Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: "OH, MOTHER, MOTHER, DO NOT SEND ME AWAY FROM YOU!"]



                  LITTLE MAID MARIGOLD


                           BY
                     E. H. STOOKE



                       New York
                 American Tract Society
                   150 Nassau Street



CONTENTS

CHAP.


    I. MRS. HOLCROFT TELLS MARIGOLD ABOUT HER AUNTS,
        AND READS MISS PAMELA'S LETTER

   II. A NEW STEP IN LIFE AND A NEW FRIEND

  III. MARIGOLD MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF HER AUNTS

   IV. MARIGOLD'S FIRST DAYS IN HER AUNTS' HOME

    V. MARIGOLD'S UNTIDINESS, A MEETING WITH FARMER JO
        AND HIS MOTHER, AND A VISIT TO THE LACE-MAKER

   VI. THE LACE-MAKER'S STORY, AND MARIGOLD'S
        CONFIDENCES WITH BARKER

  VII. MARIGOLD'S FIRST DAYS AT SCHOOL, AND HER
        ENCOUNTER WITH MURIEL WAKE

 VIII. MARIGOLD BECOMES FRIENDLY WITH GRACE LONG,
        MISS HOLCROFT SPEAKS HER MIND

   IX. MARIGOLD VISITS BARKER'S MOTHER

    X. THE RECONCILIATION BETWEEN MARIGOLD AND
        MURIEL WAKE

   XI. MARIGOLD IS INVITED TO ROCOMBE FARM,
        AND HER ARRIVAL THERE

  XII. MARIGOLD'S VISIT AT ROCOMBE FARM

 XIII. GOOD NEWS FROM HOME, MARIGOLD AND
        MISS PAMELA VISIT MRS. BARKER

  XIV. CONCERNING THE ARRIVAL OF MURIEL WAKE
        AND MOLLY JENKINS

   XV. A GREAT SURPRISE FOR MURIEL WAKE

  XVI. PRESENTS FROM BOSCOMBE

 XVII. MARIGOLD AT DEATH'S DOOR

XVIII. THE NEW HOME



LITTLE MAID MARIGOLD

CHAPTER I

MRS. HOLCROFT TELLS MARIGOLD ABOUT HER AUNTS,
 AND READS MISS PAMELA'S LETTER

"MARIGOLD, it is time for the boys to go to bed. I wish you would give
them their supper, as I want to get this embroidery finished to-night,
if possible."

The speaker was Mrs. Holcroft, a pale-faced, dark-eyed woman of about
thirty-five, with a slight figure, and a somewhat nervous manner.
She had been six years a widow, and a snowy cap rested on her brown
hair—hair that was streaked with white around her temples. Marigold,
her little daughter, aged eleven, was seated at a corner of the square
table that stood in the middle of the sitting-room, so engrossed in the
story-book she was reading that she failed to grasp the sense of her
mother's request, and looked up inquiringly.

"What was that you said, mother?" she asked, turning a pair of
thoughtful dark eyes upon her mother as she spoke, and carefully
marking the place she was reading with a slip of paper before shutting
her book,—"Something about the boys wasn't it?"

"Yes, dear. It is their bedtime, and I want you to see about their
supper. I am sorry to disturb you, but—"

A slight sigh, and a glance at the work on which she was employed
finished the sentence. Mrs. Holcroft added to her scanty means by doing
art-needlework for a fashionable West-End shop, and all her spare
moments were spent in designing new patterns for her embroideries, or
in executing the orders she was fortunate enough to obtain.

"Of course I will see to the boys," Marigold replied cheerfully. "Must
that work be finished to-night, mother?"

"Yes, my dear. You know the quarter's rent will be due next week, and
we are badly in want of many things."

Marigold glanced around the shabby sitting-room with a sigh, as she
rose and put away her book on a shelf. Then she crossed to her mother's
side, and kissed her pale face lovingly.

"It's a shame you should have to work so hard, mother!" she whispered.

"Nonsense, my dear. I want to have a talk with you presently, Marigold;
but put the boys to bed first."

The little girl went from the sitting-room into the kitchen, where her
two brothers, Rupert and Lionel, aged respectively nine and seven, were
amusing themselves, each in the way he liked best, Rupert with his
fretwork, and Lionel by sticking coloured pictures into his scrap-book.
At her desire they willingly cleared up the litter they had made; and
then she set about getting their supper, which was comprised of thick
bread-and-butter and a cup of cocoa apiece.

Mrs. Holcroft and her three children occupied a small flat—really a
workman's flat—in a cheap suburb of London. Their home comprised one
sitting-room, a kitchen and scullery, and three bedrooms. The mother,
with her little daughter's assistance, did the housework, and the money
they thus saved was spent in sending the two boys to a day-school.
So far Mrs. Holcroft had instructed Marigold. The child was quick
to learn, and though not behind other girls of her age in general
knowledge, Mrs. Holcroft realised that she ought to be sent to school,
and how to provide ways and means to bring about this result had long
been weighing on the mother's mind.

When the boys were at last safely in bed, and Marigold had turned out
the gas in their bedroom, she went back to the sitting-room, and found
that Mrs. Holcroft had finished her work and was carefully folding it
up.

"The labour of the day is over," Mrs. Holcroft remarked brightly. "I
must go and kiss the boys good-night, and then you and I will have a
cosy chat, Marigold."

The little girl poked the fire into a blaze, and pulled an easy-chair
closer to the hearth. Outside the wild March wind was howling, and the
rain pattering against the window-pane, whilst now and then the roll of
a cab's wheels, or hurrying footsteps on the pavement were heard in a
lull of the gale.

"What a weird night it is!" Mrs. Holcroft exclaimed, as she returned
from saying good-night to her little sons. "Poor sailors! I pity them
in this storm!"

She sank wearily into the easy-chair, and Marigold drew a stool close
to her side on the hearthrug, and sat down on it, leaning her arms on
her mother's knees.

"You always think of the poor sailors in a storm," she said; "I suppose
that is because you are a sailor's daughter, mother."

"Yes, doubtless. And then, you know, Marigold, I always lived by the
sea until I married your father; after that we led a somewhat wandering
life for years. Your father was with his regiment, and of course I went
with him."

Mrs. Holcroft was silent for a moment, her dark eyes looked troubled,
and her hands nervously clasped and unclasped themselves in her lap.

"I want to tell you a little about your father and his people, my
dear," she continued, "because I think you are old enough now to know
why they were angry with him. It was because he married me, Marigold."

"Because he married you, mother!" the little girl echoed, in accents of
intense surprise.

"Yes. I was an only child, and lived with my father in a little
West-country fishing village. Father was a retired sea-captain, and
our home overlooked the sea. I had such a happy girlhood, and never
had a trouble in my life till one day when father told me that he had
risked all his savings in one speculation which had failed, and we were
ruined. Father only lived a week after that; the shock of knowing that
he was penniless killed him!"

"How sad!" Marigold cried. "And it was then you married my father,
wasn't it?"

"Yes. He was only a subaltern at that time, though later he was raised
to the rank of captain. We had known each other a good while, for he
used to stay in our village for the fishing. We were married hurriedly
on account of poor father's death, and afterwards I discovered that
the step my husband had taken had offended the nearest relatives he
had, two maiden aunts who had brought him up from infancy, and who had
always loved him very dearly."

"He thought that because they were so fond of him they would forgive
his marrying without first consulting them; but he was mistaken. He
went to see them, but they would have nothing to do with him, and
declared they would never forgive him. He would never go near them
again, for they were rich, and he feared they would think he wanted
their money, when really he was anxious only to be friends with them
because they had been so very good and kind to him in the past. When
he died I wrote to them, and they answered me politely, and offered to
take you, Marigold, and bring you up as they had done your father."

"Oh, mother!"

"I refused. I do not know if I was right or wrong; but I think, I hope
I was right! I could not give you up to them, then. I wanted to train
my little girl myself till she should be old enough to remember her
mother's teaching. I believe my husband's aunts to be good women, but
I could not leave it to them to set your infant feet in the way of
truth—that I felt was your mother's privilege, a duty for which I was
accountable to God."

Mrs. Holcroft's usually pale cheeks were flushed with excitement, her
dark eyes glowed with the light of a great purpose.

"And so I chose to rear you in poverty, to work for you myself, and I
have never regretted it. But, latterly, I have known that you ought to
have advantages of education that I cannot give you; and so, Marigold,
a few days ago I wrote to your father's aunts, and asked them for the
sake of the love they once bore their nephew to assist his daughter
to obtain that which in the future should enable her to earn her own
living. In my pocket is their reply, written by Miss Pamela Holcroft,
the younger of the sisters, who is, I have heard, much the sterner and
less forgiving of the two!"

"Oh, mother!" Marigold broke in; "how could you ask them?"

Mrs. Holcroft smiled at the indignation in the child's voice as she
answered—

"Remember they are your father's aunts, and would willingly, I believe
gladly, have adopted you years ago, if I would have permitted it. I
think they would have loved you very dearly, Marigold, and you would
have had every comfort and luxury that money could supply—sometimes
when we have had to go short at home I have wondered if, after all, I
acted wisely!"

"Oh yes, yes, mother, be very sure you did! I don't mind being poor, so
long as I am with you!"

"We have been happy together; you have been my right hand since you
were a little toddling mite who used to insist on dusting the legs of
the chairs for me! I do not know what I should have done without you
through the dark days after your father's death, and of late years you
have become very helpful in many ways. I am not naturally so brave as
you, Marigold; you are a true soldier's daughter."

The little girl beamed with pleasure at these words of praise. The
remembrance of her father was a dim memory, but she knew he had been an
honourable man, an upright, truth-loving Christian gentleman, and her
mother always spoke of him with tender affection and pride.

Mrs. Holcroft now took a large, square envelope from her pocket, from
which she drew Miss Pamela Holcroft's letter, written in a fine flowing
handwriting, and proceeded to read it aloud. It ran as follows:—

                       "NO — POWDERHAM CRESCENT,
                        EXETER, March. 18, 189—."

   "To MRS. HOLCROFT."
   "MADAM,—In reply to your letter to my sister
 and myself, which we received yesterday, wherein
 you request us for the sake of our nephew to
 extend a favour to his daughter, and supply
 you with the necessary means to enable you
 to obtain for her such an education as will
 allow her to earn her own living, I must tell
 you that we are unanimous upon this point,
 and distinctly decline to entertain the idea
 for a moment."
   "When our misguided nephew married without
 our consent, and even without consulting us
 in reference to the matter, we washed our hands
 of him; but we desire to be just, and would not
 visit the sins of the parents upon the children,
 therefore we are willing to take the little girl,
 Marigold, into our own home, to see she is
 well-educated, and, if she prove tractable and
 grateful, to provide for her future. We are
 agreeable that she should write to you once
 a fortnight, and if you please, that she should
 visit you for a month once a year, that she
 may not grow up a stranger to her mother and
 brothers. We desire you to consider this offer
 at your leisure, not hastily, but with due
 thought, and are convinced that in doing so
 you will realise what is best for the welfare
 of our nephew's daughter.—I am, madam,
 yours faithfully,"
                       "PAMELA HOLCROFT."

"There, darling," Mrs. Holcroft said, as she folded up the letter and
returned it to her pocket, "now you know all. What am I to say to Miss
Pamela?"

"Say that I can never, never leave you, mother!" Marigold cried
passionately. "What a cold, horrid letter to write! As though I could
ever live with a nasty old woman like that!"

"Hush, hush! You must not speak so! Think how good and kind your
father's aunts always were to him, and he disappointed them more than
you can understand! I feel he would wish you to go to them now, and if
they should love you, my little daughter, they may learn to forgive
him in time. I want you to take advantage of their generous offer, to
learn all you possibly can, and grow up a clever, helpful woman, so
that whatsoever betides in the future, you may be able to earn your own
living. Miss Pamela says she and her sister will provide for you, but
my great hope is that they will put you in the way of providing for
yourself. It is my wish that you should go to Exeter, because I believe
it will be for your ultimate good."

"Oh, mother, mother, do not send me away from you!"

The tears rose to Marigold's eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.
She looked pitifully into her mother's face, and read there a look
of mingled regret and determination,—regret at the coming parting,
determination that no personal feeling or weakness on her part should
mar her little daughter's prospects.

"I do not want to part with you, my darling," Mrs. Holcroft said
gently; "I should like to keep you always by my side, but that cannot
be. I believe it is my duty to let you go to Exeter to your aunts, and
I want you not to put difficulties in the way. Our path in life is
rarely smooth, but we can do much to make things easier, if we make up
our minds to be cheerful, and contented with our lot. Let God choose.
He will show you the way to go, stand by your side, and help you over
all difficulties, if you humbly trust in Him. You know that, Marigold?"

"Yes, mother," the child acknowledged; "but—"

"But it is hard to trust, because you cannot see your way marked out
quite clearly. Oh, my dear, we are all like little children treading an
unknown road; but One has gone before who through trial and tribulation
has overcome the obstacles that alarm us, and who will lead us on our
pilgrimage through this world till we come to His everlasting kingdom.
Marigold, you know you have Jesus for your Friend, do you not?"

"Yes, mother."

"To-night when you go to bed I want you to think of a verse of my
favourite hymn, and see if you cannot make it a real prayer—"

   "I dare not choose my lot;
    I would not if I might;
    Choose Thou for me, my God,
    So shall I walk aright."'

So saying, Mrs. Holcroft took her little daughter's face between her
two hands, and though her heart was heavy at the thought of the parting
to come, she smiled brightly as she added—

"Dry your tears, my dear, and remember you are a soldier's daughter.
You have a bright, happy spirit and a brave, loyal heart. I want you to
be a great comfort to those two old aunts at Exeter, and I am sure if
you try, it will not be long before you win their love."

Marigold choked back her tears, and endeavoured to smile, but it was
a sorry attempt. It seemed to her that some terrible calamity had
befallen her, and that she could never possibly be happy again as long
as she lived.



CHAPTER II

A NEW STEP IN LIFE AND A NEW FRIEND

THE following morning Mrs. Holcroft, in spite of tears and
protestations from Marigold, wrote to her husband's aunts and declared
her acceptance of their offer, and in the course of a few posts
received the reply, written as the preceding letter had been by Miss
Pamela, the younger sister. Mrs. Holcroft knew that the elder Miss
Holcroft—Aunt Mary—had been her husband's favourite aunt, being a
much milder, gentler person than Miss Pamela, to whom she had grown
accustomed to defer in every matter, whether of importance or not, and
she rightly guessed that if Miss Holcroft had been allowed to entertain
a mind of her own, she would have been friends with her nephew years
before his death.

Mrs. Holcroft saw at once by the tenor of Miss Pamela's letter that
she was really eager to see the little girl, and decided that as the
parting was now inevitable it should not be delayed too long, or
Marigold would have time to dwell on the thought of separation from her
family. So the day was fixed for her journey westward, and preparations
were commenced to renovate her somewhat scanty wardrobe. Marigold,
who had at first been in the depths of despair at the idea of leaving
her mother and brothers, could not help feeling an interest in these
preparations, and as her mother was persistently cheerful, her own
spirits began to revive. As to the boys, Marigold was somewhat hurt, to
find that they did not seem to be much upset at the thought of being
parted from her.

"I don't believe you care in the least," she told them vexedly.

"Oh yes, I do," Rupert answered. "We shall miss you, of course, for
you're not a bad sort for a girl, Marigold! But think what a good time
you will have, with servants to wait on you and money to spend! Oh,
don't I wish I were in your place!"

"So do I!" little Lionel agreed.

"I wish you boys were going instead of me," Marigold grumbled. "I'm
sure I'd much rather stay at home with mother—think how hard she'll
have to work when I'm gone! She'll have to clean your boots, and—"

"No, she won't," Rupert interposed, "I'm to do that myself! I mean
to get up earlier in the mornings and help mother like you do now,
Marigold!"

"Oh, how nice of you, Rupert! And you'll write to me and let me know
how you get on with your fretwork, and if you are put in a higher form
at school next term, won't you?"

"Mother will be sure to tell you that. You're going to write to us once
a fortnight, aren't you? Mind you say what Aunt Mary and Aunt Pamela
are like, and how you get on with them."

"Oh yes, I'll be sure to tell you that. I'm afraid I shan't like
them much, though. I have an idea Aunt Pamela will be very stiff and
disagreeable."

"I daresay," Rupert replied, not very hopefully. "Doesn't it seem funny
to think they brought father up? Mother says he went to live with them
when he was quite small. I say, Marigold, you are very expensive."

"Expensive?" the little girl said wonderingly. "What do you mean,
Rupert?"

"You are having all sorts of new clothes—a jacket, and a hat, and two
new frocks, and—"

"Oh, now I understand! Yes! Mother said she would not like me to go to
Exeter shabby and wanting new things immediately. Oh dear, only two
days more at home!"

Mrs. Holcroft coming into the room at that moment heard the conclusion
of the sentence, and echoed Marigold's sigh. She had made up her mind
that she would not fret at having to give up the charge of her little
daughter to those who were complete strangers to her; once having
decided in which direction her duty lay; she, never faltered in the
course she had taken. Nor would she allow Marigold to repine, for this
gentle woman, with her naturally nervous disposition, had a wonderful
fund of strength in reality, founded on a firm belief in God and His
power to uphold her in all trials of whatsoever nature.

The night before Marigold's departure she and her mother had a long,
long talk after the boys had retired to rest; and, much to the little
girl's surprise and delight, her mother put into her hands the Bible
that had been her dead father's constant companion.

"I wish you to have it, my dear," Mrs. Holcroft said tenderly. "You
will see by the flyleaf that it was given to your father by his aunts
when he was quite a boy. The writing underneath is his own: 'Fight the
good fight of Faith.' That was his motto, and I want it to be yours.
He told me that he wrote it down there the same day he obtained his
commission in the army, that he might not forget whilst he was serving
his Queen and country that he was fighting too for the cause of One
greater than any earthly monarch against mightier, more deadly evils
than are ever overcome by the sword. At one time I thought of keeping
this book for Rupert, but you are the first of my fledglings to leave
the nest, and I think your father would like you to have it now."

"Oh, mother, are you sure you do not want to keep it for yourself?"
Marigold inquired.

"Quite sure. I have many other things that belonged to your father, and
I wish you to have his Bible, and take his motto for yours, will you?"

"Indeed, indeed I will!"

"And you will read from his Bible every day, and ask God to be with you
in your new life? You are going into a different world, my darling,
to the one you have been familiar with so long. Here we have worked
amongst working people, but in Exeter with your aunts, you will be
thrown with those who have always been accustomed to plenty of this
world's goods, and be tried with temptations that have never crossed
your path before. I pray my little daughter may be kept unspotted from
the world, that she may hold fast to her father's motto all her life,
and ever fight the good fight of Faith!"

Mrs. Holcroft had spoken very solemnly, holding Marigold's little hand
in hers, and looking earnestly into her wistful dark eyes. There was a
long silence, broken at length by Marigold's saying, with a deep-drawn
sigh—

"To-morrow this time I suppose I shall be at Exeter?"

"Yes, dear. I want you to try to please your aunts, and be attentive
to their wishes. They are getting old, and I have no doubt are rather
particular and fidgety, but you must never be impatient if they are.
I am afraid you are inclined to be untidy, so you must guard against
leaving things out of place; then again, you are apt to speak too
hastily, without reflecting if you are injuring anyone's feelings by
doing so. You must learn to curb that unruly tongue of yours."

"Yes, mother, I will really try. But oh, I know I shall be so
dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy!"

"You will be a little lonely at first, no doubt; and you will miss the
boys—"

"I shall miss you most of all, mother!"

"Ah, yes! But I shall be thinking of you, little daughter; and if you
want to make me feel happy you must learn to be happy yourself."

Marigold had to say good-bye to the boys before they started for
school, in the morning, as she would be gone before they returned. They
clung around her neck kissing her, and crying all the while, for, now
the parting had really come, they felt it quite as much as she did.
Rupert forgot to be ashamed of his tears, as he sobbed out: "It's hard
lines you should have to go, Marigold!" Whilst as for little Lionel he
was in too great trouble to speak coherently at all.

But the worst time for Marigold was when she stood by her mother's
side on the platform at Paddington Station, her modest trunk already
labelled and in the train, and her mother's arms around her. She felt
too dazed and shaken to say anything, and allowed herself to be placed
in a compartment without uttering a word.

"Good-bye, my darling child," Mrs. Holcroft said. "The guard will see
you get out at Exeter, and you know you will be met there."

"I'll see she's all right, ma'am," said a loud, jovial voice. "I'm
going on by this train, and my destination is Exeter, too; so, if
you'll entrust your little maid to me, I'll look after her to the best
of my ability."

Mrs. Holcroft cast a quick look at the speaker. He was a tall, stout
man, clad in a suit of tweed, and wore leather leggings. He had a
brick-red complexion, a clean-shaven countenance, and a pair of kindly
blue eyes; evidently a large man, with a large voice, and a large
heart, if the mother's perception told her truly.

"How good of you!" she cried. "My little girl has never taken a long
journey alone before."

"You may make your mind easy about her, ma'am."

"Thank you so much!"

There was no time for more conversation. The guard blew his whistle,
and the train steamed out of the station, leaving Mrs. Holcroft gazing
after it with the heaviest heart she had owned for many a day.

Marigold leaned back in her corner of the carriage, and tried hard not
to cry, because she did not wish her fellow-travellers to notice her
grief, and perhaps ask the cause. But, in spite of her efforts for
composure the hot tears would come, and roll down her cheeks, till at
last she had to take out her handkerchief and wipe them away.

She looked resolutely out of the window, trying to take an interest
in the view, but it was all no good, she felt as though her heart
was breaking. Having stealthily wiped her eyes for the third time,
she glanced hastily around the compartment, and was much relieved to
find that no one appeared to be paying her any attention, except her
opposite neighbour, the stranger who had spoken to her mother, and he
was peeping at her around the newspaper that he was holding open in
front of him. When he met Marigold's tearful eyes he withdrew behind
the newspaper, but the next moment he was peeping at her again, not
curiously, but with a look of evident concern. This time he spoke—

"Have you ever been westward before?" he inquired.

"No, never!" she answered shyly.

"Ah, you have a treat in store, then! Fine place Exeter! Fine county
Devon! I'm a Devonshire man; was born in a little village a few miles
from Exeter."

"Oh! My mother and father were both born in Devonshire too!"

He brought his great hands down on his knees with a sounding smack that
made his fellow-passengers start and regard him with amazement. Nothing
abashed he laughed loudly.

"That's capital!" he cried. "Capital! That was your mother, I suppose,
the lady on the platform at Paddington?"

"Yes."

At the thought of her mother the tears rose afresh to Marigold's eyes.
Her new acquaintance saw them, and hastily turned the conversation to
himself again.

"Yes, I'm Devonshire born," he continued; "my name's Joseph Adams, and
my friends call me 'Farmer Jo.' Now, what, if I may make so bold as to
ask, is your name, little missy?"

"Marigold Holcroft," she answered.

"Marigold! Why, that's the name of a flower! What made them call you
that, I wonder? Marigold!" he repeated reflectively.

"It's quite a common flower, I know," she said, "but my mother loves
it, because in the garden of her old home marigolds used to spring up
year after year, and her father used to like them."

"Ah! you've got a good mother, I take it, little missy!"

"Yes, a very good mother," the little girl responded, and this time as
she mentioned the dear name a smile crossed her face and drove away
the tears. Her new friend looked at her approvingly, his jovial face
radiant with good humour.

"I've got an old mother at home," he told her, "nigh upon eighty years
of age she is, and hale and hearty still! She's a wonderful woman!"

Marigold looked interested, for to her young eyes the farmer, who was
not more than forty-five, seemed quite old, and she was surprised to
hear he had a mother living. She wondered if he had a wife and children
too.

"I'm a bachelor," he continued, as though in answer to her thought,
"and my mother keeps house for me. There's not a cleverer housewife in
the county than she is! If you stay in Exeter long, I may run across
you one of these days. Mother and I always drive into the city on
Fridays—market-days, you know—and in the afternoon we give ourselves a
treat. We go to the cathedral to hear the anthem."

"I am to live with my aunts," Marigold explained, "and their house is
in Powderham Crescent. Perhaps you know that part?"

He nodded an assent. Marigold, who had by this time got over her first
shyness, felt her spirits rising. At Didcot, Farmer Jo bought a packet
of Banbury cakes, and gave it to her. The little girl, who had hardly
tasted her breakfast, and was beginning to get hungry, thought she had
never eaten anything so nice in her life before.

She began to enjoy the journey, and feasted her eyes on the beautiful
scenery through which they were passing. The train sped on through
meadowlands verdant with the rains of early spring, where young lambs
skipped and jumped at play, and the little girl clapped her hands with
delight at the sight.

"How beautiful everything is!" she exclaimed. "Oh, please, what are
those flowers?"

"Cowslips," Farmer Jo answered, smiling at her enthusiasm, "and as we
get farther down the line, you will see plenty of primroses too!"

"Oh, how lovely! I am so fond of flowers! I wish mother could see them!"

It was about four o'clock when the train at length neared Exeter.

"We are nearly come to the ever faithful city, little missy," Farmer Jo
remarked.

Marigold looked at him inquiringly, wondering what he meant.

"The city's motto is Semper fidelis, and that's Latin for 'Ever
faithful,'" he explained.

"Oh, I did not know that!"

"Have you had a pleasant journey?" he inquired.

"Indeed I have! You have been so very kind to me!"

"Oh, that's nothing! I like to have someone to talk to. Well," as the
train slowed into the station, "here we are at last!"

He assisted Marigold to alight. The little girl's heart beat fast as
she looked around, to see if her aunts had come to meet her. In a few
minutes a tall woman, neatly attired in black, came to her side, and
touched her lightly on the shoulder.

"Are you Miss Marigold Holcroft?" the stranger asked.

"Yes. You—you are not my aunt?" Marigold answered doubtfully.

"Certainly not!" was the quick reply, spoken in rather sharp tones. "I
am your aunts' maid, and they have sent me to meet you. What luggage
have you brought?"

"Only one, box."

"Well, little missy, seeing you're in safe keeping, I'll say good-bye,"
Farmer Jo put in at this point.

"Good-bye!" Marigold answered, as she clasped his great hand between
her two small palms, feeling as though she was parting from a real
friend. "Good-bye! When I write to mother I shall tell her what good
care you took of me, and how very, very kind you have been!"

"No matter! no matter!" he responded hastily. "I am glad we happened to
meet, though!"

The little girl gazed after his big tweed-clad figure as it disappeared
in the crowd with a sinking heart and a quivering lip; then she
obediently followed her aunts' maid, and having claimed her box, they
passed out of the railway station, and entering the first cab at hand,
were driven away.



CHAPTER III

MARIGOLD MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF HER AUNTS

"MARY, you fidget me by continually getting up and going to the window
to look-out. Pray curb your impatience."

Miss Pamela Holcroft spoke with considerable sharpness, and laid down
her woolwork to look severely at her elder sister. A very handsome
woman still, in spite of her sixty-five years, was Miss Pamela, tall
and commanding in figure, with a clearly cut, colourless face, framed
by snowy hair that was dressed high on the top of her head. Her eyes
were large, dark, and piercing, and gave one the impression that they
were always trying to find out people's weaknesses and bad qualities.

Miss Holcroft was quite an old woman, many years above seventy, in
fact. She was shorter and stouter than her sister, and less dignified
in manner. She wore her white hair in little corkscrew curls, her dark
eyes were soft and gentle, and her countenance was set in good-tempered
lines. At the present moment she was smiling brightly.

"I cannot help feeling impatient," she said, in answer to her sister's
reproof, "and I know you are really as anxious to see the child as I
am, though you do not acknowledge it. I should have liked to have gone
to the station myself, but as you would send Barker—"

"Which was the wiser plan," Miss Pamela interposed. "You are so fussy,
Mary!"

"Fussy!"

For a moment the elder lady looked indignant, but after a moment's
reflection she smiled again.

"I wonder if she will be like her father, Pamela! I hope so! Marigold!
It is a sweet name, I think!"

"A most absurd one!" Miss Pamela exclaimed. "No doubt the mother chose
it! Marigold, indeed!"

"Well, well," in conciliatory tones, "I have an idea she will be a nice
little girl. I cannot help feeling we have undertaken a very great
responsibility in removing the child from her mother's care, and I hope
God will guide us how to bring her up so that she may become a good
woman. I trust she will prove docile and sweet-tempered."

"Her father was both; but, of course, she may take after her mother!"

"I liked the tone of her mother's letters, and I sometimes think we may
have been prejudiced against her. You know I always thought dear Rupert
acted impulsively and without consideration, rather than with any idea
of disrespect to us. If you had allowed him to explain—"

"We do not want to go over old ground, Mary. Is not that a cab coming?"

"Yes, and it is stopping here! Oh, the child has arrived! See! Barker
is helping her out! Oh, what a thin, pale, little creature she looks!
She sees us watching! Oh, Pamela, do let us go into the hall to meet
her!"

"No. Sit down, Mary!" Miss Pamela said, in the tones of command that
her sister never thought of disobeying. "Barker will bring her in
presently."

Miss Holcroft sank into a chair with a sigh of disappointment, and
waited impatiently enough till there was a knock at the drawing-room
door. Miss Pamela answered: "Come in!" and then Barker's voice
announced: "Miss Marigold Holcroft!"

Marigold advanced towards her aunts timidly, with flushed cheeks and
downcast eyes. It was Miss Holcroft who, rising quickly, took the
little trembling figure in her arms and gave her a welcoming kiss.

"I am very glad to see you, my dear," she said heartily, "and I hope
you will have a happy home with us."

"Thank you," Marigold answered. She gave a quick look at the kind old
face, and then returned the caress, feeling that here was one who meant
to be her friend.

Miss Pamela now came forward to greet her niece, but her stiff manner
repelled the child, and the cold, clear tones of her voice struck chill
on her sensitive heart. It seemed to Marigold that those piercing dark
eyes were looking her through and through, and she felt restive under
their steady gaze.

"There is a look of our nephew about her, I think," Miss Pamela
remarked to her sister. "Do you not see it? She has his eyes."

"Yes," Miss Holcroft agreed, "I saw that at once. Are you considered
like your father, my dear?"

"Mother says we are all three like him, and she is very glad."

A distinct look of approval was visible on both aunts' faces.

"Sit down, Marigold," Miss Holcroft said; "you must be tired after your
long journey. You know which is which of us, I suppose? My sister is
Aunt Pamela, and I am Aunt Mary!"

"Yes," the little girl answered smiling, "I thought so!"

"They will miss you at home," Miss Holcroft continued. "What will your
brothers do, now they have lost you for a playfellow?"

"The boys are at school most of the day," Marigold responded, "but
mother—she will miss me dreadfully!"

There was a break in her voice as she spoke, and the ready tears welled
into her eyes again. Miss Pamela shot a scathing glance at her sister,
which was met by one of pure bewilderment. With the best intentions in
the world, Miss Holcroft was a decidedly tactless person, and to remind
Marigold how she would be missed at home was certainly unwise. Miss
Pamela rang the bell, and told the parlour-maid to take Miss Marigold
to her room.

"We shall have tea in about half an hour," she explained to the little
girl, "so you will have plenty of time to remove the traces of your
journey. Barker shall unpack your box for you by and by."

Marigold found a bright, sunny bedroom had been allotted to her, out
of the window of which she had an excellent view of all the other
houses in the crescent. She turned approving eyes upon the pretty
brass bed with its chintz curtains, and the suite of white enamelled
furniture looking so dainty and fresh, and evidently arranged with an
eye to comfort as well as elegance. Close to the window was a small
writing-table, on which stood a glass vase containing a bunch of white
violets. It was altogether the prettiest bedroom Marigold had ever
seen, she thought, as she mentally compared it with her little cupboard
of a room at home.

Presently Barker came to her assistance, and brushed the dust from her
blue serge frock, and proceeded to comb her hair. Marigold felt shy and
uncomfortable, for she was accustomed to wait on herself, and Barker's
face, as reflected by the glass on the dressing-table, was grim and
unsmiling.

She was a plain-faced woman of about forty, and had been with her
present mistresses for many years. Truth to tell, she did not approve
of the new arrival, for she was not fond of children, and was anything
but pleased to find she would be expected to assist Marigold in her
toilette if necessary. She had yet to discover how few services at her
hands the little girl would require.

"Thank you," Marigold said, with a sense of relief, when Barker had
at last tied back her hair with its dark blue ribbon. "I am very much
obliged to you."

"There's the tea-bell, miss!" Barker exclaimed. "You'd best make haste
down, for the ladies don't like to be kept waiting. Come, I'll show you
the room."

Marigold followed Barker downstairs and into the dining-room, where
Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela were already seated at the large square
table that occupied the centre of the room, the latter with the
tea-tray in front of her.

"You will sit here at my left hand," Miss Pamela told Marigold; "that
will be your place at mealtimes. We breakfast at eight, dine at
half-past one, and partake of tea at five o'clock punctually. My sister
and I have our supper at nine, but that is too late for you. I shall
expect you to be in bed every night by nine o'clock, so you will find
your supper ready for you an hour earlier. We are simple folks, and
never dine late. What are you saying Mary?"

"I was remarking that Marigold must be hungry, Pamela."

"No, not very," Marigold answered. "I had some Banbury cakes in the
train. There was a gentleman in the same carriage with me who was so
kind, and he would make me have them."

"That was thoughtful of him," Miss Holcroft said.

"Did he get out at Exeter?" Miss Pamela asked.

"Yes, Aunt Pamela. He lives near here. He said his name was Joseph
Adams, and that his friends called him 'Farmer Jo!'"

Miss Pamela's lips took a scornful curve, and she raised her eyebrows.
Marigold flushed.

"He was so very kind to me," she said hastily. "I am sure he must be a
good man."

Miss Pamela did not seem to think this statement required any answer,
and there was a brief silence, daring which Marigold glanced around
the room. The furniture of solid mahogany was heavy and handsome, the
carpet rich and soft, and the walls were hung with oil paintings. The
silver on the sideboard was massive and finely chased. Everything
bespoke wealth and plenty. Marigold felt as though she must be
dreaming, and that presently she would find herself in the little
sitting-room at home with its cheap wall-paper, and thin, faded carpet.
She awoke from her reverie with a start, as Miss Holcroft addressed her—

"So you have never been to school, Marigold?"

"Never, Aunt Mary."

"We are thinking of sending you to a day-school after Easter," Miss
Pamela broke in; "I fear your education has been sadly neglected."

"Mother taught me all I know," the little girl explained. "She says she
does not think I am backward for my age; but, of course, she could not
spare much time to teach me, with all the housework to do, and—"

"But have you not a servant?" Miss Holcroft asked, in accents of
surprise.

"No, Aunt Mary. Our home is only a workman's flat. Mother and I used
to do the cleaning and cooking, and now she will have to do it all by
herself—Rupert says he will help though; I am forgetting! Then mother
has her needlework to do besides!"

"Needlework?"

"Yes. She sells it to a shop—"

Marigold paused abruptly, conscious of the astonishment and disapproval
on her aunts' countenances. Miss Pamela was the first to speak—

"I never imagined our nephew's widow could have fallen so low as that!"
she exclaimed.

The hot, angry colour rushed to Marigold's face, flooding it from brow
to chin. She was about to make a passionate retort, when she caught an
appealing glance from Miss Holcroft, and the words died on her lips.
Already she had forgotten her mother's warning, and nearly allowed her
unruly tongue to have its way.

"Mother has not fallen low," she said gently, when she had sufficiently
overcome her wrath to choose what her reply should be; "I don't think
you quite understand, Aunt Pamela. Mother has to work because father
had not enough money to give her when he died to keep us all. Mother
says we need not be ashamed of being poor; and God helps those who try
to do their best!"

"Yes, yes, so He does," Miss Holcroft put in hastily. "I believe in the
old proverb: 'God helps those who help themselves.' It is very true."

As Marigold ate her tea, her eyes kept wandering to the wall opposite
where she was seated, to an oil painting that represented a little
curly-haired boy who appeared to her to bear a strong likeness to her
brother Rupert. At last, seeing Miss Pamela noticed what was attracting
her attention, she ventured to ask who was the original of the picture.

"That was your father at ten years old," Miss Pamela answered; "and a
very good likeness it was considered."

"Oh!" Marigold exclaimed, with excitement in her tones. "It is exactly
like our Rupert at home!"

A slight smile crossed Miss Pamela's face, and was gone in an instant;
but Marigold had noticed it, and it emboldened her to add—

"Mother says Rupert is the living image of father."

"Then he must be a very handsome boy," Miss Holcroft declared.

"And he is a very good boy too!" the little girl cried, anxious to make
an impression in her brother's favour; "and so clever!"

After the meal was over, Marigold accompanied her aunts to the
drawing-room, and sat with her hands folded in her lap whilst Miss
Pamela talked to her, saying she hoped she meant to be a good girl, and
do her best to please them.

"Indeed I will try, Aunt Pamela," she answered earnestly.

"You will find us strict and particular in many ways; but it is our
desire that you should be happy with us. Your father had a very happy
boyhood, he always said, and I believe he spoke truly. You cannot
remember him, I suppose?"

"I do just remember him, but that is all."

"He was a noble boy! Mary and I were proud of him!"

"We were indeed!" Miss Holcroft agreed.

"Oh, please, Aunt Pamela," Marigold said hastily, "mother told me to
ask you if you would be good enough to let her know I had arrived
safely."

"I should have done so if you had not mentioned it," Miss Pamela
answered. "Have you any message to send?"

"Please give her my love—nothing else, thank you."

The letter was written and sent to post. Marigold was allowed to remain
idle that first evening, and she sat watching Miss Pamela busily
employed with woolwork, with a sense of unreality upon her. Miss
Holcroft took some needlework too, but she continually put it down to
scan her little niece's features afresh, and smile upon her with such
evident goodwill that Marigold's heart could not but feel less lonely.
Yet, when she lay down in her pretty chintz-covered bed that night, and
thought longingly of her mother and brothers, the tears would come, and
painful sobs shook her slender form.

"Oh, to be back with her dear ones once more! To feel the clasp of
loving arms, the touch of loving lips! Were they thinking of her at
this moment, saying: I wonder how Marigold is getting on, and if she
misses us much!"

She felt she had never known how much she loved them till now. Oh, it
was hard that she should have had to leave them; it seemed a little
unkind her mother should have insisted on sending her away. But no,
that was a wrong thought. Mother knew what was best.

Marigold tried to cease crying; she buried her face in the soft, downy
pillow, and finally succeeded in stopping her sobs. Then she prayed to
God to take care of her dear ones, and to help her to do what was right
in His sight, till at length a feeling of comfort and peace stole over
her aching heart, and she fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep.



CHAPTER IV

MARIGOLD'S FIRST DAYS IN HER AUNTS' HOME

MARIGOLD awoke early on the first morning after her arrival at her new
home. The bright April sun was shining into her bedroom window from a
cloudless blue sky. It was indeed a perfect morning. The little girl
jumped out of bed, and drawing up the blind to its fullest height,
threw open the window, and stood for a minute or two inhaling the
delicate scent of primroses and hyacinths from the garden below. Then
she proceeded quickly to dress, wondering what time it was, for she had
no watch, and she was fearful lest she should be late for the eight
o'clock breakfast. When she was fully dressed she knelt down and said
her prayers, asking God's blessing on her new life, and afterwards sat
by the open window to read her daily portion from her father's Bible.
Downstairs she could hear movements in the house, and presently there
was a step outside her bedroom door, followed by a knock on the door
itself.

"Come in," said Marigold.

The door opened, and Miss Pamela entered. She looked surprised at the
sight of her niece already fully dressed. Marigold put down her Bible
on the writing-table, and advancing to her aunt held up her face for a
kiss.

"You are up in good time," Miss Pamela remarked, as she lightly touched
Marigold's cheek with her lips. "Are you usually such an early riser?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela, I always got up when mother did at home, to dust the
sitting-room whilst she cooked the breakfast. But I could not guess the
time this morning, and I was afraid of being late."

"I understand. It is now only half-past seven. I came to see if you
were awake, and instead I find you up and reading."

Miss Pamela glanced at the Bible on the writing-table, recollection in
her look. She took it up after a moment's hesitation, and opening it
turned to the flyleaf. After a short silence she said—

"So you have your father's Bible, child?"

"Yes," Marigold answered; "mother gave it to me only the night before
last. She said she thought father would wish me to have it."

Miss Pamela stood looking at the Bible thoughtfully. Marigold could
not guess that she was recalling the day when she and her sister had
given it to their nephew, who had been then a schoolboy, and how Miss
Holcroft had begged him to read it.

"I will, Aunt Mary, if only to please you!" he had answered gaily.
Later, Miss Pamela knew he had read it to please himself.

She laid the Bible down without further comment upon it, and glanced
around the room. "Barker unpacked your box, I suppose? I hope you are a
tidy little girl, and keep your things in good order?" she questioned.

"I am afraid I'm not very tidy, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold responded
truthfully, blushing at having to make the confession.

"That is a pity. An untidy woman is most objectionable! 'A place for
everything and everything in its place,' is an excellent rule. Now, if
you are ready, we will go downstairs, and you may assist me to arrange
some fresh flowers for the breakfast table."

Marigold followed her aunt with alacrity. At the back of the house
was a long garden between high walls, the centre of which was given
up to the growth of vegetables, whilst the narrow beds at the sides
were devoted to the cultivation of flowers. Marigold uttered a cry of
mingled surprise and pleasure when she caught sight of primroses and
violets, clumps of golden daffodils and narcissi, forget-me-nots, and
virginia stocks and wallflowers bursting into fragrant blossom.

"Oh, Aunt Pamela, what a pretty garden! What lovely flowers!"

Miss Pamela's face showed evident signs of gratification at Marigold's
exclamations of admiration. "You like flowers?" she asked, looking with
interest at the child's glowing countenance.

"Oh, I love them!"

"Well, then, go and gather a bunch with some lady's grass and
southernwood, and afterwards come into the breakfast-room."

Marigold willingly did as she had been told. Miss Pamela arranged the
flowers in delicate glass vases for the table, whilst her little niece
looked on admiringly, thinking how nice it was to have a beautiful
garden, and what a pleasant apartment the breakfast-room was, with its
view from the window of apple-trees bursting into bloom, rows of peas
and beans appearing above the brown earth, and a profusion of spring
flowers.

When Miss Holcroft came down a little later she was pleased to see
Marigold looking bright and cheerful, and told her she knew she would
be like sunshine in the house. Marigold laughed, and gave the old lady
a hearty kiss.

On the whole, Marigold's first day in her new home passed happily
enough. In the morning Miss Holcroft took her out shopping; and in the
afternoon she went with Miss Pamela to the service at the cathedral.

Like most children brought up in a London suburb, Marigold had seen
none of the great buildings, such as St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey,
that are the pride and glory of our metropolis, and, therefore, when
she saw the Exeter Cathedral for the first time, she was much impressed
by its age and grandeur. A feeling of awe crept into her heart, and she
looked around her with wondering eyes.

She followed her aunt into the sacred building with hushed, reverent
footsteps, and entered with pleasure into the service. How grand it all
was! The sunshine glinting through the richly coloured windows, the
finely trained voices of the choir led in the treble parts by one clear
boy's voice sweeter and higher than the rest.

The anthem that afternoon was taken from the twenty-fourth Psalm—

   "'Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting
     doors; and the King of glory shall come in.'"

   "'Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord
     mighty in battle.'"

Marigold's heart swelled with an exultant feeling as she listened
entranced.

Then came the question again—

   "'Who is this King of glory?'"—and the triumphant reply—"'The Lord
     of hosts, He is the King of glory.'"

A sob burst from Marigold's lips, and tears rushed to her eyes, her
pleasure approached so near to pain.

When the service was over she followed her aunt into the sunshine
again, and Miss Pamela glanced with a little surprise at her flushed
cheeks and shining eyes as she inquired—

"Did you like it, Marigold?"

"Oh, it was lovely, Aunt Pamela! I never heard such singing before!"

"Very likely not. Your father loved the service at the cathedral
too. At one time we thought he might choose to be a clergyman, but
his father and grandfather were soldiers, and it seemed only natural
he should follow in their footsteps. A good soldier is often a good
Christian, I have noticed."

Marigold thought of her father's motto, and agreed.

The little girl soon fell into the ways of her new home. At first she
felt unsettled and unhappy, missed her mother and the boys more than
she ever owned, and stood in fear of Miss Pamela. But after a time she
grew less homesick, and discovered that though Miss Pamela was cold and
undemonstrative in her manner, yet she was not unkind, and desired to
make her niece really happy.

Miss Holcroft Marigold had loved from the first. Everyone liked the
gentle, good-hearted old lady whose quiet, uneventful life had been
spent in trying to make others better and happier. Many were the tales
of sin and grief that were poured into her ears from time to time, many
were the sorrows she alleviated, and the tears she dried. Often she was
imposed upon; often, it is to be feared, she wasted her sympathy upon
unworthy objects; but the thought that she had perhaps refrained from
giving assistance where it was needed would have haunted her, and she
was consequently often reproved by Miss Pamela for being too easily led.

By her elder aunt Marigold's coming had been hailed with delight and
keenest pleasure. She had longed to know her late nephew's widow and
children, though she had but rarely dared to hint as much to her
sister, and in welcoming Marigold she had been so genuinely pleased
and glad to see her, that the child had recognised her feelings with a
grateful heart.

Marigold soon began to understand that it was wiser not to speak much
of her mother in the presence of her two aunts, for if she did so Miss
Holcroft always looked anxious and uneasy, whilst Miss Pamela's face
would grow sterner and colder than before, and she would pointedly
turn the conversation. So the little girl dropped the habit of saying,
"Mother says," as she had been accustomed to do, and if she ever
mentioned the dearly loved name it was with a new, strange timidity.
How she looked forward to her mother's letters! How she read them again
and again, shedding tears over them one minute, and smiling the next!
Mrs. Holcroft wrote charming letters, full of all the trifling details
of home life that she knew would interest her little daughter, about
the boys, her own work, and the people of their acquaintance. On one
occasion Miss Holcroft came upon her when she was reading one of these
letters, and some kindly impulse made the old lady lay her hand upon
the child's shoulder with a caressing touch and inquire—

"Are your mother and brothers well, my dear? Have you good news from
home?"

"Oh yes, thank you," the little girl replied, lifting a pair of
shining, happy eyes to her aunt's face. Then she added hesitatingly,
"Mother has written such a nice letter. I wonder if you would like to
see it? Oh yes, I really mean it!"

Miss Holcroft took the proffered letter, and putting on her spectacles
perused it slowly from beginning to end. When she returned it to
Marigold she simply remarked—

"I hope your mother would not mind my seeing it. It has interested me
very much."

She did not explain that it had interested her in the writer; but,
after that day, Marigold understood that her Aunt Mary bore no ill-will
to her mother, whatever Aunt Pamela might feel.

Easter fell about the middle of April that year. It had been decided
that at the commencement of the summer term, in the first week of May,
Marigold was to attend a day-school not far distant from Powderham
Crescent.

"I hope you will be a good girl, and work hard to get on," Miss Pamela
told her. "We wish you to have a good education to fit you for your
position in life."

"I will try my hardest to learn all I can," Marigold responded
earnestly.

"You will doubtless make friends at school," Miss Pamela continued,
"and I hope you will have the good sense to choose them for more
lasting qualities than those that usually attract youthful minds. You
are unaccustomed to the companionship of other girls, and I warn you
not to form rash opinions about your schoolfellows, but to select your
friends with caution."

"I will remember what you say, Aunt Pamela," the little girl said,
feeling somewhat puzzled. "Is it a large school where I am going?"

"There are between thirty and forty pupils, I believe. The principal,
Miss Hardcastle, is a remarkably clever woman, and she is assisted by
a staff of well-trained governesses, with visiting masters for music,
and the higher branches of mathematics. Girls are expected to study
subjects nowadays which were considered unnecessary when I was young;
so you will have to work hard, if you mean to become a clever woman!"

To become a clever woman so that she should be able to earn her own
living and assist her mother, was Marigold's one ambition, and she made
up her mind to exert herself as much as possible, and do her very best.

Marigold had already been to the afternoon service at the cathedral
with one or the other of her aunts on several occasions, but she had
never once caught sight of Farmer Jo, although she had always looked
about, in hopes of seeing him.

At last, one Friday afternoon as she was leaving the cathedral with
Miss Holcroft, she saw a large tweed-clad figure in front, in company
with a little old lady clad in an old-fashioned brown silk gown. Acting
on the impulse of the moment, and much to her aunt's surprise, she
darted on ahead and caught up to them.

"How do you do, Mr. Adams?" she cried, in glad tones. "Oh, how glad I
am I happened to see you!"

"What!" exclaimed Farmer Jo, in his loud, hearty voice. "It's never the
little maid I travelled down from London with! Why, it is! Now, this is
a pleasure!"

He took her hand and shook it heartily, then introduced his mother, who
was the very opposite to her son in every way, being small and thin,
with merry brown eyes like a bird's.

"I suppose you have been to the cathedral too," the old lady said,
smiling. "My son and I generally attend the afternoon service on
Fridays. We think it a rare treat, don't we, Jo?"

"That we do, mother!"

"It's so quiet and peaceful there, it makes one think of heaven," she
continued.

"So it does, so it does," her son agreed.

"I am always grateful to those who gave us our cathedral. How they must
have loved God, to have built such a place to His glory! I always feel
that when I look at the carving, and—"

She paused, suddenly conscious of the approach of Miss Holcroft. A
shyness seemed to come over mother and son, the former made a low,
old-fashioned courtesy, the latter took off his hat, and they passed on
arm-in-arm.

"Marigold!" said Miss Holcroft, in a horrified tone of voice, "who are
those odd-looking people?"

The little girl explained. She was a trifle uneasy, perhaps she had not
behaved rightly; perhaps Aunt Mary would be angry at being left in such
an unceremonious fashion, and would tell Aunt Pamela, who had looked so
scornful on the night of her arrival when she had spoken of Farmer Jo.
But Miss Holcroft was not angry, though she had been a little shocked
to see Marigold running after two complete strangers, as she had
imagined.

"You should have waited and explained the matter to me, Marigold," she
said; "had you done so, I could have spoken to them myself, and thanked
the gentleman for his kindness to you in the train."

"Oh, Aunt Mary, I see now that is what I ought to have done! I acted
without thinking! I am so sorry!"

"Never mind, my dear. Perhaps we may see them again some day, and then
you can introduce me to them properly. Mother and son, you say? Dear
me! He is so big, and she is such a tiny woman!"

Marigold dreaded what Miss Pamela would say when her sister told her
of the encounter with Farmer Jo and his mother, but apparently the
incident had not made so great an impression on Miss Holcroft's mind
as on Marigold's, for the former did not revert to it again for some
days to come. Meanwhile, the time was drawing near when Marigold was to
make another important step in life, and go to school. Her mother wrote
warning her of fresh trials and temptations that would cross her path,
and begging her to remember her father's motto always. Marigold did
remember it, but perhaps it was not unnatural that she did not realise
how hard it might be for her to fight the good fight of Faith that
hitherto had not been fraught with many difficulties, with her mother's
cheering presence and her mother's loving care as bulwarks of strength,
always at hand.



CHAPTER V

MARIGOLD'S UNTIDINESS, A MEETING WITH FARMER JO
 AND HIS MOTHER, AND A VISIT TO THE LACE-MAKER

"MARIGOLD, I have this minute come from your bedroom, where I was
greatly annoyed at the sight of your personal belongings strewed in
every direction. I opened your set of drawers, and they were in a state
of disorder; your towels had fallen on the floor, or perhaps you had
thrown them there—"

"Oh, Aunt Pamela, I am so sorry—"

"You are a very untidy little girl, I regret to say," Miss Pamela
continued severely, "and I am grieved to see it. Go upstairs at once,
and set your room in order. Next week you will be at school, if all's
well, when you will have less time on your hands, and if you are so
careless you will always be in trouble."

Marigold, who had been reading a story-book whilst she sat by the
window in the drawing-room, rose quickly, and with cheeks red with
shame ran hastily upstairs. Miss Pamela had not complained without
sufficient cause, as Marigold acknowledged when she looked around her
pretty bedroom, for her jacket and hat were flung carelessly on a
chair; one boot was by the window, the other directly inside the door;
and the writing-table was littered with note-paper and envelopes, some
of the latter having fallen on the floor.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" sighed Marigold; "no wonder Aunt Pamela looked so
dreadfully cross!" She recalled how often her mother had remonstrated
with her about her careless, untidy ways. On this occasion she had
refrained from putting her room in order before dinner, so that she
might have more time to continue reading the story she was so greatly
interested in, and afterwards she had gone back to her book, never
dreaming that her Aunt Pamela would discover her neglect. She felt
very guilty and uneasy, as she hastily set to work to put her garments
in their proper places. Before she had quite completed her task, Miss
Holcroft came in, her gentle face a little troubled.

"Oh, Marigold, my dear, you must really learn to be more careful," she
said. "Pamela is so put out that you left your room in such a state of
untidiness, after her impressing upon you how particular she is. Did
not your mother teach you to be neat?"

"Oh yes, indeed, Aunt Mary! It is not mother's fault that I am so
careless, really it is not! She used to be always telling me about it.
You see, we had not much room to spare in our flat, and when I littered
the place with my things it made such a muddle!"

"So I should imagine!"

"I wanted to finish the book I was reading," Marigold explained, "and I
thought I should be able to put my room tidy by and by."

"That is procrastination. Never put off to a future time what you ought
to do in the present."

"I did not think Aunt Pamela would come into my room."

"Ah! You mean you did not think your fault would be found out. You
knew you were disobeying our wishes; but it never occurred to you,
I suppose, to think that you were not acting quite straight in the
matter. Always be true, my dear, and then we shall be able to trust
you."

Marigold's eyes filled with tears at the reproof, gently given though
it was, and she felt thoroughly ashamed. Her lips trembled as she said
in a low voice—

"I am very sorry, Aunt Mary; I am indeed!"

"Be more careful and thoughtful for the future, my dear child. Now, I
have come to ask if you would like to go to the cathedral with us this
afternoon; both Pamela and I are going, and we thought, as you will
be at school next week, that you ought not to miss the opportunity of
accompanying us to-day."

"Oh, Aunt Mary, I should like so much to go with you," the little girl
replied gladly, her face brightening.

"Well, put on your hat and jacket at once, then, and join us
downstairs."

Marigold obeyed with alacrity, and presently sallied forth between her
two aunts, reflecting that it was Friday, and therefore very possible
that they might see Farmer Jo and his mother. Nor was she disappointed,
for again on leaving the cathedral, she espied them in front,
arm-in-arm as before.

"Aunt Mary," said Marigold in an excited whisper, "do you notice? There
are Farmer Jo and his mother!"

"Yes, so I perceive," Miss Holcroft answered. "Pamela," turning to her
sister, "do you see that odd-looking pair?"

Miss Pamela glanced in the direction indicated, and a faint smile
crossed her face.

"Certainly I do," she replied, "and I recognise one of them. The old
lady is called Mrs. Adams; I met her on one occasion at Mrs. Nowell's."

Mrs. Nowell was the wife of Dr. Nowell, who lived a few houses distant
from the Misses Holcroft, in Powderham Crescent.

"Oh, Aunt Pamela," Marigold cried eagerly, "do you mean to say you know
Mrs. Adams? That is her son who is with her, and he is the gentleman
who was so kind to me in the train!"

"Is he, indeed?" Miss Pamela said, with interest in her tones.

"Do you not think we might speak to them, and thank Mr. Adams for his
attention to Marigold?" Miss Holcroft suggested. "As you have met
Mrs. Adams at Mrs. Nowell's, it would be but common politeness to
acknowledge her son's courtesy to our niece!"

"That is very true; but perhaps she may not remember me."

All doubts on that point, however, were immediately set at rest; for
in another moment the little old lady turned around to take a last
look at the cathedral, and catching sight of Miss Pamela, a gleam of
recognition crossed her face. Miss Pamela hurried forward.

"How do you do, Mrs. Adams? I think we have met at Mrs. Nowell's, have
we not? I hope you will introduce me to your son, because my sister and
I feel we owe him a debt of gratitude for his goodness to our little
niece."

"I'm sure Jo was only glad to be of service, weren't you, Jo?" Mrs.
Adams said, appealing to her son.

"That's so, that's so," he answered.

"This is my son, Jo, Miss Holcroft. Jo, you've heard me speak of this
lady before."

Miss Pamela explained that her sister was Miss Holcroft. Then Marigold
drew forward her Aunt Mary, and they all stood chatting together for
several minutes. Farmer Jo's face was redder and more smiling than
ever. He beamed on every one with evident goodwill, and was inwardly
delighted that his mother appeared to get on with the ladies. Miss
Holcroft's gentle face was wreathed with smiles, whilst Miss Pamela,
though not so cordial in her manner as her sister, was extremely
gracious, for her.

Marigold stood by listening eagerly to the conversation, and
was greatly astonished when she heard Miss Pamela give her new
acquaintances an invitation to tea.

This, however, was declined for to-day; but Mrs. Adams promised when
she paid a visit to her friend, Mrs. Nowell, that she would call on the
Misses Holcroft as well.

"Do you like Exeter, little missy?" asked Farmer Jo of Marigold, whilst
his mother was talking to her aunts.

"I think so," she responded; but her tone sounded doubtful.

"Are you not sure?" he inquired amusedly.

"Not quite. I love the cathedral, and I have been for some beautiful
walks with my aunts into the country; but you see, Mr. Adams, I should
like everything so much better if my mother and the boys were here."

"You have brothers, then?"

"Yes, two. They are called Rupert and Lionel. I miss them dreadfully."

"I daresay you do. You are going to live with your aunts, aren't you?
Well—well—it will be nice for them to have a young body in the house.
It must have been lonely for them before now, I'm sure; but you'll be
able to brighten them up! Ah, your mother did not like parting with
you, I know!"

"No, but she thought it would be best," Marigold explained.

"Yes," he acquiesced, "best for you. Mothers don't think of themselves."

After that they parted. Farmer Jo and his mother went one way, and the
Misses Holcroft with Marigold in the opposite direction.

"I am glad we had an opportunity of thanking Mr. Adams," Miss Holcroft
said. "What a strange coincidence that you should have known his
mother, Pamela!"

"They are an eccentric couple," her sister responded. "Mrs. Nowell told
me about them. They are rich, but live a very simple life on their
farm, and seem quite happy and contented with a quiet, uneventful
existence. They are extremely generous to those less fortunate than
themselves; Mrs. Nowell gave me several instances of their kindliness
to others. I took a fancy to the old lady when I first met her."

"I hope we shall see her again," Miss Holcroft said.

"So that is the Farmer Jo you mentioned on the night of your arrival,
Marigold," Miss Pamela continued; "I think you were right in your
estimate of him, child, for I do not doubt he is a good man."

Marigold smiled and coloured with pleasure, for she was very grateful
to Farmer Jo. He had engaged her attention, and had cheered her when
she had been sad and low-spirited after her parting from her mother,
and she had been terribly afraid that Aunt Pamela would not approve of
his big person and loud voice. But Miss Pamela was far more discerning
than her little niece realised; those keen eyes of hers, that were so
sharp to detect anything false or mean, were not slow to recognise
truth and goodness. Mrs. Adams and her son might be peculiar and
unusual, but there was about each the stamp of sincerity that Miss
Pamela valued above everything.

Miss Holcroft now said she wished to visit someone in her district
before returning home; Marigold might accompany her if she wished. The
little girl assented willingly, for she had heard her Aunt Mary mention
the district where she visited amongst the poor on several occasions,
and was curious to see what it was like.

"I am going to see Molly Jenkins," Miss Holcroft explained to her
sister. "There is no reason why Marigold should not go with me, is
there?"

"No," Miss Pamela agreed; "perhaps Molly will like to see Marigold. I
have some shopping I wish to do this afternoon, so I will not bear you
company any farther."

"Very well, Pamela. Now then, Marigold, we must go this way."

Marigold tripped along lightly by her Aunt Mary's side, her bright eyes
noting all that came within their reach. They were evidently coming
to a poorer part of the city, for the shops were much smaller, and
presently they turned down a narrow back street.

"My district is here," Miss Holcroft explained. "It used to be a
fashionable part of Exeter. Can you fancy that?"

Marigold noticed, to her surprise, that here and there were large,
old-fashioned houses, evidently once of importance, but now, for the
most part, neglected, and some even fallen to decay. Slatternly women
and children hovered around the doors; and occasionally a face would
brighten at the sight of Miss Holcroft, whilst she would pause to say a
few pleasant words to a mother with a sickly-looking baby in her arms,
and listen patiently to the tale of woe that said how the husband was
out of work "on account of the drink, ma'am," and how the children had
to be sent to school half-fed. Marigold had been accustomed to live
amongst working people all her life, but they had been respectable
mechanics and artisans, not those who, though of the working-class, did
very little work at all. She had never been in contact with men who
spent their days loafing at the corners of streets with their hands in
their pockets, women gossiping and remarking on the passers-by, and
little children so dirty that she instinctively drew away from them
half in pity, half in disgust.

"Oh, Aunt Mary, what a miserable part this is!" she cried.

"Yes," Miss Holcroft acknowledged with a sigh, "it is one of the
most wretched districts in Exeter. Strangers who visit our beautiful
cathedral town little think that there are such miserable parts hidden
away in the heart of the city!"

"Are the people who live here very wicked, Aunt Mary?"

"Some are, I fear,—fathers who spend the little money they earn in
drink, and mothers who neglect their children and homes for the sake
of the same vice. But, my dear, not all are bad. God has His faithful
servants here, His jewels whose lustre no evil surroundings can dim,
whose goodness but shines brighter in contrast to the sin around. You
heard me say I was going to see Molly Jenkins? Well, she is a poor lame
girl who makes Honiton lace for a livelihood. She cannot move without
crutches, and rarely goes out except to take her work to the shop where
she sells it, and yet she is one of the brightest souls I know!"

"Oh, I should like to see her work so much, Aunt Mary!" Marigold
exclaimed, her tones full of eager interest, as her thoughts flew to
her mother. The little girl's heart swelled at the remembrance. It
seemed so unjust that she should be living in affluence whilst her dear
mother was toiling hard to keep the home.

"Here we are," Miss Holcroft said, at length, as she paused before a
large house that once, no doubt, had been a handsome residence. The
front door stood open, and Marigold followed her aunt up the steps into
a spacious hall, and from thence up a flight of broad stairs. The house
that had fallen from its former glory so far as to be let in tenements
to half a dozen different families was a high one, and they had to
climb to the top storey to reach their destination. Then Miss Holcroft
knocked at a door, and a bright, clear voice bade them—"Come in!"

They entered a large lofty room with two windows, in front of one of
which was seated a girl about seventeen or eighteen years of age.
Before her, on a small table, rested a cushion such as is generally
used by lace-makers, and over which she had been bending at work on the
delicate fabric that her fingers so deftly manufactured. She rose as
her visitors entered, and leaning on her crutches crossed the room to
meet them. Marigold saw her figure was thin and twisted; but her face
was really beautiful, with large grey eyes and pale, delicate features.

"I have brought my little niece to make your acquaintance, Molly,"
Miss Holcroft said, in her pleasant voice. "You are much interested in
needlework, are you not, Marigold?"

"Yes," Marigold answered, "indeed I am. May I look at what you have
been doing, please?"

Colouring with pleasure, the lame girl spread before Marigold's
admiring eyes about a dozen sprigs of lace similar to the piece she had
on her cushion.

"They are ordered for a bridal veil," she explained.

"Oh, how lovely!" Marigold cried. "I never saw anything so beautiful
before."

"They are indeed beautiful," Miss Holcroft said. "I hope you will get a
good sum for these delicate roses."

"Yes, Miss Holcroft, I am pleased to say I shall. My good friend of
whom I have told you, the vicar's wife at home, got this order for me
direct. I am to put in my best work, and charge what I think a fair
price."

Miss Holcroft nodded approvingly, for she knew how badly lace-workers
are paid as a rule.

Molly was genuinely delighted to see her visitors. She pointed out the
view from the windows to Marigold, where beyond the chimney-tops could
be seen pleasant fields, and hills dotted with green woods.

"The stairs are rather a trial to me, sometimes," she said, smiling,
"but to be high up above the squalor of the street makes up for that,
in my opinion. I always think I can smell the flowers in the fields
yonder whilst I sit by the window working, and that keeps me in good
spirits."

"I think this is a delightful room," Marigold remarked, "it is so
sunny!"

"Yes. In summer it is rather too hot, though, because it is close to
the roof; but I like to hear the sparrows twittering under the eaves,
and to watch them bringing hay and dried grass to make their nests. I
should miss the birds if I lived on the ground floor!"

"I think you're the most contented person I ever met, Molly!" Miss
Holcroft exclaimed.

"God has given me so many blessings," the lame girl responded, "that it
would be a shame if I was discontented. When I compare my lot to others
in this very house, I see how much I have to be thankful for!"



CHAPTER VI

THE LACE-MAKER'S STORY, AND MARIGOLD'S
 CONFIDENCES WITH BARKER

MARIGOLD was sorry when she and her Aunt Mary at last said good-bye to
Molly Jenkins, for she had been deeply interested in the lame girl's
work and conversation. She was silent for a while as she walked soberly
along by Miss Holcroft's side, and it was not until they had left the
poorer parts of the city behind them that she began asking questions.

"Does Molly Jenkins live there all by herself, Aunt Mary?" she inquired.

"No, my dear. She has an old father who shares her home with her. She
has unfortunately to support him as well as herself, and that keeps her
poor."

Miss Holcroft was silent a moment, then she resumed—

"You are old enough, I think, Marigold, to know something of the
suffering that sin brings as its companion. There was never wrong done
without someone having to smart for it, and often an innocent person. I
will tell you the history of Molly Jenkins as an example, and then you
will see what I mean. Her father was a farmer in the north of Devon,
and her mother died when she was an infant. The times for farmers
were hard, crops failed, and there was great agricultural depression
generally, so that Mr. Jenkins lost a lot of money, and unhappily took
to drink. He was always very fond of his little daughter, and would
nurse her on his knee, and play with her by the hour; but one day he
came home in a state of intoxication, and let the poor child fall from
his arms to the ground, laming her for life."

"Oh, Aunt Mary, how awful!" Marigold cried, in horrified accents.

"Awful indeed! One would have imagined having done his child such a
terrible injury would have made the wretched father forswear drink for
ever, but such was not the case. Of course, he was dreadfully shocked,
but he did not give up the vice that had taken such firm hold upon him.
Poor Molly suffered a great deal, and could not go to school like other
children. She would have grown up utterly neglected and uneducated but
for the wife of the vicar of the parish, who not only taught her to
read and write, and lent her books, but paid for her being taught the
art of making Honiton lace, that she might have the means of earning
her own living. The vicar's wife was a poor woman herself, I have been
told, and therefore her treatment of her little lame neighbour was all
the kinder and more praiseworthy on that account. She used to keep
poultry, and sell the garden produce at the nearest market town, and
in that way add to her husband's slender income; but, you see, she did
not begrudge her time or her hardly earned money to the girl who had no
claim on her. I do not doubt that He who loves a cheerful giver will
reward her for what she did, and she has the satisfaction of knowing
that Molly Jenkins is really grateful to her."

Miss Holcroft's gentle face beamed brightly, and Marigold looked up at
her with an answering smile, for the two were beginning to understand
each other well.

"I have often noticed that there is a great difference in money,"
Miss Holcroft continued reflectively; "some seems to carry a blessing
with it, and some a curse! Money made in evil ways soon wears out; it
is never any lasting good to anyone. Whereas, one sometimes sees the
little that has been honestly earned doing incalculable good. I have
a fancy that the spirit of the giver has a great deal to do with the
value of the gift. However, to return to Molly Jenkins. Her father grew
more and more careless about his farm, and neglected his work worse
than ever as time went on, till at last the inevitable crash came.
There was but little money for his creditors, and when the farm-stock
and household furniture were sold to help pay the rent that was long
overdue, they removed to Exeter to the home where I took you just now.
That was two years ago, and since then Molly has supported her father
and herself by her lace-work. He is a great trouble to her, and I fear
will be a greater in the future, for he is fast becoming a broken-down
old man, and if he earns a little money he is certain to spend it in
drink."

"What a very sad story, Aunt Mary! I wonder how that poor girl manages
to look so bright and cheerful!"

"It is because she trusts in Him who will never fail her. She has
learnt to go to Him for strength in her weakness, and she knows He will
not put upon her more than she can bear."

"What a wicked old man her father must be!" Marigold cried indignantly.

"Weak and selfish he is, no doubt, but Molly loves him, and has hopes
even now of reclaiming him from his sin. Oh, it is a sad case!"

"I wish mother could have seen that beautiful lace; she understands
about all kinds of work, you know. When I write I must tell her about
that poor lame girl, for she will be so interested. I do wish mother
could get her some orders!"

"Do you think that is possible?" Miss Holcroft asked.

"I don't know, Aunt Mary; but when I write to her next I will ask her.
Mother has a few private customers herself, and perhaps they might be
glad to hear of someone who can make Honiton lace so beautifully as
Molly Jenkins."

"The work is not so well paid for as it should be. Since machine-made
lace has come into general use, and can be bought so cheaply, the
lace-makers have had a bad time. I remember when I was young, even
little children used to be seen sitting outside the cottage doors in
the villages about here with their lace cushions on their laps."

"Oh, do you think I could learn to make Honiton lace, Aunt Mary?"
Marigold asked eagerly.

"I have no doubt you could; but it strikes me you will have plenty of
other work to do shortly, so that your time will be fully occupied."

"Yes," the little girl agreed; "I mean to work so hard at school."

On her arrival at home Marigold found a letter from her mother awaiting
her. "Such a dear, dear letter!" she whispered to herself, as she sat
by her bedroom window, reading how they were all well at home, and how
much they had been interested in hearing about her new life at Exeter.
Rupert was to be raised to a higher form at school this term; he was
such a good, thoughtful boy, and helped his mother all he could. "Not,
of course, that he can take your place, my dear little daughter," wrote
Mrs. Holcroft. "I miss you every hour and minute of the day, but I am
grateful to your aunts for their kindness to you, and it makes me very
happy to think that you are going to school next week. You will learn
much that I was unable to teach you; but there is one lesson I wish
to impress upon your mind, that I hope you will ever remember before
all else: 'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom: a good
understanding have all they that do His commandments.' My little girl
must never forget that."

Marigold went downstairs to tea with smiling lips and bright eyes. Miss
Holcroft looked at her kindly, for she guessed the cause of the child's
happy face; but it was otherwise with Miss Pamela, who had cherished
her dislike for Marigold's mother so many years that she had become
perfectly incapable of thinking of her without prejudice. Miss Pamela
would have liked nothing so well as to be enabled to break the strong
tie between mother and daughter; although she had given permission
for Marigold to write herself, and receive letters from her home, she
nevertheless hoped that in time the communications would gradually
shorten, and perhaps ultimately drop altogether. Upon most points the
younger Miss Holcroft showed great common sense, but where her late
nephew's widow was concerned she seemed utterly incapable of judging
fairly, and was obstinately determined to keep her at a distance.

"Did you see Molly's father?" Miss Pamela asked, as she poured out the
tea.

"No; he was evidently from home," Miss Holcroft responded; "and I could
not help feeling relieved at his absence. Molly was looking as bright
as ever; she seemed in very good spirits, and was busy at work on some
beautiful sprigs of rose-buds for a bridal veil. Marigold was much
interested in Molly; were you not, my dear?"

"Oh yes, indeed I was," the little girl answered. "I never saw anything
so lovely as her lace-work."

"Molly is an artist to her finger-tips," Miss Pamela said; "and she is
a good girl too! Go to see her what time of the day you like, you will
always find her sitting-room the picture of neatness!"

Marigold hung her head and blushed, for she rightly guessed this remark
was intended as a reflection on her own untidy ways. She felt her Aunt
Pamela's eyes were upon her, and her guilty confusion was intensified
when she looked up and met her cold glance. "Aunt Pamela, I understand
what you mean," she said at length. "You were quite right about my room
this afternoon, and I know it was wrong of me to leave it like that. I
hope I shall not be so untidy again!"

"I hope not, Marigold!"

"I behaved very badly, because I knew my room was in a dreadful
muddle," the little girl continued. "I wanted to finish the book I was
reading, and I did not think you would go into my room and see how
untidy it was. It was very wrong of me, though I never thought about
it at the time. I am very sorry, indeed I am!" There were tears in
Marigold's eyes as she made her confession, and expressed her sense of
contrition, and Miss Pamela's face softened as she listened.

"You will be more careful for the future, will you not, Marigold?" Miss
Holcroft interposed, her kind voice sounding a trifle anxious.

"Oh, I will, I will!"

"That being the case, and seeing you really regret your fault, we will
say no more about it," Miss Pamela said. "Untidiness is a bad habit,
and a difficult one to break off. Your father as a boy was inclined to
be very careless, but when he went to boarding-school he was glad that
we had insisted on his keeping his things in their right places, and
also that we had taught him the advantages of punctuality. I have heard
it said that the Duke of Wellington attributed his successes to the
fact that he was always in time. I can well understand that disorder
and confusion must be distasteful to a great mind."

After tea Marigold slipped upstairs to read her mother's letter again;
and whilst she was in the midst of it Barker came in, bearing an armful
of clean clothes that had been brought home from the laundry.

"Shall I put your things away for you, miss?" she asked.

"Oh, you need not trouble, thank you, Barker; lay them on the bed, and
I'll see to them directly." But Barker still lingered.

"I think I heard you speaking of a Mrs. Adams to Miss Holcroft," she
remarked, with curiosity in her tones. "Is it the little old lady who
is so friendly with Mrs. Nowell?"

"Yes;" Marigold replied. "Do you know her, Barker?"

"No, miss. But I've heard a deal about her from my mother, who lived
with her as a servant—oh, I don't know how many years ago! Mrs. Adams
was a young woman then, and mother couldn't have been much older than
her mistress."

"Is your mother still alive?" Marigold inquired, with interest in her
voice.

"Yes, miss; though she's getting up in years now."

"Oh, do tell me about her, Barker!"

Barker smiled, and it was wonderful how a smile changed her usually
grim face, and gave it a comeliness Marigold had never thought it could
wear.

"There's not much to tell," she answered. "Mother lives in an
almshouse, and has everything she wants. She says her old age is the
happiest, most comfortable time she has known; and I daresay she's
right, for she had a long family to provide for and put out in the
world as best she could. Father died, and left her with seven children;
but she'd a brave heart of her own, had mother, and she worked hard to
bring us up respectably."

"Why, that is like my mother, only there are but three of us instead of
seven!" Marigold cried.

Then she was encouraged by Barker's face to tell her about her own dear
mother, and was surprised how sympathetic and interested her aunts'
maid seemed to be. They had quite an animated conversation together,
and in one half hour Barker learnt more about Marigold and her London
home than she had discovered in the weeks they had spent under the same
roof.

"How you must miss your brothers!" Barker remarked at length. "Ah!
It must be dull for you here after living with young folks. I'm glad
you're going to school, Miss Marigold, for I daresay you'll soon
make friends there. Well, I must get about my work, or I shall be
behind-hand, and I've all the household linen to put away."

Whereupon Barker took her departure reluctantly, for she had been much
interested in what Marigold had said about her mother and the boys;
whilst Marigold's mind had fresh food for reflection in thinking of
Barker's old mother and Barker herself, who was a much pleasanter
person than the little girl had thought.



CHAPTER VII

MARIGOLD'S FIRST DAYS AT SCHOOL, AND HER
 ENCOUNTER WITH MURIEL WAKE

MARIGOLD commenced her school-days with a buoyant heart, and a desire
to please Miss Hardcastle and the governesses. The principal was a
clever, clear-sighted woman, a splendid manager and disciplinarian, who
ruled her school with an iron hand, yet with such tact and skill that
she was much liked and respected by parents, teachers, and pupils. She
was a small woman, with a quiet manner, and a persuasive voice; but
there was a dignity about her that never failed to command obedience,
and the threat, "You shall be sent to Miss Hardcastle to be dealt with
as she thinks fit,"—was sufficient to subdue the spirit of the most
refractory scholar.

Marigold found herself classed with a dozen girls about her own age,
under the charge of a governess named Miss Smith. The little girl
was relieved to find that she was not behind the others in general
knowledge. She read and wrote well, was quick at arithmetic, and had
been well grounded in grammar, geography, and English history. The
subjects her mother had instructed her in had been taught thoroughly.
At the end of the first week Miss Hardcastle wrote a note to the Misses
Holcroft, and informed them of this fact; and Marigold noted that both
her aunts seemed surprised, though at the same time gratified that her
education had not been so neglected as they had anticipated. Marigold
soon began to find out what hard work really meant. She commenced to
learn French, music, and drawing, so that most of her time out of
school hours was occupied in preparing her lessons for the following
day, or in practising scales and exercises on the piano. She soon
settled into the ways of the school, and became a favourite with the
teachers, for she was always attentive and willing, always wishful to
do her best. With the girls Marigold was not popular, at first. They
considered she tried to curry favour with the governesses, which was
certainly not the case, and consequently they met her friendly advances
with cold looks, till one whispered to the others that she was a niece
of the rich Misses Holcroft, and therefore it might be better to be on
good terms with her.

One morning as Marigold was going home from school she was joined by
Muriel Wake, one of the girls in the same class as herself.

"We may as well walk together," Muriel remarked pleasantly. "You live
in Powderham Crescent, don't you? I pass near by."

Muriel was a pretty little girl, with blue eyes, fair hair, and rosy
cheeks. Marigold looked at her admiringly.

"I expect you find it dull living with your old aunts, don't you?"
Muriel questioned.

Marigold acknowledged that she did, and explained that she had a mother
and two brothers in London, whom she missed a great deal.

"But my aunts are very kind," she added, fearful lest she should seem
ungrateful.

"Are you going to live with them always?" Muriel inquired.

"I don't know. I came to live with them because they promised to
educate me. Mother wants me to learn to earn my own living, and that's
why I wish so much to get on at school, and learn all I can, so that I
may be able to help her by and by."

And Marigold, led on by her new acquaintance's questions, told her all
about her London home, and how hard her mother worked.

"Do you mean to say she works for a shop?" Muriel asked, her blue eyes
round with astonishment.

"Yes," was the reply. "I wish you could see some of her beautiful
designs."

"And she keeps no servant, but does the housework herself! And you have
been accustomed to black your own boots! Oh! I never heard of such a
thing before!"

"But she cannot afford to keep a servant," Marigold said hastily, half
regretful that she had spoken so openly.

"What was your father?" was the next question.

"He was in the army."

It struck Marigold that Muriel's manner was far less genial than it
had been when she first joined her, but she could not think what was
the reason of the change. She was not left long in ignorance, however,
for when the girls were dispersing after school in the afternoon, one
of them came up to her and asked if it was true what Muriel Wake was
telling everyone, that Marigold's mother had been a servant before her
marriage.

For a moment Marigold was so astonished that she stared at her
questioner in silence. Then a great wave of anger swept over her, and
her eyes flashed ominously.

"If Muriel Wake said that, she told a wicked story!" she cried
passionately.

"She did say so," the other girl replied, "but I did not think it was
true."

"It is utterly false!"

The conversation was taking place in the corner of a class-room whilst
the girls were putting away their books. Some of the scholars had
already left, and the governess had gone into the next room. Marigold
flew to the side of Muriel Wake and caught her by the arm.

"What do you mean by telling such a falsehood about my mother?"
Marigold demanded, almost choking with passion.

Muriel looked at the white face of the angry child with a disagreeable
light in her blue eyes, whilst she smiled scornfully.

"Take care what you say!" she cried. "I have told nothing but the
truth."

"You said—" Marigold commenced furiously, when the other interrupted
her.

"I said that your mother worked for her living by doing needlework for
a shop. I also said that she scrubbed, cleaned, and cooked, and that
I should not be surprised if she had not been a servant before your
father married her, for it is well-known that your aunts won't have
anything to do with her!"

There was a moment's dead silence. The other girls in the class-room
had drawn around Muriel and Marigold, to listen to the dispute, and
were looking on, some with keen delight in the situation, others with
amusement, and a few with evident disapproval. By this time Marigold
was so enraged that she scarcely knew what she was doing. She stared
with wild eyes at the girl who only this morning had approached her
with overtures of friendship, marvelling at her treachery. How she
hated her! Oh, how bitterly she hated her! In her ungovernable passion
Marigold lifted her hand and would have struck the fair, pretty face
that smiled at her mockingly, had not somebody caught her by the wrist
and prevented her doing so. Turning around sharply, she saw one of the
elder girls had appeared upon the scene, and now stood looking around
inquiringly. Marigold knew who the new-comer was—Grace Long, the most
popular girl in the school, a general favourite with teachers and
pupils alike.

"What is the meaning of this?" Grace asked, in her clear, pleasant
tones. "What are you sneering about, Muriel Wake? That expression does
not suit your style of beauty, let me tell you!"

There was a laugh at this, whilst Muriel flushed angrily, and tossed
her head.

Grace still held Marigold's wrist in her firm clasp. She laid her other
hand on the child's shoulder, and surveyed her angry face with cool,
kindly eyes.

"What are you in such a fierce passion about?" she inquired.

Marigold struggled for composure in vain. Her heart was beating wildly,
and her trembling lips refused to answer a word. Grace saw she was
unable to speak, and appealed to her companions. "Will one of you
explain? What has gone wrong? Why have these two quarrelled?"

"It is entirely Muriel's fault," began one of the girls who had looked
disapproval, but had not interfered hitherto; and she proceeded to
repeat all that had been said on either side. Grace listened in
silence, whilst Muriel still smiled scornfully. By this time Marigold
was beginning to cool down sufficiently to realise what was going on,
and was trying hard to keep from crying. She was conscious that Grace
was speaking.

"It seems to me a great fuss has been made about a little matter,"
she was saying. "I cannot speak of how one feels about a mother from
experience, because mine died when I was born—" Marigold looked up
quickly at the speaker with sympathy in her eyes—"but it seems to me
that if one's mother had been a servant, one would love her as much as
if she had been the highest lady in the land. There is no disgrace in
being a servant."

"But it is not true! Mother was not a servant!" Marigold broke in.

"No, I do not suppose she was; but if she had been you need not have
felt shame on that account. I think you have excited yourself without
sufficient cause. As for you, Muriel Wake, you know well enough your
motives for putting a false construction on what you have been told. I
do not think Miss Hardcastle would be very pleased, were she to hear of
your behaviour."

Muriel evidently did not think so either, for she hastily packed
away her books in her desk, and left the class-room. Grace drew
Marigold down on a form by her side, and pointed out to her gently and
considerately how foolish and wrong she had been to lose her temper.
Marigold listened attentively to all the elder girl said.

"I was silly to tell Muriel about mother," Marigold acknowledged; "but
she seemed so nice and friendly, I never guessed she would repeat
everything to the other girls—not that I should have minded, if she had
only told the truth!"

"Of course not! Another time I would find out more about a
person before becoming confidential, if I were you. Muriel is a
mischief-maker, but you could not know that."

"I liked her so much, and now I feel I shall hate her as long as I
live!"

"Hush! You must not speak like that. Muriel has not treated you well,
but it is not right to bear malice in your heart."

Marigold knew it was not, so she remained silent. Grace continued
kindly—

"I would not make a trouble of this little affair if I were you; and
if anything of a like nature occurs again, don't lose your temper. You
will not be respected by the other girls if you do, and besides it is
very wrong."

"I know it is! Oh dear, what would mother have thought if she had seen
me just now! I am so glad you came up in time to stop me from striking
Muriel. Oh, I never knew before I had such a dreadful temper!"

"'He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty: and he that
ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city,'" quoted Grace softly.

Marigold went home in a very unhappy frame of mind. Her aunts noticed
something had gone wrong, but refrained from asking any questions. The
little girl prepared her lessons for the next day in a halfhearted sort
of way, and went upstairs to her bedroom early, excusing herself on the
plea of being tired. Ringing in her ears all the evening had been the
words Grace Long had repeated from the sayings of the wise king: "He
that is slow to anger is better than the mighty: and he that ruleth his
spirit than he that taketh a city."

Marigold flung herself down by the side of her bed, and wept bitterly
as she went over in thought the events of the day. Never in her life
before had she given away to such a passion of anger. How weak she had
been! how easily put out! And yet, when she recalled Muriel's treatment
of her, her heart was hot with indignation again. First of all gaining
her confidence, and then betraying it without a scruple! Was not such
conduct enough to irritate anyone? Muriel was a hateful girl!

"Fight the good fight of faith!"

Marigold started guiltily as her father's motto flashed through her
mind. Fight the good fight of faith for the sake of Him who, when
He was oppressed and afflicted, opened not His mouth, save to pray
for forgiveness for those who had wronged Him. A sense of shame and
humiliation crept over the child as she wept. How she had meant to
humbly follow in the steps of the Saviour, and how grievously she
had erred this day! She had fallen back from the fight; the enemy
had beaten her! Oh, if she could only tell her mother, but no, that
was impossible; she could not write of the cause of her wrath, the
very thought of it made her angry even now, when she was beginning to
realise how wrong her passion had been. She did not think she could
ever forgive Muriel Wake!

"Child, what is amiss?"

It was her Aunt Mary's voice, and her Aunt Mary's arms that lifted her
from the ground.

"What is troubling you, my dear?" Miss Holcroft asked tenderly, as
Marigold flung herself crying bitterly upon her breast.

Then the whole story came out. The old lady listened with troubled
eyes, and a little glow of indignation rose to her face as Marigold
said—"Muriel told the girls that the reason why you and Aunt Pamela
would have nothing to do with mother was because she had been a
servant!"

Marigold did not spare herself. She confessed she would have struck
Muriel but for the timely intervention of the elder girl.

"I know it was very wicked," she sobbed, "and mother would be so
grieved to know how I lost my temper; but indeed, Aunt Mary, I am
sorry!"

"You certainly had cause for indignation," Miss Holcroft allowed, "but
temper always does harm. There is such a thing as just wrath, but that
was not your feeling, I conclude, Marigold, for from what you have told
me I imagine you lost entire control of yourself, and did not know what
you were doing. If you had reflected for a moment, I feel sure you
would not have thought of striking that girl, badly as she had treated
you."

"No, indeed, Aunt Mary!"

"You see to what lengths an unbridled temper will lead one. I had no
idea you were so passionate."

"I had no idea of it, myself," Marigold said dolefully.

"But perhaps you were never so greatly aggravated before, my dear!"

"No, I don't think I ever was. It—it was on mother's account, really."

"Try to forget the remarks of that unkind little girl; and ask God to
help you to curb your angry temper. He will, you may be sure. And now,
dear child, go to rest, and do not allow your mind to dwell upon the
events of the day; and when you go to school to-morrow do not resent
what has occurred. It was good of that big girl to interest herself on
your behalf. What did you say her name was?"

"Grace Long. She is a boarder, but I do not know much about her,
because she does not work in our class-room. She was very kind to me
to-day. I think she must be a nice girl, because everyone seems to like
her."

"Well, good-night, Marigold. Sleep well, and forget your troubles in
pleasant dreams."

"Good-night, dear Aunt Mary," Marigold replied, as she flung her arms
around the old lady's neck, and gave her a loving kiss. "You are one of
the best people in the world!"

Miss Holcroft laughed, and shook her head. As she went downstairs to
join her sister in the drawing-room her gentle face settled into graver
lines, and she sighed regretfully as she thought of Marigold's mother.



CHAPTER VIII

MARIGOLD BECOMES FRIENDLY WITH GRACE LONG,
 MISS HOLCROFT SPEAKS HER MIND

MISS HARDCASTLE'S pupils were allowed a break of twenty minutes in the
middle of the morning. When it was wet they remained indoors, but when
the weather was fine they usually repaired to the playground, where
big and little girls both passed the time in playing games. At first,
Marigold did not much enjoy this twenty minutes, because her companions
were not genial; but on the morning after her disagreement with Muriel
Wake she found that a change had taken place in the girls' feelings
towards her, the fact being that they were most of them thoroughly
disgusted with Muriel's behaviour, and ready to make up to Marigold for
their former coolness. She met their advances gladly, for she had felt
her loneliness in their midst; but she was determined that she would
not take any of them into her confidence, at least until she knew them
better.

In the playground Grace Long approached Marigold with a pleasant remark
about the beauty of the day. It was a perfect morning. The chestnut
trees that surrounded Miss Hardcastle's garden were in full bloom,
and the air was sweet with the mingled perfume of lilac and laburnum
blossoms. Marigold was seated on a bench by herself; she looked up a
little shyly when Grace addressed her, for the big girls did not have
much to say to their juniors, as a rule.

"Why are you not at play with the others?" Grace asked.

"I have been playing with them, but I got tired and sat down for a
rest. I have never been accustomed to running about much, but I have
been having a good time to-day."

Grace sat down on the bench by Marigold's side.

"Have you spoken to Muriel Wake this morning?" she inquired.

"Oh no! I don't wish to speak to her I don't want to have anything to
do with her!"

"She served you badly, but she will be sorry one of these days. Muriel
and I are alike in one respect—we are both motherless. She lives with
her father, who is an exceedingly rich man, and very seldom at home.
She has been brought up entirely by servants; her father seldom keeps
the same servants long, so Muriel has been first in the charge of one
person, then another. She has never had a fair chance of learning to be
faithful and true, poor little girl!"

Grace presently went on to talk of the other girls, until Marigold was
struck with surprise that she should know so much about them.

"You see I have lived in Exeter many years," she explained, "and all
that time I have been at school. I spend my holidays here too."

"You spend your holidays here!" Marigold exclaimed. "How is that?"

"I have nowhere else to go, because my father is in India, and I have
no friends in England. When my education is finished, I believe father
intends sending for me to go out to him."

"I suppose you are longing to go, are you not?"

"Well, I hardly know. Father seems like a stranger to me, and Miss
Hardcastle has always been my best friend. I dread the thought of
leaving her. You cannot imagine how kind she really is. Now, I wonder
if you will think me very curious if I ask you a question?"

"No, indeed! What is it?"

"What did Muriel Wake mean about your mother working?"

Marigold explained, whilst Grace listened attentively.

"Ah!" she cried, when the little girl had finished speaking, "how you
must love your mother!"

"I think that was why I was so very angry with Muriel. It seemed to
me so dreadful that she should sneer at mother, and try to make a
laughing-stock of her! She—who—who—"

Marigold paused, her chest heaving with strong emotion, her eyes full
of indignant tears.

Grace laid a gentle hand on hers, and pressed it sympathetically.

"Rich people don't understand," Marigold continued tremulously; "they
don't know what it is like to be poor! Even Aunt Mary and Aunt Pamela—"

She stopped abruptly, suddenly remembering that she ought not to
mention the relations that existed between her mother and aunts to a
comparative stranger.

"God understands," Grace said earnestly; "what does it matter about
others, if He knows?"

Marigold's face cleared, and a sunny smile chased all signs of sorrow
from her face.

"Ah, that is what mother says!" she answered brightly.

From that time the little girl's school-life was happier. There
sprang up between her and Grace Long a friendship which caused some
astonishment, on account of the difference in their respective ages.
Muriel Wake showed no further animosity towards Marigold, but the two
children rarely spoke, and avoided each other's company as much as
possible. Marigold's aunts were pleased to find that she was happy
at school, and that she was attentive to her duties. They were very
kind to her, taking her little excursions into the country on Saturday
afternoons, and allowing her to visit those of her schoolfellows with
whom she was on friendly terms; consequently, though the little girl
worked hard, she had plenty of recreation, and grew rosy-cheeked and
plump.

"I wonder what her mother would think of her now?" Miss Holcroft could
not refrain from remarking to her sister one day. Marigold was not
present, but Miss Pamela's face darkened, as she made reply—

"Why do you allow your mind to dwell on that woman? She is not likely
to see Marigold for some time to come!"

"No. But I was thinking how pleased she would be to know that the dear
child has so greatly improved in every way since she came to us. See
how she has grown, and what a healthy colour she has! When she first
arrived we were struck with her fragile appearance. Then, too, she
seems as happy as the day is long."

"Of course she is! She has every reason for happiness. She fretted for
her mother and brothers for a while, no doubt; but I believe we are
slowly weaning her from them."

Miss Holcroft made a faint gesture of dissent, which her sister noticed
with a frown.

"You do not agree with me, Mary?"

"I do not, Pamela. Marigold is as fond of them as she ever was, but
naturally she has got over the first pangs of separation. She writes
home regularly once a fortnight, and though she does not say so, I
am sure she simply longs for her letters in return. It is my private
opinion that the fact that she rarely mentions her mother's name makes
her dwell on her in her thoughts more than she would otherwise. Poor
Rupert's wife brought up his daughter well; that we must acknowledge."

Miss Holcroft had spoken with unwonted firmness hitherto; now she
looked at her sister with appealing eyes, as she added in rather
faltering accents—

"I think that our not being on friendly terms with the mother puts the
child in a false position, and gives people wrong impressions."

"What can you mean, Mary?" Miss Pamela asked sharply. "I fail to
understand you."

In a few words Miss Holcroft gave her sister an account of the
statement Muriel Wake had circulated about Marigold's mother some weeks
before.

"Why was I not told at the time?" Miss Pamela demanded.

"I should have known nothing about it myself, Pamela, if I had not
discovered poor little Marigold in her bedroom crying as though her
heart would break. I asked for an explanation; I am quite sure she
had not intended to tell either of us. I believe she is on good terms
with most of her schoolfellows now; but I often think of the unkind
construction people may be putting on our behaviour to the child's
mother."

"Our behaviour! What do you mean? We have never injured her in any way!
She is nothing to us!"

"But Marigold is. We are both fond of her, and—oh, Pamela, I wish you
were not so unforgiving. I cannot think how, feeling as you do, you can
kneel down and say the Lord's Prayer!"

Having spoken with indignant warmth, Miss Holcroft was not a little
alarmed at her temerity, fearing she might have offended her sister;
but Miss Pamela's face expressed nothing but astonishment; she had
never received such a reproof before.

It was evening, and the sisters were alone in the drawing-room,
whilst Marigold in her own room upstairs was engaged in writing her
fortnightly letter to her mother. Miss Pamela's head was bent over
her woolwork. In her youth it had been the fashionable employment for
ladies, and she was always deeply interested in it. She had worked
coverings for a suite of furniture, in bunches of flowers; indeed,
traces of her handiwork were to be seen all over the house.

"I must go upstairs and fetch that blue wool I bought yesterday for
these forget-me-nots," she remarked presently, as she rose and laid her
work on a table.

Miss Holcroft looked after her retreating figure anxiously.

"I do hope I have not offended her," she murmured, with a sigh.

But Miss Pamela was not offended, nor was she even angry.

"I cannot think how, feeling as you do, you can kneel down and say
the Lord's Prayer!" her sister had said, and the words rang in her
ears as she went slowly upstairs. Passing Marigold's room she paused
and glanced in, for the door was standing wide open. The little girl,
clad in a blue serge skirt and a cotton blouse, was bending over the
writing-table, so engrossed in her occupation that she never heard
her aunt's footsteps, and looked up with a start as Miss Pamela laid
a light hand upon her shoulder. Marigold blushed with surprise, and
jumping up, placed a chair for her aunt, who sat down, glancing round
the room as she did so, to see if it was in good order. Fortunately,
everything was in its place, and Miss Pamela noted the fact with an
approving smile.

"You are improving, Marigold," she said. "I have not had to complain of
your untidiness lately, I am pleased to say."

Marigold blushed a rosier red, this time with pleasure, for Aunt
Pamela's words of praise were rare.

"You are writing to your mother, I suppose?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela."

"You get on with your schoolfellows better than you used, do you not,
Marigold?"

"Oh yes!"

"Mary has been telling me that you had something to put up with from
them at first—she mentioned one girl in particular, Muriel Wake, I
think, who made herself extremely objectionable."

"I find that is Muriel's way," Marigold explained. "I see now how silly
I was to think so much about what she said. The girls do not care for
her, and, indeed; I think she would be very unpopular if she were not
so rich."

"Ah! Is she so very rich, then?"

"Yes, I believe so. The girls say she will be a great heiress one day.
She leaves me alone now, but I know she dislikes me, though I can't
think why. The girl I like best in the whole school is Grace Long. Oh,
by the bye, Aunt Pamela, Barker says she is going to have tea with her
old mother next Saturday afternoon, and if you and Aunt Mary will give
your permission, she will take me with her."

"Good gracious, child! Why does Barker want your company?"

"Because she has told me so much about her mother that she thought I
should like to know her."

"And do you really want to make the old woman's acquaintance?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela, indeed I do!"

"Well, I have no objection to your doing so. She lives in an almshouse,
does she not?"

"Yes. When she was young she lived in service with Mrs. Adams."

"What! Farmer Jo's mother!" Miss Pamela exclaimed.

Marigold nodded. There was a smile upon her lips, and her eyes shone
brightly. At that moment, for the first time, she felt quite easy in
her Aunt Pamela's company.

"How is it people take you into their confidence, child? Barker is
usually such an uncommunicative person."

"I was telling her about mother—" Marigold began, and paused abruptly.

"Yes?" Miss Pamela queried.

"And—and then she told me about her old mother, and afterwards, when
she had been home to see her, I asked how she was, and said I should
like to know her. That's how it was Barker came to ask me to go with
her on Saturday. She is so fond of her mother!"

"I see. I had no idea you and Barker were on such good terms."

Miss Pamela rose, remarking as she did so—

"You had better get on with your letter, my dear. Will you give your
mother a message from me?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela," Marigold replied, in accents of profound
astonishment.

For a few minutes Miss Pamela stood undecided, then she said—

"Tell your mother from me that we find her little daughter a good
child. That is all."

"Oh, thank you, Aunt Pamela! Mother will like to hear that better than
anything!"

Marigold threw her arms impulsively around Miss Pamela's neck and gave
her a hearty kiss. Her aunt returned the caress with unusual warmth,
and then left her to finish her interrupted letter.

Downstairs in the drawing-room Miss Holcroft was wondering what had
become of her sister, but when Miss Pamela at length re-entered the
room it was with a smile on her lips.

"Pamela, I hope I did not speak too plainly just now," Miss Holcroft
commenced timidly, as the other resumed her woolwork. "Perhaps it
was not my place to make such a remark. I had no right to judge your
conduct. I fear you are displeased with me."

"No, I am not, Mary. Why should you not say what you think? You had a
perfect right to express your opinion."

Miss Holcroft's face brightened at this, and she ventured to continue—

"Then you acknowledge we have been a little unjust to poor Rupert's
widow?"

"Not at all. I acknowledge nothing of the kind. But I will allow that
she has brought up Marigold carefully, if that is any satisfaction to
you, Mary."

"I believe she is a good woman and a Christian, or she would not be so
loved by her little daughter," Miss Holcroft said, with decision in her
tones.

To this remark her sister made no reply, and presently changed the
topic of conversation.



CHAPTER IX

MARIGOLD VISITS BARKER'S MOTHER

THE following Saturday afternoon Marigold accompanied Barker to pay a
visit to the latter's mother. The little girl had received permission
from her aunts to gather some flowers to take with her, and she
had picked a bunch of roses and lilies of the valley, which later
ornamented the centre of the tea-table in the old woman's tiny parlour.
Marigold had never been in an almshouse before. The one where Mrs.
Barker lived was one of a row, each having a strip of garden in front,
with a narrow path through the middle leading to the door, which was
painted bright green. The houses were all built exactly alike, but the
individual tastes of the occupiers could be seen from even a casual
scrutiny of the windows. In one hung a canary in a brass cage; in
another flowering plants showed between snowy muslin curtains; whilst
other windows had a neglected appearance, the curtains hanging limp,
and in some cases drab with dirt; one or two had merely under-blinds
and no curtains at all.

Barker paused before a trim, well-kept garden, where simple
cottage flowers bloomed gaily,—clumps of forget-me-nots and double
daisies—those known as bachelors' buttons—golden wallflowers, and
purple pansies. Mrs. Barker stood on the doorstep waiting to greet her
visitors, for she had been watching for them from the window. She was a
very old woman, whose sparse grey locks were tucked neatly away under
a cap—her best, which was adorned with mauve ribbons, and whose face
was lined and wrinkled, indeed, but nevertheless wore an expression
of perfect contentment. After a youth and middle-age of hard work,
Mrs. Barker was spending the remaining years of her life in peace and
happiness. She had no worries, no troubles nowadays.

Marigold soon discovered that Barker in her mother's parlour,
and Barker as she was known in her mistresses' house, bore but a
slight resemblance to each other. The silent, grave-faced maid was
metamorphosed into a bright, smiling woman, who seemed bent upon being
the life of the little party. She had brought a large basket with her,
the contents of which proved to be packages of tea, sugar, and other
groceries, and lying on the top, so that it should not be crushed, was
a summer mantle, which her own clever fingers had made for her mother.

"I remembered your old cloak would be too heavy for you to wear
these sunny days," she explained, "and I think this will be the very
thing-for you."

Mrs. Barker was delighted; her face was radiant with pleasure. She
tried on the new garment, at once, whilst her daughter and Marigold
looked on approvingly.

"I declare it's too good for me!" she exclaimed.

"Not a bit of it, mother. It suits her very well, doesn't it, miss?"
Barker said, appealing to Marigold.

"Yes; it does indeed, Mrs. Barker," the little girl answered. "You look
so nice in it!"

"I feel as grand as a duchess," Mrs. Barker declared. "My neighbours
will hardly know me when they see me out-of-doors next!"

Marigold enjoyed her tea immensely. She drank it out of a bright pink
teacup with "A present from Brighton" engraved upon it in gold letters.
She was debating in her mind whether it would be considered a breach of
good manners to remark upon it, when Mrs. Barker said—

"You are looking at your teacup, I see, miss. Isn't it pretty?"

"Yes, very pretty," Marigold replied. "I was going to say so, only I
was afraid you might think me rude for noticing it to you."

"Louisa brought it home from Brighton for me last winter," Mrs. Barker
explained.

"Louisa?" Marigold said questioningly.

"Yes, miss. Why, you don't mean to tell me you don't know who Louisa
is?" the old woman exclaimed, laughing.

"Who is she?" Marigold asked, feeling bewildered at the amusement she
saw on the faces of mother and daughter.

"Why, Louisa is my daughter, to be sure!" Mrs. Barker responded.

"What, Barker? Oh, how silly of me not to guess! But, do you know, I
never knew what her name was before!"

"They always call me by my surname at Powderham Crescent," Barker
informed her mother, "so, of course, Miss Marigold could not tell who
you were talking about."

Presently Marigold asked Mrs. Barker if she ever saw her old mistress,
Mrs. Adams, now.

"No, miss, never," was the reply. "When I married I went to live at
Plymouth; and afterwards, when my husband died, and I came back to
Exeter, I thought maybe Mrs. Adams had had so much trouble herself she
would not care about seeing me, and I did not wish to intrude on her
grief—poor lady! I daresay you've heard tell, miss, how she lost her
husband and children at one time—all but the baby?"

"No. Do please tell me," Marigold requested, in accents of deep concern.

"'Tis a very sad story, miss. Someone who read about it in the
newspaper told me of it first of all, whilst I was at Plymouth, and
then, when I came back to Exeter, I met a friend who was at Exmouth at
the time, and knew all about the accident. It seems Mr. and Mrs. Adams
and their five children were in lodgings at Exmouth for change of air,
and one day master—I mean Mr. Adams—took the four children out mackerel
fishing. Mrs. Adams stayed at home with Master Jo, who was a little
chap about two years old, I should think, then. Well, miss, it was a
fine day, but breezy, and—no one ever knew how it happened—the sailing
boat capsized, and master, and the children, and the boatmen were all
drowned. The boat was found afterwards bottom upwards, and next tide
all the poor dead bodies were washed ashore."

"Oh, how sad, how terribly, terribly sad!" cried Marigold, the tears
rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, I wonder it did not kill poor Mrs. Adams!"

The old woman shook her head sorrowfully as she continued—

"The shock would have killed some women, but she was not one of the
sort to lie down and die. Besides, she had little Master Jo left to
live and care for; and they tell me those two are all in all to each
other. I have seen him many times, and often I've been tempted to stop
him and ask after his mother, for he has a gentle face, although he is
such a big man!"

"He is one of the kindest men I ever met," Marigold declared, with
conviction in her tones; and she proceeded to give Mrs. Barker an
account of her journey from Paddington to Exeter, when she had been so
sad after parting from her mother, and Farmer Jo had proved himself
such a cheering companion.

"Ah, he's like his father, I take it," the old woman said. "I never met
a happier couple than Mr. and Mrs. Adams, and to think he should have
been taken from her like that, and all those dear children too! The
ways of God are mysterious, and it must have been a sore trial to her
faith when He laid such affliction upon her."

"Yes," Marigold agreed. "I wonder she could ever feel happy again, and
yet, do you know, Mrs. Barker, she has such a bright face!"

"Has she, miss? Ah, you may depend upon it, she has learnt to say, 'Thy
will be done.'"

Marigold looked thoughtful. The story she had heard from Mrs. Barker's
lips had impressed her deeply, and she was somewhat silent during
the remainder of the visit. She had stepped along lightheartedly by
Barker's side in the afternoon, but on their return journey she walked
soberly and sedately, with an expression of unusual gravity on her face.

"Well, miss, what do you think of my mother?" Barker asked, at length.

"Oh, I like her so much!" the little girl replied promptly. "That is a
dear little house she lives in."

"She was very glad to get it, Miss Marigold; and it's a great relief to
my mind to know that she will have a comfortable home as long as she
lives. It's a bit lonely for her sometimes, though!"

"I daresay it is. I hope you will take me to see her again, Barker;
that is, if you think she will not mind. But perhaps she would rather
you went alone?"

"Oh no, Miss Marigold! I could see she took quite a fancy to you, and
I'm sure she will be always very glad whenever you care to go and see
her, for she dearly loves to have visitors. Until lately she has been
accustomed to lead a busy life, and not being able to read—"

"What! Can't she read?" Marigold cried, in accents of profound surprise.

"No, miss," Barker replied. "When she was a child, parents were
not bound to send their children to school, like they are now. My
grandfather was only a farm labourer, and as mother was the eldest of
a long family, she went into service when she was barely fourteen, and
before that she had to look after her little brothers and sisters, so
you see she never went to school at all. As I was saying, not being
able to read, I'm afraid the time sometimes hangs heavy on her hands."

"How sad not to be able to read the Bible!" Marigold said, lifting a
pair of thoughtful dark eyes to her companion's face.

"I read her a chapter when I go home every other Sunday," Barker
replied. "She says she thinks of it afterwards, and of what she hears
in church too. She has a wonderful memory, and can repeat many of the
psalms word for word, and a great many hymns."

Marigold found her aunts seated placidly in the drawing-room as usual,
on her return. Both greeted her with brightening faces, and Miss
Holcroft said—

"Come here, Marigold, and tell us what you have been doing. Did you
find Mrs. Barker at home?"

"Yes, Aunt Mary; she was expecting us, you know. She seemed very glad
to see us, and her parlour is such a nice little room—it is, really!"
seeing a doubtful look on Miss Holcroft's face. "It is not so very much
smaller than our sitting-room in London. Everything was so clean and
tidy, you would have been delighted with it, Aunt Pamela."

Miss Pamela smiled as she inquired—

"Did you have tea?"

"Oh yes! At a little round table with the bunch of flowers I took from
our garden in the centre. They looked beautiful, and quite scented the
room. Mrs. Barker was so pleased with them. She has a little garden
of her own, you know, and it is full of flowers, though not lilies or
roses—ones that are cheap and easy to grow."

"Does she cultivate them herself?" Miss Pamela asked, with interest in
her tone. "If so, perhaps she would like some roots from us. The lilies
of the valley increase rapidly, and we could well spare her a few
roots."

"I think she would be very glad to have them," Marigold replied.

"Perhaps I might go and see the old woman one of these days."

"Oh, do, Aunt Pamela! She loves having visitors, Barker says."

"We have had visitors in your absence, my dear," Miss Holcroft
interposed at this point. "Now, I wonder if you can guess who they
were."

Marigold shook her head smilingly.

"One of them is really more your friend than ours, I'm sure," Miss
Holcroft continued. "Now you know, do you not?"

"No, indeed; I cannot imagine who they were," Marigold responded,
looking puzzled.

"Farmer Jo and his mother have been here. They had been to see Mrs.
Nowell, and afterwards they called here. They both seemed very
disappointed you were not at home, did they not, Pamela?"

"Yes, I'm sure they were sorry to have missed you, Marigold," Miss
Pamela said.

"Mrs. Adams said she was very fond of children."

"Oh, I wish I had been at home!" the little girl cried, in disappointed
accents.

"We have promised to drive out to their farm one fine day," Miss Pamela
continued. "If all is well, we will take you with us, Marigold."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Aunt Pamela!"

Marigold had spoken in bright, glad tones; but now a shadow crossed
her face, and in a few words she told them the sad story she had heard
from old Mrs. Barker that afternoon. Her aunts listened in silence, but
when she had finished her tale, Miss Holcroft took out her handkerchief
and wiped her eyes, whilst Miss Pamela's usually cold face was full of
sympathy.

"And to think that she should have lived to be happy again!" the latter
exclaimed. "She looked so cheerful this afternoon. I'm sure I thought
she had lived an ordinary, uneventful life, and instead of that she
must have suffered as few women are called upon to do. To lose husband
and four little children at once, and in such a heartrending manner!
Oh, I wonder it did not kill her!"

"That is what I said to Mrs. Barker," Marigold put in; "but she said
Mrs. Adams was not one of the sort to lie down and die."

"What did she mean by that remark, my dear?" Miss Holcroft asked.

"I think she meant that Mrs. Adams trusted in God, and knew it was His
will," Marigold answered reverently. "I suppose she felt like mother
did when father died—only, of course, mother had all of us left," the
little girl added.

"How did your mother feel?" Miss Pamela questioned abruptly.

"First of all as though she did not want to live without father, and
then she thought that it was very selfish to wish to die, when perhaps
God had so much work for her to do, and she remembered she was only
parted from father for a time, and it was wicked to be sorry because he
had finished the fight."

"'Finished the fight?'" Miss Pamela repeated inquiringly.

"Yes—the good fight of faith," Marigold explained.

There was a brief silence, broken by the little girl's remarking—

"It must be dreadful not to be able to read. Poor Mrs. Barker never
went to school in her life, so she never learned; of course it is not
her fault, but it does seem a great pity, does it not? Barker reads to
her every other Sunday when she goes home, and then she has something
to think about afterwards."

"Poor old soul!" Miss Holcroft exclaimed sympathetically.

When Marigold wrote to her mother, which she did in the course of
a few days, she found she had many topics to write about. Many new
acquaintances had come into her life, many new interests occupied her
thoughts. Hitherto, in her London home her life had been of necessity a
somewhat narrow one, because her mother had always been much occupied,
and had no time for making new friends; but, now, Marigold found
herself in a very different position. She had a comfortable home, ample
pocket-money, and everything that wealth could give; but, oh! how she
longed sometimes for the sight of her mother's face, the touch of the
loving arms, the sound of the gentle voice.

Then, too, how happy she would have been, if her mother and brothers
could have shared the good things she was learning to take as a matter
of course—the spacious house with its comfortable belongings, the
well-trained servants, the plentiful food, all of which had seemed to
her at first to be great luxuries.

The little girl had on her arrival been prejudiced against her aunts
on account of their having ignored her mother, but Miss Holcroft had
won her love at once; and she was beginning to discover that there was
much to admire and respect in Miss Pamela's sterner character. But, in
spite of the kindness of both her aunts, in spite of her comfortable
surroundings and freedom from the petty cares that she had shared with
her family in her London home, Marigold never ceased to long for the
day, years hence though she knew it would probably be, when she would
return to her mother, never, as she trusted, to be parted again.



CHAPTER X

THE RECONCILIATION BETWEEN MARIGOLD AND
 MURIEL WAKE

IT was a hot July day. Afternoon school was over at last, and Miss
Hardcastle's girls trooped out into the sunshine, glad to be in the
open air, for the weather was terribly oppressive, and the schoolrooms,
though well ventilated, had been almost unbearably close. Marigold was
nearly half-way home when a sudden doubt assailed her mind, and she
made a hasty search in her schoolbag, only to find that she had left
behind her a book she particularly wanted. She must return to fetch it,
or she would not be able to prepare one of her most important lessons
for the following day; so she hastily retraced her footsteps, and
entered the class-room with flushed cheeks and panting breath. After
taking the forgotten book from her desk, she sat down, meaning to rest
a few minutes before starting for home again; and then she noticed that
she was not alone, as she had imagined.

Seated at a table by one of the open windows was Muriel Wake, her
elbows resting on the blank sheet of paper in front of her, and her
head in her hands. She did not glance at Marigold, who regarded her
with astonishment, for there was an air of utter dejection about the
little figure that surprised her greatly. Muriel was usually full of
life and high spirits.

Having rested until she had become somewhat cooler, and had regained
her breath, Marigold picked up her bag of books, and was about to leave
the room when a slight sound, half sigh, half sob, from Muriel arrested
her attention, and she paused irresolutely. Although Muriel had treated
her in such an unfriendly fashion, Marigold could not bear to see
her in trouble without trying to console her, and after a moment's
hesitation she crossed to her side, and touched her lightly on the
shoulder.

"Muriel! Why are you crying? What is it?"

Muriel started as though she had been stung, and shook off the other's
hand impatiently.

"What do you want?" she demanded, in pettish tones. "Why can't you
leave me alone? I don't want you bothering me with questions, just as
if you cared!"

"I—I thought you were crying," Marigold explained, "and—and I wondered
if I could help you in any way."

Muriel raised a hot, tear-stained face and gazed at her companion with
blurred blue eyes.

"I suppose you're mocking me!" she cried angrily. "Why don't you go
away and leave me in peace? You're glad to see me like this, I know!"

"Indeed I am not, and you're very wicked to say so!" Marigold protested
warmly. Then, her pity at the sight of Muriel's woebegone countenance
getting the better of her indignation, she added more quietly, "Don't
be silly! You know very well I'm not mocking you! Tell me what's wrong,
do!"

"Do you really want to know? But no, of course you don't! You'll tell
the other girls, so that they may jeer at me!"

"I hope I should not treat anyone so badly as that!"

"Well, Miss Smith has kept me in because I worked my sum all wrong,"
Muriel condescended to explain, speaking in a sulky tone, "and I
haven't the faintest idea how to do it."

"Is that why you're crying?" Marigold questioned, for, as a rule, her
companion did not take to heart any trouble in connection with her work.

"My head is aching, and I'm so dreadfully hot!"

"Why didn't you tell Miss Smith? Perhaps she would have let you off
this once."

"Not she—cross old thing! She said I did not attend when she was
explaining the rule, and working the example on the blackboard.
However, as I can't work the sum, I suppose I must sit here until she
chooses to let me go, or until I melt!"

Marigold laughed; and a slight smile flickered across Muriel's face.

"Would Miss Smith mind if I helped you?" the former inquired.

"Oh, would you, Marigold? No, I don't think Miss Smith would mind. It's
not that I won't do the sum, I really can't. I don't know how! See,
this is it."

Muriel drew an arithmetic book towards her, and pointed out the sum. It
presented no difficulties to Marigold, who was quick at arithmetic, and
had been attentive during the lesson that day, whilst Muriel had been
gazing idly about the room and not attending to a word the governess
had been saying. It had been a hot, trying day for teachers and pupils,
so it was small wonder Miss Smith had lost her patience with Muriel,
when she had made the discovery that the child knew nothing whatever
about the lesson she had been at some pains to make plain and simple
for her pupils.

Presently the two heads—one golden, the other brown—were bent together
over the hitherto blank sheet of paper; and soon, under Marigold's
instructions, Muriel was enabled to understand, and work the sum
correctly.

"Thank you, Marigold. I should never have done it but for you," Muriel
said, with real gratitude in her voice; adding a little shamefacedly,
"It is too bad of me to let you stay in on this broiling afternoon when
you might have been out in the fresh air!"

"Nonsense! I am very glad I could help you. May you leave now, or must
you wait for Miss Smith's permission to go?"

"Oh, she said when I had worked the sum I could put my paper on her
desk and go."

In a few minutes the two children started on their homeward way
together. Marigold could not help thinking of the day when she had
given Muriel her confidence, and how it had been betrayed. The
remembrance made her feel rather embarrassed, and she wished their walk
was over. Muriel was looking pale and tired. She was not a very strong
child, and the hot weather was trying her health and spirits.

"Shan't you be glad when the holidays come?" she asked. "I don't think
we ought to have to go to school in this heat. Are you going home for
the holidays?"

"I—I am afraid not."

"I suppose father will send me to the seaside; he generally does every
summer. That will be a change anyway!"

"Will your father go with you?" Marigold inquired.

"Good gracious, no!" as though surprised at the idea. "He will take his
holiday abroad somewhere, I expect; and I shall be packed off with our
housekeeper, Mrs. Jones. She's a silly old woman, but, on the whole, I
think I'd rather have her for a companion than father!"

"Are you not very fond of your father, then?"

"No, I'm not," Muriel acknowledged candidly.

"Isn't he good to you?" Marigold questioned.

"Oh, I suppose so. Yes. He gives me plenty of money, and when he comes
home he brings me presents; but—well, I often think I should be better
pleased if he loved me a little more."

"Oh, but surely he loves you!"

"I don't believe he does: He never wants to have me with him, or cares
anything about what I do!" Muriel said, with a sigh that sounded
genuinely regretful.

Marigold, whose home, in spite of its poverty, had always been rich in
affection, looked at her companion with her dark eyes full of sympathy.
Muriel noted the look, and somehow it touched a soft part of her
selfish little heart, and she said, speaking hurriedly—

"What made you help me to-day? I wouldn't have done it, if you'd been
in my place."

Marigold made no answer. She blushed rosy red and turned her head aside.

"Didn't you feel glad to see me crying?"

"No, indeed I did not!"

"Don't you hate me for having spoken of your mother to the other girls
as I did?"

"No, not now. I did at the time, but afterwards I began to feel
differently. I—I thought perhaps you did not understand how much I
minded to hear mother spoken of like that."

"Oh, but I did understand. I did it on purpose to annoy you," Muriel
confessed frankly. "I disliked you, because I saw Miss Smith thought
a lot of you. She said to me one day: 'I wish you were as good and
attentive as Marigold Holcroft; I never have to tell her the same thing
twice!' I was jealous of you from the first."

"Oh, Muriel!" in reproachful tones.

"I was; and you must have seen it. That is why I was so astonished when
you offered to help me with that sum. What made you do it?"

"I was sorry to see you crying."

"How odd! I should have been glad if it had been you! I wonder why you
don't hate me?"

"I'm afraid I did hate you once; but I found if I went on hating you
and feeling wicked I couldn't pray, so I tried to forgive you instead."

"Why couldn't you pray?" in accents of intense astonishment and
curiosity.

"Because I couldn't say, 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them
that trespass against us.' That was why."

"You funny girl! I should never have thought about that at all."

"Don't you think about what you pray, then? Don't you feel that you're
talking to God, and that He knows all you do, and think, and say?"

"No."

After a moment's silence, during which Marigold turned and looked at
her companion to see if she was speaking sincerely, Muriel remarked—

"I suppose you are very religious. Of course, I say my prayers every
night and morning, but I go through them as quickly as I can, to get
them over."

"But what is the use of praying at all, if you feel like that?"

"I don't suppose it is any use!"

"Oh, Muriel! Did no one ever teach you that God is your Friend?" Then,
as Muriel shook her golden head, Marigold continued impulsively, "You
said just now you would be better pleased if your father loved you a
little more, but you don't seem to care whether God loves you or not.
Don't you know He does?"

"I never thought about it."

"Do you never read the Bible?"

"Never, except at school."

"Oh, I wish you would read a few verses from the Bible every day, like
I do. I have my father's Bible for my own now, and—"

Marigold paused abruptly, wondering if on the morrow she would have
cause to regret that she had not kept her companion more at a distance,
instead of having touched upon a subject that was very near her heart.
Perhaps Muriel guessed her thoughts, for she said quickly—

"Go on. What were you going to say? I promise I won't repeat it like I
did before."

Thus encouraged, Marigold told how she had become possessed of
her father's Bible, and what his motto had been. Muriel listened
attentively, her face full of interest.

"'Fight the good fight of faith,'" she repeated thoughtfully. "And that
is what you are trying to do, Marigold? I don't believe it would be the
least good my trying, although I rather like the idea. I'll think it
over. Do you know you and Grace Long are very much alike?"

"Oh, do you really think so?" Marigold questioned eagerly, her eyes
brightening with pleasure, for she had a very sincere admiration for
Grace.

"Yes. Not in appearance, but in the way you think about things. Grace
is good-natured, and so are you. She must have a dull time of it always
at school; but she seems happy enough. Sometimes I envy her, for I'm
never very happy myself," Muriel confessed, a little dejectedly.

Marigold's aunts both looked greatly surprised when the little girl
informed them that she had walked home from school with Muriel Wake;
but their astonishment was profounder still when, a few days later, she
asked permission to invite Muriel to tea on the following Saturday.

"Why, Marigold! That disagreeable child who served you so unkindly!"
Miss Holcroft exclaimed.

"Yes, I know, Aunt Mary. I think Muriel is really sorry about that, and
these last few days we have become much more friendly. I have not said
anything to her about asking her here, so if you would rather not—"

"No, no!" Miss Holcroft interposed. "Have her to tea by all means if
you wish it."

"But is it wise to be on friendly terms with a child possessing such a
treacherous disposition?" Miss Pamela asked doubtfully.

"I am so sorry for her, Aunt Pamela!"

"How is that? I thought she had everything this world can give to make
her happy."

"But she is not happy," Marigold told them positively.

"Then I fear she is an ungrateful, discontented little girl, Marigold!"

"I am afraid I cannot make you understand. No one cares for her,
and—oh! I know it is her own fault, but it hurts her all the same!"

"Well, you have our permission to invite her here if you wish it, my
dear," Miss Pamela replied; "but I should advise you to be cautious in
your dealings with her, and not trust her too much."

So Muriel Wake became acquainted with Marigold's aunts, and as she was
on her best behaviour, she made, on the whole, a favourable impression,
and obtained their consent to Marigold's paying her a visit on a future
occasion.

So commenced a friendship that was a surprise to everybody, including
Miss Hardcastle herself who wondered what possible attraction wayward,
undependable Muriel Wake could have for such a girl as Marigold, who
gave no trouble whatever at school and worked with a hearty good will.

In the playground, one day, Grace Long spoke to Marigold upon the
subject.

"So you do not hate Muriel any longer?" she said, smiling.

"No. She has been much nicer to me lately," was the response. "I think
she is often disagreeable because she is unhappy."

"That is my opinion also; but it is selfish and unkind of her to try
to make others suffer on that account. Poor Muriel! I am very glad to
see you and she are better friends. Are you looking forward to the
holidays? I am. Miss Hardcastle is going to take me to Ilfracombe for a
few weeks. Isn't that something to look forward to?"

"It is indeed!"

"Are you going away?" Grace inquired.

"I expect not. I have heard nothing about it. I should dearly love to
go home, but there is no chance of that," with a regretful shake of the
head.

"Oh, I am sorry! But, never mind, perhaps you will see your mother
sooner than you think."

Marigold tried to smile cheerfully, but it was a vain attempt. She
was not looking forward to the end of the term with glad anticipation
in any way, for she would miss the companionship of the girls; and
she could not help envying the boarders who were going home for the
holidays. Not that she was in the least unhappy with her aunts, only
hearing so much about going home' brought back the old feeling of
homesickness that she was striving to overcome, and had mastered to a
great extent, though sometimes the longing for her mother and brothers
was too strong to be kept in check. She grew a little languid and
heavy-eyed, and her usually bright spirits flagged.

"You have been working too hard, child," Miss Pamela told her; "you
will be glad of a rest."

"She wants a whiff of sea air, I think," Miss Holcroft said kindly,
"a few weeks on the coast would do her good. Pamela, what do you say,
shall we spend August by the seaside?"

"We will think about it," Miss Pamela replied. "There will be plenty of
time to consider that matter later on."



CHAPTER XI

MARIGOLD IS INVITED TO ROCOMBE FARM,
 AND HER ARRIVAL THERE

"I WENT to see Molly Jenkins this afternoon," I Miss Pamela announced
a few days later, as she joined her sister and niece at the tea-table,
"and I am sorry to say she is not at all well."

"Dear me! What is amiss?" Miss Holcroft asked, a look of concern on her
gentle face. "Has she been working too hard?"

"No, I do not think it is that. She told me she had finished the
beautiful bridal veil you saw her making some weeks ago, and has been
well paid for it. Since then, she says she has been taking things
easier. The poor girl was looking so pale and thin that I was struck
with surprise and dismay at the alteration in her appearance; her
spirits seem to have failed her too. She acknowledged she was not
feeling well, and said she thought the hot weather had tried her
health. It was stifling in her sitting-room this afternoon, not a
breath of air came in the windows, though they were both open."

"The heat has been quite overpowering to-day," Miss Holcroft said; "did
you not find it so at school, Marigold?"

"Oh yes, Aunt Mary. But think how much hotter it must be in London!"

Marigold sighed and looked thoughtful, for she had that day received
a letter from her mother, saying how glad she would be for the boys'
sakes when the holidays came, for the heat was making them languid, and
Rupert had not been very well lately. How the little girl wished she
could transplant her three loved ones to the Cornish fishing village,
where it had been decided she was to accompany her aunts as soon as the
term came to an end. She had never been by the seaside in her life,
and though she was excited at the thought of the pleasure in store
for her, yet her anticipation was shadowed by the remembrance of her
mother and brothers, who, she knew, must be needing a change of air and
scene far more than she did. She wondered if her aunts ever thought how
monotonous their lives must be from year's end to year's end in that
little suburban flat. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she
missed part of the conversation that was going on, and started when
Miss Holcroft called her by name.

"Yes, Aunt Mary," she answered quickly.

"What are you dreaming about, my dear? Have you not heard what Pamela
has been saying?"

"Not a word, I am afraid," Marigold confessed. "I am so sorry, Aunt
Pamela! Were you asking me something?"

"No, child. I was remarking that I saw Mrs. Adams in the city this
afternoon, and she inquired how you were. I told her you were looking
pale, and that we intended taking you away for a change next month;
whereupon she said she wondered if you would care to spend a Sunday
with them at Rocombe—that is the name of their farm."

"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold cried, her face shining with delight.

"I said I would ask you, and if you would like to go, Farmer Jo will
drive in to fetch you on Friday evening, and bring you back early on
Monday morning in time for school. It was a kind thought of Mrs. Adams,
was it not? I see you like the idea, Marigold."

"Oh yes, yes! How good of her! I have never seen a farm! Oh, how kind
people are to me!"

"I daresay two clear days in the country will blow the cobwebs away,"
Miss Holcroft said smilingly; "but need we trouble Mr. Adams to fetch
Marigold? We might drive out to Rocombe ourselves, and leave her there."

"Perhaps that would be the better plan," Miss Pamela agreed. "I will
write Mrs. Adams to that effect. The invitation was given with such
spontaneous kindness that I had no scruples about accepting it,
especially as I deemed doing so would be for Marigold's benefit."

"How good everyone is to me!" the little girl cried gratefully,
glancing from one aunt to the other with eyes that expressed even more
than her words.

"We believe you are trying to please us, Marigold," Miss Pamela
responded. "I met Miss Hardcastle as I was returning home this
afternoon, and she gave me an excellent report of your conduct at
school; she looks upon you as a promising pupil, for the says you have
ability, and are willing to work. I was much gratified to hear her
opinion of you."

"I wish mother knew!" were the words that rose to Marigold's lips, but
she did not utter them; instead, she remained silent, struggling with
the desire to cry, she hardly knew for what reason, except that every
kindness she received, every loving word her aunts gave her, seemed
to set her farther apart from her mother and brothers. The contrast
between her life and theirs was apparent to her more and more each day,
and her heart cried out: "It is not fair that I should have everything,
whilst they have nothing!"

Miss Holcroft noticed her little niece's emotion, and though she had
no clue to the cause, she considerately changed the conversation into
another channel by asking—

"Don't you think Mr. Jenkins may have something to do with poor Molly's
sad looks, Pamela?"

"Yes, very likely. I fear he is not going on well; in fact, his
daughter did not hesitate to say so in as many words. He returns home
in a state of intoxication every night now, and Molly is in continual
dread lest some accident should befall him. Poor girl, she has a heavy
burden to bear!"

Miss Holcroft shook her head sadly as she replied—

"I imagined the last time I saw her that her father was getting worse
and worse. Wretched man! What will be his end? There is nothing we can
do for that poor girl, I fear."

"No, nothing whatever. She will not hear of leaving her father, and
looked almost indignant when I suggested the advisability of such a
step, talked of her duty to him, her duty, indeed! I wonder if it ever
crosses his mind to think of his duty to her!"

"Ah, well, perhaps she is right," Miss Holcroft said gently. "She is
very patient with him."

"Patient! I should think so!" Miss Pamela cried indignantly. "And to
think how abominably he has served her from first to last! I could
hardly keep my tongue still about him this afternoon when she was
speaking of him, and looking all the while so fragile and slight as
though a breath of wind would blow her away, yet withal so firm of
purpose, and determined to remain with her father. 'He has no one in
the world but me,' she said, 'and if I deserted him, what would become
of him then?'"

"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold exclaimed, forgetting everything but her
sympathy and admiration for Molly Jenkins, "how splendid of her!"

"Humph!" said Miss Pamela, "perhaps it was!"

Miss Pamela was one of those folks who never do themselves justice in
the sight of others. People often had a wrong impression about her,
deeming her cold, proud, and hard, when in reality she was kind-hearted
and sympathetic. She was not a favourite with her acquaintances, but
she possessed a few friends who had known her long enough to be certain
of her excellent intentions, her sterling worth. She was very true and
faithful, and hated nothing so much as deception and sham; therefore,
when Marigold's father had come to her with the story of his marriage,
her indignation had known no bounds, and she had jumped to the false
conclusion that his wife had induced him to keep the secret from his
aunts, for fear of their disapproval. She had not allowed him to enter
into any explanations, and they had parted in anger, never to meet
again, whilst she continued to harbour bitter thoughts against the
woman who had been the cause of the breach between them. Only since she
had known Marigold had she entertained any doubts as to her conduct in
the matter having been right. There had sprung up in her heart a warm
affection for her dead nephew's little daughter. She had fallen in with
her sister's desire to take the child and educate her from a sense of
duty; but now she loved Marigold dearly.

Marigold was like her father in appearance, she had his dark, beautiful
eyes, she was sweet-tempered and kind-hearted, as he had been, and
possessed his brave spirit; but Miss Pamela knew that the desire to do
right, that was Marigold's strongest characteristic, must have been
inculcated by the mother, and her alone. Miss Pamela's sentiments
towards her nephew's widow had been decidedly modified since she had
recognised that fact, though she had not acknowledged as much even to
her sister.

Marigold was in a great state of excitement when Friday evening arrived
at last, and she drove off with her aunts to Rocombe Farm. It was
only three miles from Exeter, close to a pretty village, and not many
minutes' walk from an old grey church which Miss Holcroft pointed out
to the little girl as they passed, saying—

"I expect you will attend Divine service there on Sunday."

Marigold looked at the ancient building with interest, but it was
soon lost to sight, and they were driving through the village, which
consisted of a few thatched cottages, with two or three larger
dwellings.

At length the carriage drew up in front of a long, low house with a
porch in the centre, covered with roses and honeysuckle, and before
which stretched a velvety lawn, edged with flower-beds. They alighted,
and entered the garden through a wicket-gate at the moment the front
door opened, and Mrs. Adams' small figure stepped lightly out to meet
her visitors.

"I am so glad to see you all," she told them. "You dear little soul to
accept my invitation!" she added, turning to Marigold and giving her a
hearty kiss.

"It was very kind of you to ask me to come!" the child responded
gratefully.

"I think she does look a trifle pale," Mrs. Adams continued; "but come
inside, come inside."

She led them into the parlour, a large comfortable room with dark
oak furniture that showed off well against a blue wall-paper. There,
in spite of Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela's protestations, they were
served with strawberries and clotted cream. Then Farmer Jo appeared on
the scene, and they made such a merry, happy party that Marigold saw
her aunts were sorry to leave.

"We shall trust to you, Mr. Adams, to bring Marigold back in time for
school on Monday morning," Miss Pamela told Farmer Jo, after she and
her sister were seated in the carriage ready to be driven home.

"You may rely upon me to do so, ma'am," he replied promptly.

"Thank you. You are very good. Good-bye, Mrs. Adams! Good-bye,
Marigold."

The little girl sprang into the carriage and gave each of her aunts a
kiss, then hopped out again, and stood between mother and son, smiling
and nodding, as the carriage was driven away.

"Now what would you like to do this evening, my dear?" Mrs. Adams
inquired. "Suppose I show you over the house first of all?"

"And when you've done that, mother, I'll take her around the place
out-of-doors," her son suggested. "You'd like to see the farm
buildings, wouldn't you?" he added, turning to Marigold, who acquiesced
readily.

Accordingly Mrs. Adams led the way into the house and upstairs to a
low-ceilinged room, in the centre of which stood a large four-post
bed. A servant—a cherry-cheeked damsel whom her mistress addressed as
Sally—had already unpacked Marigold's portmanteau, and was leaving the
room as they entered.

"I gave you this bedroom because it is next to my own," the old lady
explained. "I feared you might be lonely in a strange house."

Marigold glanced around her quickly. The apartment was furnished in an
old-fashioned manner, the dressing-table being draped with white muslin
looped up with bows of pale blue ribbon, and the walls were covered
with a paper over which trailed full-blown roses. In one corner was a
large doll's house on a stand, and as Marigold's glance rested upon it
in wonder, Mrs. Adams said simply—

"Perhaps you have heard that I once had two little daughters of my own?
God took them from me many years ago. Well, this was their room. Look
here, my dear!"

She opened a cupboard door, and revealed to sight upon a shelf a lot of
children's toys, including two old-fashioned Dutch dolls with cheeks
whose bloom was as vivid and whose eyes were as black and staring as
they had been half a century before.

A lump rose in Marigold's throat as she looked at the dead children's
treasures, and she impulsively slipped her little warm fingers into the
old lady's wrinkled hand.

Mrs. Adams smiled, and hand-in-hand they went over the rest of the
house. Marigold was especially delighted with the dairy, its tiled
floor and shining milk pans, and was promised that on the morrow she
should be taught how to turn the rich cream into butter.

Then Farmer Jo came in and claimed her attention. She accompanied him
to the stables, and was introduced to Colonel, the tall black horse
that was driven in the dogcart, and to Mrs. Adams' pony, Dumpling,
whose sole duty in life was to take his mistress about in a little,
low basket carriage. After that they went for a stroll in the meadows
near by, where the cart-horses were enjoying a rest after the work of
the day, and the placid cows were lying down among the daisies and
buttercups, pictures of ease and contentment. Then back to the house
again, where supper was awaiting their return; and afterwards Marigold
went to bed "comfortably tired," as she said, and lay down in her nest
of feathers, meaning to go to sleep at once. But, instead, she remained
awake, thinking of Mrs. Adams and Farmer Jo, till she heard the former
come upstairs and pause outside the door.

"I am not asleep, Mrs. Adams," Marigold called out.

"How is that?" asked the old lady, as she entered and bent over the
little girl. "Do you not find the bed comfortable?"

"Oh, very comfortable! I never felt such a soft bed before!"

"Ah, you have been accustomed to sleep on a mattress, and not a feather
bed, I expect. Now, close your eyes like a dear child and try to sleep,
or you will be tired to-morrow, and that will never do! Good-night, and
may God bless you!"

Mrs. Adams pressed a kindly kiss on Marigold's forehead as she spoke,
and went away, closing the door softly behind her. A few minutes later
her little visitor was sleeping peacefully.



CHAPTER XII

MARIGOLD'S VISIT AT ROCOMBE FARM

SATURDAY morning was a busy time at Rocombe Farm, and Marigold was
awakened early by pleasant sounds of life and bustle about the place.
Jumping quickly out of bed, she ran to the window and peeped out from
behind the blind upon the green lawn and the meadows beyond, fresh and
glistening with dew.

Half an hour later she found her way downstairs and out into the yard,
where the cows were being milked by a couple of the farm hands.

"Would you like a drink of milk, missy?" inquired one of the men.

Marigold thanked him, and said she would. She returned to the kitchen
to fetch a cup, and enjoyed a good draught of the sweet, frothy
beverage. Presently Mrs. Adams came down, and welcomed her young guest
with a bright smile and an affectionate kiss.

What a happy day that was! Mother and son were eager that Marigold
should enjoy herself and make the best of her short visit, which both
declared must be repeated often.

She saw the butter made, fed the poultry, and investigated all the
outbuildings, even to the pig-styes, in one of which she discovered a
sow with eleven young ones; the sweetest, prettiest little creatures
she had ever seen, only a few days old, black, and slippery as eels, as
she found when she tried to catch one.

"I did not hurt him, indeed I did not!" she exclaimed, as having
succeeded in grasping piggy in her two hands, the little animal uttered
such piercing shrieks that she let him drop in alarm.

"No, no, of course not!" Farmer Jo, who was standing by looking on in
some amusement, answered reassuringly.

"I never heard such a dreadful noise in my life," she continued. "Do
little pigs always cry like that, Mr. Adams?"

"Always, if you touch them."

"They are very pretty; I thought pigs were ugly, dirty things!"

"That is quite a mistaken idea."

Marigold accompanied her host around his farm. He gave her a great deal
of information about matters of which she had known nothing before; and
she feared he must consider her extremely ignorant, especially when she
mistook barley for wheat, and had to confess that she did not know the
difference between a rook and a blackbird!

In the afternoon Dumpling was brought around to the front gate in
the little basket carriage, and Mrs. Adams took Marigold for a most
delightful drive through narrow shady lanes rich in ferns, where
foxgloves grew tall, and meadow-sweet scented the air with its
fragrance.

Dumpling was very fat, and his mistress allowed him to take his time;
so the little girl could look about at leisure, and feast her eyes
on the beautiful scenery visible from every gateway—wooded valleys,
pleasant meadows, through which flowed a rippling stream, and far away
in the distance the massive tore of the Dartmoor hills faintly visible
through a soft blue haze.

"When Dartmoor looks near, we say it is going to rain," Mrs. Adams
explained; "but if the distance appears great, as it does to-day, we
know the weather will continue fine."

"How interesting everything is in the country!" Marigold said
thoughtfully. "Oh, how I wish mother and the boys could have half the
pleasures I get!"

"Perhaps their turn will come some day," was the cheery response. "One
can never tell what the future holds in store for us. Your aunts seem
very good, kind women, and anxious to make you happy."

"Yes; and indeed I am happy," the little girl declared earnestly.

"Then you can say, like the Psalmist: 'The lines are fallen unto me in
pleasant places.' Is it not so?"

"Yes."

After a moment's hesitation, Marigold explained to her new friend all
about her mother and brothers, and her London home. Mrs. Adams listened
with great interest, her bright dark eyes full of kindly sympathy.

"I see the thought troubles you that life is so much easier and
pleasanter for you than for your mother and brothers," she said
gravely; "but I would not let that worry me if I were you. It seems to
me that your duty lies with your aunts at Exeter, for the present, at
any rate. Has it ever occurred to you that they may want you more than
your mother does?"

"No, never!"

"I think it is very possible they do. You tell me they make a happy
home for you; you should enjoy it with a thankful heart, as a blessing
God has given you, and not wonder why He has selected you instead of
others to receive so many benefits. It is His will it should be so.
When God bestows the good things of this world upon anyone, depend upon
it He means them to be made the most of and appreciated. Do not worry
about your mother, child; she has her Heavenly Father for a Guide, and
He will mark out the fitting path for her, as He does for all who trust
in Him. It seems to me that to be troubled because your dear ones are
denied the pleasures you enjoy is almost to mistrust God."

"But it is so hard that I should be going away for a holiday by the
seaside, when I know they want a change far more than I do!" Marigold
cried, her voice full of a wistful sadness. "Poor mother has not been
out of London for years, and the boys have so often talked of what they
would do if they were in the country. Oh, Mrs. Adams, don't you think
it is hard?"

"It appears so to you and me, my dear; but depend upon it God knows
best. As you grow older you will learn, I hope, to trust Him more and
more. It is difficult sometimes, when He takes from us what we love,
whether it be riches, or home, or those dear to us, and bids us seek
fresh interests in life. But we must be satisfied to let Him choose our
path, remembering that He has promised to be with us always. As to that
path—"

  "Smooth let it be, or rough,
     It will be still the best;
   Winding or straight it leads
     Right onward to Thy rest."

"Why, that is a verse from my mother's favourite hymn!" cried Marigold,
a bright smile illuminating her countenance.

"It is a favourite one of mine too," the old lady told her, with an
answering smile.

Presently Marigold mentioned Barker's mother. After a minute's
reflection, Mrs. Adams remembered her quite well, although so many
years had passed since they had last met. Marigold explained where Mrs.
Barker lived, and all she knew about her, whilst Mrs. Adams made a
mental note of the address, meaning to go and visit her old servant on
some future occasion.

By and by Mrs. Adams asked the little girl if she would like to learn
to drive, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, proceeded to show
her how to handle the reins. Marigold was delighted, although at first
she felt decidedly nervous; but Dumpling was a steady, well-behaved
pony, and all went well.

On their way home they drew up outside the village shop, which was
also the post-office, and Mrs. Adams went in to make some purchases,
leaving Marigold outside. It was the funniest shop she had ever seen,
Marigold decided, as she looked at the medley of goods displayed in
the window—groceries and stationery, sweets and buns, clothes-pegs and
brushes, all huddled together. She was smiling amusedly when Mrs. Adams
reappeared and took her seat again.

"Were you laughing at our little shop?" the old lady questioned.

"Yes," Marigold acknowledged; "they seem to sell all sorts of things
there."

"So they do. They keep a little of everything. You see, we are three
miles from Exeter, and I do not know how we should get on without our
shop. Have you enjoyed the drive?"

"Oh, so much, thank you! It has been a beautiful afternoon!"

They found Farmer Jo on the look-out for their return. He smiled when
he saw Marigold with the reins in her hand, and told her on Monday when
he took her home, she should drive Colonel in the dogcart.

The little girl's visit was slipping away all too quickly, she thought.
On Sunday morning she accompanied Mrs. Adams and her son to church, and
sat between them in a large square pew. It was only when they stood up
that she could see the rest of the congregation, for the seats were of
the high-backed, old-fashioned kind, with doors.

The worshippers were mostly of the labouring classes, and the choir
was composed of women as well as men. It was a simple service, and the
clergyman—an old man who had held the living for nearly half a century,
and who knew the histories of all his parishioners—preached a plain
sermon, such as the most uneducated person could understand, taking for
his text the first part of the fifty-first verse of the second chapter
of St. Luke's Gospel—

"'And He went down with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subject
  unto them.'"

He proceeded to explain how Jesus fulfilled His duty to His earthly
parents, submitting to their rule and doing their bidding. It was a
sermon on duty,—the duty we owe to each other, and, above all, the duty
of every living soul to God. Marigold listened intently, and was quite
sorry when the clergyman had finished, for he had a simple, direct
way of speaking, and possessed a pleasant voice that had a ring of
sincerity in its mellow tones.

Outside in the churchyard, when the service was over, Mrs. Adams and
Farmer Jo exchanged greetings with their friends and neighbours, as is
the fashion in country parishes, and Marigold was introduced to so many
strangers that she was rosy with blushes on account of the attention
she was drawing upon herself, and the questions she had to answer.

How did she like the service? Did she admire the church? Had she lived
in Exeter long? Was she going to stay some time at Rocombe Farm? To
these and many other queries she gave polite replies, but she was not
sorry when Mrs. Adams and her son said good-bye to their acquaintances
and moved away.

Before leaving the churchyard, however, they turned down a side path,
and there, in a sheltered corner shaded by a laburnum tree, were five
green mounds, which Mrs. Adams pointed out as the graves of her husband
and children. The spot was surrounded by iron rails, and a monument in
Devonshire marble bearing the names of those who slept below, and the
date of their deaths, told to passers-by the tragic story.

Marigold made no remark, for a lump was in her throat and tears in her
eyes, but she gave Mrs. Adams' hand a sympathetic squeeze that told
more than words could say. The old lady smiled, and leaning on her
son's arm, and with the child at her other side, walked back to Rocombe
Farm.

In the afternoon Marigold went for a long walk with Farmer Jo, and in
the evening they all went to church again. So the happy Sabbath passed
away, bringing the little girl's visit nearly to an end.

She was up betimes in the morning, and after an early breakfast took
a lingering farewell of her kind hostess. She felt as though she had
known her all her life.

"You must come and see us again, my dear child," Mrs. Adams said.

"Oh, I will indeed, if my aunts will allow me! Thank you so much for
your kindness, dear Mrs. Adams!"

Then Farmer Jo lifted Marigold into the high dogcart, and putting the
reins into her hands, swung himself up by her side. Colonel started off
at a swinging trot, and they had soon left Rocombe Farm far behind, and
were nearing the Ever Faithful City.

"What are you thinking about, eh?" Farmer Jo inquired, after a lengthy
silence on Marigold's part.

"I was thinking of the day I first saw you, when we travelled down from
London together," she answered. "Do you know, I was rather frightened
of you, at first?"

"Now I wonder why?"

"Because you were so big, and when I saw you peeping at me from behind
your newspaper, I thought you would fancy me silly to cry, and I had an
idea you might laugh at me!"

"I was never farther from laughing in my life," he declared. "I never
could bear to see anyone in trouble—but that's all past. You've made a
lot of friends in Exeter by this time, I don't doubt."

"Oh yes, a great many!"

"What about that sour-faced individual who met you at the station?" he
asked, smiling at the remembrance of Barker's astonishment at sight of
him. "Do you reckon her among your friends?"

"Barker? Yea, indeed! She's a very nice woman when you get to know her.
Oh!" with regret in her tones, "we are very nearly at home now, are we
not?"

"Yes, very nearly."

Five minutes later the dogcart drew up in front of the Misses
Holcroft's house in Powderham Crescent. Marigold hoped her aunts would
be looking out, so that they might see she had driven, nor was she
disappointed, for at the first glance she caught sight of their faces.
Mr. Adams declined to come in; and, after he had lifted Marigold down,
and handed her portmanteau to the servant who had been sent out to
fetch it, he took his departure, whilst Marigold stood on the doorstep
waving her hand till he was out of sight. Then she went indoors to
answer her aunts' eager questions, and to give them a full and lengthy
account of her visit.

The two days she had spent at Rocombe Farm had done her a world of good
mentally as well as physically, and it touched her deeply to see how
pleased her aunts were at her return. If she had been away two months,
instead of only two days, they could not have been more glad to welcome
her home.



CHAPTER XIII

GOOD NEWS FROM HOME, MARIGOLD AND
 MISS PAMELA VISIT MRS. BARKER

"ONLY one day more, and then it will be, 'Hurrah for the holidays!'"
cried Muriel Wake, as she danced up to Marigold and Grace Long, who
were holding an animated conversation in a corner of the playground.

"My dear Muriel," expostulated the elder girl, "how hot you will make
yourself, if you persist in hopping about in that absurd fashion!"

"I positively can't keep still, Grace; I feel so excited at the thought
of saying good-bye to school for six whole weeks. I'm one mass of
nerves, as Mrs. Jones says when I tease her—poor old soul! Now, what
were you two talking about?"

"About where we are going for the holidays," Grace explained. "You know
I am to accompany Miss Hardcastle to Ilfracombe?"

"Yes. I don't envy you, Grace! I wouldn't for the world be under Miss
Hardcastle's eye all the holidays!"

The others laughed, and Grace hastened to reply—

"Well, I would rather be with her than anyone else. You cannot imagine
what a pleasant companion she is. Are you going by the seaside, too,
Muriel?"

"Yes, I believe so; but it is not decided where I am to be sent yet."

"Mrs. Jones is to go with you, I suppose?"

Muriel nodded, and shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of distaste.

"Think how dull I shall be, with only that stupid old woman for a
companion, and she never will allow me to make friends with other
children on the sands. Oh, Marigold, how I wish I could persuade father
to let me go to the same place as you and your aunts!"

"It is quite a small village on the north coast of Cornwall," Marigold
said; adding eagerly, "Oh, Muriel, do try to come! Think what a
splendid time we should have together!"

"Yes," agreed Muriel, her face brightening. "What is the village
called?"

"Boscombe."

"Boscombe?" Muriel repeated. "I shall remember that!"

"It is not very far from Bude," Muriel explained. "You have to go
by coach part of the way, so Aunt Mary told me. Boscombe is not a
fashionable place at all; but there are several good lodging-houses
that have been lately built. When my aunts were little girls they used
to go there every summer and live in a furnished cottage that belonged
to their father; but it was pulled down many years ago, and an hotel
built on the same ground."

Whilst Marigold and Muriel were walking home from school together, the
latter reverted to the subject of the coming holidays, and said she
should try her hardest to induce her father to send her to Boscombe.

"Father is coming home for a few days at the end of the week," she told
her companion; "and then he will most probably decide where Mrs. Jones
and I are to go."

The following day the school broke up for the long vacation, and all
was hurry and bustle at Miss Hardcastle's establishment. The boarders
were anxious to leave by the first available trains that would take
them to their different destinations, and were engaged in putting the
finishing touches to the packing of their boxes.

Marigold took an affectionate farewell of Grace Long, and returned to
Powderham Crescent early, for the day scholars had been dismissed an
hour before the usual time, as was generally the way on breaking-up
day. On reaching home the first person she encountered was Barker, who
handed her a letter from London that had arrived by the second post.

Marigold opened it eagerly, and sat down in a chair in the hall to read
it, whilst Barker hovered near. A smile rose to the little girl's face,
for it was a bright, loving letter her mother had written in answer to
the one in which she had given a brief account of her visit to Rocombe
Farm.

"I am delighted to hear you have such kind friends, my dear Marigold,"
ran the familiar handwriting, "and the knowledge that you have a happy
home with your aunts gives me great pleasure. The boys broke up for
their holidays yesterday. I think I told you that Rupert had not been
very well, but he is much better now, I am glad to say. The fact is,
the dear little lad has been working very hard at school, because he
has hopes of being raised to a higher form again next term, and rather
overdid it. Now, I have a piece of news for you. The boys have had an
invitation to spend a month with a school friend at Hastings, and I
have consented to their going. You remember that nice little fellow
Neil Munro, who used to come to tea here sometimes? Well, it transpires
that he is the only son of rich parents, and when his mother called to
see me, and explained how they had taken a furnished house at Hastings,
and begged me to allow my boys to visit them, I was only too delighted,
and readily agreed. So they go next week, if all is well. I feel so
grateful to Mrs. Munro for her thoughtful kindness, though she said
the idea was Neil's. I expect I shall be a trifle dull at home with
all my children away, but I shall be busy as usual, and the thought
that you are all having good holidays will recompense me for a little
loneliness. I thank God for His goodness to my dear children!"

Marigold uttered a cry of joy and thankfulness as she came to the end
of her mother's letter, that made Barker look at her with curious
eyes. The little girl's face was glowing with pleasure, and her voice
trembled with excitement as she inquired—

"Where are my aunts, Barker?"

"They are both out, miss. Have you good news, Miss Marigold?"

"Very good news. Would you like to hear what it is? Well, then, my
brothers have had an invitation to spend a month at Hastings, and they
are going next week!"

"I'm sure I'm very glad if you are, miss," Barker replied, secretly
wondering why Marigold should be so wildly excited at what seemed to
her a very ordinary matter.

Marigold waited impatiently enough for her aunts' return. Meanwhile,
she went upstairs to her own room, and after taking off her hat and
smoothing her hair, perused her mother's letter again. Presently she
heard her aunts come in, and ask if she had returned from school yet.

"Here I am, Aunt Mary! Here I am, Aunt Pamela!" she cried.

There was a note of joy in the bright young voice; and Marigold's face,
as she bent over the banisters and watched her aunts ascend the stairs,
wore its sunniest smile.

"Please come into my room," she said. "I have had a letter from mother,
and I want you both to hear what she says."

They followed her into her bedroom, and took the chairs she placed
for them, wondering what good news she had received. Marigold perched
herself on a corner of her bed, and proceeded to read her mother's
letter aloud. After she had finished, there was a brief silence, then—

"I am glad your brothers are going to have a nice change," Miss
Holcroft said, with a slightly nervous glance at her sister.

Miss Pamela turned her piercing dark eyes on Marigold, as she inquired—

"Is it pleasure on their account that has put you into such a state of
excitement, child?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela! I felt so unhappy to think that I was going to have
a holiday, and they were not! It seemed so hard for them! But now it
has all come right, hasn't it? How good people are! Fancy that Mrs.
Munro thinking of our boys!"

"She must be a kind-hearted woman," Miss Holcroft remarked cordially.

"Yes," Miss Pamela agreed thoughtfully. "These Munros are rich people,
it seems?" she added.

"I suppose so, Aunt Pamela. I remember Neil Munro because he was very
friendly with Rupert and Lionel, and used to come home with them
sometimes, but I did not know anything about his mother or father."

Miss Pamela looked contemplative. She sat tapping the ground with
one foot and following the design of the carpet with the top of her
sunshade.

"How the boys will love it by the sea!" Marigold continued, smiling, as
she pictured their enjoyment. "I daresay they will have bathing, and
boating, and fishing, and all the rest of it! I don't know that I ever
felt so glad about anything before!"

"Your mother will be lonely without them," Miss Holcroft said gently.

"Yes; but she will not mind that if they are happy."

"Mary," said Miss Pamela abruptly, "if these boys are going to have a
holiday, and visit rich people, they will probably want new clothes,
and a little money in their pockets, eh?"

"Of course they will, Pamela," her sister agreed; adding, with an
appealing glance and in a lower tone, "We must remember they are poor
Rupert's sons."

"Marigold shall make them a present," Miss Pamela continued. "You shall
write to your mother to-night, child, and enclose something for her to
spend on the boys."

Marigold grew red with mingled emotions—surprise and pleasure being the
chief.

"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" she cried.

"There, there!" Miss Pamela exclaimed, as she rose from her chair; "now
I'm going to take off my bonnet. Come along, Mary."

But Miss Holcroft lingered to kiss Marigold, and to whisper that she
was pleased with her good news, and she and Pamela would have a talk
together to decide what gift should be sent to the boys.

Later, when the little girl was in the midst of her letter to her
mother, her aunts joined her again, and Miss Holcroft, handing her a
folded paper, told her to enclose it, and say it was intended as a gift
for her brothers. Marigold did not know it was a cheque for ten pounds,
for she slipped it into the envelope without examining it, but she
realised that it meant money, and the happiness and gratitude plainly
visible on her face spoke her thanks, even better than the faltering
words with which she endeavoured to express them.

It had been decided that they were to start for Boscombe at the end
of the following week, taking Barker with them, and leaving the other
servants in charge of the house during their absence. A few days before
their departure, Marigold accompanied Miss Pamela to call on Mrs.
Barker, and was received by the old woman with great cordiality. She
told them that Mrs. Adams had been to see her, and had brought a hamper
of good things from the farm for her acceptance.

"We've both grown old since we last met," Mrs. Barker said, "and we've
both had trials and troubles, though hers came all at once, so to
speak, and mine have been spread over the years. Ah! it did me good to
see her again, and talk over old times, and she said the sound of my
voice brought back the past. I made her a cup of tea, and by and by her
son came to fetch her, and they went away together."

"Shall I read you a chapter from the Bible?" Marigold asked presently,
when there was a pause in the conversation. "Barker said she was sure
you would wish me to. We are not in a hurry, are we Aunt Pamela?"

"Not in the least," Miss Pamela replied.

So the old woman placed her Bible before Marigold, and listened
attentively whilst the little girl read aloud the twenty-sixth
chapter of the Acts of the Apostles, wherein is the account of how
Paul told King Agrippa the history of his life, and his conversion to
Christianity.

"And they said he was mad!" the old woman exclaimed, when Marigold had
finished.

"Festus said much learning had made him mad," Miss Pamela said; "as
though a madman could have defended himself as Paul did!"

"But Agrippa felt Paul was speaking the truth, didn't he, Aunt Pamela?"
Marigold interposed eagerly.

"I believe he did, otherwise he would not have said, 'Almost thou
persuadest me to be a Christian.' I fear there are many like that poor
king, Who almost believe, but not quite."

"Ah, ma'am, that's very true!" Mrs. Barker agreed. "People find so many
excuses for not leading Christian lives! Perhaps King Agrippa had some
favourite sin he couldn't give up, or perhaps he feared folks would
laugh at him; or maybe he couldn't trust himself to God."

After that Miss Pamela and Marigold rose to go. The old woman
accompanied her visitors to the garden gate.

"It was real good of you to come," she said heartily, "and I'm very
grateful to little missy for reading me a chapter. Please give my love
to Louisa, and tell her I shall be looking out for her one evening to
say good-bye. Good afternoon, ma'am! Good afternoon, missy!"

"She's a nice old woman, isn't she?" Marigold said, as she tripped
along by her aunt's side.

"Yes, very," Miss Pamela agreed. "I am glad you told Mrs. Adams about
her, Marigold, for you see she has not let much time pass before going
to visit her."

The following week, Marigold with her aunts and Barker journeyed to
Boscombe. The little girl was full of excitement, anticipating all
sorts of pleasures during her sojourn at the seaside, for she felt she
could enjoy herself with an easy mind, now her brothers were having a
holiday too.

Mrs. Holcroft had written a grateful note to Miss Holcroft and Miss
Pamela, thanking them for their great kindness to her boys; and though
neither had made a remark, they had both been pleased with the way in
which the writer had expressed her appreciation of their thoughtfulness
and generosity.

The remembrance of her mother lonely in London was the one reflection
that shadowed Marigold's pleasure at this time; but she knew Mrs.
Holcroft would not wish her to make a trouble of that, and it was not
difficult to be cheerful and happy during those bright summer days.

"Some time mother and I will have such a lovely holiday together," the
little girl told herself consolingly, "and we must look forward till
then!"



CHAPTER XIV

CONCERNING THE ARRIVAL OF MURIEL WAKE AND
 MOLLY JENKINS

BOSCOMBE was a quaint little village, composed of one long, steep
street of white-washed cottages occupied by the fishing folk, whose
wives might generally be seen of an evening gossiping on their
doorsteps, their fingers busily engaged in knitting navy blue jerseys.

On an eminence at the top of the street was the church, an ancient
edifice of granite, with a small graveyard encircling it; and close by
stood the vicarage, a substantial building of red sandstone, almost
overgrown with ivy and other creepers.

Of late, overlooking the sea, had sprung up a row of brick villas,
named Alma Terrace, that were let to lodging-house keepers, who reaped
a good harvest during the summer months, as Boscombe was beginning to
be rather better known than it had been, for the air from the Atlantic
was bracing, and the scenery wildly beautiful along the coast, added
to which there were fine sands, where children could find endless
amusement in building castles and forts and in gathering shells.

Marigold's aunts had taken a suite of apartments in one of the new
villas, where they were very comfortable and pleased with their
surroundings. The little girl spent most of her days out-of-doors.
In the morning she generally went out with her aunts, and amused
herself whilst they worked or read in a sheltered nook, searching for
anemones that hid themselves in the little pools between the rocks,
or in collecting seaweeds to press between sheets of blotting-paper
under her Aunt Pamela's instructions; and in the afternoon she would
take a long walk with Barker, visiting different places of interest in
the neighbourhood. She sometimes watched other children paddling and
building castles in the sand with wistful eyes, wishing she dared ask
her aunts to allow her to join them, but never plucking up courage to
do so, fearing they would be horrified at the idea.

"Perhaps I am too old to run about without shoes and stockings," she
thought, "but it must be lovely, I know!"

It was about a week after their arrival at Boscombe that Marigold was
one morning seated with her aunts under the shelter of the sea-wall,
when a pebble flung from behind, dropped into her lap, and a merry
voice cried—

"You see, I've come at last!"

The speaker was Muriel Wake, who proceeded to scramble down the side of
the wall with the agility of a cat.

"We only got here last night," she explained, as she shook hands
with Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela. "We are staying at No. 5 Alma
Terrace—Mrs. Jones and I."

"And we are lodging at No. 8," Miss Holcroft said, smiling.

"I never thought you would really come, Muriel!" Marigold told her
friend in bright, glad tones. "I am so very glad to see you!"

"Father said he did not mind where we went; and when I told him I
wanted so much to go to Boscombe, he made inquiries about the place,
and—here I am!"

Muriel ended her sentence with a merry laugh, and sat down on the sand
facing Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela, never doubting but that they were
pleased to see her. In reality, they hardly knew whether they were or
not, for though Muriel had always been well-behaved in their presence,
they were a little distrustful of her still.

Muriel was wearing a short blue serge skirt with a cotton shirt, and
a scarlet jelly-bag cap ornamented her golden curls. In her hands she
held a spade and a bucket, and she had a towel slung over one arm.

"Have you been having a good time, Marigold?" she asked. "What have you
been doing?"

Marigold explained, whilst Muriel's blue eyes opened wide with
astonishment as she listened.

"Good gracious, Marigold! Do you mean to tell me you haven't been
digging in the sand, or paddling?" she cried.

"Don't you think Marigold is too old for either of those amusements?"
Miss Pamela asked, with a tone of reproof in her voice.

"She is no older than I am," Muriel responded quickly, by no means
abashed. "There is nothing I enjoy more than wading in the water. I
mean to have a net and go shrimping! Oh, Miss Holcroft, you don't
intend to prevent Marigold's joining me, do you?"

Thus appealed to, Miss Holcroft looked helplessly at her sister.
Marigold was listening anxiously to the conversation; and Muriel now
turned her attention once more to her friend.

"Of course you have a spade and a bucket?" she said. "No! What a pity!"

"They sell them at the village shop," Miss Holcroft put in hastily, as
she drew out her purse. "Do you wish to dig in the sand with Muriel, my
dear? If so, take this money, and run and purchase what you want."

"Oh, thank you so much, Aunt Mary! Will you come with me, Muriel?"

"I think I'll stay where I am till you come back. If you hurry you
won't be away many minutes."

Marigold scrambled to her feet, and reaching the flight of steps cut in
the sea-wall, was soon lost to sight.

"How did you leave your father, my dear?" Miss Holcroft inquired
politely.

"Oh, very well, thank you. He is going abroad in a few days, and may
not be home again till Christmas."

"My dear child!" sympathetically. "Then you will have no one but
servants to look after you during his absence! You must come and see us
as often as you can next term."

"Thank you, Miss Holcroft," Muriel said gratefully; adding in a lower
tone, "I've been ever so much happier since Marigold and I have been
friends."

"I am pleased to hear it," Miss Holcroft answered, smiling.

"Marigold's so good-natured," the child continued. "Perhaps you don't
know it, but I served her very unkindly once, and afterwards she
forgave me and did me a good turn. I couldn't have done it myself."

"Oh, but it is right to return good for evil. It is a Christian's duty
to forgive an injury."

"But, you see, I am not a Christian!"

"Perhaps you are trying to be one?"

"No. I'm thinking about it, though!"

At this point Miss Pamela, who had been listening to the conversation
in silence, asked what had become of Mrs. Jones.

"She's gone into the village to order some things from the shop,"
Muriel explained. "I told her I was going to see if I could find you."

A few minutes later Marigold returned with a new spade and a bucket,
and in a short while she and Muriel had commenced operations on the
sand.

"First of all we'll make two comfortable seats for your aunts," Muriel
suggested.

"Oh yes, that will be capital!" Marigold agreed eagerly.

They were soon busily engaged at this work, whilst Miss Holcroft and
Miss Pamela watched their proceedings with interest. Presently two
great mounds of sand had been collected, and under Muriel's directions
were fashioned into seats with backs to lean against.

"Pray come and take your easy-chairs!" Muriel cried, when everything
was completed.

They obeyed, smiling and good-humoured, whilst the children stood a few
steps away, looking on approvingly.

"We must make them seats every day," Marigold declared. "Are you sure
you are comfortable, Aunt Mary, and you, Aunt Pamela?"

"Quite sure," they both assured her.

"Now let us go and build castles by the sea," was Muriel's next
suggestion; "but you had better take your shoes and stockings off,
Marigold, as otherwise you will be sure to get wet, for the tide is
coming in."

Marigold glanced doubtfully at her aunts. It was Miss Pamela who
answered the look.

"Do as Muriel says, if you wish," she said, "and if it will add to your
enjoyment."

Five minutes later the little girls were playing barefooted at the
water's edge, and thoroughly enjoying themselves.

During the days that followed the children saw a great deal of each
other, and agreed exceedingly well. Mrs. Jones and Barker soon became
acquainted, and grew quite friendly whilst they strolled on the
sea-wall, or sat beneath its shade, where they could keep their eyes on
their respective charges.

Mrs. Jones was a stout, rather slow-witted, elderly woman, genuinely
attached to her little mistress. She was the only one of Mr. Wake's
servants who had been in his service for any length of time.

"During the seven years I've lived under his roof he hasn't been home,
at most, for more than a fortnight at a time," she confided to Barker,
"so it's not to be wondered that Miss Muriel ain't fonder of him. He's
almost like a stranger to the poor child."

One morning Miss Holcroft received a letter from an Exeter friend which
caused her great consternation, for it contained the news of the death
of Molly Jenkins' father.

"Oh dear! oh dear! What a shocking affair!" she cried, in distressed
accents to her sister and Marigold. "Oh, what trouble for poor Molly!
Her father met with a violent death, was knocked down by a carriage in
the street, and died whilst he was being conveyed to the hospital!"

"Molly's worst fear has been realised, then!" Miss Pamela exclaimed.
"How long ago did this happen, Mary?"

"Several days, I should imagine, as the unfortunate man was buried
yesterday. Oh, poor Molly! How I wish I was in Exeter, so that I might
try to comfort her!"

The tears were in Miss Holcroft's eyes as she spoke. Marigold looked
white and shocked, whilst Miss Pamela appeared in deep thought. There
was a brief silence, then Miss Holcroft continued, referring to her
letter.

"Molly seems to have been very brave. She attended the funeral, and saw
to all the arrangements herself. How sad to be alone as she is! I fear
now all is over she will break down."

"Oh no!" Miss Pamela said quickly. "I tell you what you must do, Mary,
you must send for her to come to us here."

"Oh, Pamela, do you mean that? Would you be willing to have her as our
guest?"

"Certainly," Miss Pamela responded, in her cold, brief way. "You know I
always mean what I say."

"Oh, what a darling you are, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold cried, rushing
impetuously across the room to her aunt, and giving her an approving
hug.

Miss Pamela was so surprised at this unlooked-for demonstration of
affection on her niece's part that she actually blushed.

"I think it is a splendid idea!" the little girl continued excitedly.
"We'll do all we possibly can to make her happy, won't we?"

"Steady, Marigold!" Miss Holcroft interposed. "You are settling matters
too quickly. We do not know yet if she will come or not. I think,
Pamela, I will write at once, and suggest her coming to us straight
away."

"Yes," agreed Miss Pamela. "Tell her she will disappoint us all if she
declines our invitation; and, Mary, I think you had better send the
money for her journey, don't you? You can do it in such a way that she
cannot mind accepting it."

Miss Holcroft nodded comprehensively, and sat down with her writing
materials at hand to consider how best to word her letter.

Meanwhile, Marigold having caught sight of Muriel waiting for her
outside, went out to join her friend. The two children strolled down
to the beach together. Marigold informed her companion that they were
likely to have an addition to their party. Muriel heard all Marigold
had to say about Molly Jenkins in silence. She did not appear much
interested, and was decidedly not pleased.

"I don't see what your aunts want to have her here for," was the first
remark she made, after Marigold had told her all there was to tell.
"Don't you think she'll be a great nuisance?"

"No; why should she be?"

"She is lame, isn't she?"

"Yes; but she can walk with crutches, you know. I thought we should be
able to make her a seat on the sands like we do for my aunts, so that
she could sit there reading or working, and watch us at play."

"But why should she come here at all? She's only a common lace-maker,
isn't she?"

"She is a lace-maker, certainly," Marigold responded, with a bright
flash of anger in her eyes, "but she's not in the least common!"

"Now you're cross with me," Muriel said, with a discontented pout.

Marigold made no answer, and the other continued—

"You won't think anything of me when that lame girl comes. I know what
it will be; you'll be dancing attendance upon her all day long, and I
shall be left in the lurch!"

"Nonsense, Muriel! You know better! Of course, I shall be as nice and
kind to poor Molly as I possibly can, because I like her, and because
she will be very sad at having lost her father!"

"What a horrid man he must have been!" Muriel cried, with a gesture of
disgust.

"Molly loved him," Marigold answered gently, "and I expect she is
in great trouble now he is gone. You'll be kind to her, won't you,
Muriel?" coaxingly.

Muriel made no reply for a moment, then she burst out—

"Oh, Marigold, I am a bad, wicked girl! I am, really! I cannot help
feeling jealous of this Molly Jenkins. I'm so afraid you'll like her
better than you like me! I know it's horrid of me to mind, but you
are the first real friend I ever had, and I don't want anyone to come
between us."

Marigold looked greatly surprised, for she was never in the least
jealous herself, and could not realise how much anyone might suffer
from such a failing.

"Molly won't come between us," she said reassuringly. "Why, she's years
older than we are!"

"I know. I suppose you think me very selfish, don't you?"

"I think when you see Molly you'll like her yourself," Marigold
replied, ignoring her companion's question. And such proved to be the
case, for Molly accepted the invitation to come to Boscombe, and a
few days later arrived, pale and tired, but with a look of patient
resignation on her countenance that made Muriel feel ashamed of the
jealous thoughts she had harboured against her.

"How dreadful to be lame like that!" Muriel whispered to Marigold, as,
the first day after her arrival, the cripple girl joined them on the
sea-wall. "Oh, poor thing, will she be able to get down on the beach, I
wonder!" And it was Muriel who ran to Molly's assistance and helped her
down the flight of steps with a care and a tenderness that surprised
her friend. "We have made you such a beautiful seat with a nice back,"
Muriel said. "Do try it!"

Molly willingly complied, looking with a grateful smile at the pretty,
blue-eyed child who seemed so eager for her comfort.

"Well?" Muriel asked. "Is that right?"

"Oh yes, indeed, thank you! How good you are to me!"

"Oh no!" shrinking back a trifle abashed. "It was Marigold's idea!"

The lame girl smiled as she looked from one face to the other.

"Thank you both!" she said. "How delightful it is here! How fresh the
air smells! It seems to blow new life into one!"

"Yes," agreed Miss Holcroft, joining them at that moment. "We shall
soon have you looking as brown as these two children, Molly! Did you
ever see such a pair of gipsies? They are out-of-doors from morning
till night."

"We will try to catch you some shrimps when the tide is farther out,"
Marigold told Molly. "Come along, Muriel. Let us go and ask one of the
fishermen what time it will be low water." And the two children went
off together, whilst Molly looked after them with eyes that were moist
with tears, for she was in that weak condition when it is easier to
weep than to smile. During the last few weeks she had gone through a
great deal, but she still had faith to say: "Thy will be done," though
the thought of her dead father brought such anguish to her heart as
only God in His good time could heal.



CHAPTER XV

A GREAT SURPRISE FOR MURIEL WAKE

MOLLY JENKINS had not been many days at Boscombe before a decided
change for the better was apparent in her appearance and spirits.
A faint colour came to her cheeks, her smile was less sad, and her
naturally brave heart took courage again. The children found her a
pleasant companion. They spent many hours of the day in hovering around
her as she sat on the sands, sometimes idle, but oftener with her work
on her knee.

"I feel happier when I am employed," she told them, when they
remonstrated with her for not taking complete rest; and so they allowed
her to do as she pleased.

Marigold had heard from her mother on several occasions since she had
been at Boscombe—bright, cheerful letters that showed how interested
she was in hearing all her little girl's doings.

One morning Marigold came to Molly with a beaming face, to tell her
that Mrs. Holcroft knew a lady who wanted to buy some Honiton lace
flounces, and would Molly undertake to work them? The lady was not in
immediate want of them, so the lame girl would be able to take her time
over the work.

"Mother says if you can make the flounces the lady will be willing to
pay a good price, and she thinks you had better write to her, and she
will explain exactly what is wanted," Marigold said.

This Molly accordingly did, with the result that she obtained an order
that would keep her busily employed for some months to come.

"I think it is so kind of your mother to interest herself in me," she
told Marigold, who was as glad as she was herself that the business had
been satisfactorily settled; "will you tell her how grateful I feel?"

Marigold assented. Her aunts were in the room at the time, and she
could see that they were pleased also.

How fast the August days were slipping away! Muriel Wake bemoaned the
fact bitterly one afternoon, as she sat by the lame girl's side on the
beach. The two were alone, for Marigold had gone for a walk with her
aunts.

"How quickly the holidays are passing, to be sure!" Muriel remarked,
with a deep sigh. "The time simply flies, and during the term how it
drags!"

"I wonder at that," Molly responded. "I always think the time goes so
quickly when one is working. Don't you work hard at school?"

"No, not very; not half so hard as Marigold. Miss Smith—she's our
governess, you know—says Marigold will leave me in the back-stocks; but
then, you see, Marigold has a reason for working. She wants to get on
so as to be able to earn her own living, and help her mother, who is
poor."

"I understand."

"I like Marigold," Muriel continued, "though I hated her when I first
knew her. Did you ever hear how shabbily I treated her?"

Molly shook her head, and Muriel explained the matter. Before she had
half finished her tale she regretted not having kept her own counsel,
for the other looked both astonished and shocked.

"I don't know why I've told you," the little girl said in conclusion,
"because I expect you'll think very badly of me."

"I don't believe you're capable of behaving like that now!" Molly
replied, after a minute's pause. Muriel flushed, and looked doubtful,
as she hastened to say—

"Oh, I don't know about that! I'm not a bit like Marigold, although
I've been trying to be! In spite of her being so lively and full of
fun, she's very religious, really! She thinks we ought to return good
for evil—there's another girl at our school like her—Grace Long. Such a
nice girl she is too! Do you think it makes one happy to be religious?"

"I think it makes one very happy, if by being religious you mean
trusting God with all your heart, giving the ordering of your life into
His keeping, and casting all your cares upon Him. Anyone who really
does that must be happy. We all have troubles and trials, but if God is
our Friend half the bitterness is gone from them. 'If God be for us,
who can be against us?' I expect you know who wrote those words?"

"No, indeed I don't!"

"It was Saint Paul in his Epistle to the Romans. Don't you ever read
the Bible?"

"No—o," Muriel answered reluctantly; "that is to say, we have Scripture
lessons at school, and, of course, I have to read portions of the Bible
then, but I never think of doing so otherwise. Marigold wanted me to
read a few verses every day, like she does—I almost think I will!"

"I wish you would. Don't put it off any longer. Do try to love God and
walk in His ways. Oh, my dear," and the lame girl's voice was tremulous
with strong emotion, "don't say 'Almost thou persuadest me to be a
Christian,' but make up your mind you will be one. Life is so short—at
any time we may be called upon to face our Maker, and how shall we meet
Him if we have not tried to keep His commandments?"

"Molly," said Muriel, in an awestruck tone, "do you ever think of
dying?"

"Often; and more than ever since poor father was struck down so
suddenly!"

"You loved your father very dearly, didn't you?"

"Very dearly!" Molly replied, weeping.

"Oh, don't cry! Don't cry!" Muriel implored, flinging her arms around
her companion's neck with a tenderness unusual in her. "I am so sorry
to think I have made you cry! What will Miss Holcroft say, if she sees
your eyes red and swollen?"

Molly took out her handkerchief and wiped her tears away, trying to
smile.

"That's right!" Muriel exclaimed, in accents of relief; adding in a
lower tone, "Would it make you any the happier, really, if I tried to
be a Christian?"

"Yes, indeed it would!"

"I will try, yes, I will! But I'm afraid I shall not succeed. You don't
know what a naughty girl I am sometimes, how I worry poor Mrs. Jones,
and tease the other servants. Then, too, during the term I don't learn
my lessons half my time, and I make Miss Smith so cross. She said one
day that I tried her temper more than any other girl in the school!"

Molly looked grave as Muriel made these avowals of misconduct. She
had never before come across anyone who confessed faults so openly,
and seemed to take them so little to heart. The fact was, the child
had grown up selfish and wayward simply because she had had no one
to correct her failings. The servants of her father's household had
always looked on her as mischief-making and disagreeable, and, with
the exception of Mrs. Jones, had found it expedient to keep her at a
distance. Mrs. Jones from the first had pitied the lonely little girl,
but she had not sufficient strength of character to guide her in any
way, and her affection showed itself in petting and spoiling her,
rather than in trying to uproot those characteristics which seemed
likely to mar her happiness in life and make her generally disliked. No
wonder Muriel had never been very happy.

Marigold had compelled her reluctant admiration and respect, by
generously forgiving the faithless treatment she had dealt her; and,
ashamed of her former treachery, Muriel had made diffident overtures of
friendship, which had been accepted. This friendship had brought her
more happiness than she had ever known in her life before, but with
it had come an uneasy sense of her own unworthiness. The feeling of
self-complacency that had been one of her chief attributes slowly fell
away from her, and she saw herself as she really was. She had never
cared for truth, but had always been accustomed to turn and twist a
tale to suit her own purpose; she had not been above telling a lie, if
she had considered it expedient to do so; but, daily brought in contact
with a nature that scorned falsehood, and was faithful in even little
things, doubts as to her own behaviour had not been long in appearing,
then shame, and lately a strong desire to be different.

She sat in silence for a long while, her blue eyes gazing far out over
the sea, whilst the lame girl watched her, wondering what thoughts were
in her mind, and if she would be given strength to overcome those bad
habits she had encouraged so long.

"Where is Mrs. Jones to-day?" Molly asked presently.

"Lying down on the sofa in the sitting-room," was the reply. "She said
she had a dreadful headache, and could not come out in the sun. She
often gets headaches like this."

"Poor thing!" in sympathising tones.

"Oh, she will be all right by and by."

There was a tone of careless unconcern in this remark that struck
discordantly on Molly's ear. There was gravity in her voice as she
suggested—

"Couldn't you do something for her?"

Muriel looked surprised at the idea, and raised her eyes to the
speaker's face to read its expression.

"I daresay you think me unfeeling," she said, "but Mrs. Jones often
gets bad headaches, and I'm afraid I'm not sorry, because I don't like
to have her always trotting about after me. However, if you don't mind
being left here alone, I'll go and see how she is."

"I'm going in myself now."

Molly picked up her crutches, and together she and Muriel returned to
Alma Terrace.

"Please tell Marigold not to forget her promise to go fishing with me
this evening after tea," Muriel said, as the lame girl turned into the
gateway of No. 8, and Molly nodded smilingly in reply.

A minute or two later Muriel entered the sitting-room of No. 5,
stepping lightly, so as not to disturb Mrs. Jones. She stopped on the
threshold in amazement, for Mrs. Jones was not there; instead, her
father was seated, reading a newspaper, by the open window.

"Father!" Muriel cried in surprise. "Why, I thought you had gone
abroad!"

Mr. Wake—a handsome, middle-aged man, with rather a formal manner—put
down his newspaper at the sound of his little daughter's voice, and
turned to her with a smile. She went up to him and gave him a kiss; and
then he held her at arm's length and regarded her earnestly.

"How well you look, my dear! Have you been having a good time, you
gipsy?"

"Yes, father. What made you come here? When did you arrive? Are you
staying at the hotel?"

"Yes. I came especially to see you. We, that is myself and a friend,
arrived about two hours ago. We spent last night at Bude. Perhaps we
may stay here a few days, if you are very nice to my friend."

He laughed, seeming in unusually bright spirits, Muriel thought. She
looked puzzled.

"Have you seen Mrs. Jones, father?" she asked.

"Yes, she was here a minute or so before you came in, but has gone
upstairs to her own room to lie down, as she is suffering from
headache."

"I came home to see how she was."

"I would not disturb her now; she said if she could get a nap she would
awake better. You can come back to the hotel with me, and be introduced
to my friend, whom, by the way, I hope you will like."

"Had I not better change my frock, and put on a hat first?"

He glanced at the little serge-clad figure, and the scarlet cap
surmounting the golden curls, with more than usual interest, there was
even a tenderness in his regard.

"No; you will do very well as you are!" he declared approvingly.

They left the house together. Muriel wondering who her father's
friend was, for he was not usually anxious that she should know his
acquaintances. Arrived at the hotel, which was not more than five
minutes' walk from Alma Terrace, Mr. Wake led the way to a private
sitting-room, with a magnificent view from the windows of the great
Atlantic Ocean that now stretched blue and calm beneath the August
sunshine.

To Muriel's astonishment the only occupant of the room was a lady
clad in a soft grey gown, with ruffles of white lace at throat and
wrists—such a pretty lady, the little girl thought, as she met the
glance of a pair of lovely dark brown eyes.

"Marian," said Mr. Wake, as he took Muriel by the hand and led her to
the stranger, "this is my child. Muriel, this is my wife!"

Before Muriel had time to realise the situation, the lady caught her in
her arms, and kissed her as she had never been kissed in her whole life
before.

"You dear little thing!" said a bright, kind voice. "I do hope you will
learn to like me by and by! How astonished you look, and I'm sure it's
no wonder!"

The lady drew her to a chair, and sat down by her side. Muriel glanced
around for her father, but he was gone.

"He has run away," said her companion, rightly interpreting the look.
"Perhaps he thinks we shall get to know each other better without him."

"Are you—has he—that is, is it really true you are his wife?" Muriel
asked, finding her tongue at last.

"Quite true. We were married in London early yesterday morning, and
arrived at Bude last night, coming on here to-day, so that I might see
you. Now, you won't begin to dislike me before you've given me a fair
trial as a stepmother, will you?"

There was something in this question that made Muriel smile. She
glanced quickly at Mrs. Wake, and saw that she was smiling as well.

"Because," the latter continued, "I want to love you very much, if you
will let me, and I hope in time you will grow to love me too."

Muriel gave another shy look at the pretty smiling face that had more
than a little anxiety in its expression, then dropped her eyes.

"We must be great friends. You will be able to tell me all about the
Exeter people—"

"But we shall not see much of each other," Muriel interposed quickly.
"Father is hardly ever at home!"

"Oh, but he will be now!"

"Will he?" doubtfully.

"Yes; you will see. We are going to Switzerland for a little while, and
afterwards we are coming home to settle down!"

"Oh!"

"I hope we shall all be happy together. Will you try to like me, my
dear?"

"I think I do like you," Muriel answered slowly.

"And I like you! I mean to love you very dearly," her stepmother went
on. "You never knew your own mother, did you?"

"No. I have often wished she had lived. I have a friend called Marigold
Holcroft, who is always talking about her mother, what she does, and
says, and so on."

"Yes?"

Once on the subject of her friendship for Marigold, Muriel talked
without restraint, till presently her father reappeared upon the scene.
His wife turned to him with a smile.

"Are you going to take us out boating this evening?" she asked. "Of
course Muriel will spend the remainder of the day with us. You would
like to, wouldn't you, my dear?" appealing to the little girl.

"Yes, I should. But I had made an appointment to go shrimping with
Marigold Holcroft, and I think I had better go and explain, don't you?"

The others agreed, and Muriel darted away, and was soon hastening
towards No. 8 Alma Terrace, to see if Marigold and her aunts had
returned.



CHAPTER XVI

PRESENTS FROM BOSCOMBE

"HOW happy Muriel looks, and how much she appears to like her
stepmother! I am sure I hope they will continue on such good terms with
each other."

The speaker was Miss Pamela Holcroft, as she sat at breakfast with her
sister, and niece, and Molly Jenkins.

Several days had passed since the unexpected arrival of Mr. Wake and
his bride. The couple still lingered at Boscombe, though they talked of
leaving shortly.

"I daresay they will be good friends," Miss Holcroft responded. "I like
Mrs. Wake, don't you, Pamela?"

"Yes; she seems a sensible young woman. I had a long chat with her on
the beach yesterday, and she talked a great deal of Muriel. I believe
she means to do her duty to the child; I think, too, she realises she
has been neglected at home."

"Poor Marigold has been rather overlooked by her friend of late, I
fear," Miss Holcroft said. "I hope you are not jealous, my dear?"
turning a smiling glance on her little niece.

"No, indeed! I am so glad Muriel likes Mrs. Wake."

"I confess I am rather surprised that she does," Miss Pamela remarked.
"I should have thought a stepmother would have aroused her jealousy at
once."

"Ah, but you see she never knew her own mother," Miss Holcroft
interposed; "and I don't think she is fond enough of her father to fear
being supplanted in his affections by another person. It may be that
through the stepmother, father and child will be drawn closer together.
Mrs. Wake told me she should try to persuade her husband not to remain
abroad long; we shall see if she has sufficient influence over him to
obtain her desire. He has been a rolling stone for so many years that
it will be difficult for him to settle down quietly at home."

"He seems a very nice gentleman," Molly put in, in her gentle tones.
"He talked to me for quite a long while yesterday, and helped me across
the rough ridge of pebbles on the beach."

"Muriel says she thinks he's nicer now he's married," Marigold said
eagerly. "She never saw so much of him before as she has during these
last few days. How strange that is!"

"I think it was a wise step his marrying before telling her anything
about it, as it turns out," Miss Holcroft said reflectively. "If he had
told her she was to have a stepmother, she would doubtless have formed
a prejudice against Mrs. Wake that she might never have overcome."

Miss Pamela sat silent. She was thinking of the prejudice she had
entertained for so many years against Marigold's mother; lately she had
known how unjust it had been.

A few days later, Mr. and Mrs. Wake left Boscombe, much to the regret
of Muriel, who had made many enjoyable excursions with them to Bude,
and other places in the neighbourhood. On one occasion they had gone
to Tintagel, to visit King Arthur's Castle, taking Marigold and Molly
Jenkins with them, as well as Muriel. That had been a treat for the
lame girl, the remembrance of which lived in her memory for many a year
afterwards; and Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela had been very pleased
that the Wakes had invited their visitor as well as their little niece.

It had been arranged that Mrs. Jones and Muriel should travel back to
Exeter with Miss Holcroft's party; and the day had been fixed for their
departure.

Marigold was now considering what she should take back to her friends,
and the servants at home, as she was beginning to call her aunts'
house in Powderham Crescent. She spent much time outside the village
shop, peering at the shelf that was labelled "Useful Presents," and
after careful thought made her purchases. She bought china ornaments
with views of Boscombe printed on them for the servants; an elaborate
shell-box, with a little looking-glass at the back of the cover, for
Mrs. Barker; and photographs of different well-known places of interest
in the district for several of her girl friends.

"I wish I could send mother something," she thought. "I was never able
to give her a present in my life; and now I have plenty of money, only
I don't know if Aunt Pamela would mind—"

Her reflections came to an abrupt conclusion. She was standing outside
the shop, and her quick eye had caught sight of a little old-fashioned
blue china teapot that was the very thing her mother would admire, she
felt certain.

She pushed open the shop door and went in. The woman behind the
counter, Mrs. Treffry by name, greeted her with a smile, for she knew
Marigold very well, having constantly seen her during the last few
weeks.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Treffry," the little girl said briskly. "I want you
to allow me to look at that small blue teapot you have in the window,
if you please."

"Certainly, miss."

Mrs. Treffry fetched it, and placed it on the counter, remarking as she
did so—

"It's a bit of old-fashioned china, miss, and very good, I'm told."

"What is the price?" Marigold inquired.

"A guinea, miss."

"A guinea!" in astonished accents. "Oh, then I cannot afford to buy it.
I did not know it was worth so much money as that. I thought it was
very pretty, and so it is, but it is far too expensive."

"You see, miss, it's like this," Mrs. Treffry explained: "that teapot
belonged to an old maiden lady who lived at Boscombe some years ago.
When she died her household goods were all sold by auction, and I
bought that little teapot for eighteenpence, and thought I had given
money enough for it too! But a few weeks ago a young gentleman came
into my shop here, and asked if I could make him a cup of tea, which
I did, making it in that teapot, miss. 'Hullos!' said he, as soon as
he'd clapped eyes upon it, 'that's a good bit of china you've got
there!' 'It's pretty ain't it?' said I. 'Pretty!' he cried out, 'why,
any dealer in old china would give you a guinea for it!' That surprised
me, but I didn't tell him so; instead, I said, 'You shall have it for
that price, sir.' But he shook his head, saying he was a poor chap who
couldn't afford to spend his money on an old-fashioned teapot like
mine when a common brown earthenware one would answer his purpose as
well, though he knew a bit of rare china when he saw it, and could
tell what it was worth. 'Now mind you don't sell that teapot for less
than a guinea!' were his parting words to me, and I made up my mind I
wouldn't."

"Fancy its being so valuable!" Marigold exclaimed, her disappointment
plainly visible both in her face and voice.

"I thought if I put it in the window it might catch the eye of some
visitor who knew something about old china," Mrs. Treffry continued. "I
must own I don't see the worth of a guinea in the teapot myself, but
seeing it is worth that, I shouldn't be justified in selling it for
less."

"No, no!" Marigold readily agreed.

"Can't I show you anything else to-day, miss?"

"No, I think not, thank you, Mrs. Treffry. I am sorry to have troubled
you to take the teapot from the window."

"Oh, it has been no trouble, I'm sure, miss."

Marigold was turning away when the door opened, and her Aunt Pamela
entered the shop. She glanced inquiringly from her niece to the teapot
which Mrs. Treffry held in her hand. Marigold's colour rose, as it
usually did on the slightest emotion from whatever cause, whilst Mrs.
Treffry began to explain the situation in her usually wordy manner.

"You have excellent taste, Marigold," Miss Pamela said, smiling, when
Mrs. Treffry had concluded speaking, which was not for some minutes,
as she had again recounted the story of the young man who had advised
her of the teapot's value. "This is a charming piece of old-fashioned
china, and well worth a guinea, I'm sure."

"I daresay it is, Aunt Pamela; but I did not think it would be more
than a few shillings."

"Why did you want it? Was it your intention to make a present of it to
someone?"

"Yes—" with a slight hesitation in her manner; adding in a lower tone,
"I—I wanted to give it to mother."

Miss Pamela turned abruptly away, and a stab of jealousy shot through
her heart, for it had occurred to her that her little niece might have
wished to present the teapot to her aunts.

"Will you let me examine it?" she said to Mrs. Treffry, who willingly
complied.

Miss Pamela scrutinised the teapot carefully. "There's not a chip or a
crack anywhere," Mrs. Treffry assured her.

"I see there is not. If we purchase it from you, have you a box we
could pack it in?"

After a few minutes' search the shopkeeper discovered a wooden box
beneath a heap of odds and ends under the counter, which proved to be
just the right size.

"That will do capitally," Miss Pamela said. "We will certainly have the
teapot, Mrs. Treffry, if you can pack it for us. We want to send it to
London. I suppose it would go by parcel post?"

"Oh yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Treffry fetched some shavings, and packed the teapot so carefully
that it could not possibly smash, then she fastened down the lid of the
box, put a clean sheet of brown paper outside, and tied it securely
with strong cord. After that, Miss Pamela asked for a label, and
requested Marigold to address it to her mother. This the little girl
accordingly did, and after seeing the package stamped, and paying Mrs.
Treffry, aunt and niece left the shop together.

"Aunt Pamela!" cried Marigold, her voice trembling with excitement,
"how can I thank you? Oh, how delighted mother will be!"

"She will recognise your handwriting on the label, will she not?"

"Oh yes! Thank you so much, Aunt Pamela! You cannot guess how pleased I
am! What will mother say when the box arrives, I wonder? Oh, I should
like to be able to see her face when she catches sight of the teapot!"

"She will write and tell you what she thinks of your present, I expect."

"Oh yes! Isn't it a lovely little teapot? I was so disappointed when
I found I had not enough money to buy it! I have five shillings; and
please, Aunt Pamela, you'll let me pay you that, won't you?"

"You will probably want it for something else, Marigold."

"No. I should like you to take the money, please, if you do not mind,
for then it will seem more like my present to mother, won't it?"

"Very well. You need not mention to her that I paid anything towards
it; do you understand, child?"

"I will not tell her if you don't wish it, Aunt Pamela. Let me see; she
will get it to-morrow, and if she writes at once, I shall have a letter
from her the day after."

Marigold was right in her surmise, for two days later came the expected
letter. Mrs. Holcroft told what a surprise Marigold's present had been
to her, and how much she liked and admired it. Then she went on to say
that the boys had returned from Hastings set up in health, and looking
as brown as berries, after a most enjoyable visit. "I shall never be
able to properly thank all those who are so good to my dear children,"
she wrote, "but I am sure God will bless them! Oh, Marigold, if your
father could but know! Perhaps he does."

Marigold showed her mother's letter to Miss Pamela, who read it in
silence, and returned it without a word.

"Mother is very pleased, isn't she?" Marigold said timidly.

"Evidently. I am glad your brothers have benefited by their change."

"Yes," the little girl answered happily. "So am I!"

A few days later the pleasant summer holiday was at an end; and the
lodgings at No. 5 and No. 8 Alma Terrace were vacant.

Marigold gave her presents to the servants on the night of her return
home; and next day she paid a visit to Mrs. Barker, who received her
with evident pleasure. Marigold presented her with the shell-box, and
was pleased to see she was delighted with it.

"I wanted to bring you something from Boscombe," the little girl said,
glad to see she had selected an article that evidently met with the old
woman's approval, "and I thought this little box would be useful."

"Very useful," Mrs. Barker agreed, with sparkling eyes. "I do feel
proud of it. I shall keep it on that little table in front of the
window, where it will show."

"Barker sent a message to say she was coming to see you this evening,"
Marigold said, changing the conversation. "I expect you're longing to
see her, aren't you?"

"Indeed, yes, miss!"

"We have been away nearly six weeks," the little girl continued. "Such
a happy holiday we have had! Boscombe is a lovely place! I think Barker
has enjoyed herself too."

"I am sure she has, miss, for she wrote to me several times whilst
you were away, and told me so. I got a neighbour of mine to read the
letters."

"Have you seen Mrs. Adams lately?" Marigold inquired.

"Yes, miss. She has been to see me twice. She called one day last week,
and asked me if I knew when you were all coming home. I expect you'll
be sure to see her soon."

"I hope so," Marigold answered, for she was greatly looking forward to
meeting Farmer Jo and his mother again.

She felt quite glad to be back in Exeter once more, and was waiting
eagerly and with pleasurable anticipation the commencement of the
next term. What a lot she would have to tell Grace Long and her other
friends at school!

Meanwhile, she saw Muriel Wake nearly every day. Muriel was wondering
how long her father and stepmother would remain abroad, and confided to
Marigold that there was a great upset amongst the servants at home on
account of her father's marriage, and all but Mrs. Jones were going to
leave.



CHAPTER XVII

MARIGOLD AT DEATH'S DOOR

"MARIGOLD, are you not well, my dear? Why do you crouch over the fire
like that?"

The little girl, who was kneeling on the drawing-room hearthrug
with her hands outstretched to the blaze, turned her face to the
speaker—Miss Holcroft—with a smile as she answered—

"I am quite well, thank you, Aunt Mary—at least I think so. But I feel
so dreadfully cold and shivery!"

"I hope you have not taken a chill. You must have got dreadfully wet
returning from school this afternoon. You changed your clothes, did you
not?"

"Oh yes, directly I came in. I was drenched to the skin. What a
dreadful day it has been!"

A November gale was raging; the wind was howling mournfully around the
crescent, and the rain was descending in torrents from a leaden sky.

"Have you prepared your work for to-morrow, Marigold?"

"Yes, Aunt Mary."

"We called upon the Wakes this afternoon," Miss Holcroft informed her
niece presently, "and found husband and wife both at home. I think my
first impressions of Mrs. Wake were correct. We like her exceedingly."

"Muriel is very fond of her," Marigold replied, "and I really think she
is growing to love her father too. She sees so much more of him now he
is married, and she says he seems quite happy and contented at home."

"Because his wife makes everything cheerful and comfortable for him. By
the way, I have not seen Muriel here lately, how is that? I suppose you
are still great friends?"

"Oh yes! But she has very little time to spare, Aunt Mary! She is
working much harder at school this term than she did last. Really, she
seems hardly like the same girl. Miss Smith says she never saw anyone
so altered and improved in her life as Muriel. She is much nicer to the
others, and she doesn't try to make mischief, or tell fibs, now."

"How has the change come about?" Miss Holcroft asked, greatly
interested.

"I think she is trying to fight the good fight of faith, Aunt Mary!"

"You were the first to suggest that idea to her, were you not, my dear?"

"I believe so. But Molly Jenkins has talked to her about it, I know,
and I think Muriel's stepmother helps her too."

There was a brief silence, during which the parlour-maid brought in the
letters that had just arrived by the last post for the night. There was
one for Marigold from her mother, which the little girl seized eagerly,
and proceeded to read. Whilst she was in the midst of its perusal
Miss Pamela entered; and a minute later Marigold dropped her letter,
and covering her face with her hands, burst into a fit of weeping.
Her aunts were much distressed, and strove to learn the cause of her
agitation.

"My darling child!" Miss Holcroft cried. "Tell us what is amiss? Have
you had bad news from your home?"

"No!" Marigold gasped, uncovering her face and pointing at the letter
that lay on the hearthrug. "Please read it! I am very foolish, but—I—I
can't help it!"

It was Miss Pamela who glanced first through Mrs. Holcroft's
communication, after which she silently handed it to her sister. It
told Marigold that a distant relative had lately died, and had left
her mother two hundred pounds a year. To the little girl this amount
appeared a big fortune, and her tears were shed for excessive joy.

"I am very silly," she said, half laughing, half crying, "but it is
so—so wonderful! Oh, Aunt Mary! Oh, Aunt Pamela! To think mother will
never need to work so hard again! She will be able to keep a servant,
and live in a nicer place! Two hundred pounds a year is a lot of money,
isn't it?"

"It is a good bit," Miss Holcroft responded; adding kindly, "I am very
glad, dear!"

Miss Pamela sat silent, lost in thought. She took no notice when
Marigold continued to talk excitedly of her mother's fortune; whilst
Miss Holcroft entered fully into the child's delight.

But after Marigold had said good-night and gone to bed, and the sisters
were alone together, Miss Pamela spoke.

"Mary, that woman will want to take Marigold away from us!"

For a moment Miss Holcroft's gentle face was full of astonishment, then
a look of alarm and consternation crept over it, and she turned quite
pale. "Pamela!" she cried, "you cannot really think that! What has put
such an idea into your head?"

"Why did Marigold's mother allow us to have her here?" Miss Pamela
demanded, almost fiercely. "Was it because she did not love the child,
and was glad to get rid of her?"

"No, no; of course it was not!" Miss Holcroft answered soothingly,
amazed that her sister, who was usually so cold and collected, should
show such excitement. "Pray calm yourself, Pamela!"

"She sent Marigold to us because she could not afford to put her to
school and give her a good education. If she could have kept her
without injury to the child, she would have done so, and you know it as
well as I do, Mary!"

"I—I suppose so," Miss Holcroft acknowledged.

"That having been the case, now she has two hundred pounds a year left
to her, she will want Marigold back again. I feel sure she will, and
Marigold will be glad to go!"

"Marigold is very fond of her mother, but I think she has grown to love
us too. Mrs. Holcroft said nothing in her letter about taking Marigold
away from us."

"No; that is to come! However, I shall write to her myself to-morrow,
and inquire what her intentions are."

But Miss Pamela did nothing of the kind, for the following morning,
when Marigold came down to breakfast, she seemed so poorly that her
aunts sent her back to bed again, thinking she had taken cold, and
would be better on the morrow; but as the day advanced she grew rapidly
worse, and a message was sent to Dr. Nowell requesting him to call.
Marigold knew the doctor quite well, for he and his wife were numbered
amongst the Misses Holcroft's most intimate friends. He was a little,
red-faced, sandy-haired man, whose genial temper and cheery manner made
him a general favourite with children.

"What is amiss with her?" Miss Pamela inquired, as he followed her
into the drawing-room, after having made a thorough examination of his
patient.

"She is very ill," he answered, "and will want careful nursing. You had
better get a trained nurse."

"I do not think that will be necessary. Barker and I will nurse her."

"Very well," and he proceeded to give her directions as to the
treatment of the little girl.

"We shall see in a very few days how it is going with her," he added.

"What is her disease?" Miss Pamela asked.

"Pneumonia—a sharp attack."

Miss Pamela's face blanched, but she retained her composure.

"We must save her life if we can, doctor," she said, now fully
realising the seriousness of the case. "My sister and I are very fond
of the child."

"She is a dear little thing. My wife will be sorry to hear of her
illness. However, we must hope for the best."

"What does he say, Pamela?" Miss Holcroft questioned nervously, joining
her sister the minute the doctor had gone.

"He says Marigold is ill with pneumonia."

"Does he think she is very ill?" anxiously.

"Yes," was the brief response.

"Oh, Pamela!" Miss Holcroft took out her handkerchief, and wiped away
a few tears that rolled down her cheeks. "I hope God will spare her to
us. Don't you—" hesitating—"don't you think we ought to send for her
mother?"

Miss Pamela flushed at the suggestion, and darted a quick look at her
sister.

"No!" she replied, "certainly not! There is no necessity yet, at any
rate!"

"But if she should not recover—"

Miss Pamela did not wait to hear the conclusion of the sentence, but
left the room, and went upstairs to Marigold, who lay with hectic
cheeks, and panting breath.

The doctor paid another visit late that night, and shook his head when
asked if the patient was not a little better.

The house was hushed, and the servants crept on tiptoe with anxious
faces, for Marigold had endeared herself to them all. Miss Pamela
elected to sit up through the night, and sent the rest of the household
to bed.

"There is no necessity for anyone to remain with me," she said. "Barker
shall sleep in the next room, and if I require assistance I can call
her."

So it was arranged; and Miss Pamela took up her position by Marigold's
bedside.

She never forgot that night as long as she lived. At first Marigold
was conscious of her presence; but later she grew more feverish, and
whispered to herself in disjointed sentences. Her aunt sat by and
listened. The child evidently fancied herself back in her London home,
for she talked of her brothers, calling them by name. The accents
of her faint voice sounded full of distress and trouble. Seeing the
condition she was in, a cold sensation of terror struck to Miss
Pamela's heart; and she fell on her knees by the bedside and prayed to
the Heavenly Father to spare her this bright, young life. She would not
try to keep the child from her mother; she would be willing never to
see her again, if only God would make her well!

At length Miss Pamela rose from her knees, and bent over Marigold, who
was whispering her mother's name tenderly—longingly.

"Marigold, my dear," Miss Pamela said softly, laying her cool hand on
the fevered brow, "do you know me?"

"Yes, Aunt Pamela," whispered the voice that was weak, and husky by
reason of the panting breath.

"Would it make you very happy if I sent for your mother to come and
nurse you?"

"Yes—oh yes!"

"Then, when morning comes, I will send for her first thing!"

A smile of perfect contentment crossed Marigold's face, and with the
comforting thought that her mother was coming to her she passed the
remainder of the night in far less distress of mind.

"She is very ill," Dr. Nowell said again, next morning, after his visit
to his patient, which had been made early.

"I know she is," Miss Pamela answered sadly. "I am going to send for
her mother."

"That is right," he replied. "Send at once!"

"Will you write to Mrs. Holcroft, Pamela?" her sister inquired, in
eager tones. "Oh, I am so relieved to think that you are going to send
for her!"

"No, I shall not write, I shall telegraph; and then she will have time
to get here before night."

Miss Pamela took a telegraph-form from her desk, and wrote out the
message—

"Marigold is very ill. Come at once." Then she rang the bell, and sent
a servant off to the post-office with it.

So it came to pass that late that same evening Mrs. Holcroft arrived.
As she stepped out of the cab that had brought her from the station,
the front door was flung wide open, and she saw, standing inside, an
old lady with white, corkscrew curls on either side of a gentle face
that bore unmistakable traces of recent tears. Instinctively Mrs.
Holcroft knew that this must be Aunt Mary.

"Is Marigold still living?" she asked, as she took the outstretched
hand, and allowed herself to be led into the drawing-room. The thought
that she might be too late to see her little girl alive had haunted her
all the way on her journey down.

"Yes, yes," Miss Holcroft replied, "and now you are come she will get
better, I hope!"

"Will you tell me what is amiss?"

Miss Holcroft briefly explained, and then Miss Pamela came in. The
sight of Marigold's mother sitting quietly listening whilst her sister
talked, was a surprise, and at the same time a relief to her. She had
expected tears, but this slight dark-eyed woman was perfectly composed.

"I have just come from Marigold's room," she said; adding, as she shook
hands with her nephew's widow, "you must not think we have neglected
the child, for she is very dear to us."

"I am sure of it, and I can never repay you for your goodness to her.
Does she know I am here?"

"No; but she knows I sent for you this morning. Will you go to her at
once?"

"I think I will remove my cloak and bonnet first, then I shall look
more myself."

The sisters led their visitor to the room that had been prepared for
her, where she laid aside her outdoor garments, brushed her hair, and
washed her face and hands.

"I shall not excite Marigold now," she said, as she turned towards them
again, her face very pale, but her eyes full of the light of love.
"Still, do you not think before I see her she had better be told I am
here?"

"Yes, certainly," Miss Pamela responded; "that will be the better plan."

She entered the sick-room, and motioned to Barker, who watched at the
bedside, to go away.

"Marigold, my darling child," she said gently, bending over the little
sufferer, who opened her dark eyes, and looked into her face with a
faint smile, "did you hear a cab stop outside here a short while ago?"

"No, Aunt Pamela."

"Someone has arrived who is longing to see you, and who is going to
help us to nurse you well again, I trust!"

"Mother?" Marigold inquired breathlessly. "Oh, tell her to come to me
quickly—tell her—"

Miss Pamela moved towards the door as it was opened from without, and
Mrs. Holcroft crossed the room noiselessly, and clasped her little girl
in her arms. Neither spoke a word, but in the one backward glance that
Miss Pamela ventured to take before she shut the door, she saw that
Marigold's head was cradled on her mother's breast, and that her frail
arms were clinging tightly around her mother's neck.

Miss Pamela stole softly away, and joined her sister in the next room.

"I feel so relieved Mrs. Holcroft has come," she confessed, with a
sigh. "I have a strong presentiment that Marigold will recover now."

Miss Holcroft regarded her with a slight feeling of awe, for it was
years since she had seen tears in Miss Pamela's bright dark eyes, and
they looked suspiciously moist at that moment.

"What do you think of Marigold's mother, Pamela?" she asked, in a
hesitating tone.

"She made me feel ashamed of myself," Miss Pamela acknowledged. "Did
you notice how quiet she was, how, though she must have been longing to
see the child, she would not go to her till she was quite composed? She
never thought of her own feelings in the matter at all, only of what
was best for Marigold."

"Yes," Miss Holcroft agreed thoughtfully. "She looks thin and pale,
does she not? I expect she has suffered mental agonies to-day, not
knowing what to expect when she arrived. Indeed, I behave she would not
have been surprised if she had been told the child was dead—and yet she
was much calmer than you or I. The meeting with her was not nearly so
awkward as I had anticipated it would be. I suppose, in reality, not
one was thinking of ourselves, but of Marigold. How strange it seems
that poor Rupert's widow should be under our roof at last!"



CHAPTER XVIII

THE NEW HOME

FOR many days Marigold lay at death's door, too ill to notice those who
were nursing her with loving care, and unflagging attention. Poor Miss
Holcroft was quite broken-down with grief, and could not restrain her
tears even in the presence of the little patient, so she was banished
from the sick-room entirely, and spent the greater portion of her time
hovering around the closed door that hid Marigold from her sight,
listening to the child's painful breathing with a sinking heart.

Mrs. Holcroft and Miss Pamela were indefatigable nurses. They took it
in turns to watch by the little sufferer; and there came a day when
they knew that their efforts were to be rewarded, and that God was
going to allow them to keep the precious life that had been given into
His care. By Marigold's sick-bed, without one word of explanation,
those two learnt to understand each other.

Marigold was better. The servants heard the glad news and rejoiced,
whilst Barker shed tears of relief and thankfulness. The parlour-maid's
bright face, as she opened the door to inquirers after the sick child,
was cheerful and smiling, and told the good report before her lips had
time to frame the hopeful words. In the drawing-room, Miss Holcroft sat
with a look of happiness on her face, ready to interview any caller
who might come. During the long, dragging days that had passed, there
had been many kind inquirers after Marigold. Mrs. Barker had arrived
every evening, going to the back door to hear what the servants had to
say of the patient; and Molly Jenkins and Marigold's school friends
had made constant visits to Powderham Crescent, whilst Farmer Jo had
ridden in every night to get the latest news of his little friend. But
to Muriel Wake Marigold's illness had been a terrible grief; and when
she was told that Marigold was actually out of danger, her delight knew
no bounds. She ran past the parlour-maid and into the drawing-room,
catching Miss Holcroft around the neck, and hugging her till the old
lady laughingly pleaded for mercy.

"Muriel, my dear child, pray curb your excitement!" Miss Holcroft said.
"I knew you would be glad to hear the good news."

"I am just wild with joy!" Muriel answered. "Oh, Miss Holcroft, I have
been so miserable and unhappy since Marigold's illness, and I prayed to
God to let her live! I don't know what I should do without her! Is she
really and truly better?"

"Yes, thank God! She spoke to her mother this morning, and later to
Pamela. Dr. Nowell says with careful nursing she will get well now!"

"Oh yes! oh yes!"

Muriel was so excited that she did not notice the door open, and turned
with a start as Miss Holcroft said—

"Here is Marigold's mother, Muriel, to give us the latest bulletin!"

"Marigold is sleeping quietly, I am glad to say," Mrs. Holcroft
responded, in hopeful tones; then, turning to Muriel, "Are you one of
my little girl's friends?"

"Yes. I am Muriel Wake."

"Ah! I have heard of you. Marigold will want to see you as soon as she
is a little stronger, I feel sure. You were at Boscombe during the
summer holidays, were you not?"

Mrs. Holcroft sat down by Muriel's side and entered into conversation
with her. At first the child was rather reserved in her manner, for
the sight of Marigold's mother brought back the remembrance of her old
treachery, but she soon lost all feeling of restraint, and chatted in
her usual bright fashion, till Mrs. Holcroft's pale, tired face was lit
up with smiles.

"Muriel, you will be late for afternoon school," Miss Holcroft reminded
her at last. "I really think you must go, my dear."

"Yes, Miss Holcroft," Muriel agreed. "Oh, won't the girls be glad to
hear my good news to-day!"

She took her departure hastily now, after a hurried farewell, and
hastened on her way with a smiling face that told of intense happiness
and joy.

The whole school learnt that Marigold Holcroft was better, with
feelings of relief and thankfulness, for she was becoming a general
favourite with the pupils now, as she had been with the teachers at
first. Grace Long murmured a fervent "Thank God!" which Muriel echoed
in her heart.

It was not many days before Marigold was well enough to think how
wonderful it was that her mother was there helping Aunt Pamela to nurse
her. She watched the two figures that were constantly at her bedside,
with puzzled eyes. It was happiness indeed to have her mother with
her, such happiness that sometimes she could scarcely realise it; and
she often grasped Mrs. Holcroft's hand tightly in her weak fingers, to
assure herself the dear presence was real, and not a dream.

Soon came the time when she began to ask questions.

"Aunt Pamela," she said one day, "it was you who sent for mother, was
it not?"

"Yes, my dear. Don't you remember that first night I sat up with you I
promised to do so next day?"

"Yes. It all seems so unreal. How could mother leave the boys, I
wonder?"

"Oh, that was easily managed. She arranged with a neighbour to take
them in, and board them till she returns. At first, when you began to
get better, she thought of taking you back to London with her, but
Dr. Nowell thinks that is not advisable. He says you must not live in
London, at any rate till the winter is past, so you will have to remain
with your old aunts a little longer, Marigold."

"Is mother going to have me to live with her again soon then, Aunt
Pamela?"

"Yes, child."

Marigold was silent after that, thinking deeply. Of course she wanted
to return to her mother and brothers, her heart beat joyfully at the
thought; but she could not help feeling sorrowful at the idea of
leaving Exeter.

"Mother," she whispered lovingly, when she was next alone with Mrs.
Holcroft, "dear mother, it made me so happy to think of your having had
that two hundred pounds a year left to you."

"Yes, darling, I knew it would," her mother replied. "I was wondering
how I should do as the boys grow older and want more money spent on
their education; and now it has been managed for me, you see. We are
going to leave where we are living at present, and take a little house
all covered with roses and ivy, and you will be with us, my darling!"

"Oh, mother! How wonderful it seems! But, oh, how Aunt Mary and Aunt
Pamela will miss me, and how I shall miss them! You don't know how good
they have been to me!"

"I think I do, my dear."

"I have so many friends here—"

"I have found that out," her mother interposed, smiling, "for I have
seen several of them myself, and thanked them for their kindness to my
little girl. The first I saw was a golden-haired, blue-eyed fairy, who
has made me promise to let you see her before anyone else."

"Muriel!" Marigold cried, laughing.

"Yes. Next, there was Barker's mother, who said you had been very kind
to her."

"I don't think I was ever very kind to her," Marigold said. "There
wasn't much I could do for her, except read a chapter from the Bible to
her now and then."

"I think from what she said she valued that above all. She sent her
love and her blessing to you. Then there was that lame girl you wrote
so much about, and several of your school friends, including Grace
Long, whom I seemed to know quite well from your description of her.
And last, but not least, there was Farmer Jo!"

"Oh, when did you see him, mother?" Marigold asked eagerly.

"This morning, my dear. When you are a little stronger he is going
to bring his mother to pay you a visit. Why, Marigold, you have made
more friends in the few months you have been here than in the years
you spent in London. Do you remember how you came against your will,
almost; and how difficult you found it to believe that your duty lay
here? Yet you found love and friendship awaiting you, and have been the
means of softening your aunts' hearts towards your father and me!"

Marigold remained silent, her heart too full for words.

"I shall be obliged to leave you shortly," her mother continued, "for I
must return to the boys; but you will soon see me again, and ere long
we shall be living once more under the same roof."

"Oh, how I am longing to see the boys!" Marigold cried.

"And they are longing quite as much to see you, my darling! You will
find them both grown. It seems to me that Rupert gets more like his
father every day."

"Have you noticed father's likeness, when he was a little boy, on the
dining-room wall?" Marigold inquired.

"Yes. What do you think your aunts are going to do? They are going to
have a copy made of the original likeness, and give it to me."

"Oh, mother, how good of them! How glad I am! Aunt Mary thought of
that, I am sure!"

"You are quite wrong! It was your Aunt Pamela!"

Marigold was a little low-spirited after her mother had returned to
London; but her aunts strove to cheer her by assuring her Mrs. Holcroft
would soon be back again—perhaps before Christmas.

Meanwhile, Marigold was growing rapidly well. She was now able to
interview visitors, and Muriel Wake came to see her every day.

Muriel was a much pleasanter companion than she used to be, for she
was a better and happier little girl, on friendly terms with her
schoolfellows, and beloved in her own home. December was mild that
year; and Marigold, carefully wrapped up, was soon able to walk out
with her aunts.

One day, Farmer Jo drove up to the Misses Holcroft's house in Powderham
Crescent, and declared he must not go home unless Marigold was allowed
to accompany him, for his mother had set her heart on having Marigold
for a visitor for a few days. To the little girl's extreme delight she
was permitted to go, and spent a very pleasant week at Rocombe Farm.

It wanted but a few days to Christmas when Farmer Jo drove Marigold
back to Exeter. On this occasion he did not offer to let her drive, at
which she rather wondered. She was looking cheerful and happy, whilst
her companion was unusually silent, though he appeared in good spirits.

"So you are going to desert the old aunts!" he remarked presently.

"Yes," she replied, with a slight sigh. "How I shall miss them!"

"Perhaps they will invite you to visit them sometimes," he suggested.

"Perhaps so," she agreed.

Farmer Jo laughed, whilst Marigold looked at him in surprise, for she
did not think she had said anything to cause amusement.

"We are not taking the right road, are we?" she asked presently.

"Oh yes!" was the quick response.

"I thought we had passed the turning that leads to Powderham Crescent."

Farmer Jo made no verbal reply to this; but he laughed again, his great
form shaking, and his jovial face one broad beam of good humour.

"Oh, surely we are going the wrong way!" she cried, as they turned down
a quiet road with pretty villas on either side.

But Farmer Jo took no heed. He pulled Colonel up before a little house
overgrown with creepers, and before she could remonstrate, jumped out,
lifted her down, and carried her up the garden path to the front door,
placing her carefully on the doorstep. Then, still laughing, and with a
quickness unusual in so large a man, he retraced his footsteps, swung
himself up into the dogcart, and drove away. Scampering footsteps were
now heard within the house, and voices that made Marigold's heart beat
wildly. In another moment the door was flung open wide, and she was
dragged into an adjoining sitting-room by a pair of merry, laughing
boys who clung around her neck, kissing her and crying—

"Welcome home, Marigold! Here you are at last!"

"Rupert! Lionel!" she exclaimed, for they were her own dear brothers
whom she had pictured miles and miles away; and it was her mother who
now took her in her arms, and kissed her tenderly.

"Poor child! How puzzled she looks!" Mrs. Holcroft said. "How well your
aunts must have kept our secret! Did neither Farmer Jo nor his mother
give you a hint of the truth, darling? This is our new home. I selected
the house after your illness, and your aunts have superintended the
furnishing of it for me."

"Do you mean that you and the boys are going to live here, mother?"

"Yes. We only arrived last night."

"Oh, mother, it seems too good to be true! I can hardly realise it yet!"

But the presence of her mother and brothers soon made Marigold
understand the truth; and when later her aunts came in, she could not
help crying for joy at the thought that she was not to be parted from
them after all.

"I could not bear the thought of leaving you," she told them, "and now
I shall always be near you, and able to run in to see you every day!
Oh, how thankful I am!"

It seemed to the little girl that her cup of joy was full. She was to
remain at Exeter, where she had made so many friends, and have her
nearest and dearest with her; and she was delighted to see how well the
boys got on with Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela.

Rupert was his father over again, both aunts declared, and Lionel was a
dear little fellow. In fact, their nephew's children were all that they
could wish. They were very glad that circumstances had allowed Mrs.
Holcroft to make her home in Exeter; they did not know how they could
have endured to part with Marigold altogether.

Mrs. Holcroft was a wise woman, and she never made reference to
the past, or to Miss Pamela's unforgiveness in the years gone by;
perhaps she understood better than anyone else the character of the
undemonstrative woman who was constantly trying by little acts of
kindness to make up for past neglect, and dislike.

"Mother," said Marigold one day, "can you realise that you and I were
parted for eight long months?"

"Yes, dear, quite well. Do you know, I think the separation did us both
good?"

"Oh, mother!"

"You were accustomed to rely too much on me, my darling, but now you
have learnt to go straight to God Himself for help in trouble or doubt;
whilst I, who was so fearful lest my little girl should fall back from
the good fight, have a fuller trust in Him who sent her to her father's
old home to obtain forgiveness for him, and to bring happiness into the
lonely lives of his aunts. I think you will agree with me, that our
separation has been fraught with nothing but blessings to us all."



THE END