which she had sunk,
and she turned and looked at him.

"Why are you stopping?" she asked.

"Because I must speak to you, Annie," was her cousin's response.

"Have you anything fresh to say?  Is there anything fresh to say?"

"There is something that must be said," replied John Saxon.  "You
cannot, Annie, enter the Rectory and meet Mrs Shelf, and, above all
things, go into that chamber where your dear uncle is waiting for the
Angel of Death to fetch him away to God, looking as you are doing now.
You are, I well know, in a state of great mental misery.  You have done
wrong--how wrong, it is not for me to decide.  I know of some of your
shortcomings, but this is no hour for me to speak of them.  All I can
say at the present moment is this: that you are very young, and you are
motherless, and--you are about, little Annie, to be fatherless.  You are
on the very eve of losing the noblest and best father that girl ever
possessed.  Your uncle has stood in the place of a father to you.  You
never appreciated him; you never understood him.  He was so high above
you that you could never even catch a glimpse of the goodness of his
soul.  But I cannot believe in the possibility of any one being quite
without heart or quite without some sense of honour; and I should be
slow, very slow, to believe it of you.

"Now, there is one last thing which you have got to do for your uncle
Maurice, and I have brought you down here to tell you what that last
thing is."

Annie was silent.  She shrank a little more into the shelter of the
rough old cloak, and moved farther from her cousin.

"You must do it Annie," he said, speaking in a decided voice; "you must
on no account whatever fail at this supreme juncture."

"Well?" said Annie when he paused.

"Your uncle is expecting you.  God has kept him alive in order that he
may see your face again.  To him your face is as that of an angel.  To
him those blue eyes of yours are as innocent as those of a little child.
To him you are the spotless darling, undefiled, uninjured by the world,
whom he has nurtured and loved for your father's sake and for your own.
You must on no account, Annie, open his eyes to the truth with regard to
you now.  It is your duty to keep up the illusion as far as he is
concerned.  I have taken all this trouble to bring you to his bedside in
order that he may have his last wish gratified, and you must not fail
me.  Perhaps your uncle's prayers may be answered; and God, who can do
all things, will change your heart.

"Now, remember, Annie, you have to forget yourself to-night and to think
only of the dying old man.  Promise me, promise me that you will do so."

"You have spoken very strangely, Cousin John," said Annie after a very
long pause.  "I--I will do--my--best I am very bad--but--I will do--my
best."

The next instant Annie's icy-cold little hand was clasped in that of
John Saxon.

"You have to believe two things," he said.  "A great man who was as your
father, whom God is taking to Himself.  That man loves you with all his
heart and soul and strength.  When he dies, there is another man,
unworthy, unfit truly, to stand in his shoes, but nevertheless who will
not forsake you.  Now let us get back to the Rectory."

There was a feeling of peace in the old house, a wonderful calm, a
strange sense of aloofness as though the ordinary things of life had
been put away and everyday matters were of no account.  The fact was
this: that for several days now, for long days and long nights, the
beautiful Angel of Death had been brooding over the place; and the
people who lived in the old Rectory had recognised the fact and had
arranged their own lives accordingly.

Money did not matter at all in the shadow of that Presence; nor did
greatness--worldly greatness, that is--nor ambition, nor mere pleasure;
and, above all things, self-love was abhorrent in that little home of
peace, for the Angel of Death brooding there brought with him the very
essence of peace.

It was a curious fact that Annie Brooke, when she passed under the
threshold and entered on what she expected to be the most awful time of
her whole life, found that same peace immediately descend upon her.  She
lost all sense of fear, and every scrap of regret at having left the
good and gay things of life at Zermatt.

She had not been five minutes in the house before she forgot Zermatt,
and Mabel, and Lady Lushington.  It is true, she thought of Priscilla,
and Priscilla's eyes seemed to haunt her.  But even they, with their
look of reproach, could not affect the queer peace that had fallen upon
her.

Mrs Shelf kissed her warmly, not uttering a word of reproach, and Annie
stepped with a light and fairy step, and crept to her own room and put
on one of her little home dresses--a blue gingham which she often wore
and which her uncle loved.  She tripped downstairs again in a few
minutes, and entered the kitchen and said to Mrs Shelf:

"Now I am ready."

"Go in by yourself, darling," said Mrs Shelf.  "I won't take you.  He is
in the old room; there is, no one with him.  He knows you are here; he
knew it the minute you stepped across the threshold.  You couldn't
deceive him, bless you!  Go to him all alone, dearie, and at once."

So Annie went.  A minute later she was seated by the old man's bedside,
and silently her little hand was laid on his.  He just turned his head
very slowly to look at her.  They both felt themselves to be quite alone
together except for the presence of the Angel of Death, who, brooding
over the house, brooded more deeply over this sacred chamber, with wings
held open, ready to spread themselves at any instant, and arms half
extended to carry that saint of God to his home in the skies.

Mr Brooke had longed for Annie, had imagined her to be by his side in
hours of delirium, had awakened to his usual senses a day or two before
the end and had discovered her absence; had said no word of reproach
with regard to his little Annie, but had missed her with a great
heart-hunger.  Now she was here.  She was his own dear child.  To the
rest of the world Annie was at that moment a wicked, designing,
double-faced, double-natured creature, but to Mr Brooke she was just his
wee pet lamb, his darling; the treasure whom God had given him.

"You are back, my love," he said when his very feeble voice could speak.
"I missed you, my little one."

"Yes, I am back," said Annie, and she did that which comforted him most;
she laid her head on the pillow beside him, and kissed his cheek,
already cold with the dews which precede the moment when the great Angel
of Death carries the soul he has released from its prison away.

"I am going to God," said Mr Brooke.  "It is a wonderful happiness that
I am soon to be admitted into the presence of the King of Kings.  There
is no saying, Annie, what marvels will be revealed to me and what
glories mine eyes shall look upon.  I shall see in His good time the
Saviour of the world.  When I am ready for that sight of all sights, it
will be given to me.  But, my own little Annie, even in that moment of
satisfaction, when I wake up after His likeness, I shall carry you, my
child, in my heart of hearts.  I shall look for you, my little one.  You
will come to me--not yet, my darling, for you are very young, but some
day.  Promise me, my dearest dear."

Annie's choked voice sounded low and faint.

"I cannot hear you, my sweetest.  Say the word I want--say the word I
want to take away with me."

"What shall I say, Uncle Maurice?"

"Say `Yes'--one word, my darling, that I may carry it with me into the
great eternity of God."

"Yes--oh, yes!" said Annie.

"Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace," said the old man.
Then the Angel of Death did open wide his glorious wings, and two bright
spirits passed out of that room where one had come in.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

VERY DARK DAYS.

Mr Brooke's death was followed by total collapse on Annie's part.  The
time between the death and the funeral was passed by the girl in a sort
of delirium, in which she was too restless to stay in bed, but too
feverish to go out.  On the day of the funeral itself, however, she did
manage to follow her uncle to his last resting-place.

A pathetic little figure she looked in her deep mourning, with her
pretty face very pale and her golden hair showing in strong relief
against the sombre hue of her black dress.

Saxon and Annie were the only relations who followed the Rev Maurice
Brooke to the grave.  Nevertheless the funeral was a large one, for the
dead man had during a long lifetime made friends and not one single
enemy.  There was not a soul for miles round who did not know and love
and mourn for the Rev Maurice Brooke.  All these friends, therefore,
young and old, made a point of attending his funeral, and he himself
might well have been there in spirit so near did his presence seem to
lonely Annie as she stood close to the graveside and saw the coffin
lowered to its last resting-place.

She and John Saxon then returned to the Rectory.  Annie was better in
health now, but very restless and miserable in spirit.  Saxon was
consistently kind to her.  Her uncle's will was read, which left her all
that he possessed, but that all was exceedingly little, not even
amounting to sufficient to pay for Annie's school expenses at Mrs
Lyttelton's.

Saxon asked her what she would like to do with her future.  Her reply
was almost inaudible--that she had no future, and did not care what
became of her.  Saxon was too deeply sorry for her to say any harsh
words just then.  Indeed, her grief touched him unspeakably, and he
almost reproached himself for blaming her so severely for not attending
to his first letter.

It was two or three days after the funeral, and Saxon was making
preparations to leave the old Rectory, where Annie herself could remain
for a few weeks longer under the care of Mrs Shelf, when one morning he
got a letter which startled him a good deal.  Colour rose to his cheeks,
and he looked across at Annie, who was pouring out tea.

"Do you know from whom I have just heard?" he said.

"No," said Annie in a listless tone.

She did not much care whom her cousin heard from, as she said over and
over to herself, nothing ever need matter to her any more.  But his next
words startled her, and she found that she had a heart and
susceptibilities, and that once again cruel, terrible fear could visit
her.

"This letter is from a man whom I happen to know exceedingly well; I
have met him several times in Australia.  He is a certain Mr Manchuri."

"Yes," said Annie, her lips parted and the colour rushing into her
cheeks.

"He says he knows you--he met you at the Hotel Belle Vue at Interlaken--
and that, seeing your uncle's death in the paper, he has written for a
double purpose--to convey his condolences to all those who loved your
dear uncle, and to request me to meet him in town on important business
in connection with you."

"Oh!" said Annie.  She had been standing; she almost fell into her seat.

"He says further," pursued Saxon, "that a great friend of yours, a Miss
Priscilla Weir, is staying with him."

"She told him, of course," said Annie.

"What did you say, Annie?"  John Saxon looked at her, a puzzled
expression between his brows.  Then he started to his feet.  "I shall
run up to town," he said.  "I will go to-day and see what this means.
It was through Miss Weir he learned that I was staying here.  But for
that he says that he would have come himself to have an interview with
you; as it is, he thinks I can manage matters best."

"Don't go!" said Annie in a choked voice.

"Don't do what, my dear Annie?"

"Don't go; don't mind him.  He means mischief."

"I don't want to be cross to you, dear Annie, but really this is silly.
Mr Manchuri is a most excellent man; I and my father before me have both
known him.  My father has transacted some business with him from time to
time.  He is a first-rate man of business, and straight, in every sense
of the word.  Of course I shall go; I cannot possibly neglect your
affairs.  Why, what is it, my dear?"

"You can go if you like," said Annie.  "I--I don't feel well; that is
all."

She crept out of the room, tottering as she did so, and supporting
herself by catching hold of various articles of furniture.  When she
disappeared John thought for a minute.  Then he went into the kitchen,
where Mrs Shelf was busy.

"Mrs Shelf," he said, "I have just had a letter which obliges me to go
to London at once; I shall catch the next train.  It is scarcely
possible for me to be back to-night, but I shall certainly come early
to-morrow.  In the meantime you will look after Annie."

"You needn't doubt it, Mr John," said Mrs Shelf.

Saxon lowered his voice.  "I don't quite like her appearance," he said.
"She is suffering a good deal; I think you ought to watch her.  Don't
let her out of your sight."

"Oh, I will see to her, Mr John.  The poor child is fretting; she has
found her true heart at long last.  The death of my beloved master has
revealed many things to our Annie."

"Well, be careful of her," said the young man.  "I will be back as soon
as I can."  Shortly afterwards he started for town.

As soon as ever the sound of the horse's hoofs which was conveying John
Saxon to the railway station died away on the road, Annie, who had been
crouching rather than lying down in her room, ran to the window and
looked out.  The semi-peaceful, semi-stunned expression on her face had
given way now to the old watchful, almost crafty look which used to
characterise it.  She was quickly making up her mind.  Mr Manchuri could
only want to see John Saxon on one subject--the necklace.  Priscilla,
horrid Priscilla, had told him everything.  He had given Annie one
hundred pounds for the necklace, seventy of which she had kept for
herself.  In all probability, if Mr Manchuri carried things out to the
bitter end, she could be locked up for theft.  She might even see the
inside of a prison.  The terrified girl felt nearly mad.  She paced up
and down her little chamber, fearing--she knew not what.  She would have
prayed, but she did not dare.  She would have cried to God, but as she
knew nothing would induce her to be good and to confess her sin, she was
equally certain that God would not listen to her.

She remembered her promise to her uncle that she would meet him.  Of
course she never would.  They were parted for ever and ever.  But she
must not think of that now.  She must think of the present, and there
was not a single minute to lose.

There was only one thing for Annie to do.  She must go away.  She had in
her possession at that moment seventy pounds.  With seventy pounds she
could go a good way.  She could leave England; there was nothing else
for it; she must be well out of the country before John Saxon returned
from London.  He would probably come to Rashleigh Rectory accompanied by
Mr Manchuri and that horrible Priscilla, and then the whole story would
get out--the whole awful story--Annie's conduct with regard to the
prize, Annie's conduct with regard to Susan Martin's poems, Annie's
dreadful conduct with regard to Dawson and her uncle's cheque which she
had kept for herself.

John Saxon would remember how she had borrowed twenty pounds from him,
and that too would be told against her.  But her last and very greatest
crime seemed to be in connection with the pearl and silver necklace.
Her theft was biggest here, her craftiness greater, her double dealing
more marked.

Oh yes; such a character ought only to be put in prison.  But she would
not live in prison--she, the gay, the clever, the free, the bold.  She
would not lose her liberty; it was worth a struggle to keep it.  And she
had her stolen money; it should do something for her; it should help her
to keep the only thing left--the power to go where she pleased, to do
what she liked.

"Annie, my darling!" called Mrs Shelf's voice at the outside of the
locked door.

"Coming in a minute, Mrs Shelf," said Annie, making an effort to speak
cheerfully.

She knew well that if she was to carry out her project she must be very
wary, she must make her plans.  Fortunately for herself, she now
believed that she was an experienced traveller, and that, once on the
Continent, she could easily baffle all attempts at discovering her.

She went to a glass and surveyed her little face.  It had more colour
than it had the day before, for excitement and the imminence of her
peril brought back some of her old vivacity.

After a minute's pause she opened the door and ran downstairs.  Mrs
Shelf was in the kitchen.  She was engaged mournfully and with
considerable pain searching through cupboards and counting out all the
possessions of the late Rev Maurice Brooke which would now belong to
Annie.  The poor housekeeper was sighing bitterly over her famous stores
of jam, over her incomparable jellies, over her pickles, her liqueurs,
her bottles of home-made wine.  Not for her again would the trees in the
garden blossom and bear fruit; not for her would the strawberries redden
or the raspberry-canes yield of their abundance.  Other people who could
not possibly understand the value of the dear old garden would possess
it; it would pass into the hands of strangers, and poor Mrs Shelf felt
perhaps as acutely as Annie herself that her life was over.  Far more
than Annie, too, did this worthy soul love the good old man who had
passed away.

It was a tearful face, therefore, she turned upon the girl.

"Ah, my dearie!" she said, "the days are turning a bit nippy for the
time of year, and I thought you would be lonesome all by yourself in
your bedroom.  Come along and sit by the fire for a bit, won't you,
lovy? and I'll warm you up a cup of good broth.  I have some lovely and
tasty in the pantry.  Then maybe you'd help me to make a list of the
glass and china and the old silver.  There's a quantity of old silver,
and most beautiful it is; and it's all yours, dear.  Whenever you start
a house of your own, you won't have to go far to seek for means of
making it pretty.  There'll be the silver and the china, and that
magnificent Crown Derby dinner-set that your precious uncle took such
pride in; and there'll be the great branch candlesticks--old Sheffield
they are, and very valuable; and there'll be the beautiful house linen--
such linen as is not to be found anywhere else in the country-side.  You
won't be so bad off when you settle down with your good man, Miss
Annie."

"I'll never have a good man," said Annie in a petulant tone.  "Nothing
would induce me to marry.  I hate the thought of it."

"Poor lamb!" said Mrs Shelf; "you are but a baby yet; but the time will
come--you mark my words."

Annie made no reply.  She gazed drearily into the fire.  She was
wondering how she could circumvent old Shelfy, who might, if she chose,
prove a sad hindrance to her getting away before Saxon's return.

"Shelfy," she said, "don't let's bother about the old things now.  I
tell you what: I'll go into the dining-room and write some letters--oh
no!  I couldn't go near his study.  I'll just go into the dining-room
and stay there for an hour or two; and then, if you will give me some
lunch early, I will come and help you in the kitchen soon after that;
but I don't feel up to it this morning.  When did John Saxon say he
would be back, Shelfy?"

"Not to-night, darling, but some time to-morrow for sure.  He's a very
good young man, is Mr John."

"Well, Shelfy, you know I hate good young men," said Annie.

Instead of reproving her, Mrs Shelf laughed.

"I declare, now," she said, "that speech of yours, naughty as it is, is
more like your old self than anything I have heard you utter since you
came back.  But you mustn't turn against Mr Saxon, lovy, for he is just
the best of the best, and sets store by you; any one can see that."

"Well, I will go into the dining-room now," said Annie; and she went out
of the kitchen.

Mrs Shelf, quite cheered and reassured about her, went busily on with
her duties, and Annie was presently able to go softly to her own
bedroom, where she made preparations.  She fastened her precious notes
into her little pocket, which the placed in an inner petticoat, keeping
out enough small change for her immediate necessities.  She then
carefully chose from her wardrobe some of the least smart dresses she
had worn when at Interlaken.  She must not wear her black; that would
cause her to be discovered immediately.  But the pretty print and
cambric frocks which she had looked so charming in while away from home
would not be recognised by any of those who might possibly think it
worth while to follow on her track.  A dark-blue dress which she used to
wear when travelling with Lady Lushington would also come in handy.  In
short her very modest little wardrobe was quickly selected and put into
a small travelling-bag which the could carry herself in one hand.

She could take this as far as the railway station; but that railway
station was not to be the one just outside Rashleigh village, but
another called Norton Paget, which was situated three miles farther down
the line.  Not a soul would recognise Annie at Norton Paget in the
clothes Lady Lushington had given her.  It would be easy to go from
Norton Paget to London by the night express, and once in London, she
would take an opportunity of getting as far away from England as her
means would permit.

Annie from time to time had been fond of reading detective stories, and
in these she had learned that there was no place so splendid for hiding
in as London itself.  She did not know London very well, however, and
felt that she would be safest farther afield.

Having carefully packed her little bag, she hid it in a deep cupboard in
her room, locked the cupboard, and put the key in her pocket.  She then
went downstairs.

Mrs Shelf coaxed her to come into the kitchen and share her dinner
there.  The dinner was very good and nourishing and comforting, and
Annie ate quite heartily.  She knew well that it was necessary to
husband her strength.  How to get Mrs Shelf, however, away from the
Rectory for two or three hours towards nightfall was the problem which
exercised Annie's brain.  Think and think as she would, she was puzzled
how to manage this.  For if Mrs Shelf was in the house, Annie knew well
that she could not possibly leave it without being heard.  If Mrs Shelf
missed her at once, the hue and cry would be raised, and she could not
possibly walk to Norton Paget with her somewhat heavy bag before being
discovered.  It was, therefore, necessary to get both Mrs Shelf and Dan,
their one outside factotum, off the premises.

Almost immediately after lunch, the morning, which had been a bright and
sunny one, clouded over and the day became threatening.  A few drops of
rain, too, fell at intervals, and there was a slight autumnal sound in
the wind.

Annie started up from her meal apparently quite excited and anxious to
begin those lists in which Mrs Shelf took so deep an interest.  The
woman and the girl, therefore, began systematically to count over piles
of linen, stacks of china, quantities of glass, and then, when these
were done and they were both somewhat tired, to plunge into the
mysteries of the famous store cupboard.  Annie jotted down items on
little scraps of paper.

All of a sudden, as the dusk was beginning to fall, she turned to her
companion.

"Now I tell you what it is, Mrs Shelf.  We will make a clear list of all
these things before I go to bed to-night."

"Oh, nonsense, my dearie!" said Mrs Shelf.  "You will be killed over
it."

"No, I won't.  I should like to do it.  I sleep very badly, and should
enjoy the work.  Please take me when I am in the humour, Shelfy; you
know I am hard to control when I turn contrary."

"That you are, my love; but you have been very sweet since you returned
from Switzerland."

"Well, if you want me to go on being sweet you must do what I want."

"And what is that, dear?"

"You must just put the horse to the gig and get Dan to drive you in to
Rashleigh in order to buy a proper manuscript book for me to write my
list in."

"Oh, but must I do that to-night and leave you all alone?"

"You can go and come back within an hour and a half," said Annie; "and I
want some other things, too--lots of cottons and needles, and some black
lining for that new dress which I am going to make for you."

"Oh, my darling, you are kind!"

"And some oil for the sewing-machine; in fact, a whole list of things.
You may as well get them all while you are about it, Shelfy, do you
hear?"

"But I hate leaving you."

"And why should not I be left for an hour or an hour and a half, or even
two hours?  Do go--do, dear--and get me the book.  I want it dreadfully
badly."

Annie, after a great deal more coaxing, after a vast amount of arguments
and pretty smiles and pathetic gestures, had--as she knew she would
have--her own way.  Mrs Shelf owned that her dear young lady's whim was
a just one; that there was no possible harm in leaving her for even a
couple of hours at the Rectory while she drove in to Rashleigh to get
the necessary things.  It was scarcely four o'clock yet, and she could
be back certainly not later than seven o'clock.  She could unfasten
Rover, the watch-dog and leave him loose in the yard; therefore Annie
would be quite safe even if any marauders did appear round the premises.
But as burglaries were things unknown in the peaceful parish of
Rashleigh, Mrs Shelf was not at all afraid of anything happening to
Annie in her solitude.

"If I must, I must," she said.  "You are a very masterful young lady;
but I will own I shall rather enjoy a breath of the air this fine
evening.  Only why should not you come with me, lovy?  Why not?  You
could drive, and Dan could look after the house.  Now why not, Miss
Annie, dear?  It would do you a sight of good."

"No, no, Shelfy; I couldn't bear it.  You don't suppose I can see people
yet after my dear uncle's--"

Her voice trembled; her eyes filled with real tears.

"Very well, dear," said Mrs Shelf.  "I am sorry I mentioned it my pet.
Well then, I will be off.  You will be sure to give yourself a cosy tea,
Annie; and I'll be back, at the latest at seven, if not before."

Dan was summoned; the old horse was put to the old gig which had been
used so often by the rector, and Mrs Shelf and Dan drove smartly out of
the yard.

Annie was alone in the house.

"I have succeeded," she said to herself.

She did not know whether her pain at the thought of all that lay before
her and at the final severance of the ties of her entire life was as
keen as her pleasure at the thought of escaping from her greatest fears.
She knew she had very little time to spare.  Mrs Shelf was a quick sort
of woman, not at all gossipy, and she would be certainly anxious at the
thought of Annie staying behind alone.  But the girl, bad as she was,
felt that she could not go away for ever without doing one last thing;
and a moment later, in her black dress, with her fair hair tumbling
loosely about her neck and shoulders--for she had let it down while
helping Shelfy in the kitchen--she ran into the garden, and picking a
great quantity of large white lilies, pursued her way along a narrow
path until she reached a wicket gate which led into the old churchyard.
Soon the girl in her black dress, with her fair face and her lovely
golden hair, was kneeling by a newly-made grave.

She laid the lilies on the grave, pressed her lips, not once, but many
times, against the fragrant flowers, and said in a choked, husky,
agonised voice:

"Good-bye, Uncle Maurice; good-bye for ever and ever.  Ask God to tell
you everything.  Good-bye, Uncle Maurice;" and then she came back to the
house.

There was now nothing more to be done except to write a letter to Mrs
Shelf.

"Dear Shelfy," wrote Annie on a piece of black-edged paper, "I have gone
away.  I sent you to Rashleigh on purpose.  You won't ever find me
again, for I am going to a part of the world where no one will know me.
I shall lead my own life and perhaps be happy.  Please forget me,
Shelfy, and tell John Saxon to do the same; and when you hear all the
wicked, wicked, dreadful stories that you will hear about me, try to
believe that--that I am sorry now, and would be different if I could--
but I can't.  Try, too, to believe that I will never forget Uncle
Maurice nor--nor the old place.  Good-bye, Shelfy, darling.  Annie."

This letter was not left where it could be immediately discovered, but
was put with great discrimination and craft by Annie in Mrs Shelf's
work-box, which she knew the old lady would be scarcely likely to open
that night, but would most assuredly look into on the following day.
Thus she would have a longer time to escape; for when Mrs Shelf came
back and found that Annie was not in the house, she would naturally wait
for a little before she began to search for her at all.  For Annie all
her life had been fond of prowling about in the dusk.  Thus her escape
was practically assured.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

DAWSON'S SHOP.

When Mrs Shelf arrived at Rashleigh she made haste to carry out her
commissions.  These she executed with her accustomed despatch, and would
have been back at the Rectory some time before seven o'clock but for a
little event which took place in no less a shop than Dawson the
butcher's.

Mrs Shelf, having bought the manuscript book and the other odds and ends
which Annie required, suddenly thought that she might as well choose the
meat and small dainties which would be necessary for the reduced family
at the Rectory during the next few days.

Accordingly she desired Dan to take her to Dawson's, and getting slowly
and ponderously down out of the gig, she entered the shop.

Dawson himself was present, and came forward with much respect and
alacrity to serve his well-known customer.

"Glad to see you out, Mrs Shelf," he said.  "The air will do you good,
ma'am.  The evenings are turning a bit nippy, aren't they?  Autumn
coming on all too quickly.  Ah, Mrs Shelf! and winter follows autumn
just as death follows old age.  We don't know ourselves without the
rector, Mrs Shelf.  No wonder that you feel it--no wonder.  Perhaps I
ought not to have spoken of it.  But you'll come in now and have a cup
of tea with my wife, won't you, Mrs Shelf?"

"No, that I can't," said Mrs Shelf, quickly wiping away the tears which
had sprung to her eyes at mention of the beloved name.  "I must hurry
back to Miss Annie; she is all alone, poor little thing! at the
Rectory."

"Is she, now?" said Dawson.  "Well, now, and a sweetly pretty young lady
she be.  Of course you don't want to leave her by herself.  But isn't
that nice-looking young gentleman, her cousin, staying with you for a
time?"

"Mr Saxon, you mean?" said Mrs Shelf.  "So he be; but he had to go up to
London on business this morning, no Miss Annie and I are by ourselves
for the time.  Now I want please, Mr Dawson, two pounds of your best
rump-steak and a piece of kidney for a pudding, and a pound and a half
of the best end of neck of mutton.  That's about all to-day.  We sha'n't
be wanting as much meat as formerly; and perhaps, Mr Dawson, you
wouldn't mind sending in your account in the course of the next week or
so, for Mr Saxon is anxious to square up everything for Miss Annie
before he leaves for Australia."

"I will see about the account," said Dawson.  "And now, that reminds me.
I was going to speak about it before, only the dear rector was so ill,
I couldn't worrit him.  But the fact is, I changed a cheque for twenty
pounds for Miss Annie about a month ago; I can't remember the exact
date.  The cheque was one of Mr Brooke's, and as correct as possible.
Miss Annie wanted it in gold, and I gave it to her; and the following
Monday I sent Pearson, my foreman, round with it to the bank, and in
some way the stupid fellow tore it so badly that they would not cash it,
and said they must have a new cheque.  Of course I would have gone to
the rector, knowing that he would give it to me, but for his illness.
Now, however, I should like to have my money back.  Shall I add it to
the account, or what would be the best way to manage it, Mrs Shelf?"

"But I can't make out what you are driving at," said Mrs Shelf.  "Has
Miss Annie asked you to cash a cheque for her--a cheque of the master's
for twenty pounds?"

"She certainly did.  Let me see when the date was.  It was a day or two
after she came back from school, looking so bonny and bright; and, by
the same token, Mr Brooke was taken ill that very day, and Miss Annie
was sent into town in a hurry to get some things that you wanted for the
master."

"But," said Mrs Shelf; then she checked herself.  A queer beating came
at her heart and a heaviness before her eyes.  "Perhaps," she said,
sinking into a chair, "you would let me see the cheque that is so much
torn that you can't get it cashed."

"I will, with pleasure, ma'am.  I am sorry to worry you at all about it
at the present moment but you seem the best person to talk to, being, so
to speak, not exactly one of the family."

"Show me the cheque and don't worrit me with my exact relations to the
family," said Mrs Shelf with dignity.

Dawson accordingly went to his private safe, which he unlocked, and
taking out a ponderous banker's book, produced the cheque; which Mrs
Shelf immediately recognised as one which Mr Brooke had written in order
to pay the half-yearly meat-bill.  The cheque had been badly torn, and
was fastened together at the back with some stamp-paper.

"They won't take it; they are mighty particular about these things,"
said Dawson.  "It has been a loss to me, lying out of my money; but I
wouldn't worry the dear old gentleman when he was ill for three times
the amount."

"And you say that Miss Annie brought you this.  Didn't she bring you an
account or anything with it?"

"Not she.  She asked me if I would cash it for her.  You see it was made
payable to bearer, not to me myself.  Is there anything wrong about it,
Mrs Shelf?"

"Not the least bit in the world," said the bewildered woman, trying to
keep back a rash of words from her lips.  "The master thought the world
of our dear Miss Annie, and doubtless gave it to her the day after she
returned from school; for she has a pretty, coaxing way; and you know
well, Mr Dawson, that young things like our Annie want their bits of
finery."

"To be sure," said Dawson.  "I gave her the money without a thought."

"But your bill--I was under the impression that your bill for the last
six months was met."

"Bless you, madam! you may rest easy about that.  It was Miss Annie
herself brought me the money and asked me to give her a receipt for the
bill.  She brought it two days later in five-pound notes.  You have the
receipt, haven't you?"

"To be sure--at least, I suppose so.  I am all in a bewilderment!" said
the good woman.

She certainly looked so, and Dawson glanced after her as she left the
shop with a very solemn expression of face.  Just as she crossed the
threshold she turned back to say:

"You will have another cheque instead of that as soon as the will is
proved.  You understand, of course, that there is a short delay always
on account of those blessed lawyers when a death takes place," said Mrs
Shelf.

"Yes, madam, I quite understand that; and I think the best thing for me
to do is to add the twenty pounds to my bill which you have asked me to
send you."

"Yes, perhaps you are right, Mr Dawson," said Mrs Shelf, and she got
soberly and laboriously back into the gig.

During her drive home Mrs Shelf did not utter a single word.  To say
that she was puzzled, amazed, frightened, would but inadequately explain
the situation.  Her heart beat with dull fear.  Annie had cashed her
uncle's cheque--that cheque which had been drawn to pay the butcher's
bill.  Annie had cashed it for herself and had not paid the bill.  But,
again, Annie had paid the bill two days later--not with the cheque, but
with Bank of England notes.  Really, the thing was too inexplicable.  It
did not look at all nice; Mrs Shelf, somehow, felt that it did not, but
of course the child would explain.  She would speak to her about it, and
Annie would tell her.  At present she could not understand it.  Annie
had taken twenty pounds of her uncle's money; but then, again, Annie had
restored it, and almost immediately.

"It's enough to split anybody's brain even to think the thing over," was
the good woman's comment as, stiff and cold and tired and inexplicably
saddened, she entered the desolate Rectory.

Rover, the watch-dog, had made no noise when Annie had slipped away.  He
was still in the yard, and ran joyfully to meet the old woman.  She
stopped for a minute to fondle him, but she had no heart to-night even
to pet Rover.

She entered the house by the back-way, and immediately called Annie's
name.  There was no response, and the chill and darkness of the house
seemed to fall over her like a pall.  A week ago, in very truth, peace
had reigned here; but now peace had given way to tumults without and
fears within.  The very air seemed full of conflict.

Mrs Shelf called Annie's name again.  Then she set to work to light the
lamps and stir up the kitchen fire.  She put fresh coals on it and stood
for a minute enjoying the pleasant warmth.  She was not frightened--not
yet at least--at Annie's not responding to her cry.  Annie Brooke was a
queer creature, and as likely as not was in the garden.  There was one
thing certain, that if she had remained in the house she would have lit
the lamps and made herself comfortable.  She was the sort of girl who
adored comfort.  She liked the luxuries of life, and always chose the
warmest corner and the snuggest seat in any room which she entered.

Mrs Shelf looked at the clock which ticked away solemnly in the corner,
and was dismayed to find that it was very nearly eight.  How stupid of
her to stay such a long time at Dawson's!  No wonder Annie was tired at
the lonely house.  Dan came in after having done what was necessary for
the horse, and asked Mrs Shelf if there was anything more he could do
for her.  Mrs Shelf said "No" in a testy voice.  Dan was a clumsy youth,
and she did not want him about the premises.

"You can go home," she said.  "Be here in time in the morning, for Mr
John may want you to drive to the station early for him; there is no
saying when he will be back.  We will have a wire or a letter in the
morning, though."

Dan stumbled through the scullery and out into the yard.  A minute or
two afterwards the fastening of the yard gates was heard, and the sound
of Dan's footsteps dying away in the country lane.

"Poor child!" thought Mrs Shelf.  "That story of Dawson's is a caution,
if ever there was one--to cash the cheque for herself and to bring the
money back in two days.  My word, she do beat creation!  Nevertheless,
poor lamb, she had best explain it her own way.  I'd be the last to
think hardly of her, who have had more or less the rearing of her--and
she the light of that blessed saint's eyes.  She will explain it to me;
it's only one of her little, clever dodges for frightening people.  She
was always good at that; but, all the same, I wish she would come in.
Goodness, it's past eight!  I'll get her supper ready for her."

Mrs Shelf prepared a very appetising meal.  She laid the table in a cosy
corner of the kitchen; then she went ponderously through the house,
drawing down blinds and fastening shutters.  After a time she returned
to the kitchen.  Still no Annie, and the supper was spoiling in the
oven.  To waste good food was a sore grief to Mrs Shelf's honest heart.

"Drat the girl!" she said to herself impatiently; "why don't she come
out of the garden?  Now I am feeling--what with nursing and grief--a
touch of my old enemy the rheumatics, and I'll have to go out in the
damp and cold calling to her.  But there, there!  I mustn't think of
myself; _he_ never did, bless him!"

The old woman wrapped a shawl about her head and shoulders, and opening
the kitchen door, she passed through the yard into the beautiful garden.
It was a moonlight night, and she could see across the lawns and over
the flower-beds.  The place looked ghostly and still and white, for
there was a slight hoar-frost and the air was crisp and very chill.

"Annie, Annie, Annie!" called Mrs Shelf.  "Come in, my dear; come in, my
love.  Your supper is waiting for you."

No answer of any sort.  Mrs Shelf went down the broad centre path and
called again, "Annie, Annie, Annie!"  But now echo took up her words,
and "Annie, Annie, Annie!" came mockingly back on her ears.  She felt a
sudden sense of fright, and a swift and certain knowledge that Annie was
not in the garden.  She went back to the house, chilled to the bone and
thoroughly frightened.  As she did so she remembered John Saxon's words,
that she was to take very great and special care of Annie.  Oh, how mad
she had been to leave her alone for two hours and a half!  And how queer
and persistent of Annie to send her away!  What did it mean?  Did it
mean anything or nothing at all?

"Oh God, help me!" thought the poor old woman.  She sat down in a corner
of the warm kitchen, clasping her hands on her knees and looking
straight before her.  Where was Annie?  On the kitchen table she had
laid a pile of the little things which she had bought at Rashleigh by
Annie's direction.  Mechanically she remembered that she had supplied
herself with some spools of cotton.  She drew her work-box towards her,
and opening it, prepared to drop them in.  Lying just over a neatly
folded piece of cambric which the old woman had been embroidering lay
Annie's note.

Mrs Shelf took it up, staggered towards the lamp, and read it.  She read
it once; she read it twice.  She was alone in the house--absolutely
alone--and no one knew, and--brave old lady--she never told any one to
her dying day that after reading that note she had fainted dead away,
and had lain motionless for a long time on the floor of the kitchen--
that kitchen which Annie's light footfall, as she firmly believed, would
never enter again.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A DEFENDER.

When Annie left the "Beau Sejour" at Zermatt, Mabel felt herself in a
state of distressing weakness and uncertainty.  Annie had been her prop,
and, as she had expressed it, she could not possibly go on being wicked
without her.  Accordingly, when the loss of the necklace was revealed to
Lady Lushington on the following morning, Mabel let out a great deal
more with regard to the loss of that treasure than Annie had intended
her to do.  She said nothing to deteriorate its value, but murmured so
vaguely that she had certainly put it into the old trunk, and looked so
sheepish when she was saying the words, that Lady Lushington began to
suspect the truth.

"Now, Mabel," she said, taking her niece's hand and drawing her towards
the light, "you are not at all good at concealing things; you have not
the cleverness of your friend.  I have for some time had my suspicions
with regard to that _quondam_ friend of yours, Annie Brooke.  I don't
want you to betray her in any sense of the word, but I will know this:
are you telling me the truth about the necklace?  Did you put it into
the lid of the trunk?"

Mabel prevaricated, stammered, blushed, and was forced to admit that she
had not done so.  On the top of this revelation, Lady Lushington was
quick in pressing her niece to make a further one, and at last Mabel
admitted that she thought, but was not at all sure, that Mr Manchuri,
the old Jewish gentleman who had been staying at the Hotel Belle Vue,
knew something about the necklace.

"It is quite safe; I am certain it is quite safe," said Mabel; "but I
think he knows about it.  Had not we better write and ask Annie?"

"We will do nothing of the kind," said Lady Lushington.  "Mabel, I am
disgusted with you.  You can go away to your room.  You are my niece, or
I would never speak to you again; but if I do not get to the bottom of
this mystery, and pretty quickly, too, my name is not Henrietta
Lushington."

"Oh dear," thought poor Mabel, "what awful mischief I have done!  Annie
will be wild.  Still, all is not known.  I don't think Aunt Henrietta
can think the very worst of me even if she does learn the story of the
necklace; that won't tell her how I won the prize, and that won't
explain to her the true story of Mrs Priestley's bill."

As Mabel was leaving the room, very downcast and fearfully miserable,
Lady Lushington called her back.

"I am disgusted with you," she repeated.  "Notwithstanding; justice is
justice.  I never wish you to have anything more to do with Annie
Brooke; you never shall speak to her again, if I can help it.  But in
one thing she was right.  I have received Mrs Priestley's bill thin
morning with all due apologies, and begging of me to forgive her for
having, through a most gross error, and owing to the fault of one of her
assistants, added another lady's account to mine.  Your bill for
clothes, therefore, Mabel, only amounts to forty pounds, which is high,
but allowable.  As you are not going back to the school we shall never
require Mrs Priestley's services again.  I will send her a cheque to-day
for forty pounds, and that closes my transactions with the woman, whom,
notwithstanding apologies, I do not consider too straight."

Even this small consolation was better than nothing to Mabel.  She went
away to her room feeling very queer and trembling, and Lady Lushington
took those immediate steps which she was fond of doing when really
aroused.  She did not know Mr Manchuri's private address, but she was
well aware that he was a wealthy Bond Street jeweller.  She wrote,
therefore, straight to his place of business, and her letter, when it
reached him, electrified the good man to such an extent that he scarcely
knew what he was doing.  Fortunately for himself, he had not yet sold
the necklace.  Having read the letter, he sank down into a chair and
gazed before him.  Well did he remember the scene when Annie, looking
sweet, innocent, and charming, had told him with a little pride of her
knowledge with regard to gems, and had shown him with extreme diffidence
the valuable necklace, and asked him what it was worth.

"What a fool I was to snap at it!" he said to himself.  "I might have
known that no honest girl of the class of Annie Brooke would have forty
pounds to spend on jewellery.  But just that hateful desire to make
money came over me, and I grabbed at the thing.  Now what is to be
done?"

Mr Manchuri returned home early that day.  Lady Lushington's letter was
burning a hole all the time in his pocket.

"What a comfort it is," he said to himself, "that that dear, nice
Priscilla is still in the house!  She certainly told me nothing about
the necklace.  That little horror of an Annie Brooke begged and implored
of me to keep the whole thing a secret.  But the time has come, my young
miss, when I fed absolutely absolved from my promise.  I must consult
Priscie.  Priscie has as wise a head on her shoulders as even my own
beloved Esther had."

The old man entered the house; and Priscilla, who was busily reading in
the library, hearing the click of the latch-key in the lock, ran out
into the hall.  Her face had improved during the last few days.  The
look of great anxiety had left it.  She had, in short, made up her mind,
but even Mr Manchuri did not quite know what Priscilla was going to do.

"You are in early," she said, running to meet him and helping him off
with his overcoat and putting his stick in the stand.

"Yes, Priscilla," he answered; "and I am right glad you are in.  The
fact is, I came back to consult you, my dear."

"You will have some tea first," said Priscilla.  "Now that is exactly
what Esther would have said," was the old man's response.  "What a fuss
she did make about me, to be sure!  And you are going to make a fool of
me now.  I was a young man when my Esther was there, and I am an old man
now, but the difference seems bridged over, and I feel young once more
with you so kind to me, Priscilla.  But there, there, my child, there is
no tea for me until I relieve my mind.  Where were you sitting, my dear,
when you heard me come into the house?"

"In the library.  I had just discovered the most glorious edition of
_Don Quixote_, and was revelling in it."

"We will go back to the library, Priscilla, if you have no objection."

Priscilla turned at once; Mr Manchuri followed her, and they entered the
great library full of books of all sorts--rare editions, old folios,
etc,--as well as a few really valuable pictures.

"Priscilla," said Mr Manchuri, "you know all about Annie Brooke?"

"Yes," said Priscilla, her face turning _very_ pale.  "I wanted to write
to Annie; her dear uncle is dead."

"You told me so a few days ago.  You can write or not, just, as you
please.  In the meantime, can you explain this?"

As Mr Manchuri spoke he took Lady Lushington's letter from his pocket
and handed it to Priscilla.  Priscilla read the following words:

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Dear Sir,--I regret to have to trouble you with regard to a small
circumstance, but I have just to my unbounded astonishment, been
informed by my niece, Mabel Lushington, that you can throw light on the
disappearance of an old-fashioned pearl necklace set in silver which I
bought for her at Interlaken the day before we left.  I was assisted in
the purchase by a girl who was of our party--a Miss Brooke.  She
professed to have a knowledge of gems, and took me to Zick's shop in the
High Street where I bought the trinket.  I paid forty pounds for it,
believing it to be a bargain of some value.  At present the necklace is
not forthcoming, and there has been an idea circulated in the hotel that
it was stolen on our journey from Interlaken to Zermatt.  My niece,
however, now with great reluctance mentions your name, and says that she
thinks you can explain the mystery.  Will you be kind enough to do so
without a moment's loss of time?--Yours sincerely, Henrietta
Lushington."

When Priscilla had finished this letter she raised a white and startled
face.  Her eyes saw Mr Manchuri's, who, on his part, was trying to read
her through.

"What do you make of it?" he said.

"I never heard of the necklace," she said.

"Well, perhaps you heard something else or you noticed something else.
Were you sitting in the garden of the Hotel Belle Vue just before
_dejeuner_ on the day that you and I left Interlaken?"

"Yes," said Priscilla.

"I remember quite well now," considered the old man, "that I noticed you
from where I myself was sitting on the terrace.  I saw Miss Brooke go up
to you, and presently you went away.  Then I joined Miss Brooke."

"Yes," said Priscilla.

"You have not the least idea what occurred, have you, Priscilla, when
Miss Brooke and I were alone?"

"I have not the faintest idea," said Priscilla.

"Well, I will tell you," said the old man.

He crossed the room as he spoke, opened the door, and went out, but
presently returned with something in his hand.  This something he laid
on the table before Priscilla.

"Have you ever seen that before?"

"Never," said Priscilla.  "It is rather pretty."

"It is a valuable old ornament," said Mr Manchuri.  "It was bought at
Zick's shop in the High Street at Interlaken.  I gave Annie Brooke one
hundred pounds for it."

"Mr Manchuri!"

"She told me it was her own, and asked if I would buy it.  I knew it was
worth a good deal more than the sum I paid her; now it seems that she
took me in, I have purchased Lady Lushington's necklace; it never
belonged to Annie Brooke.  What is to be done?"

Priscilla sat, white as death, with her hands clasped before her.

"Did you ever," she said at last after a very long pause, "notice in all
your knowledge of mankind how from the beginning of a little act of
deceit great and awful things take place?  If I had not yielded to a
temptation which was put before me at Mrs Lyttelton's school, Annie
would never have been a thief; there would have been no need--no need!
Mr Manchuri, I feel that I am responsible for this."

"Nothing of the kind, child.  Please don't take on in that way!  It is
too dreadful to hear you."

Priscilla's lips trembled.

"We must, we must save Annie Brooke," she said.  "She is in trouble.
Her uncle is dead; she has no home any longer.  Oh, Mr Manchuri, for the
sake of your Esther, don't be too hard on her!"

"I am just mad with rage," said the old jeweller.  "There are some
things I can stand, but not deceit."

"You can stand me," said Priscilla very gently, "and yet I was
deceitful."

"You have repented, child; and you are going to do all in your power to
show that your repentance is real.  I will not have you and Annie Brooke
spoken of on the same footing.  I cannot bear it, Priscilla."

"You will be kind to her," repeated Priscilla.

"I must answer this good woman's letter.  I have got the necklace.  I
don't choose to be at the loss of one hundred pounds.  There are things
I will not bear--I cannot and will not stand--even for you, Priscilla.
I have been cheated by that girl, and have lost one hundred pounds on a
trinket which I now cannot possibly sell.  If Lady Lushington will send
me that sum, she can have the necklace back; otherwise Miss Brooke
herself must return the money."

Priscilla was surprised and most distressed at the obduracy of the old
man.  In the and she could only persuade him to write to John Saxon,
whose name she knew well.  It would be better for him to be acquainted
with this ghastly fact than for Lady Lushington's just indignation to be
turned on Annie's devoted head.

Accordingly John Saxon was written to, and thus the explanation of his
sudden visit to London was arrived at Mr Manchuri had asked the young
man to meet him at his house of business, and Saxon, much as he dreaded
what might lie before him, little guessed the ghastly news which he was
to hear.  Mr Manchuri, affectionate as he was to Priscilla, nursed his
wrath more and more against Annie during the hours which intervened
between his receiving Lady Lushington's letter and the arrival of John
Saxon on the scene.

"I am glad you have come, Mr Saxon," he said when the young man entered
the old jeweller's private sitting-room, which was situated at the back
of the business premises.

"Yes; I came at once," replied Saxon.  "What is it you want with me, Mr
Manchuri?  You said you had something important to tell me with regard
to my cousin, Miss Brooke."

"Something very ugly to tell you, sir.  Now listen.  What do you make of
this story?"

Saxon did listen while Mr Manchuri enlarged on Annie's apparently
innocent, wheedling ways, on her story with regard to the necklace, and
on the fact that he had given her in exchange for it ten notes, each of
the value of ten pounds.

"A hundred pounds in all," said the old jeweller; "and, to tell you the
truth, Mr Saxon, cheap at the price, for I could sell that necklace
to-morrow for two hundred and fifty pounds, or even three hundred.  Mark
you, my dear young sir, I could do it, but you could not, nor could she,
sharp as she is; for I know the trade and you don't, and she doesn't,
and Lady Lushington doesn't.  Therefore a hundred pounds is a very fair
sum to pay for what only cost her ladyship forty.  Now, will you read
that?" he added, handing him Lady Lushington's letter.

John Saxon did so.  He returned it and looked full into the face of Mr
Manchuri.

"Well, sir," said the merchant, "what do you mean to do?"

"What do _you_ mean to do, Mr Manchuri?"

Mr Manchuri spread out his hands.

"I," he said--"I mean to take the law in this matter.  I mean to write
the simple and exact truth to Lady Lushington, and I mean to confront
that precious Miss Brooke with the truth.  That is what I mean to do.
That sort of wickedness ought not to be permitted, sir.  It ought to be
nipped in the bud."

"I agree with you," said Saxon.  He spoke very slowly, and with pain.
"It ought to be nipped in the bad, and I am,"--a lamp came to to his
throat--"almost glad that you have made this discovery.  There would be
nothing quite so dreadful for my poor little cousin as that this thing
should be hidden.  Now it is known, soon a great deal more will be
known--of that I am persuaded.  But, sir, I want to plead with you on
behalf of the guilty party.  In the first place, the girl in question is
only seventeen.  Her exceeding youth, which ought to be the shield of
innocence, has not proved sufficient to keep her from acting in the most
crafty and guilty manner.  But she was the beloved child of one of the
beet of men, and for his sake I will not have her name dragged in the
dust; if I can save her from the world's knowledge of such a grave crime
as this, I will.  Mr Manchuri, you have lost one hundred pounds.  Here
is my cheque for the amount."

Here John Saxon took a cheque-book from his pocket.

"Give me a pen and ink," he said, "and I will fill it in for you.
Having received this, will you return the necklace to Lady Lushington,
telling her any story you please, but as far as possible shielding Annie
Brooke from the worst consequences of her sin?"

"This makes all the difference, sir," said Mr Manchuri.  "I am not
appointed in any sense to be the guardian of Miss Annie Brooke.  I wish
never to see the young lady again.  She has acted abominably.  I will
take your cheque, sir, and return the necklace to Lady Lushington."

"So far, so good.  Then perhaps this ends our business," said John
Saxon.

He took up his hat as he spoke.

"Not quite sure there are not other things I wish to say.  Will you sit
down?"

Saxon very unwillingly complied.

"You have, perhaps," continued Mr Manchuri, "heard Miss Brooke speak of
a schoolfellow of the name of Priscilla Weir?"

"I have.  I believe the young lady was with her and Miss Lushington in
Switzerland."

"That is true," said Mr Manchuri; "and I had the privilege--I was, in
short, the fortunate man to be allowed to escort Miss Weir back to
England."

"Indeed?" said Saxon, who, terribly shocked at this story about poor
Annie, could with difficulty bring himself to take the slightest
interest in Priscilla.

"You have told me, sir, that Miss Brooke's uncle is dead?"

Saxon bowed his head.  Mr Manchuri gazed hard at the young man.

"Your father was my good friend," he said, a softer note coming into his
voice, "and I have always thoroughly respected you.  Your father and I
have transacted business, and you yourself have shown me hospitality in
a distant part of the world I would not be unkind to you, Mr Saxon, and
I pity you very much indeed because of your relationship to Miss
Brooke."

"Pray do not pity me," said Saxon.  "If a man of my age--I am
eight-and-twenty--cannot do has beet for a lonely girl, almost a child,
he must be a poor sort.  I am Annie's guardian, and will do my utmost as
long as she lives to befriend her."

"Sir, I must speak the truth," said Mr Manchuri.  "You are straight as a
die and honest and open as the day; but that girl is crafty, insincere,
essentially untrue.  You can never turn staff of that sort into true
gold, however hard you try."

"I can at least protect a weak and erring girl," said Saxon with
feeling.

"The best thing you can possibly do for her, sir, is to get her out of
England and away from her old friends; for she must never return to Mrs
Lyttelton's school."

"Why so?" asked Saxon.

"It was my privilege, Mr Saxon, to escort Priscilla Weir back to
England.  She had been very little noticed by me or by anyone else while
at Interlaken.  But I think, if I may dare to say the word, that God
took care of her, and she alone of all that party really enjoyed the
glories of nature.  For her the Jungfrau showed some of its majesty, and
for her the other great mountains spoke unutterable secrets.  She is a
queer girl, but has a heart of gold, Mr Saxon, a heart of gold.  Now
that girl first attracted my attention because the resembled a child of
my own--a child who has long lived with the angels.  I can scarcely tell
you what I felt when I saw the likeness, and since then I have probed
into Priscilla's heart and found that in all respects it resembles the
heart of my Esther.  Sir, the girl was lonely; she was subjected to
temptation, and she yielded to it.  She has told me about it, and when
Mrs Lyttelton's school opens it will be Priscilla's painful duty to tell
her mistress something which implicates very seriously your cousin, Miss
Brooke.  It also implicates Miss Lushington.  Priscilla, is a guest in
my house now.  What she will be eventually I have not yet disclosed to
her.  It is my impression that Esther sent her to me, and I am not going
to let her go in a hurry."

"Yes, this is very interesting, and I am glad that a girl so worthy as
Miss Weir should have found a friend in you," was Saxon's response.
"But you have not explained what my cousin Annie has done."

"No, no; it is not within my province.  But I can only assure you that
that unfortunate young lady has got herself, as well as two more of her
schoolfellows--namely, Priscilla Weir and Mabel Lushington--into the
most horrible scrape.  Priscilla's conscience will not allow her to live
any longer under the load of unconfessed sin, and it is her duty to
inform Mrs Lyttelton."

"And me," said Saxon in a determined voice.

"You must be patient, sir.  I will not tell you Priscilla's secrets.
They are her own.  But I should advise you immediately to take steps to
remove Miss Brooke from Mrs Lyttelton's school."  Saxon said a few words
more, and then took his leave.  He had a good deal of business to attend
to that day in connection with the late Mr Brooke's affairs; the
winding-up of his small property and the paying of a few trifling
outstanding bills must be attended to as soon as possible.  But Annie--
what was to be done with her?  Saxon himself intended to return to
Australia within a month.  His business called him there, and he did not
think he ought to delay.  But what was to become of Annie?

She must not return to school; indeed, her circumstances forbade such a
hurry.  Would it be possible to settle her somewhere with Mrs Shelf?
Saxon thought over this idea, but dismissed it.  Annie was far too
clever to be left in the hands of a person whom she could completely
rule.  The young man felt stunned at the depth of her wickedness.  He
spent a very anxious night, and returned by an early train on the
following morning to Rashleigh.  There he was met by the appalling
information that Annie had gone.

It was Dan who first told him at the station.  Dan blurted out the
words, almost sobbing as he spoke.  Mrs Shelf was so bad that she
couldn't speak.  She was lying in the kitchen, where a neighbour had
found her when she had come in in the morning.  The poor woman was
moaning to herself in the most dreadful way.  Dan knew no particulars
except that Miss Annie was nowhere to be found and that Mrs Shelf was
ill.

"Really," thought Saxon, "troubles thicken.  I wonder when we shall see
a gleam of daylight.  Was there ever such a troublesome and terrible
girl put into the world before?"

But the very greatness of the emergency roused all that was strongest
and best in the young man.  He soon got the truth out of poor Mrs Shelf,
who blamed herself almost more than Annie for having gone to Rashleigh.
Having tried to assure the poor old woman that she was not in fault, and
that he was wrong not to have insisted on taking Annie with him to
London, he further soothed her by saying that he would soon find Annie;
that it was absolutely impossible for a young girl like Annie Brooke to
lose herself in these days of clever detectives and patient
investigations.

"We'll have her back," he said.  "We'll have her back, and you must get
well.  And now, I am going immediately--yes, immediately--to take steps.
You must have a neighbour in to look after you, Mrs Shelf; and I will
write you or send a telegram whenever I get news."

"But oh, sir! there is something else on my mind," said Mrs Shelf; and
she told him the story of Dawson and the cheque.

"Oh, that is all right," said Saxon in a cheery voice.  "We will settle
the matter with Dawson as soon as ever letters of administration have
been taken out with regard to Mr Brooke's will.  Don't fret any more
about that and don't blame poor little Annie more than you can help, Mrs
Shelf."

Mrs Shelf burst into tears.  It was a relief to her to hear the manly
voice and to feel the confident pressure of the strong young hand.  If
John Saxon could be cheery and hopeful about Annie, why should she
despair?

When he was gone--and he left the house almost immediately afterwards--
Mrs Shelf rose totteringly from the sofa in the old kitchen and began to
potter about her work.  All was not lost even for Annie Brooke, while
John Saxon was there to defend and help her.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

TILDA FREEMAN.

It was a very tired Annie Brooke who arrived laden with her little bag
late on a certain evening at Norton Paget.  The darkness had quite set
in, and when she entered the tiny station and took a third-class ticket
to London she was not recognised.

There were two other girls of an inferior class to Annie going also to
London by the train.  She looked at them for a minute, but they did not
know her; and when presently she found herself in the same carriage
with, them, she felt a certain sense of repose in being in their
company.  But for the fact that these two girls were accompanying her to
town, she would have given way to quite unreasoning terrors, for her
nerves had been violently shaken by the events of the last fortnight.
Those nerves had been weakened already by all the deceit through which
she had lived now during long weeks.  This final step, however, made her
feel almost as though she had reached the breaking-point.  She could
have cried out in her fears.  She hated the darkness; she hated the
swift movement of the train.  She wanted to reach London; and yet when
she did get there she would not have the faintest idea where to go.
With her money securely fastened about her little person, with her neat
leather bag, she might have presented herself at any comfortable hotel
and been sure of a good welcome, but somehow Annie felt afraid of grand
hotels at that moment.  She felt deep down, very deep in her heart that
she was nothing more nor less than a runaway, a girl who had done
something to be ashamed of, who was obliged to hide herself, and who was
forced to leave her friends.

She shivered once or twice with cold, and one of the girls who had got
into the same carriage, and who had stared very hard at Annie from time
to time, noticing her great dejection and pallor and her want of any
wraps, suddenly bent forward and said:

"If you please, miss, I have a cloak to spare, and if you're taken with
a chill I'd be very glad to lend it to you to wrap about you."

"Thank you," said Annie instantly.  Her small teeth were beginning to
chatter, and she was really glad of the girl's offer.

A few minutes later she was wrapped up in the cloak, and feeling
inexpressibly soothed and knowing that her disguise was now more
effectual than ever, she dropped into an uneasy sleep.  She slept for
some time, and when she awoke again she found that the third-class
compartment was full of people--a rough and motley crew--and that the
two girls who had accompanied her into the carriage were both still
present.  One faced her; the other sat pressed up close to her side.  It
was the girl who had lent Annie the cloak who sat so near her.

"Are you a bit better, miss?" she said when Annie had opened her
startled blue eyes and tried to collect her scattered senses.

"Oh yes," said Annie; "but I am thirsty," she added.

"Suck an orange, then; do," said the girl.  "They are a bit sour yet,
but I bought some to-day for the journey."

She immediately thrust her hand into a string bag and produced an unripe
and very untempting-looking specimen of the orange tribe.

Annie took it and said, "Thank you."

"Lor' bless you," said the girl, "but your 'ands is 'ot!"

"No, I am not hot at all," said Annie; "I am more cold than hot.  Thank
you so much for the orange.  How kind you are!"

The girl looked at Annie with great admiration and curiosity.  Then she
bent forward and whispered to her companion.  They consulted together
for a few minutes in low tones which could not possibly reach Annie's
ears owing to the swift-going motion of the train.  Then the girl who
was seated opposite to Annie bent towards her and said:

"Ain't you Miss Annie Brooke of Rashleigh Rectory?"

This remark so took Annie by surprise and so completely upset her
already tottering nerves that she gave a sudden cry and said in a sort
of smothered voice:

"Oh, please, please don't betray me!"

The girl now nodded to her companion, and the girl who was seated close
to Annie said in a low, soothing tone:

"We ain't goin' to tell on yer, miss.  If yer want to go up to town
unbeknown to them as has the charge o' yer, 'tain't no affair o' ours.
I'm Tilda Freeman, and that 'ere girl is Martha Jones.  I am a Lunnon
gel, and Lunnon bred, and I was down on a wisit to my friend Martha
Jones.  She's comin' up with me for a bit to see the big town.  Be you
acquainted with Lunnon, miss, and do you know its ways?"

"No, I don't know London very well," said Annie.  She had recovered some
of her self-possession by this time.  "You are mistaken in supposing,"
she continued, trying to speak in as cheerful a tone as she could, "that
I am--am going away privately from my friends.  I have lost my dear
uncle, and am obliged to go to London on business."

"Yes, miss," said Martha Jones, "and you has peeled off yer mournin'.
You was in black when we seed you at the funeral.  And why has yer come
up by the night train, and why has yer taken a third-class ticket?  And
why do you ask us not to betray you?  Don't you tell no lies, miss, and
you'll be told no stories.  You're runnin' away, and there's no sayin'
but that it 'ave somethin' to do with Dawson the butcher."

"Dawson?" said Annie, her heart beginning to beat very hard.

"Dawson's in a rare way about a cheque which 'e cashed for yer, miss.
'E can't get 'is money back.  Now Mrs Dawson is own sister to my mother,
and we know all about it.  There, miss, Tilda and me, we don't want to
be 'ard on a young lady like you, and if you 'ud confide in us, you 'ud
find us your good friends.  There ain't no manner o' use, miss, in your
doin' anythin' else, for we can soon send a bit o' a letter to Aunt Jane
Dawson, and then the fat's in the fire."

"Oh, oh!" said Annie, "I--" She roused herself; she pushed back her hat;
she pressed her hot hand to her hot cheek.  "Do you think we might open
a little bit of the window?" she said.

Tilda immediately complied.

"There now," she said; "that's better.  Didn't I say as you was 'ot?--
and no wonder.  You tell Martha and me, and we'll do wot we can for
yer."

"I don't know what you mean about a cheque," said Annie; "that is all
nonsense--I mean--I am not going away on that account."

"Oh no, miss," said Tilda, winking at Martha.  "Who hever said you was?"

"But you are right," continued Annie; "I am going to town for a day or
two, just--just--on a little business of my own."

"Ain't we smart?" said Tilda, winking again at Martha.  Martha bent
forward, and once more whispered in her companion's ear.

"Look 'ere," said Tilda, "when all's said and done, you're a gel, same
as we two are gels, and although you is 'igh up in the social scale, and
we, so to speak, low down, we are made with the same feelin's, and souls
and bodies, and all the rest o' it; and it ain't for Martha and me to be
'ard on yer, miss; we 'ud much more like to 'elp yer, miss.  We won't
get to Lunnon until close on twelve--Lor' bless yer! that ain't a nice
time for a young lady to come all alone to the metropolis; 'tain't a
nice time at all--but my brother Sam 'ull meet Martha and me, and take
us straight off to Islington, where we lives; and there 'ull be a bit o'
'ot supper, and our beds all warm and cosy; and wot I say is this: why
mightn't you come along with us too, and share our 'ot supper and the
escort of my brother Sam, and 'ave a shakedown at Islington for the
night?  There's no safer way to 'ide, miss--if it's 'idin' yer mean; for
none o' those grand folks as you belong to will look for yer out
Islington way."

Annie considered this offer for some little time, and finally said in a
grateful tone that she did not think that she could do better than
accept it; whereupon the girls whispered and giggled a good deal
together and left poor Annie more or less to her own reflections.

It was twenty minutes to twelve when the great express entered the huge
London terminus which was its destination; and Annie was indeed glad,
when she found herself in the whirl of the great Paddington Station, to
have Tilda's arm to lean on, and to be accompanied at the other side by
Martha Jones.

Presently a large young man with a shock of red hair and a freckled face
rushed up to the girls, clapped Tilda loudly on the shoulder, and nodded
in a most familiar manner to Martha.  At sight of Annie, however, he
fell back breathless with astonishment and open-eyed admiration; for
perhaps in all her life poor little Annie had never looked more
absolutely beautiful than she did now.  Her cheeks were slightly crimson
with the first touch of fever.  Her blue eyes were at once dark and
bright, and her coral-red lips might have resembled a cherry, so rich
was their colour.  There was a fragility at the same time about the slim
young girl, a sort of delicate refinement, which her pretty dress and
golden hair accentuated, so that, compared to Tilda, who was loud and
coarse and uncommonly like Sam himself, and Martha, who was a plain,
dumpy girl with a cast in one eye, the looked like a being from a
superior sphere.

Sam had dreamed of creatures like Annie Brooke.  He had believed that it
was possible for some girls to look like that, but he had never been
close to one of these adorable creatures before in the whole course of
his life.  His silly head swam; his round eyes became rounder than ever
with admiration, and even his loud voice became hushed.

"Who be she?" he said, plucking at Tilda's sleeve, and his own great,
rough voice shaking.

"A friend o' our'n," said Tilda, who, not being so susceptible, felt her
head very tightly screwed on her shoulders, and was not going to give
herself away on Annie's account.  "A friend o' our'n," she continued, "a
gel whose acquaintance we made in the country.  She's a-comin' along
'ome with Martha and me; so you look after our trunks, Sam, and we'll go
on to the underground as quick as possible.  Don't stare yer eyes out,
Sam, for goodness' sake!  She won't bolt, beauty though she be."

"Oh!  I can't go with you; I really can't," said Annie.  "There must be
a hotel close to this, and I have plenty, plenty of money.  Perhaps
this--this--gentleman would take me to the hotel."

She looked appealingly at Sam, who would have died for her there and
then.

"I wull--if yer wish, miss," he stammered.

"Nothing of the kind," said Tilda, who, having secured Annie, had no
intention of letting her go.  A girl with plenty of money who was
running away was a treasure not to be found every day in the week.
"You'll come with us, miss, or that letter 'ull be writ to Mrs Dawson
afore we goes to bed to-night."

"Oh yes," said Sam, wondering more and more what could have happened.
"We'll take the greatest care o' yer, miss."

"Her name's Annie; you needn't `miss' her," said Tilda, turning sharply
to her brother.  "Now then, do get our bits o' duds, and be quick, can't
you?"

The bewildered young man did see to his sister's and friend's luggage.
He had already secured Annie's bag, and he held it reverently, feeling
certain that it belonged to one of a superior class.  Why, the little,
neat bag alone was something to reverence.

By-and-by the whole party found themselves in a third-class compartment
on their way to Islington, which place they in course of time reached,
Sam indulging in a cab for Annie's sake, because he saw that she was far
too tired to walk the long mile which separated Tilda Freeman's home
from the railway station.

This humble domicile was soon reached, and the whole party went indoors.
A frowsy-looking woman with red hair like Tilda's and Sam's stood
akimbo in the passage, awaiting the arrival of her son and daughter and
visitor.

"How late you be!" she cried.  "But there's yer supper in the kitchen,
and yer beds ready.--How do, Martha Jones?  It's a dish o' tripe an'
onions I 'as ready for yer.  I know you're partial to that sort o' food.
Why, a' mercy! who on earth is this!"

"A friend o' mine," said Tilda.  "Her name's Annie.  She can sleep along
o' me to-night, mother."

"Oh no," said Annie.  "I must have a bed to myself."

"Then you can't, my beauty," said Mrs Freeman, "for there ain't one for
yer.  Ef yer thinks Tilda good enough to wisit uninvited in the dead o'
night you must be satisfied with half her bed.  And now I'm off to mine,
for I 'ave to char early to-morrow mornin' at Pearson's house over the
way."

Mrs Freeman disappeared, and the girls, accompanied by Sam, went into
the kitchen.  Annie, try as she would, could not touch the coarse
supper; but Tilda, Martha, and even Sam enjoyed it mightily.

Annie had removed her hat, and her hair looked like purest gold under
the flaring gas-jet, which cast a garish light over the place.  Sam ate
in abundance, and cast adoring eyes at Annie.  Annie's head ached; her
throat ached; she shivered; but nevertheless, dimly and in a queer sort
of fashion, it was borne in upon her that Sam would be her true friend,
and that the girls would not.  She was in an evil plight, but she was
already feeling too ill to care very much what happened to her.
Nevertheless, she had still a sufficient amount of self-control to
return Sam's gaze, and once she gave him a timid smile.

By-and-by the two girls went into the scullery to wash the plates and
dishes, for great would have been Mrs Freeman's wrath if she had found
them dirty in the morning; and Sam and Annie were alone.

Annie immediately seized the opportunity.

"Sam," she said, "I am in great trouble."

"I be that sorry," murmured Sam.

"I know you have a kind heart, Sam."

"For you, miss," he managed to stammer.

"And you are strong," continued Annie.

"I'd knock any chap down as wanted to injure a 'air o' yer 'ead, miss.
It's that beautiful, yer 'air is miss, like--like the sunshine when we
spends a day in the country."

"Do you think you would really help me, Sam?" said Annie.

"You has but to ask, miss," said the red-haired giant, placing a huge
hand over his heart.

"I don't want your sister and her friend to know."

"Oh, lawks, miss! you'll turn my 'ead entirely.  A secret atween you and
me!  Well, I'm that obligated I don't know 'ow to speak."

"I want to get away from here to-morrow morning," said Annie.  "I want
to go down to the docks, Sam."

"My word!" said Sam.

"And I don't know the way," continued Annie.  "Do you think that you--
you would come with me and find a ship that is going--a long way from
England--where you would take a passage for me?  A steerage passage,
Sam; I can't afford anything else."

"And lose sight on yer, miss, for ever and ever?"

"Oh, but--Sam, you promised to help me."

"My word!--and I will," said Sam.

"They are coming back," said Annie in a husky voice.  "I'll get up
early--quite early.  When do you get up, Sam?"

"I am off to my work at five in the mornin'."

"How much do you earn a day?"

"Five shullin'--and good wage, too."

"I will give you a whole sovereign if you will stay away from your work
and help me to-morrow.  Shall we meet outside this house--just outside--
at five in the morning?"

"Oh, my word, yus!" said Sam; "and there's no talk o' sovereigns.  It
'ull be jest the greatest pleasure in my whole life to sarve yer,
missie."  The girls bustled noisily into the kitchen, and Tilda conveyed
Annie to her own tiny attic in the roof.  Annie refused to undress, but
lay down, just as she was, on the hard, uncomfortable bed.  For long
afterwards she could not quite remember what occurred that night.  It
was all a horrible nightmare.  She was ill; she was dying.  Her throat
seemed to suffocate her.  Every bone in her body ached.  She was
confronted by ghastly images; unknown and awful terrors pursued her.
Something touched her.  She screamed.  She opened her eyes and
recognised Tilda bending over her.

"What--what do you want?" she said; for Tilda had just grasped the
pocket where the money lay.

"Nothing--nothing at all, miss," said Tilda.

"You leave that gel alone!" shouted a harsh voice from another attic
close by.

"My word!" said Tilda.  She sank down, trembling.  "And I didn't mean to
take her money.  I am bad, but I ain't as bad as that; only I wanted to
see wot she 'as got.  She might make a present to Martha and me; but ef
Sam 'as took her up, there ain't no chance for none o' us."

Towards morning Tilda crept into the other side of the bed and fell into
profound slumber.  Annie also slept and dreamed and awakened, and slept
and dreamed again.

"`Be sure your sin will find you out,'" she kept repeating under her
breath; and then, all of a sudden, when she felt a little--just a
little--calmer, a hand was laid on her shoulder, a great rough face bent
over her, and a voice said:

"I say, missie, it's time for you and me to be off."

Annie looked up.  The red-haired giant had entered the room and had
summoned her.  Trembling, shaking, her fever high, her throat almost too
sore to allow her to speak, she rose from that horrible bed, tried to
shake her tumbled clothes into some sort of order, took up her bag, and
followed Sam downstairs.  A minute or two later, to her infinite
refreshment, they were both out of the house and in the open air.  Sam
was all alive and keen with interest but when they had walked a few
steps he glanced at Annie and the expression of his face altered.

"You be--my word!--you be real bad!" he said.

"I am," said Annie hoarsely.  "I can scarcely speak.  It is--my--sin,
Sam--that has--found me out."

"Your sin!" said Sam.  "You be a hangel o' light."

Annie laid her little, white, burning hand on his.

"I can't go to the docks," she said.  "I can't go anywhere--except--
except--oh, I must be quick!--oh, my senses will go!  Everything swims
before me.  Sam, I must tell you the truth.  Sam, hold me for a minute."

He did so.  The street in which they found themselves was quiet as yet.
There were only a few passers-by, and these where hurrying off to their
respective employments.  Annie put her hand into the little pocket which
contained her money.  She took out her purse and gave Sam a five-pound
note.

"Go," she said, "to-day to Rashleigh, the place where your sister has
been.  Go to the Rectory and tell them that I--Annie Brooke--have found
out--the truth of one text: `Be sure your sin will find you out.'  Tell
them that from me, and be quick--be very quick.  Go at once.  But first
of all take me to the nearest hospital."

Before poor Sam could quite understand all Annie's instructions the girl
herself was quite delirious.  There was nothing for it but to lift her
into his strong arms and carry her to a large hospital in the
neighbourhood of Islington.  There she was instantly admitted, and,
after a very brief delay, was conveyed to the fever ward.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT.

Late on that same evening Rover at the old Rectory thought it expedient
to raise his voice in the extreme of exasperation and anger.  A stranger
of the sort that ought not to be seen about the Rectory gardens was
daring to approach the back-door right through Rover's special
territory.  Luckily for the red-haired giant, Rover could not get at him
beyond the limit of his chain.  The giant knocked at the back-door, and
presently a timid-looking woman, who had been called in to help to nurse
Mrs Shelf, opened the door about an inch.

"Now what is up?" she said.  "You get out of this; you are a stranger
here, and we don't want parties of your sort about."

"I ha' come," said Sam, "with a message from one as calls herself
Annie."

Mrs Shelf was still lying on the sofa in the kitchen.  She was feeling
far too weak and shaky to rise; but at the name strength seemed to come
into her like magic.  She tottered off her sofa and approached the door.

"Whoever you are, come right in," she said.

Sam entered and stood gloomily leaning up against the dresser.

"What is your message?" said Mrs Shelf.  "Do tell me quickly!  Do you
know where Annie Brooke is?"

"In the Great Northern Hospital," said Sam Freeman, "where I left her
this mornin'.  She said I was to come here and say--that her sin had
found her out.  She guv me five pounds to come and give the message.
It's a sight too much money.  I tuk a third-class ticket down, and
'ere's the change."  He put three sovereigns and a pile of silver on the
table.  "I tuk a return ticket," he said.  "I'll be off, arter givin' my
message."

"But tell us everything," said Mrs Shelf.  "Why, we are just mad to
know.  Whatever do you mean?"

Thus abjured, Sam did tell what little he knew.  Annie had come back
with his sister and a friend of hers to their house the night before,
and she had wanted him to help her, and he had arranged to do it.  But
in the morning she was taken bad--very bad--and lost her head, only
first of all she was able to give him more than enough money to come to
Rashleigh, and a message which he was to convey to the old folks at the
Rectory.

"Can't make 'ead nor tail on it," said the giant; "for if ever there was
a beautiful, 'eavenly creature, it were her.  Why, I tak her in these
arms to the 'ospital.  Oh, she's like to die!" he continued.  "You'd
best go to Annie if ever you want to see her again."

"And so I will--and this night, too," said Mrs Shelf.  "I'll go right
along back with you; but first of all I must send a telegraphic message
to Mr John Saxon."

In vain the neighbour who had been put in charge of Mrs Shelf
expostulated with her in regard to her madness in going to London.

"If this is madness," was the sturdy woman's reply, "I would rather be
mad than sane.  Is not _his_ bit lamb in danger and suffering, and am I
the one to keep away from her?"

Sam heard these words without understanding them, but felt immediately
inclined to think that Mrs Shelf was a very good sort.  Accordingly,
that very same evening Mrs Shelf and Sam Freeman went up to London by
the very train which had taken Annie the night before.  When they
reached London, however, Mrs Shelf bade her companion good-bye.

"I will never cease to thank you as long as I live," she said; "and if
our Annie, our bit lamb, gets better, you will hear from me."

"I won't wait for that ma'am," said Sam.  "I'll call every day at the
'ospital to inquire.  I can't say no more; there's naught I wouldn't do
for her, ma'am."

He hurried away, his great shock head towering above most of his
fellow-men.  Mrs Shelf sighed heavily.  At Paddington she got into a
four-wheeler and drove straight to the hotel where she knew John Saxon
was staying.

He was out.  She sat down patiently to wait for him.  It was past
midnight before he returned.  What was his amazement to see the worthy,
homely face of Mrs Shelf as she rose from her seat in a corner of the
hall of the hotel!

"I have no news for you," he said.  "My good soul, why did you come to
town?  Now this only adds to our complications.  I have spent a fearful
day, and have put detectives on poor Annie's track, but up to the
present we have heard nothing."

"Then I have news for you, Mr John.  You don't suppose I'd come all the
way to London for nothing."  And the good woman repeated the astounding
intelligence which Sam Freeman had brought her.

"A message from the child herself," she said; "and you can guess from
its tone, sir, and the words she used, how bad our poor Annie must be.
Oh, may God spare her, and save her life!"

"Spare her and change her!" murmured John Saxon.  "With God all things
are possible.  I will go at once to the hospital," he said.

"And you will take me with you, sir?"

"Yes, if you like; but I don't think we can be admitted at this hour."

"Oh, sir!  I couldn't stay away.  We must at least have a good try.
Haven't I nursed her since she was a little thing--she, who all her days
was really motherless?"

"All right," said Saxon.  "We will go at once."  The porter who answered
their summons at the great hospital went away immediately to get news
with regard to Annie Brooke.  This was the reverse of reassuring.  She
was very ill, quite delirious, and could not possibly be seen until the
following morning.

"Then I will wait here," said Mrs Shelf, settling herself down
determinedly.  "You can't put me, a woman of my years, into the street.
I will go to her when the day breaks."

When Saxon and Mrs Shelf were allowed to visit Annie she did not know
them.  Her delirium ran high, and for days and weeks she lay truly at
the point of death.  All that could be done for her was, however, done.
She had special nurses and a private ward; and at long last there came a
day when, in answer to anguished prayers and bitter sorrow, a girl crept
slowly back from the shores of death and lay truly like the shadow of
her former self high and dry above danger and on her way to recovery.
Day after day, slowly, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, her strength
returned, until at last there came an hour when she recognised her old
friends.  Then by degrees she returned to health and strength.

It was three months later, and all the events which make up this story
seemed to have passed into a distant part of Annie Brooke's life, when
she and John Saxon had an earnest talk together.

Annie was well once more, but so changed that few would have known her
for the laughing and almost beautiful girl of the early part of that
same year.  She had said very little of the past since her recovery, but
on this occasion she made a clean breast of everything to John Saxon.

"I am sorry," she said.  "I knew at last what repentance meant when I
passed into that awful state of delirium and when I felt myself face to
face with an angry God.  But I have got something in my nature, John,
which makes me tremble for the future.  I am very wicked still.  What
can I do with my life?"

Then John Saxon made a proposal to her.  "Will you and Mrs Shelf and our
friend Sam Freeman, who is an excellent fellow at heart and the very
person for a colonist, take passage with me to Canada?  You can start a
new life there, Annie.  You have enough money to buy a little land, and
Sam Freeman is the very man to help you.  I myself will stay near you
for the first year, and you can start your Canadian life in the house of
a cousin of mine, who, I know, will be only too glad to receive you.  In
a new country, dear," continued her cousin, "one can have a clear
horizon, a wider view, a better chance.  Take up your cross bravely,
Annie; never forget that you have sinned, but also that you have
repented."

"Do they know at the school?" she asked in a whisper.

"Yes, everything is known; Priscilla told the truth."

"You won't tell me what they said?"

"There is no need to tell you.  Your punishment, perhaps, is not to
know.  You have done with Mrs Lyttelton's school.  Turn your face
towards the West, dear.  Think of the new life and the new, clean, fresh
country."

"Yes, oh yes, I will go--I will go."

"Then that is settled," said Saxon, "and I will make immediate
preparations."

On the day before Annie sailed to Canada she was seated in a London
hotel.  All the packing had been done.  There were really no farewells
to make.  Mabel Lushington had never written to her from the day she had
left Zermatt Lady Lushington had doubtless also forgotten her existence.
Her school friends, if they thought of Annie Brooke at all, must think
of her as one whose name should be spoken with bated breath, who was
deceitful, who had gone far astray, and who had finally left her native
land because it was best for her to turn her back on England.  There was
no one for Annie to say farewell to, unless indeed, Priscilla Weir.  But
she and Priscilla had never been real friends, and was it likely that
Priscilla would think of her now?  It made her head ache--for she was
not nearly as strong as before her illness--even to try to remember
Priscilla.  She pressed her hand to her forehead.  She and John Saxon
and her other friends were to start early on the following day.

Just at that moment the room door was opened.  The light had not yet
been turned on.  The days were a little dusky.  A tall girl came
hurriedly forward.  She came straight up to Annie where she sat, dropped
on one knee, and took one of her little, cold hands.

"Annie--Annie Brooke," she said; "I am Priscilla.  Have you nothing to
say to me?"

Annie looked at her, at first with a sort of terror, then with a
softened expression in her blue eyes; then all of a sudden they kindled,
there was a smile round her lips, and a radiation spread itself over her
wan little face.  She flung her arms round Priscilla.

"Oh!  Did you know I was going?  Have you come to say good-bye?"

"I only heard it to-day from Mr Saxon," said Priscilla.  "Yes, I have
come to kiss you, and to tell you that I, in spite of everything, love
you."

"You can't," said Annie.  "You don't know."

"I know everything, Annie.  Annie, we have both been in deep waters; we
have both sinned, and God has forgiven us both."

"I am going away," said Annie restlessly.  "When I am in another country
I won't hear that awful text echoing so often."

"What text, Annie?"

"`Be sure your sin will find you out.'"

"But it did find you out," said Priscilla; "and that was the very best
thing that could have happened, because then you turned to God; you
could not help yourself; and God, who is infinite in His compassion,
forgave you."

"Oh, do you think so--do you think so?" said Annie, beginning to sob.
"Priscie, I promised him--my angel uncle, my more than father--to meet
him in the home where he is now.  Oh Priscie! can I--can I?"

"You will meet him," said Priscilla, with conviction.

"But, Priscie, do you quite know everything?"  Annie, as she spoke,
still kept her arms round Priscilla's neck, and her words were whispered
in Priscilla's ears.  "Do you know all about Susan Martin and the
poems?"

"Yes," said Priscilla, "I know.  Mr Manchuri is going to help Susan;
only, if possible, I should like to have the manuscript book back."

"I sent it back to Susan herself with a letter.  I did that to-day,"
said Annie.  "It seemed the very last thing left, the final drop in my
cap of humiliation."

"I am so glad," said Priscilla.  "Mr Manchuri will help Susan.  She is
going to be educated, and will give up dressmaking."

"Who is Mr Manchuri?  I seem to know his name and yet to have forgotten
him," said Annie.

"Oh Annie, dear Annie! he belongs to _my_ story.  He took me home that
time from Interlaken; and--and I resemble a girl of his who died; and
since then, ever since then, I have been living with him and looking
after him, and he has finally arranged that I am always to stay with him
as his adopted daughter.  I am not going to school any more, but I am
being taught--oh! in many and wonderful ways--by my dear, dear friend Mr
Manchuri himself, by the beautiful picture of the girl who went to God
and whom I am supposed to resemble; and I have books as many as I want,
and--oh, I, who have sinned too, am happy, very happy!"

"And what about Mabel?" said Annie.

"Lady Lushington knows all about Mabel.  Everybody knows about
everything, Annie.  Mabel is to stay at a school in Paris for a year.
It is a good thing for her, too, that things have been found out Annie,
I don't think you need fear that text any more."

"You comfort me," said Annie.  "Oh! sometimes, Priscilla, when you pray
to God, ask Him to give me a clean heart, and to renew a right spirit
within me."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End.