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

[Illustration: A PERILOUS SITUATION.]



                       COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS


                                 BY

                         ELEANORA H. STOOKE

 AUTHOR OF "ROBIN OF SUN COURT," "GRANFER AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," ETC.



                  WITH TWO FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
                         BY ISABEL WATKIN



                               LONDON
                   NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
             19, GREAT PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER, S.W.
          NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3, BIBLE HOUSE
                               1909

                      [All rights reserved]



                             CONTENTS

Chapter

    I. THE HOME IN PRINCESS STREET

   II. WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

  III. AT THE ROOKERY

   IV. COUSIN BECKY'S ARRIVAL AT BEAWORTHY

    V. AFTER THE SNOWSTORM

   VI. "SHOWING OFF"

  VII. SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ROOKERY

 VIII. COUSIN BECKY FINDS A HOME

   IX. A MORNING WALK

    X. BROUGHT TO BOOK

   XI. IN THE CLOCK CASE

  XII. COUSIN BECKY TELLS A SECRET

 XIII. THE CALAIS NOBLE

  XIV. MR. MARSH DISCOVERS HIS LOSS

   XV. EDGAR LEARNS HIS FATHER'S SUSPICION

  XVI. UNDER A CLOUD

 XVII. IN VIEW OF A HOLIDAY

XVIII. THE REAPPEARANCE OF THE CALAIS NOBLE

  XIX. AN ACCIDENT TO EDGAR

   XX. COUSIN BECKY TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE

  XXI. AT THE MILL HOUSE

 XXII. AN UNFORESEEN EXPERIENCE

XXIII. RESCUED

 XXIV. CONCLUSION



                      LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 A PERILOUS SITUATION

 COUSIN BECKY AND POLLY



                     COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS

CHAPTER I

THE HOME IN PRINCESS STREET

"TAKE that—and that—and that, and now go home and tell Aunt Janie I've
smacked her dearie! I don't care if she calls and complains of me to
mother—it would be like her to do that!" And the angry speaker—Roger
Trent, a boy of about nine years of age—turned on his heel, and with
head held high and flashing eyes, walked off, his heart beating fast
with indignation as his mind dwelt wrathfully on the incident which had
caused him to so far lose his temper as to cuff his companion in the
open street.

A few minutes previously he had been walking amicably by the side of
his cousin, Edgar Marsh, on their way home from school, when the latter
had caught up a stone, which he had shied at a terrier with such true
aim that it had hit the poor animal in the leg and sent it howling
pitifully down the street; whereupon Roger had turned upon his cousin
and dealt him several swift blows, for he hated anything like cruelty,
and he possessed a fiery temper which often got him into trouble.

"I suppose there'll be no end of a row now," he reflected somewhat
ruefully; "but Edgar's as old as I am and quite as big, so it wasn't
cowardly to hit him, and he deserved what he got. I wish, though, I'd
remembered what mother said, that she hoped I would try to keep the
peace with Edgar. But I'm sure if she'd heard that poor little dog
howling with pain, she'd have been angry herself; and Edgar could have
hit me back if he'd liked—there is no fight in him! I wish he wasn't my
cousin; and, oh, how I wish my father wasn't working for his father,
then—"

He paused in his reflections, for he had turned down a side street,
called Princess Street, and had reached home—a house in the midst of
a long row of others, all exactly alike—and there at the sitting-room
window were his mother and his sister Polly, watching for him. The
angry cloud lifted from his countenance at the sight of the pair, and
he smiled and nodded; but his mother had been quick to notice that
something had gone wrong, and her first words, when her son entered the
sitting-room, were:

"What is amiss, Roger? Have you been in mischief?"

"Why, mother, how sharp you are!" he exclaimed. Then he told her what
had occurred, whilst she listened attentively, her face, which was pale
and careworn, taking a decidedly anxious expression.

"Oh, Roger, you should not have struck your cousin!" she cried
reprovingly when he had concluded his tale. "You really must try to
keep your temper under better control, my dear boy."

"But, mother, it was cruel and wicked of Edgar to hit the poor dog,"
interposed Polly eagerly. "He had no right to throw a stone at it."

"Certainly not. Nevertheless, Roger had no right to hit Edgar. Two
wrongs do not make one right."

Polly looked unconvinced. She was a pretty little girl, a year her
brother's senior, with fair hair and honest grey eyes.

"I expect Aunt Janie will make a fuss," she observed, "for Edgar's
sure to tell her—he's such a little tell-tale—and she always takes his
part. That's so unfair. Oh, mother, I can't like Aunt Janie, I can't!
I suppose she's kind—oh yes, I know she is, but sometimes I wish she
wasn't, and then I shouldn't feel so bad about not liking her more."

And Polly looked down over herself and reflected that she really
must be very ungrateful, seeing that she was clothed, at the present
moment, in a frock which her mother had made for her from one of her
aunt's cast-off gowns. "She isn't a bit like father," she proceeded;
"no one would think they were brother and sister, like Roger and me.
Oh, mother, if I was a rich lady and Roger had lost all his money and
become quite poor, I know what I'd do!"

"Well?" said Mrs. Trent, inquiringly, amused at the little girl's
earnestness. "What would you do, then?"

"I'd share my money with him," was the decisive reply.

"Of course you would, Polly," said Roger heartily. "And if I was rich
and you were poor I'd go shares with you."

"You see, your aunt cannot do that, because her money is, a great part
of it, her husband's," Mrs. Trent reminded them, "and your father would
not like to take money from him—except what he earns."

"Did Uncle John ever want to give father some money?" Polly questioned
inquisitively.

"N-o-o," her mother was obliged to admit. "But you must remember that
your uncle has been very kind to us. When your father lost his money,
it was your uncle who came forward and offered him employment in his
office; but for that we should have come to want; and you know we often
get fruit and vegetables from the Rookery gardens; and you and I,
Polly, would have been very shabby before now but for your aunt's gifts
of clothes. Don't let us be ungrateful, my dears!"

There was a brief silence. Mrs. Trent had spoken earnestly; and now she
bent her head over the stocking she was in the midst of darning to hide
the tears which glistened in her eyes. She was a very pretty woman; but
though she was only a little over thirty years of age, her brown hair
was streaked with white, and she had the appearance of one weighed down
with many cares. When she had married, her husband had been a man in a
good position as a clay merchant in the flourishing town of Beaworthy.
The young couple had lived in a nice house in the suburbs, where the
two children had been born; but, owing to heavy trade losses, and the
failure of a bank in which Mr. Trent had had a considerable interest,
the once prosperous man had been brought to the verge of ruin, and
having failed in his business, he had been glad to accept a post as
clerk in the office of Mr. Marsh, who had married his sister. Mr. Marsh
was a clay merchant, too, but, unlike his brother-in-law, he was a
successful trader, and it seemed as though everything he had touched
had turned to gold.

Three years had now elapsed since the Trents had removed from their
old home to their present abode in Princess Street, where they kept
one servant instead of three, and dropped out of touch with many of
their former acquaintances, as people do who have known better days.
Sometimes Mrs. Marsh called upon her sister-in-law, and the inhabitants
of Princess Street would flock to their windows to gaze at the
carriage, with its pair of roan horses, drawn up before the Trents'
door, and watch brown paper parcels and baskets carried into the house,
and poor Mrs. Trent would blame herself for minding that everyone was
aware she was indebted to her husband's sister for the clothes she wore
and was really thankful to accept, and the surplus fruit and vegetables
from her brother-in-law's gardens.

"If only Janie would walk when she comes to call, I should be so much
better pleased," she had said to Mr. Trent on one occasion. "Her
carriage is out of place in Princess Street." And then she had been
sorry she had made the remark, because her husband had looked pained.

Mr. and Mrs. Marsh had only one child, the boy whom Roger had so
promptly punished for his cruelty that afternoon. He was spoilt by his
parents; and his cousins, up to the present, had seen very little of
him, for their invitations to the Rookery had been few and far between,
and he had rarely visited them at Princess Street. But during the last
few weeks Edgar and Roger had clashed at the Grammar School, which
they had attended since Christmas, and they had already had several
disagreements, for the former had been brought up to be domineering,
and the latter could not brook being dictated to by a boy of his own
age.

"I am sorry I hit Edgar," Roger admitted by-and-by, when his temper had
had time to cool, "especially before so many people. I'll apologise to
him to-morrow, that is, if he doesn't tell Aunt Janie; but I expect he
will. He's a rare sneak. Are we going to have tea before father comes
home, or shall we wait for him, mother?"

"We will wait for him, my dear. He said he hoped to be back by
half-past five."

"Oh, that's jolly!" Roger exclaimed, his countenance brightening. "We
must keep up the fire, for it's awfully cold!" And he took up the coal
shovel.

"I hope it will soon get warmer," Mrs. Trent remarked, "but I suppose
we cannot expect it to do so in February. 'When the days begin to
lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen,'" she quoted with rather a
rueful smile.

"The coal heap's getting very low," announced Polly, as she watched her
brother putting coals on the fire, "I peeped in to-day. I suppose they
don't mind how much coal they use at the Rookery. Mother, it doesn't
seem fair that Uncle John and Aunt Janie should be so rich when we are
so poor. I don't believe they're any better than we are."

"Oh, hush, Polly!" cried Mrs. Trent. "You mustn't speak like that.
Think of all our blessings. Sometimes I feel a very rich woman indeed."

"Why, mother!" exclaimed Roger in amazement.

"Rich because I have a good husband and children who give me a wealth
of love," Mrs. Trent went on to explain with a smile which made her
face look very pretty and young. "I wouldn't change places with any
woman I know."

The boy threw his arms around her neck and kissed her with tender
affection, for he was deeply attached to his mother, whilst Polly
remarked:

"I'm glad you're like yourself, mother; I wouldn't have you like
Aunt Janie for the world. Good gracious, here she is!" she exclaimed
excitedly, rushing to the window as a carriage stopped at the door.
"Yes, she's getting out; and oh, Roger, she does look so cross!"

"She's coming to complain about me, for certain," said Roger with a
sigh of resignation, though he looked somewhat alarmed. He felt glad
that he had confessed all that had occurred to his mother, and wondered
what punishment his aunt would demand to have meted out to him for his
treatment of her son.

"Well, of all the mean, spiteful boys I ever heard of, Edgar is the
worst," declared Polly in an indignant whisper to her brother, as with
a rustling of silken skirts Mrs. Marsh swept into the room. "I hope,
Roger, that you hit him hard—he deserved it, I'm sure."



CHAPTER II

WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

Mrs. Marsh was a tall, handsome woman, several years the senior of her
sister-in-law, whom she greeted in a manner which, though intended to
be kindly, was more than a little patronising. She kissed her niece and
nephew, and then seated herself in an easy chair near the fire, whilst
the children withdrew to the window to watch for their father's arrival.

"I don't believe she has come to complain of you, Roger," whispered
Polly, "for she called you 'my dear.'"

Roger nodded, intensely relieved in mind. He was looking at his aunt's
carriage a trifle enviously, and thinking he would like the situation
of coachman so as to drive the beautiful horses he so greatly admired.
But when he said so to Polly, she appeared indignant at the idea, and
bade him be quiet and listen to what Aunt Janie had to say.

"No, thank you, Mary," Mrs. Marsh replied, in response to her
sister-in-law's offer of a cup of tea. "I merely called to see Martin—"
Martin was Mr. Trent—"to tell him about a letter I've received from
Cousin Becky. You've heard of her, of course—Rebecca Trent, a first
cousin of father's?"

"Oh yes!" answered Mrs. Trent, with a show of keen interest. "Martin
was telling the children about her the other day, and wondering what
had become of her. He will be so glad to hear you have heard from her.
She must be an old woman now?"

"Close on seventy. She used to visit at our house when Martin and I
were about the age of Polly and Roger; but she always made her home
with her brother, who had been left a widower with a young family. In
fact, she brought up his children. In the letter I have to-day had from
her, she informs me that her brother is dead, and that now she is all
alone."

"How sad!" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with ready sympathy, whilst Polly and
Roger exchanged concerned glances. "Poor soul! But I suppose she has
means to provide herself with another home?"

"I should say that is very doubtful. Cousin Becky never had any
property, as far as I know, and it is certain her brother could do
nothing towards making a provision for her in case she survived
him, for he lived on his pension—he was a retired naval officer, as
doubtless Martin has told you—and had very little private property.
Becky ought to have gone into a situation when she was young, instead
of living with her brother, then perhaps she would have been able to
make some provision for her old age—I've written and told her so."

Mrs. Marsh paused, for at that moment the sitting-room door opened to
admit her brother. Mr. Trent was tall, and very like his sister in
features, but there the resemblance between the two ended, for the
expression of his countenance was good-humoured, and his many troubles
had failed to embitter him, for he owned a hopeful disposition and one
of the kindest hearts in the world, whereas Mrs. Marsh, in spite of her
air of prosperity, looked anything but a contented woman.

"Oh, father, Aunt Janie has had a letter from Cousin Becky!" cried
Polly, eager to be first with the news.

"Well, I am glad," Mr. Trent declared heartily, as selected a chair
by his sister's side and, sitting down, took the letter which she had
drawn from her pocket and now offered to him. "You and I were very fond
of her when we were youngsters, Janie, and she was very good to us, I
remember. What has the dear old body to say for herself?"

"You had better see!" Mrs. Marsh responded dryly.

Thus advised, Mr. Trent opened the letter and read aloud as follows:—

   "My DEAR JANIE,—"

   "It is many years since you and I met, but there is still a warm
corner in my heart for the little girl and boy who were such firm
friends of mine in those days when I used to visit at their home; and
I hope they may have some kindly remembrances of 'Cousin Becky'—which
hope impels me to write to you now. Dear Janie, I am left all alone.
A few months since my dear brother died after a long illness; and his
three children are all married and far away. The boy is settled
in New Zealand, and the two girls are in India—one is married to an
officer in the Army, the other to an engineer. My nephew has offered
me a home, but I am too old to be transplanted to the other side of
the world, so I have declined his offer, and now propose to visit
Beaworthy with the idea of settling there. I have pleasant recollections
of the place, and as you and Martin are my only relations in England,
I feel I should like to pass my remaining days near you. Could you
recommend me to lodgings, or to any nice family who would take a
boarder? I have no doubt you can assist me in this matter, and I shall
eagerly await your reply."

   "With my love to Martin and yourself, and hoping soon to see you both
and to make the acquaintance of your husband and boy,"

                       "I am, my dear Janie,"
                            "Your affectionate cousin,"
                                          "Rebecca Trent."

"I suppose you've written and asked her to visit you, Janie," remarked
Mr. Trent as he returned the letter to his sister.

"I have done no such thing, Martin. Of course, I see that is what she
expected—I can read between the lines, so to speak—but I talked the
matter over with John, and we came to the conclusion that it would be
wiser not to do so; if we once gave her a footing at the Rookery we
might find a difficulty in getting rid of her, and—and—"

Mrs. Marsh paused and coloured as she met her brother's astonished
eyes. There was a long, awkward silence, which Mrs. Trent at length
broke by remarking gently:

"It is very sad to be old and poor, and especially for one who has led
a noble and self-sacrificing life—"

"She ought to have considered herself," Mrs. Marsh broke in tartly,
"and so I've reminded her. I've written and advised her to stay where
she is, in London; I suppose she must have some friends there. I think
she would be foolish to come to Beaworthy, anyway. Well, I really must
go; I only came to show you Cousin Becky's letter, Martin. Good-bye,
children. Good-bye, Mary. You're looking very pale, you ought to get
out more." And Mrs. Marsh rustled out of the room followed by her
brother.

The mother and children stood at the window and watched Mr. Trent
assist his sister into the carriage and wrap the fur rug around her.

"Why doesn't she take you for a drive with her, sometimes, mother?"
said Polly in a tone of dissatisfaction. She regarded her mother
attentively as she spoke, and a pang of pain shot through her loving
heart as she saw that Mrs. Trent was indeed very pale. "It's all very
well to say you ought to get out more, but—oh, I wish we had a carriage
for you to drive out in when the roads and streets are muddy, and—"

"Don't let your father hear you say anything like that," Mrs. Trent
interposed hurriedly. "You need not trouble because I am pale—I always
am, you know. There! Your aunt's gone; and now run and tell Louisa to
bring in tea."

Polly obeyed, and by the time Louisa—the maid-of-all-work—had done her
bidding, Mr. Trent had changed his coat for the older one he always
wore at home in the evenings, and had returned to the sitting-room.
During the meal which followed, Roger told his father how he had feared
his aunt had come on another errand; and though Mr. Trent chided his
son for having lost his temper and struck his cousin, he sympathised
with the indignation which had caused him to act so impetuously.

"I should be sorry for you to be really at enmity with Edgar," he said
gravely, "so I hope you will try to make peace with him to-morrow. His
cruelty was probably the result of thoughtlessness, but it ought to be
checked."

"Aunt Janie never thinks he does wrong," declared Polly. "And, oh,
father, don't you consider it's very strange she doesn't want Cousin
Becky to visit her?" she added eagerly.

"Yes, Polly, I do," Mr. Trent admitted with a glance at his wife. "I
only wish we were better off so that we could ask Cousin Becky here,
but I suppose it's not to be thought of under present circumstances."

"Why not, father?" asked Roger. "Do you think she would not like to
come—that she would not like our house?"

"No. I am sure she would not mind our house being small and shabby, and
in a street, for she has had to rough it in her day; but—" Mr. Trent
paused and glanced at his wife again.

"We have no spare room," she remarked dubiously, "only that little
attic next to Louisa's; we could not put a visitor there."

"Cousin Becky could have my room—it's rather small, of course, but it's
very comfortable and sunny—and I'd go up in the attic," said Polly,
whilst her father nodded approval.

"But, Martin, do you think she would be satisfied with our mode of
living?" questioned Mrs. Trent. "I should like to write and ask her
to come and stay with us until she has made her plans for the future,
because she was kind to you years ago, but—"

"And now she is old and poor, Mary, I should like to be kind to her,"
broke in Mr. Trent, "especially as Janie—but never mind that! Janie
doesn't realise what it is to be without money and friends, so we
mustn't blame her if she appears a little hard. Cousin Becky must be
very friendless, I fancy, or she wouldn't think of coming to Beaworthy.
There are plenty of people who would want her to be their guests if she
was rich, but she is doubtless as poor as ourselves. One more at our
table surely cannot make much difference—eh, Mary?"

The children regarded their mother with expectant eyes, rather
marvelling at the hesitancy they read in her face, for they were not
troubled by thoughts of ways and means. A visitor in the house would
have all the charm of novelty for them, and their father had told them
so many reminiscences of Cousin Becky that they longed to see her.

"She is awfully nice, isn't she, father?" questioned Roger.

"She used to be very nice, my son, and I don't suppose she has much
altered with age. She was never a fussy old maid, and she loved
children dearly."

"Oh, mother, do write and ask her to come!" pleaded the little boy
coaxingly.

"I certainly will, as you all seem to desire it so much," Mrs. Trent
agreed with a smile, "and if she does come we will do our best to make
her as comfortable and happy with us as possible. I only hesitated to
invite her because I could not quite see how we were to manage; but
since Polly is willing to give up her room, and your father thinks
Cousin Becky will be satisfied with our humble fare—well, then, I'll
write to-night."

Accordingly, as soon as tea was over, Mrs. Trent wrote the letter,
and Roger ran out and posted it; and there was a general sense of
satisfaction that the right thing had been done. In the course of a few
days Cousin Becky's reply was received. It was a brief, grateful note
of thanks and acceptance of the invitation, saying the writer hoped to
be with her cousins in Princess Street the following week.



CHAPTER III

AT THE ROOKERY

"Is that you, Edgar, darling? Come to the fire and warm yourself. It's
snowing, isn't it?"

"Yes, mother. I hope we shall have a good downfall. If it snows like
this all through the night we shall be able to make a snow man in the
playground to-morrow. Won't that be jolly?"

It was an afternoon several days subsequent to the one on which Mrs.
Marsh had called on her relatives in Princess Street; and the scene
was the spacious drawing-room at the Rookery, which, with a big coal
fire burning in the grate, and its handsome, well-chosen furniture,
was a picture of comfort, not to say luxury. Mrs. Marsh sat near the
fireplace, a small table bearing tea-things, a plate of thin bread
and butter, and part of a rich cake in a silver cake-basket at her
side. She had been entertaining callers, but they had left early on
account of the snowstorm which had been threatening. Edgar, who had
just returned from school, flung his satchel of lesson-books into a
corner of the room, and, advancing to the tea-table, helped himself to
a hunk of cake. His mother watched him with an indulgent smile; she
was naturally very proud and fond of her son, who was indeed a very
nice-looking little lad, with his bright blue eyes, fresh complexion,
and curly, brown hair.

"Are your feet wet, dearie?" she inquired anxiously, as she poured him
out a cup of tea.

"No," he answered untruthfully, for he knew they were. He sat down and
tucked his feet out of sight under the chair. "Give me plenty of cream
and sugar, please, mother," he said. "This is a very good cake."

"Yes; but had you not better eat some bread and butter with it? It is
very rich."

He paid no heed to her suggestion, however, and there was silence for a
few minutes till he cut himself a second slice of cake as large as the
first.

"My dear child—" began Mrs. Marsh expostulatingly; but Edgar
interrupted her:

"Oh, mother, don't fuss!"

"I merely speak for your good, my darling, I—"

"I do wish you wouldn't keep on calling me 'dearie' and 'darling' and
names of that sort; it's so silly, just as though I was a baby, and
it makes people laugh, and I hate being laughed at!" The boy spoke
petulantly with deepening colour, but his eyes drooped beneath his
mother's reproachful glance. "I don't believe Roger's mother would be
so foolish," he added, "and Roger says you treat me as though I was a
girl."

Mrs. Marsh looked both hurt and angry, but she made no response. Her
affection for her son showed itself in words of exaggerated endearment,
and he was now of an age to greatly dislike being made to appear
ridiculous. It had been at his father's wish that he had been entered
as a pupil at the Grammar School; Mrs. Marsh had wanted to have him
educated by a tutor at home, but her husband had been too wise to
listen to her views on the point of their son's education. Edgar should
go to a public school, he had firmly declared, the boy would soon
find his level there; and that he was certainly doing, the process
proving rather a humbling one. Master Edgar Marsh was not quite such
an important person in his own estimation to-day as he had been at the
commencement of the school only a few weeks previously.

"I walked as far as the corner of Princess Street with Roger this
afternoon," Edgar informed his mother by-and-by. "I should not like to
live where he does, I told him so."

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Marsh curiously.

"He didn't say anything, but he got very red and looked angry. He very
soon gets angry, you know, and I don't think he liked what I said."

"I thought you told me the other day that you didn't care for Roger,
and that you never meant to speak to him again," Mrs. Marsh observed
with a slight smile.

"Oh," the little boy exclaimed, appearing somewhat confused, "that was
because he hit me; but—but it was partly my fault for—never mind about
that! Afterwards he said he was sorry, and we've been better friends
since. Roger's all right when you come to know him."

"I'm glad to hear that, because he's your cousin, and though,
unfortunately for him, his position in life will be very different from
yours, I shouldn't like you to quarrel with him. Your Uncle Martin and
I were devoted to each other when we were children; indeed, I've always
been much attached to my brother, and I've always made it my first duty
to be kind to his family."

"It must be very cold travelling to-day," Edgar remarked, glancing out
of the window at the falling snow. "Is it a long journey from London to
Beaworthy, mother?"

"Yes; do you know anyone who is making it?"

"I was thinking of Cousin Becky." "Cousin Becky? What do you mean?
She's not coming here. I never invited her."

"No. But she's coming to stay with Uncle Martin and Aunt Mary. Didn't
you know it, mother? Why, I could have told you that days ago!"

"Then, pray, why didn't you?"

"I never thought of it. Roger told me, and of course I thought you
knew. She's coming to-night. Roger's going to the station with Uncle
Martin to meet her at seven o'clock and she's to have Polly's room."

"And what's to become of Polly?"

"She's going to sleep in the attic."

"The idea! Mary must be crazy to upset her arrangements for an old
woman she has never seen in her life, one in whom she can have no
possible interest."

"Roger says Cousin Becky is very poor," Edgar observed thoughtfully.
"It must be dreadful to be poor, mother, mustn't it?"

"Yes," she acknowledged, surprised at the unusual gravity of her son's
face.

"That's why they invited Cousin Becky to Princess Street," Edgar
proceeded, "because she's poor and lonely. Roger says now Cousin
Becky's brother is dead she hasn't even a home, and no one wants
her—you know you didn't, mother."

"But to burden themselves with an old woman," Mrs. Marsh was
commencing, when the keen, questioning gaze with which her little
boy was regarding her caused her to break off and leave her sentence
unfinished.

"It's so odd you didn't want Cousin Becky here," he said. "I can't
think why you didn't, because we've lots of spare rooms, and we're
always having visitors. Don't you like Cousin Becky, mother?"

"I have not seen her for many years," was the evasive reply. "Will you
have another cup of tea, Edgar? No, I will not allow you to have any
more cake; you will make yourself ill."

"Give me just a tiny piece, mother. I'm hungry still."

"Then have some bread and butter."

"No," pouted the spoilt child, "I won't have anything more to eat if I
can't have cake."

It ended in his being allowed another slice, and whilst he was eating
it, his father, a short, bald, middle-aged man, entered the room, and
came up to the fire, rubbing his hands and complaining of the cold.

"We're going to have a heavy fall of snow if I'm not much mistaken,"
he said. "You'll like that, eh, Edgar? I remember when I was your age
there was nothing I liked better than a snowballing match with my
school-fellows. Rare fun we used to have."

"Fancy, John, Cousin Becky is coming to Beaworthy after all," Mrs.
Marsh informed him. "She's going to stay with Martin. Edgar heard from
Roger that she is expected to-night."

"Well, I suppose your brother knows what he is about," Mr. Marsh
replied, shrugging his shoulders. "You'll have to ask the old lady to
spend a day with you, Janie."

"And ask Aunt Mary, too," said Edgar eagerly; "I like Aunt Mary. But
don't have Polly, mother."

"Why not?" inquired Mr. Marsh, looking amused.

"She's such a cheeky little girl," the boy replied, recalling how
on one of the rare occasions when he had taken tea with his cousins
at their home, Polly had nick-named him "tell-tale" because he had
threatened to inform his mother of something which had happened to
displease him. He knew better than to do that now, but he seldom
encountered Polly without she addressed him as "tell-tale."

"Edgar, your boots are wet!" cried Mrs. Marsh as, in an unwary moment,
the little boy drew his feet out from under the chair. "I can see
the water oozing out of the leather. Go and change them at once, or
you'll catch a terrible cold. How could you say they were not wet when
you must have known differently? You ought to be ashamed to be so
untruthful."

Edgar was in no wise disconcerted by this rebuke; but he left the
drawing-room and went upstairs to his own room, where he discarded
his snow-sodden boots for his slippers, and then stood at the window
looking out into the garden, which was separated from the high road by
tall elm trees, where the rooks built their nests every spring. The
snow was falling very fast now, covering the world with a spotless
mantle of white; and Edgar's mind reverted to the visitor whom his
cousins expected to welcome to their home that night.

"I suppose mother thought she'd be in the way if she came here," he
reflected shrewdly, "but I should say she'll be much more in the way in
Uncle Martin's poky little house. It's really very kind of Aunt Mary to
have her. Roger says his mother is always kind, and that we all ought
to try to be—for Jesus' sake, because He loves every living thing, even
animals. I suppose that's true, it's in the Bible about His noticing
if a sparrow falls, so it must be, but I never thought much of it till
Roger spoke to me about it the day after I'd hit that dog. I didn't
mean to hurt it—I only meant to frighten it; I suppose it was cowardly.
Well, I won't be unkind to an animal again; and I'm glad I didn't make
a fuss about Roger's having struck me, especially as he was sorry
afterwards."

It was cold in his bedroom, so in a short while the little boy went
downstairs. In the hall he encountered Titters, his mother's favourite
Persian cat; but when—mindful of his resolution to be kind to animals
in future—he essayed to stroke her, she tried to escape from him, and
arched her back and raised her fur in anything but a friendly fashion.
Truth to tell, he had been in the habit of teasing her, and she
consequently mistrusted his intentions. However, he caught her, picked
her up, and was carrying her into the drawing-room in his arms when she
suddenly gave him a vicious scratch on the cheek, whereupon he dropped
her with a cry of mingled anger and pain.

"See what Titters has done to me, mother!" he exclaimed as he entered
the drawing-room.

"What a nasty scratch!" Mrs. Marsh said. "But you should not have
teased the poor creature, Edgar."

"I was not teasing her, mother."

"Now, my dear, I know better than that. How can you tell me such a
naughty story? I do wish you would learn to speak the truth. You are
always teasing Titters—I suppose that's only natural as you're a boy—so
you need not pretend you were not doing so just now."

Edgar did not argue the point, but he regarded his mother with an
injured air which only made her laugh. He was annoyed that she did
not believe him, forgetful that not long before he had told her an
untruth about his boots, and that not without cause had he gained the
reputation of a perverter of the truth.



CHAPTER IV

COUSIN BECKY'S ARRIVAL AT BEAWORTHY

"Isn't it nearly time for you to start, father?" asked Polly, turning
from the window out of which, with her face pressed close to the glass,
she had been watching the falling snow, and glancing at Mr. Trent, who,
during the half-hour which had elapsed since the family had arisen from
the tea-table, had been quietly reading the newspaper.

"Very nearly, my dear," he answered, raising his eyes to the clock on
the mantelpiece, and then fixing them on his newspaper again.

"I believe the clock's rather slow, father, and it will take you quite
quarter of an hour walking to the station. It's half-past six."

"And Cousin Becky's train is not due to arrive till ten minutes past
seven, so there's plenty of time. Where is Roger?"

"Gone to put on his boots, father. Don't you think you had better put
on yours?"

Mr. Trent laughed as he laid aside his newspaper. "I see you will not
be satisfied till I am gone," he remarked. "Fetch my boots, there's a
good girl."

Ten minutes later Mr. Trent and Roger were putting on their overcoats
in the hall, preparatory to braving the snowstorm. The latter was quite
as anxious to start for the station as Polly was to send him off. In
fact, both children were much excited about their expected guest.

"You won't be able to wear this much longer," Polly observed, as
she assisted her brother into his overcoat, which had become most
uncomfortably tight for him. She buttoned it across his chest with some
difficulty, adding, "You look like a trussed fowl."

"He has grown so much this winter," said Mrs. Trent, overhearing
Polly's unflattering remark on her brother's appearance as she came
downstairs. "I wish he could have a new overcoat, but—" She paused with
a faint sigh, and Roger said quickly:

"Oh, this one will last me a long time yet, and I don't in the least
mind how I look. It's a good warm old coat."

"That's right, Roger, never run down an old friend, especially one
that's served you well," said Mr. Trent, at which they all laughed;
for, poor though they were and obliged to practise many economies, they
were a lighthearted family and happy amongst themselves.

"Surely you are very early in starting for the station," said Mrs.
Trent. "There is half an hour before the train is due."

"Yes; but Polly is anxious to get us off," her husband returned, with
a smiling glance at his little daughter, "and there's sure to be a
good fire in the waiting-room at the station if we have long to wait.
I shall not be surprised if the train is late to-night, the snowstorm
will probably delay it a little."

"It's snowing very fast," announced Roger, as he opened the door and
stepped into the street, followed by his father. "I believe it's inches
deep already."

"We must keep up a good fire in the sitting-room, for Cousin Becky is
sure to arrive very cold," said Mrs. Trent as she closed the front
door. "I wish there was a fireplace in your bedroom, Polly, but the
oil-stove has made it feel very warm and comfortable."

The little girl ran upstairs to the room she had vacated for Cousin
Becky. A heating stove with a crimson glass shade stood on the floor,
and threw a rosy glow around. The apartment was small and plainly
furnished, but it looked very cosy, and Polly thought their expected
visitor would be very hard to please if she was not satisfied with such
a nice little room. She said something of the kind when she joined her
mother downstairs a few minutes later, and Mrs. Trent smiled, but made
no response. She was as curious as her children to see Cousin Becky,
and not a little anxious as well. How the hands of the clock seemed to
drag as Polly watched them! Seven o'clock struck, and nearly another
hour paced before a cab drew up before the house. Then mother and
daughter hastened into the hall, and the former flung open wide the
door, a welcoming smile on her face.

"Here she is, Mary!" cried Mr. Trent, as he sprang out of the cab and
assisted a little lady to alight. He led her immediately into the
house, whilst Roger followed labouring under a bundle of wraps and a
rug. "Here she is," he repeated, "almost frozen with cold, I believe.
Becky, this is my wife, and this is my little maid, Polly. Go into the
sitting-room, out of the draught, whilst I see to the luggage."

Not a word had the stranger spoken yet but she had taken Mrs. Trent's
outstretched hand and warmly returned the kiss which the latter
had given her; then she had kissed Polly, too, and now she allowed
herself to be led into the sitting-room and established in the big,
leather-covered easy chair by the fire.

"How good you all are to me!" she exclaimed at length with a quick
breath, which sounded very like a sob, as she took off her thick
veil, revealing a countenance which, though plain, was redeemed from
insignificance by a pair of bright, observant dark eyes—wonderfully
soft eyes they were at the present moment, for they smiled through a
mist of tears. "Why, you might have known me all your lives by the
warmth of your greetings.'"

"I have heard a great deal of you from my husband," Mrs. Trent told
her. "You do not seem a stranger at all."

"I am pleased to hear that. What a glorious fire! A good fire is always
such a welcome, I think. And what a cosy room!" And the bright, dark
eyes wandered around the apartment with its worn Brussels carpet and
well-used furniture, with appreciation in their gaze.

"I believe you will find the house comfortable, though small, and—I'm
afraid—rather shabby," Mrs. Trent replied.

"It is a home," Cousin Becky declared with a pleased nod. "I've been
in many large, handsomely-furnished houses that have never been that.
Well," she said, turning her glance upon Polly, who had been watching
her intently, "do you think you will like me, my dear?"

"Yes," Polly responded with a smile, by no means abashed at this
direct question. "I am sure I shall. But you are not a bit like what I
expected."

"Indeed! What did you expect?"

"I thought you would look much older," the little girl candidly
admitted.

"I'm nearly seventy, my dear, and that's a good age. But I don't feel
old, and I cannot have changed a great deal of late years—except that
my hair has grown white—for your father recognised me the minute he saw
me on the platform."

At that moment Mr. Trent appeared upon the scene, followed by Roger.
They had been helping to take their visitor's luggage upstairs; and
Mrs. Trent now suggested that Cousin Becky should go to her room and
remove her travelling things, by which time she would be glad of some
tea.

"What do you think of her, Polly?" asked Roger, as soon as their mother
and Cousin Becky had gone upstairs together.

"I think she looks very nice and kind," was the prompt reply; "but what
a little thing she is, Roger! Father, you never told us that."

In truth, Miss Trent was a very little lady, with a slight figure which
was wonderfully upright and agile for one her age. When she returned to
the sitting-room, Roger pulled the easy chair nearer the fire for her,
and Polly placed a cushion behind her shoulders, and she looked at them
both with a very tender light shining in her dark eyes.

"Thank you, my dears," she said with the smile which made her plain
face look almost beautiful. "I will take the easy chair to-night as I
am weary after my journey, but usually I am not so indulgent to myself.
Roger, you are very like what your father used to be at your age."

"And do you think I am like Aunt Janie?" asked Polly, veiled anxiety in
her tone.

"Slightly, perhaps; but you are more like your mother," was the decided
reply.

"Oh, I am glad to hear you say that!" Polly cried delightedly. "I would
rather not be like Aunt Janie at all; though everyone says she is very
handsome," she added meditatively.

"Polly does not much care for Aunt Janie," Roger explained; "but she's
very nice in her way. And Uncle John's very nice, too, but we don't see
much of him. Oh, here's Louisa with tea—"

"Which I am sure Cousin Becky must be greatly in need of," Mrs. Trent
interposed, not sorry of this opportunity of changing the conversation,
"so hush your chatter, children, for a while, and let her take her meal
in peace."

"I love listening to their chatter," Cousin Becky said. She did full
justice to the chop which had been cooked for her and enjoyed her tea;
and afterwards they all sat round the fire, and the children listened
whilst their elders conversed about people and places they only knew by
name. Then by-and-by Cousin Becky spoke of her brother's death, and her
own forlorn condition.

"I cannot tell you how glad I was to receive your letter, my dear,"
she said to Mrs. Trent. "I considered it was especially kind of you to
invite me to visit you as you had never seen me in your life."

"Father wanted you to come, and so did Polly and I," Roger informed her
frankly, "but mother was afraid—" He paused in sudden confusion.

"Afraid you might not be satisfied with our mode of living, Becky,"
Mr. Trent said with a smile, whilst his wife shook her head at him
reproachfully.

"The idea!" cried Cousin Becky with a laugh.

"I told her you had had to rough it in your day," Mr. Trent proceeded,
"and that you were not a fussy old maid. You see we're living in a
small way, and we've had reverses of fortune, as no doubt you have
heard, but I don't think we're a discontented family, and we make the
best of things—eh, my dear?" he questioned, turning to his wife.

"Yes," she answered, "or, at any rate, we try to do so. Children, I
think it is time for you to say good-night; it is long past your usual
bed-time."

"I wonder who put those lovely snowdrops in the vase on the
dressing-table in my room," said Cousin Becky, as the young people rose
obediently to retire for the night.

"Roger did," replied Polly, "he bought them on purpose for you. Do you
like them?"

"Indeed I do. Thank you, Roger, so much; it was a most kindly thought
which prompted you to get them for me."

The little boy blushed with pleasure, for it was nice to know the
flowers were appreciated, and he had been wondering if Cousin Becky
had noticed them. After the children had said good-night and left the
room, they stood a few minutes in the hall, discussing their visitor in
whispers.

"She's awfully jolly," Roger said decidedly, "and she seemed very
pleased that I was at the station to meet her with father."

"I like her," Polly answered. "It must be very bad to be alone in the
world if you're poor," she continued thoughtfully. "Did you see the
tears in her eyes when she talked of her brother and said she had no
home now?"

"Yes," assented Roger; "but she didn't say anything about being poor."

"No, but we know she is, from what Aunt Janie said. If she had been
rich she'd have been invited to stay at the Rookery." Polly was a sharp
little girl, and often surprised her elders by the clearness of her
mental sight. "I'm glad she's come here instead," she added heartily,
"for we should not see much of her if she was Aunt Janie's visitor."

"I expect not," agreed Roger. "Edgar says he doesn't like Princess
Street, and I suppose Aunt Janie doesn't either. I don't mind, do you?"

Polly declared she did not, but her heart was hot with indignation;
for she realised, more clearly than did her brother, that Aunt Janie
despised their home.



CHAPTER V

AFTER THE SNOWSTORM

"Oh, I say, Roger, do wait for me a moment! What a tremendous hurry
you're in! I want to speak to you."

Roger Trent paused to allow the speaker—Edgar Marsh—to come up to
him. It was nearly five o'clock on the afternoon subsequent to the
night of Cousin Becky's arrival at Beaworthy, and the cousins were
later than usual in returning from school, as they had lingered in the
playground—a large yard surrounded by high walls at the back of the
Grammar School building, which was situated in one of the principal
streets of the town—to enjoy a good game of snowballing. Several inches
of snow had fallen during the night, but the morning had dawned clear
and fine; there had been only a very slight thaw, and now the air was
keen and betokened frost.

"I'm in rather a hurry, because we have tea at five o'clock and mother
will wonder what's become of me if I'm not home by then," Roger
explained, as his cousin joined him and they walked on side by side.

"What a splendid game we've had, haven't we? I believe it's going
to freeze, and if it does the streets will be as slippery as glass
to-morrow."

"So much the better, then we shall be able to make some slides. I don't
mind the cold, do you? But why don't you do up your coat."

"Because it's so uncomfortable if I do; it's too tight for me, I've
grown out of it."

"You ought to have a new one; it's awfully shabby."

Roger laughed at the critical way in which Edgar was surveying him, but
his colour deepened as he said:

"I shan't have a new one till another winter, that's certain, and
perhaps not then; it will all depend—"

"Depend upon what?" asked Edgar inquisitively.

"Upon whether father can afford to buy me one or not," was the frank
response.

Edgar was silent for a few moments. Accustomed to possess everything
that money could buy, it seemed very dreadful to him that his cousin
should not be well clothed. He reflected that Roger and he were
much the same height and size, and determined to ask his mother for
permission to present him with one of his own overcoats.

"It must be horrid to be poor like that," he remarked; "but, never
mind, Roger, I'll see you have another overcoat soon." This was said
with a slightly patronising air, though it was kindly meant.

"What do you mean?" Roger demanded quickly.

"I'll give you one of mine."

"I won't have it. I don't want it. I'd rather wear my old one." Roger's
tone was distinctly ungrateful, and he appeared vexed. "You'd better
mind your own business, Edgar, and let me mind mine."

Edgar looked considerably taken aback. He saw he had annoyed his
companion, but he had not the faintest idea how he had done so.
However, he was wise enough to let the matter drop.

"Did Cousin Becky come last night?" he inquired. "Mother'll be sure to
ask me when I get home."

"She arrived by the ten minutes past seven train," Roger replied.
"Father and I met her at the station—the train was more than half an
hour late—and we drove home in a cab. I enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed what?"

"The drive."

"Oh!" Edgar exclaimed rather contemptuously. "Tell me what Cousin
Becky's like."

"She's very small, and her hair is quite white, and she has very dark
eyes. Polly and I think we shall like her."

"Will she stay long?"

"I don't know. Mother asked her for a few weeks."

The boys had reached the corner of Princess Street now, and were about
to separate when Edgar impulsively caught up a handful of snow and
flung it in his companion's face. Roger had not expected this, but
he laughed and promptly returned the compliment, and soon they were
engaged in a smart game of snowballing, in which a couple of errand
boys who happened to be passing, joined. By-and-by Roger unfortunately
slipped and fell full length on the sloppy ground; but he picked
himself up, unhurt, though very wet and dirty, and returned to the
battle. The game would have lasted much longer than it did, had not
a policeman come round the corner upon the combatants and promptly
dispersed them.

Of course, Roger was late for tea, for, upon reaching home, he found it
was absolutely necessary to change his clothes. It was little wonder
that Louisa grumbled when he marched into the kitchen, after having
put on a dry suit, bearing his wet garments, which he begged her to
dry and clean for him in time for him to wear next day. "Of all the
thoughtless boys I ever knew, I do believe you are the worst, Master
Roger," she said emphatically as she stuffed paper into his dripping
boots to prevent their shrinking. "You'll soon have no clothes to wear,
and what will you do then?" As the little boy offered no solution to
this problem, she continued in the same scolding tone, "I don't know
what the mistress will say when she sees your second-best suit in this
terrible state. Well, leave the things here, I'll try to get them dry
and do my best with them, for it's certain you can't go to school
to-morrow looking such a sight as that!" And a smile broke upon her
countenance as her eyes travelled over his figure. He had been obliged
to don a much-worn suit, darned at the knees and elbows, and too small
for him every way.

"It's very kind of you, Louisa," he said gratefully, "I'll do you a
good turn some day."

"Will you, Master Roger? Well, I believe you would if you could, so
I'll take the will for the deed. Boys will be boys, I suppose, and I
daresay your clothes are not really much damaged after all."

After that Roger left the kitchen and went into the sitting-room. He
apologised to his mother for being late, and drank his luke-warm tea
and ate several slices of thick bread and butter with relish. Cousin
Becky occupied the seat at his mother's right hand, and Polly sat
opposite. Mr. Trent was not present, for he did not, as a rule, leave
the office till six o'clock.

"I have not been outside the door all day," Polly remarked in a
slightly desponding tone, after she had listened to her brother's
account of the fun he and his schoolmates had enjoyed in the playground
that afternoon, "and I do love walking in snow."

"You know you have a slight cold, my dear," Mrs. Trent said, "and I did
not want you to run the risk of making it worse."

"Besides, my boots leak," Polly muttered under her breath, "so I could
not have gone out anyway."

Mrs. Trent glanced quickly at Cousin Becky, but apparently she had not
heard the little girl's complaint, for she was giving her attention
to Roger, who was answering a question she had put to him about his
school. A look of relief crossed Mrs. Trent's face, seeing which Polly
grew suddenly ashamed of her discontentment, and would have given
anything to have been able to recall the words which she realised must
have grieved her mother to hear; she well knew she would not have had
leaky boots if such a state of things could have been remedied.

After tea the children sat at one end of the table preparing their
lessons for the following day. Up to the present Polly had been
educated by her mother, but it was hoped she would be able to be sent
to school later on—to which day she was looking forward with much
pleasure, for she had but a dull time of it at home, poor little
girl, and she was far more inclined than her brother to chafe against
the circumstances of her life. On one occasion she had overheard it
remarked to her mother that it was a shame Mr. Marsh did not give his
brother-in-law a larger salary for his services, and she had secretly
felt a deep sense of resentment against her uncle ever since. Then,
too, she disliked her aunt, because that lady did not own sufficient
tact to confer her favours in a different manner; and she despised
Edgar because his mother petted and spoilt him. So, it must be
confessed that poor Polly had but little affection for those relations
outside her own household. But the little girl forgot her grievances
when, later on, and lessons finished, she and her brother drew their
chairs near the fire and Cousin Becky entered into conversation with
them, encouraging them to talk of themselves. Before the evening was
over the visitor had gained a clear insight into the character of her
young cousins, and had learnt a great deal about the family at the
Rookery.

Seeing the children were entertaining her guest, Mrs. Trent by-and-by
left the room in search of Louisa, whom she found in the kitchen
carefully drying Roger's second-best suit of clothes before the fire.

"I'm drying the things slowly so that they shan't shrink," Louisa
explained. "Isn't master come yet, ma'am?" she inquired as she glanced
at her mistress' face.

"No, and I cannot imagine what's keeping him; he generally comes
straight home from the office. I cannot help being nervous, for I know
something unusual must have happened to have detained him. It is past
eight o'clock. Supposing he should have met with an accident? I expect
the streets are like glass to-night."

"I wouldn't go to meet trouble if I were you, ma'am," advised Louisa.
She had been in Mrs. Trent's service for several years, and had
insisted on accompanying the family to Princess Street, having declared
nothing should induce her to leave the mistress to whom she was deeply
attached. "You're too anxious, ma'am, that comes of having had so many
troubles, I expect; but if anything had happened to the master you
would have been the first to have been informed of it. There! Surely
that's his step in the hall."

It was, and Mrs. Trent's face brightened immediately. She hastened into
the hall, where she found her husband divesting himself of his overcoat.

"I'm late, for we're a hand short at the office," he explained, "and
I've had extra work to do. I hope you haven't been anxious, Mary? Yes?
That was foolish of you, my dear. How have you been getting on with
Cousin Becky?"

"Very well indeed. I have taken a great liking to her, Martin, for she
seems so simple-hearted and sincere. She has been doing some mending
for me, she begged me to find her some work."

"John mentioned her to me this afternoon," Mr. Trent said, lowering his
voice. "He said he considered we'd acted unwisely in inviting her here
and that we should probably see we had made a mistake. However, Janie's
coming to call on her, and I believe she's to be invited to the Rookery
to spend a day. It made my blood boil to hear the tone John adopted in
speaking of her—as though she was of no account because she's a poor
relation. If Fortune had smiled on us, Mary—" Mr. Trent paused, then
added a trifle huskily, "God's will be done. If Fortune had smiled on
us, perhaps we might have been unsympathetic too."



CHAPTER VI

"SHOWING OFF"

Cousin Becky had been nearly a week at Beaworthy when, one afternoon,
Mrs. Marsh called to see her. It was on a Saturday, and Polly and
Roger had gone for a walk as the weather was beautifully fine and dry,
so they were absent during their aunt's visit and were not told much
concerning it, though they would have liked to have known all that had
been said.

"I do wonder what Cousin Becky thinks of Aunt Janie," Polly said to her
brother. "I don't like to ask her, but I should dearly like to know."

But the old lady did not say what she thought of Mrs. Marsh, so Polly's
curiosity remained unsatisfied; nor, after the few hours she and Mrs.
Trent spent at the Rookery one afternoon of the following week, did she
have many remarks to make about the home of her well-to-do cousin, but
she expressed an interest in Edgar, with whom she had apparently been
somewhat favourably impressed. "He seems a manly little fellow," she
said, "and I hope his mother will not spoil him by over-indulgence."

"I fear she has done that already," Mrs. Trent replied gravely, "for he
is a very wayward and disobedient boy, and he is always making mischief
with the servants; he treats them in a most disrespectful manner, from
all accounts."

"And he tells stories," declared Polly. "Doesn't he, Roger?"

"Y-e-s," Roger answered reluctantly. "I don't think he means any harm
by it, and I don't know that he would tell a big lie, but he does tell
a lot of little fibs, and Aunt Janie knows it too, for the last time I
was at the Rookery she kept on saying to him, 'Oh, Edgar, dearie, I do
wish you would learn to speak the truth!'"

It was impossible not to smile as Roger imitated so exactly the
plaintive tone in which his aunt was in the habit of reproving her son;
but Cousin Becky became serious again almost immediately.

"It is a terrible thing to be untruthful," she said gravely, "and I
believe that, as a rule, one who tells little fibs, as Roger calls
them, will not hesitate to utter a big lie when occasion arises. Do you
see much of Edgar?" she inquired of Roger.

"Not much, Cousin Becky, and before we went to school I hardly ever had
anything to do with him. Sometimes he walks as far as the corner of the
street with me now, but I never ask him to come here, for he doesn't
like our house."

"It's not grand enough for him," said Polly, tossing her head, "and I'm
sure we don't want him here. I can't bear him."

"Oh, he's all right in his way, Polly," said her brother. "I think he's
rather nicer than he was at the beginning of the term; there's a lot of
fun in him, really. He said something yesterday about asking me to tea
at the Rookery on Saturday; he said he would speak to Aunt Janie about
it. I wonder if he will."

"Oh, I daresay!" Polly returned in a would-be indifferent tone as she
speculated whether an invitation would be extended to her too.

However, that was not to be the case, for when Saturday came Roger only
was asked to the Rookery, and the little girl found herself left out in
the cold. She was vastly indignant, though she would not for the world
have acknowledged as much; she felt she had been slighted, and, to make
the matter worse, her father condoled with her on having to remain at
home, whereupon Roger said carelessly:

"Oh, she doesn't mind, father! She doesn't like Edgar, so it wouldn't
be much fun for her, anyway."

Polly was on the brink of tears, for though she certainly did not like
her cousin, it would have been a great treat for her to have spent
a few hours at the Rookery; and she much desired to see the "winter
garden," as her uncle called the greenhouse where he grew hyacinths,
primulas, cyclamens, heaths, and various other flowers which flourish
under glass in early spring. She kept silence, however, and hoped no
one noticed her disappointment, for she was successful in blinking away
the tears which, against her will, had risen to her eyes.

When Roger arrived at the Rookery, he found that his aunt and uncle had
gone away to spend the day; but Edgar, who had been on the look-out for
him and met him at the front door, appeared to think they would have a
much more enjoyable time on that account, "for now we shall be able to
do exactly as we like," he said gleefully, adding that his mother had
given orders that they were to have whatever they pleased for tea.

It was a lovely February day with a touch of spring in the air, for the
weather, after a short spell of frost, had turned milder, so the boys
spent most of the afternoon in the gardens and outbuildings connected
with the house. Roger was charmed with the flowers in the winter garden
and would have liked to have remained longer to admire their manifold
beauties, but Edgar grew impatient and hurried him away. From thence
they visited the stable, where the visitor was allowed to smooth the
sleek sides of the pair of horses which he longed to be able to drive
and, much to the amusement of a groom who stood by chewing a straw, he
confessed his ambition to be a coachman when he should be grown-up. The
idea seemed to tickle the fancy of Edgar, for he laughed immoderately.

"Why, Roger, you'd have to wear livery if you were a coachman," he
reminded his cousin.

"Of course," Roger answered. "I shouldn't mind that. What are you
laughing at? I love horses, and—"

"And they love you, sir," interposed the groom good-naturedly; "animals
know those who like them. Look at that now!"

One of the horses had turned his head and was rubbing his nose against
Roger's sleeve.

The little boy was very reluctant to leave the stable; but Edgar
declared that he was hungry and wanted his tea, so they went into
the house, where they found a most tempting repast awaiting them in
the dining-room—a repast which, to the visitor, appeared all that
any reasonable person could desire, though Edgar did a great deal of
grumbling. There were two sorts of jam on the table, but the young host
was satisfied with neither and rang the bell, bidding the maid-servant
who answered his summons to bring another kind. Then he complained that
the cake was stale, and that the bread and butter was not cut thin
enough—Roger thought the cake was delicious, and the bread and butter,
if anything, too thin—and at length the servant grew exasperated and
told him he was a foolish boy to try to show off before his cousin, a
remark which made him very angry indeed.

"I shall tell mother how impertinent she's been and get her dismissed!"
he exclaimed as the young woman left the room. "She had no business to
speak to me in such a manner as that."

"I think you were trying to show off, though," Roger told him candidly,
"for really it's a beautiful cake, and the bread and butter is much
thinner than we ever have it at home, even if we have strangers to tea.
Yes, I'll have a little more strawberry jam, please. I'm making a very
good tea."

So was Edgar, though he would not admit it. He felt exceedingly
humiliated, for he had desired to make Roger believe that the servants
of the household were under his control, and he had certainly not
succeeded in his attempt. For a short while he looked extremely cross;
but he soon brightened up after tea, when he led the way into his
father's study, and exhibited to his companion a collection of coins,
and another of foreign stamps, both of which he represented to be his
own. As a matter-of-fact that was perfectly untrue, and he had no right
to show either the coins or the stamps without his father's permission.
Of course, Roger did not know that, and he began to look on his cousin
as a person of property.

"I wonder you don't sell some of those stamps if they're worth such
a heap of money as you say," he said, as he watched Edgar replace
the stamps in the cabinet from which he had taken them, "I am sure I
should."

"But, you see, I don't want the money," Edgar reminded him.

"No, I suppose not."

The coins were kept in the shallow drawers of another cabinet which
Edgar had unlocked with a key—one of a bunch he had taken from a desk
on the writing-table. He would not permit Roger to touch them, only to
look, and afterwards he locked the drawers and returned the keys to the
exact spot where he had found them. Then he took up a cigarette case
which he opened and offered to Roger.

"Have one?" he asked with an assumption of carelessness.

"No, thank you," Roger responded, laughing, for he had not taken the
offer seriously; "I don't smoke."

"I do," was the astounding reply, as Edgar selected a cigarette from
the case and proceeded to light it with a wax match he took from a
match-box which he produced from his pocket. Roger watched him take two
or three whiffs in silence, dumbfounded at the sight. At last he cried
wonderingly:

"Fancy Uncle John allowing you to smoke! Aren't you afraid of being
sick?"

"No; you see, I'm used to it," Edgar replied, a flush rising to his
cheeks. "You may as well try a cigarette, you'll enjoy it."

"No, thank you. Of course I know lots of the boys at the Grammar School
do smoke—on the sly; but father said he hoped I never would, and I
promised him I wouldn't."

"Oh, well, my father said something of the same kind, but I didn't
promise one way or the other. He's never found me out yet—"

"Then he doesn't know. Oh, Edgar, how wrong of you! How can you bear to
do it? Do put the cigarette down."

"Nonsense!" Edgar smoked on more out of a spirit of bravado than
because he was enjoying the cigarette. He did not indulge in a second,
however. "Look here, don't you go home and tell anyone I've been
smoking," he said as he noted the expression of disapproval on his
cousin's tell-tale countenance, "for you'll get me into a row if you
do. Father's awfully against boys smoking."

"Then do say you won't smoke again, Edgar. It's awfully wrong of you,
really."

"Oh, I shall be careful I'm not found out. I shouldn't smoke here if
mother and father were at home, but I often do in my own room. Why, you
look quite shocked! What a young innocent you are!"

"I'm no younger than you—that is, not much, only a few months. But, I
say, Edgar, you really oughtn't to smoke if Uncle John doesn't wish you
to; it's deceiving him;" and Roger spoke very seriously.

"Well, I daresay you deceive your father sometimes—"

"Indeed I don't."

"Because you're afraid of being found out!" Edgar cried scornfully. "I
never guessed before that you were such a coward!"

"I'm not a coward!" Roger retorted, growing red with indignation. "But
I wouldn't try to deceive father even if there was no fear of his
finding it out. God would know, anyway. Mother says we should never do
anything we wouldn't like Him to know. You have no right to call me a
coward—"

"I didn't really mean it, so don't let us quarrel," Edgar broke in
hastily. "Oh," he exclaimed as Roger suddenly declared it was time for
him to leave, "don't go yet! It is quite early."

"It's half-past six," Roger replied, glancing at the brass face of an
old-fashioned clock in a black oak case, which stood against the wall
near the writing-table, "and mother said I was to be back by seven. It
will take me quite half an hour to get home."

"You won't tell about my smoking, will you?" questioned Edgar anxiously
as he followed his cousin out of the room into the hall.

"No, of course I won't," was the reassuring response, "I wouldn't be
such a sneak as that. Good-bye, Edgar. Thank you for asking me to
tea—it was a jolly nice tea, too, and I enjoyed it awfully. Good-bye."

Edgar stood at the front door and watched his late companion out
of sight. He was growing to like Roger more than any of his other
school-fellows, and he had the sense to see that he had made no
favourable impression upon him by the manner in which he had set his
father's command at defiance, and he heartily wished he had not smoked
that cigarette. He was uneasily conscious that the other boy knew that
he had only been "showing off."



CHAPTER VII

SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ROOKERY

Polly and Roger Trent always looked forward with the greatest pleasure
to Sunday, for they generally spent the afternoon of that day in
their father's company. If the weather was fine he took them for a
long walk in the country, past the clay works which lay directly on
the outskirts of Beaworthy, to the beautiful lanes and woods beyond;
if, on the contrary, it was wet and they were obliged to remain in
the house, he read to them or told them stories. In that way they had
become familiar with Bible history before they could read themselves;
and at a little later date they had listened to the entrancing history
of "The Pilgrim's Progress." They had followed Christian's journey with
all its dangers and difficulties along the King's highway right onward
to the celestial city; they had gloried in the fight between Christian
and Apollyon in the valley of Humiliation, and had insisted every time
their father had recounted it to them of a minute description of the
fiend—the monster hideous to behold, clothed with scales like a fish,
and wings like a dragon, and feet like a horse, and a mouth like a
lion! And they had shed bitter tears over the martyrdom of Faithful,
though they had never failed to brighten at the account of the chariot
and horses which had borne him with the sound of trumpet through the
clouds to the celestial gate into the presence of the King in His
beauty.

"I hate Sundays," Edgar Marsh had told Roger on one occasion, much
to the latter's surprise; "it's such a stupid day. I go to church
with mother and father in the morning, I don't mind that; but in the
afternoon I never know what to do with myself: father generally shuts
himself up in his study and tells me not to bother him—I suppose he
goes to sleep—and mother reads in the drawing-room. Don't you hate
Sundays, too?"

"No, indeed!" Roger had answered; and then he had told a great deal
about the delightful Sunday afternoons he was in the habit of spending,
and Edgar had listened more than a little enviously.

The afternoon following Roger's visit to the Rookery found Edgar in
a very discontented state of mind. As usual, his father had betaken
himself to his study, and his mother had settled herself comfortably
in an easy chair near the drawing-room fire, a book of sermons in her
hand. The little boy, standing disconsolately by the window, looking
out on the velvety lawn, the grass of which was beginning to spring
fresh and green, was debating how he should pass the two hours which
must elapse before tea-time, when Mrs. Marsh inquired:

"Why do you not take a book and read, my dear? There are some very
pretty stories suitable for Sunday reading in that book I gave you for
a New Year's present."

"I hate reading," was the ill-tempered response, "especially babyish
stories; and I hate Sundays—"

"It's very naughty of you to say so," Mrs. Marsh interposed
reprovingly, shaking her head at him.

"I do hate Sundays," he persisted, "because I never know what to do,
and you won't let me play. Uncle Martin takes Polly and Roger for walks
on Sunday afternoons, or tells them stories—stories with some sense in
them. I wish my father was like Uncle Martin; but father never goes for
walks or—"

"You must remember he is an older man than your uncle," Mrs. Marsh
broke in quickly, "and he is so wrapped up in business affairs that he
has little time to spare for anything else."

"But he doesn't do business on Sunday, mother."

"No, on Sunday he is glad to rest—Sunday is the day of rest, you know.
Your father works very hard all the week."

"So does Uncle Martin—much harder than father, I believe. Is that an
interesting book you're reading, mother? Won't you read it to me?"

"I am afraid you would not like it; you would not understand it. Come
and sit by the fire and tell me how you and Roger amused yourselves
yesterday afternoon."

"I took him all over the place," Edgar said as he seated himself
in a chair near his mother's. "He likes to see the gardens and the
greenhouses—he seems awfully fond of flowers—and he's quite crazy
about horses: says he'd like to be a coachman when he grows up. He
enjoyed his tea tremendously, and afterwards we—we just stuck about and
talked," he concluded vaguely.

"Did he say when Cousin Becky leaves?" Mrs. Marsh inquired.

"No. I don't think she's going yet, she's only been there about a
fortnight, you know, and Roger said he hoped she'd stay much longer.
They all like her so much, and she isn't a bit in the way; I asked
Roger if she was, and he said no; he wished she was going to stay
altogether. Did you ever read 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' mother?" he
asked with an abrupt change of the subject.

"Yes, years ago, when I was a little girl; I believe there is an old
copy in the house somewhere."

"Has it pictures in it?" Edgar questioned eagerly.

"No, I think not. Why?"

"Because there are pictures in Uncle Martin's—Roger told me about them.
There's one of a great wicked monster all over scales and breathing out
fire and smoke."

"I suppose you mean Apollyon?"

"Yes, that's his name, I'd forgotten it. And there's a picture of
a hideous giant called Giant Despair who lives in a castle called
Doubting Castle. Roger says 'The Pilgrim's Progress' is all about
wonderful adventures, and I like stories of that sort best of all. Oh,
mother, I do wish you'd get me a copy of the book with pictures and
read it to me on Sunday afternoons!"

"Certainly, you shall have the book if you wish it, dearie."

"And you'll read it to me, mother?" he coaxed.

"You lazy boy!" she admonished, with her indulgent smile. "Why cannot
you read it yourself?"

"It would be so much nicer if you read it to me," he declared
earnestly, "then we could talk about it afterwards like Uncle Martin
does with Polly and Roger. Do promise, mother."

So she promised, and Edgar looked jubilant. For the first time it
struck Mrs. Marsh that her little son lacked congenial society in his
own home. She had always indulged him and given him everything for
which he had expressed a desire, but she had never made a companion
of him; for, as a rich man's wife, she took a foremost place in the
town and her life was given up to social claims. She determined now,
however, that for the future she would, at any rate, devote her Sunday
afternoons to her boy as her brother devoted his to his children.

"I'll order the book to-morrow," she said, "a well-illustrated copy
which I hope will come up to your expectations, Edgar."

At that moment the door opened to admit the master of the house, who
entered the room with a frown on his brow which denoted displeasure.

"Edgar, did you meddle with anything in my study yesterday?" he
interrogated, fixing a searching glance on his son.

"No, father," Edgar promptly replied, secretly very alarmed, though he
met his father's gaze with an immovable face.

"But you and your cousin were there during the evening—I have
ascertained that from the servants. Come, speak the truth. Were you
smoking?"

"No, father." The response was not quite so unfaltering this time.

"Then how comes it several cigarettes are gone from here?" Mr. Marsh
inquired, producing the case from which Edgar had helped himself on the
preceding evening.

"I—I only smoked one," Edgar confessed. After Roger had left he
had returned to the study and taken several more cigarettes—under
the deluded idea that his father would not miss them—which he had
subsequently hidden in his own room. "Oh, father, please don't look so
angry! It really and truly was only one!"

"Then who smoked the others? Your cousin, I suppose. Why did you
not speak the truth and own what you two had been doing instead of
uttering such a daring falsehood? How often have I told you of my great
abhorrence of small boys smoking?"

"I am very sorry," faltered Edgar, alarmed at the severity of Mr.
Marsh's tone.

"Oh, John, you must overlook his naughtiness this time, and forgive
him!" broke in Mrs. Marsh eagerly; "he won't smoke again, will you,
Edgar, darling?"

"No, mother," the boy responded, watching his father anxiously, "I
won't."

"There, John, you hear that!" she exclaimed.

"I'm afraid Edgar's word is not to be trusted," Mr. Marsh observed
dryly. "I'm exceedingly angry with him, and he ought to be severely
punished."

"But not on a Sunday, John. Remember the day. You must forgive him this
once, and I'm sure he'll keep his word and never smoke again. Besides,
it was quite as naughty of Roger, and it would not be fair to punish
one boy without the other. When boys get together they always lead each
other into mischief."

"Please forgive me, father," murmured Edgar.

"You should have owned the truth at once," Mr. Marsh told him gravely,
"nothing angers me so much as to catch you in a lie. Well—" he looked
dubiously from mother to son—"I suppose I must forgive you this time
and not punish you, though I'm not certain I'm doing my duty in
letting the matter pass so easily. I hope, Janie," he added, pointedly
addressing his wife, "that you will give Edgar a good talking to; and
remember Roger Trent is never to come here again unless you are at
home."

Mrs. Marsh heaved a sigh of intense relief as her husband went away,
shutting the door behind him; and then she gave her son the good
talking to which she had been advised to administer. She told him never
to be tempted to smoke again on any account, for if he did and his
father found it out, she knew he would never be dealt with so leniently
a second time. "You have heard your father frequently speak of the
great objection he has to boys smoking," she said, "so I cannot imagine
what made you do it. You are terribly disobedient, Edgar, and so
dreadfully untruthful, too. It is not as if you had never been taught
the wickedness of telling stories, and I am sure I am always begging
you to speak the truth. It makes me very unhappy to think we cannot
take your word."

Mrs. Marsh looked so distressed that Edgar, who was really fond of
her, felt a sincere pang of regret shoot through his selfish little
heart. He recalled how often she had concealed his misdoings from his
father—better for him if she had not—and how she had pleaded that he
might not be punished to-day, and his glance rested on her with an
expression of grateful affection.

"I will try to be more truthful," he said earnestly; "do believe me,
mother, I really will."

"That's my own dear, good boy," she responded tenderly, "you'll make
mother so happy if you'll only learn to speak the truth. Mind, I cannot
interfere between you and your father if he ever discovers you've been
smoking again; and, remember, although he's very indulgent and kind to
you, he can be very severe at times."

"I'll remember," Edgar replied; "promise you I won't smoke again." His
spirits were beginning to rise. He had listened patiently to all his
mother had had to say, and he knew she would not revert to it—she was
not in the habit of dwelling on unpleasant subjects. But he did not
consider it worth while to explain that his cousin had not smoked as
well as himself, nor did he confess to the possession of the cigarettes
which he had hidden in his room, for he quite intended to throw them
away.



CHAPTER VIII

COUSIN BECKY FINDS A HOME

"Polly, do you know I have been here a month to-day?"

It was about four o'clock on a fine March afternoon, and Cousin Becky
sat on a chair near the sitting-room window, her busy fingers employed
in sewing, whilst occasionally her sharp dark eyes strayed from her
work to the only other occupant of the room—Polly—who was reading a
story-book.

"Yes, Cousin Becky," Polly answered, closing her book, in which she
was not very interested, and coming to the window, where she stood
examining a pot of crocuses, just opening into flower, which she had
cherished through the winter and which now graced the window sill.
"How the time has flown, to be sure! It doesn't seem nearly so long—at
least, not to me."

[Illustration: COUSIN BECKY AND POLLY.]

"Nor to me either. I have never thanked you for giving up your room to
me, my dear; in fact, I did not know you had done so until a few days
ago when Roger—"

"Oh, Roger should not have told you!" Polly broke in, looking vexed.

"I am very glad he did. I feel very grateful to you, Polly."

"I have been quite comfortable in the attic; it is really a nice big
room, only of course it has a sloping roof and the window is rather
small and high in the wall! I have grown to like it, indeed I have."

"Still, you will be glad to get back to your own little room, I expect?"

"No; because then you will be gone, and I shan't like that."

There was a ring of sincerity in the little girl's voice which brought
an exceedingly tender expression into her companion's eyes.

"I was speaking to your parents about my departure this morning,"
Cousin Becky said after a brief silence, "and they asked me to extend
my visit."

"Oh, I do hope you will!" Polly cried, her countenance brightening.

"Then you have not found your old cousin much in the way, my dear?"

"In the way? No, indeed! We have simply loved to have you with us, and
we shall miss you dreadfully when you go; I heard mother say so to
father yesterday."

"Perhaps I may not go just yet. I am very fond of you all, Polly; and
I like your home, and I have accounted it a privilege to be here.
You know, I have no home of my own, and I thought of making one at
Beaworthy; but I am doubtful still what my plans for the future will
be. I am naturally a sociable person, and I dread the thought of living
alone. Your mother and father have asked me to remain here, at any rate
for the present, and I have gladly consented to do so. I am going to
pay a small sum weekly for my board, so that I shall not be a burden
on my kind relations; but, on the other hand, the sum will not be
sufficiently large for them to get any profit by me. So you see, child,
you are not going to get rid of me so soon as you thought."

"I am very glad," Polly asserted heartily. "Do you mean you are going
to live with us altogether, Cousin Becky?"

"I mean that your dear parents have told me that I may always look
upon their house as my home—as one spot in the world where I shall be
welcome."

"How pleased Roger will be!" the little girl cried earnestly.

"The only thing is, Polly, I do not like taking your room—"

"Oh, please don't trouble about that, Cousin Becky! Indeed, you need
not. I don't feel a bit lonely in my attic, for I'm next door to
Louisa, and I can look out of the window if I stand on a box. Really, I
quite like my attic, now. Oh!" she exclaimed with sudden excitement in
her tone, "I do believe that's mother coming—at last!"

Earlier in the afternoon news had been brought to Mrs. Trent that there
had been an accident to a labourer in the clay pits. The man—Caleb
Glubb by name—had married a servant of the Trents some years before,
and Mrs. Trent had gone to ascertain the true facts of the case. As
Polly spoke, her mother appeared in sight, and a few minutes later she
entered the house and came immediately into the sitting-room.

"Is Caleb much hurt?" Polly inquired, glancing anxiously at her
mother's face, which wore an expression of grave concern.

"Yes, Polly, I am afraid he is," was the reply. "I found poor Sarah
Glubb in terrible grief, for they had taken her husband to the
hospital, and she had no one to leave with the children whilst she went
to make inquiries about him. Four little ones she has," Mrs. Trent
explained to Cousin Becky, who was listening attentively, "the youngest
not two months old. So I remained with the children whilst Sarah went
to the hospital. Poor soul, she returned almost heart-broken, for her
husband has been very badly injured—a quantity of clay fell on him and
crushed him badly—and the doctors say, even if he recovers, he will be
unable to work for many weeks, or perhaps months; and, meanwhile, there
are four little mouths for Sarah to find food for. Oh dear, oh dear!"
and the tears swam in Mrs. Trent's eyes as she spoke, "what I would
give if I were only rich!"

"Then perhaps you wouldn't give much," Cousin Becky remarked a little
dryly.

"Oh, Cousin Becky," cried Polly reproachfully, "I am sure mother would!"

"It is generally poor people who help each other," the old lady said,
nodding her head sagely. "Does the injured man work for Mr. Marsh?" she
inquired.

"Yes," Mrs. Trent assented, "and I suppose he will get compensation for
his injuries under the Workmen's Compensation Act; but, meanwhile—"

"Meanwhile, of course, Mr. Marsh will see his family is provided with
necessaries?"

"I don't know that he will. Men frequently meet with accidents in
the clay pits, but I don't think John interests himself in them
individually. Ah, here's Roger!" she exclaimed, as her little son burst
into the room.

"Mother, have you heard what's happened to Sarah's husband?" he cried
excitedly.

"Yes, my dear," she answered, "I have been to see Sarah and know all
about the accident. The Glubbs have been unable to lay aside anything
against a rainy day," she continued, again addressing Cousin Becky,
"for they have had to contend against sickness; and last winter, owing
to the wet season, the men were often unable to work in the clay pits.
I do not know how poor Sarah will manage to feed her children or keep a
roof above their heads now."

"There is One who will not forget them," Cousin Becky said softly.

"Can't we help them, mother?" Roger asked. Then as Mrs. Trent looked
dubious, he proceeded eagerly, "Oh, surely we can do something? I'll go
without sugar in my tea and eat bread and butter only for tea without
any cake or jam, and then you'll be able to save that out of your
house-keeping money, won't you? And I'll give up my pocket-money too."

"That's only twopence a week, Roger," Polly reminded him.

"Still, that would be a little help, wouldn't it?" he asked, appealing
to his mother.

"Certainly it would," she replied, "if you desire to help poor Sarah
you most certainly shall."

"And I too!" Polly cried eagerly.

"Both of you," agreed Mrs. Trent; "we will all see what we can do. I am
glad my children desire to bear other people's burdens. But I wish we
had more to give."

"Do you remember what the Pilgrims saw on Mount Charity?" asked Cousin
Becky, regarding her young cousins with her bright smile. "I heard your
father reading that part of 'The Pilgrim's Progress' to you on Sunday."

"Of course we remember," Roger answered quickly; "the pilgrims saw a
man with a bundle of cloth lying before him, out of which he kept on
cutting garments for the poor, but his bundle of cloth was never the
less."

"And the pilgrims were told that he who has a heart to give shall never
want himself," Cousin Becky said; "I think if people oftener remembered
that they would be more open-hearted—and open-handed."

"Oh, Roger." cried Polly, with sudden recollection, "do you know Cousin
Becky isn't going to leave us after all? She's going to live with us."

"Really?" he exclaimed, his face expressive of mingled pleasure and
surprise. "Well, I am glad!" and he impulsively flung his arms around
the old lady and gave her a hearty kiss.

"You are all so kind to me, and have made me so happy," Cousin Becky
murmured, in a slightly tremulous tone, much touched by the little
boy's spontaneous act of affection; "I felt such a lonely old woman
that night I arrived here a month ago your welcome warmed and cheered
my heart as nothing else could have done."

"This will be your home too, now," Roger remarked reflectively; "you
see, mother, father was right: Cousin Becky is satisfied with our ways."

When Mr. Trent returned at six o'clock, he brought the news that Caleb
Glubb had rallied somewhat, and it was now hoped his life would be
spared. "I called at the hospital on my way home from the office," he
explained, "and made inquiries. I am glad you have been to see Sarah,"
he said to his wife. "We must try to help her in any little way we can."

And during the days which followed, the Trents found various ways
of assisting their old servant out of their slender means, by small
acts of self-sacrifice ungrudgingly rendered; and Cousin Becky busied
herself in mending some garments of Polly's which the little girl had
outgrown, for the use of poor Sarah's children.

"Do you know, Sarah tells me that on each Saturday morning since her
husband's accident, she has received a postal order for a sovereign,"
Mrs. Trent informed the others one evening, a few weeks later. "It
has always come by post, from Beaworthy, anonymously, and she cannot
imagine who it is that sends it. It flashed through my mind it might be
Janie; but, if so, why should she send it anonymously?"

"Oh, it isn't Aunt Janie, because she didn't even know about the
accident till this afternoon," rejoined Roger. "I met her in the town,
and she spoke to me, and asked for you all, and especially for Cousin
Becky. I told her Cousin Becky was making up some clothing for Sarah's
children—she remembered Sarah when she lived with us as cook, but she
hadn't heard of the accident to Caleb. I wonder Uncle John hadn't told
her. So, you see, it isn't Aunt Janie who sends the postal orders."

"Perhaps it's Uncle John," suggested Polly.

"He would not send them anonymously. No, it is some good fairy," said
Mrs. Trent with a smile, "who does not wish to be known. Well, the
money is proving a great blessing and is going where it is really
required."

"I told Aunt Janie that Cousin Becky is going to stay on with us,"
Roger remarked. "She was awfully astonished."

"Why? What did she say?" asked Polly, her curiosity aroused.

"She said, 'I am utterly amazed!' and she looked it," the little boy
answered, with emphasis in his tone.

Cousin Becky gave a soft involuntary laugh, which made everyone glance
at her with surprise. She was apparently intensely amused, for her
eyes were dancing with merriment. She had improved both in health
and spirits during the few weeks she had been at Beaworthy, and was
evidently quite contented and happy. A cheerful soul was Cousin Becky,
one of those who are like a gleam of sunshine in the house, one whose
very presence was invigorating. Mrs. Trent had discovered already that
Cousin Becky knew a great deal more about the management of a small
income than she did herself, and was always ready with advice or help,
if either was wanted; and the children had found out that the old lady
could, and was willing to, assist them in the preparation of their
lessons.

"Why, how clever she is!" Roger had exclaimed on one occasion,
after Cousin Becky had helped him with his Latin. "She knows about
everything, it seems to me, and yet she's not a bit stuck up."

Even Louisa had her word of praise for the new inmate of the household.
"She's the most helpful body I ever knew," she confided to her
mistress. "She gives no trouble at all, and I'm really glad she's going
to stay."



CHAPTER IX

A MORNING WALK

It was April, and the boys of the Beaworthy Grammar School were having
a fortnight's vacation, only a few days of which had passed as yet,
so that it greatly astonished Polly and Roger Trent to be informed by
their cousin, whom they met in the town one morning, that he wished the
holidays were over.

"Are you so fond of work, then?" Polly questioned, in her surprise.

"No, certainly not," he answered, regarding her sharply to see if
she was laughing at him, "but I've nothing to do. Mother has several
visitors staying in the house, all grown-up people, and they're no fun
whatever, and I've no one to talk to or play with. Where are you two
off?" he asked, glancing at the big basket the little girl was carrying.

"We are going gathering primroses," Roger explained. "Would you—" He
hesitated, looking inquiringly at his sister; then, as she nodded, he
continued: "Would you like to go with us?"

"I don't mind if I do," Edgar responded condescendingly.

"You needn't if you don't care about it," Polly said quickly, "we can
do quite well without you."

"Oh, I want to go with you," Edgar assured her; "I should like the
walk, but I don't care about the primroses. I have heaps of flowers at
home."

"I suppose you have," said Polly with a faint sigh, "but we have none,
you know. The gardens at the Rookery must be looking lovely now with
all the spring flowers in bloom; I remember last year you had a lot of
daffodils—beauties!"

"So we have now; you ought to come and see them, Polly." There was a
wistful expression in the little girl's countenance which somewhat
touched her cousin, and he remembered what a long time had passed since
she had paid a visit to his home. "Why don't you come?" he continued.
"Mother would be very glad to see you, you know."

"Would she? I don't know so much about that," Polly responded bluntly,
with a short laugh; "if Aunt Janie wanted to see me she'd invite me to
the Rookery, I shouldn't think of going there otherwise."

There was an awkward pause in the conversation after this. The children
were, by now, nearing the outskirts of the town, and coming to the clay
works, which formed the chief industry of the neighbourhood. The high
road adjoining the works had a row of labourers' cottages on either
side, with small gardens in front.

"That's where our old servant, Sarah Glubb, lives," said Roger,
indicating one of these dwellings; "and, look! There's Sarah herself in
the doorway."

"Oh, I must speak to her for a minute!" cried Polly. "I know it was
visiting-day at the hospital yesterday, so for certain she saw her
husband then; I want to ask her how he is."

Sarah—a neat, pleasant-faced woman—stood with her baby in her arms.
She smiled at the children as they approached, and they stood talking
to her a short while—at least, Polly and Roger talked, whilst Edgar
listened. As Polly had imagined, Sarah had been to see her husband on
the preceding day, and had been cheered to find him much better.

"The nurse told me the doctor considers Caleb will be able to come home
in about another fortnight," she said happily; "but I am afraid it will
be some weeks longer before he will be strong enough to work in the
clay pits," she added, her countenance clouding slightly.

"Does your good fairy still remember you, Sarah?" Polly questioned
anxiously.

"Yes, miss," Sarah answered, a radiant smile driving the gloom from
her face, "so perhaps she—or maybe it's he—will go on helping me till
my man's able to work for me and the little ones again. I only wish I
knew who it is that is being such a friend to me, that I do. God bless
whoever it is, I say—aye, and He will."

"What did you mean about a good fairy, Polly?" questioned Edgar as
soon as he and his cousins were out of Sarah's hearing. "There are no
fairies nowadays."

"There's one who sends a present to Sarah every week," Polly responded
gravely. "Isn't there, Roger?"

Roger nodded, and meeting each other's eyes the sister and brother
laughed. Edgar looked vexed, for he had an idea his companions were
poking fun at him, and he stood much on his dignity. However, Roger
promptly explained that Polly had referred to an unknown person who had
befriended Sarah by sending her a pound every week since her husband's
accident. Edgar was much interested, and expressed great astonishment
that the generous donor should desire to remain unknown, for, as he
said, most people who gave anything away liked to be thanked.

They were leaving the clay works—deep pits where scores of men were at
work digging clay or pumping up water—behind them, and ten minutes more
walking brought them to the woods, which were carpeted with moss and
primroses on this beautiful spring day. Polly's basket was soon filled
with the pale, delicately-scented flowers; and then the three young
people sat down to rest at the foot of a beech tree, and the little
girl drew a good-sized package from a capacious pocket in her skirt,
and proceeded to open it with an air of triumph.

"There, boys!" she exclaimed, as she revealed a large lump of home-made
cake. "You didn't know I'd brought lunch with me, but aren't you glad?
I'd have cut a bigger bit if I'd known Edgar was going to be with us.
Where's your knife, Roger? Divide the cake into three slices, please."

"I'm jolly hungry," Roger announced, as he produced his pocket-knife
and proceeded to do his sister's bidding. "I'm just ready for a snack."

"And yet you said you wouldn't want lunch when mother advised you to
take some," Polly reminded him. "I knew better than that, for being
out-of-doors always makes one very hungry. Come, Edgar, take your
share!"

Accustomed though he was to far daintier fare, Edgar enjoyed his slice
of cake, which proved most satisfying. It was very comfortable under
the beech tree, the brown, swelling buds of which were bursting into
leaf, and the young people spent a sociable half-hour, watching the
squirrels in the boughs overhead, and talking confidentially. They
discussed their elders, as children are so fond of doing, and Edgar
informed his cousins how surprised his parents were that Cousin Becky
was to make her home with them in Princess Street.

"Why are they so surprised?" asked Polly, greatly desirous to ascertain
the reason.

"Because Cousin Becky is so poor. Mother said she could understand it
better if she was rich and you could make something out of her, but
what she is going to pay is so little. I think myself that Cousin Becky
is very nice, and I should not mind having her to live with us at the
Rookery. It is a great pity she has not more money. Father says you can
do nothing without money."

This teaching was new to Polly and Roger, who had been taught a far
different creed.

"I suppose you think your father knows everything," the former said,
a trifle irascibly, "but I daresay other people are just as clever as
he is. It must be very, very nice to have money," she proceeded, "but
mother says there are greater blessings than riches, and if we haven't
money to give away we can give what we have—our time, or kind words, or
sympathy, that all counts with God. It's easy to give money if you've
got it. I daresay Uncle John gives away a good bit, doesn't he?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," Edgar answered. "I never heard him say. I
daresay he does, for he has plenty of money, you know."

"Yes, I know," returned Polly, nodding her head sagely, "and so've you,
haven't you? You get a lot of pocket-money, don't you?"

"A shilling a week from father, besides what mother gives me off and
on."

"So much as that? Do you spend it all on yourself? Oh!" she cried as
her cousin nodded. "Fancy that! We get twopence, and Roger had only a
penny a week before he went to school."

"Why don't you ask your father for more?" questioned Edgar
thoughtlessly.

"Because he can't afford to give us more; he would if he could." Polly
rose, and picked up her basket of primroses as she spoke. "I think it's
time we started for home," she said, "for mother told us we were to be
back by one o'clock."

Accordingly the children left the wood and retraced their footsteps
along the high road, Polly carrying her basket very carefully, and
looking admiringly at her flowers every now and then. Edgar gave his
cousins a description of the handsomely illustrated copy of 'The
Pilgrim's Progress' which his mother had procured for him; he seemed
exceedingly pleased with it, and promised to show it to his companions
one day.

They had nearly reached the town when they were overtaken by Mr. Marsh,
who was being driven by a groom in a dog-cart. He had been to the clay
works and was now on his way home.

"Well, young folks," he said good-humouredly as the groom, obeying
his master's order, brought the dog-cart to a standstill, "have you
been for a ramble in the country? All well at home, Polly? Yes. That's
right. You're looking blooming yourself, child, with those bright eyes
and those rosy cheeks. Edgar, you'd better jump up behind and return
with me. Well, Roger, how are you?" he asked. His son climbed into the
back seat of the vehicle as he spoke.

"Very well, thank you, Uncle John," Roger answered, lifting his frank
eyes to meet his uncle's.

"You and your sister should come to the Rookery sometimes during the
holidays," Mr. Marsh said kindly; "but, mind, I'll have no smoking.
Remember that."

"I never do smoke, Uncle John," Roger returned earnestly.

"Tut, tut, that's not true. Hasn't Edgar told you that I found out
what you and he had been doing the last time you were at the Rookery?
I ought to have told your father, perhaps. I am sure he would not like
you to smoke. You hope to grow into a fine, strong man, I suppose?
You'll never be one if you smoke cigarettes at your age. You mark my
words. Good-bye."

The dog-cart passed on, leaving Polly and Roger staring after it, the
former filled with amazement, the latter crimson with indignation.
Edgar waved his hand to them, but they did not respond to his
salutation.

"What did Uncle John mean?" Polly demanded of her brother. "Have you
really been smoking?"

"No, no! How can you think it for a minute!" was the reproachful
response.

"But Uncle John evidently believes you have. He thought, too, that you
told him a story."

"I saw he did." Roger looked utterly miserable. "I can't understand
it," he said. "I have never smoked, indeed I haven't. You know I
promised father I wouldn't."

"Uncle John spoke of the last time you were at the Rookery. Neither he
nor Aunt Janie were at home then, were they?"

"No; Edgar and I spent the afternoon by ourselves. Oh, don't ask me any
more about it," he proceeded imploringly as he saw another question
trembling on his sister's lips. "Uncle John has made a mistake, but—"
passionately—"he had no right to speak to me as he did."

"He did not speak unkindly, only as though he thought you had told him
a story. No, you are not a story-teller, I know that well enough."

"Don't tell them at home what he said, Polly; mother and father would
be so put out—promise you won't."

Polly hesitated; but her brother appeared so distressed that she at
length, very reluctantly, gave the desired promise, feeling puzzled and
uneasy. Why, since Roger had been wrongfully accused, did he not want
the matter cleared up? It did not seem right to her that their uncle
should be allowed to believe what was not true; and her heart was hot
with indignation against him for holding such a bad opinion of her
brother. Never for a moment did she doubt Roger's word herself. Long
she puzzled over the matter, but she asked no more questions, and the
remainder of the walk home passed in silence.

"I've enjoyed the morning, haven't you?" Roger said, as they turned the
corner into Princess Street.

"Oh yes," the little girl assented, "and I was doubtful if we should
when we met Edgar and he said he'd go with us; but I think he really
has improved, he was very nice on the whole to-day. I wish," she added
with a faint sigh, "oh, I do wish we had not seen Uncle John!"



CHAPTER X

BROUGHT TO BOOK

Edgar had heard the accusation his father had brought against Roger,
and he had noted the crimson flush which had spread over the latter's
countenance when his word had been disbelieved, and he was uneasily
conscious that there would have to be a day of reckoning between his
cousin and himself sooner or later. He knew he had been cowardly in
allowing his father to think Roger had joined him in cigarette smoking,
and he wished now he had not held his tongue upon the point.

"I must manage to square Roger, somehow," he thought, "but it won't be
easy. I could see he was awfully angry that father didn't believe him;
he's so very particular about telling the truth."

The two boys did not meet for several days, however; but one morning
Edgar was sent by his mother with a note to Mrs. Trent, inviting Polly
and Roger to spend the following afternoon at the Rookery. His heart
beat fast and unevenly as he stood on the doorsteps of his relations'
house in Princess Street and rang the bell, for he dreaded giving the
explanation he knew Roger would be certain to demand from him; but,
much to his relief of mind, when Louisa opened the door, she informed
him that his young cousins had gone out with Miss Trent and only his
aunt was at home. He was shown into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Trent
came to him; and whilst she was reading his mother's note, he watched
her, thinking how sweet and pretty she looked, for he always admired
and liked Aunt Mary.

Mrs. Trent promptly accepted the invitation for her children which her
sister-in-law's note contained, and she talked to the little boy for a
short while; but he seemed in a hurry to leave, so she did not detain
him long. The fact was, he was glad to have missed Roger, and wanted to
get away before his cousins' return.

Now, it so happened that Roger, coming out of a shop with his sister
and Cousin Becky, caught sight of Edgar, homeward bound, and pointed
him out to his companions.

"I want to speak to him particularly," he said. "May I run and overtake
him, Cousin Becky?"

"Do, my dear," she answered; "but Polly and I will not wait for you as
we have several more errands to execute."

Accordingly, Roger went after Edgar; but he only kept him in sight
and did not overtake him till he had left the town and turned into
the suburban road which led to the Rookery, then he ran up to him,
shouting: "Hi! Stop! Stop!"

Edgar started violently, for he had had no idea of the proximity of his
cousin; he glanced around with a somewhat alarmed expression on his
face as he said in a hurried tone:

"I've just come from Princess Street. You and Polly are to come to tea
with me to-morrow."

"Who says so?" Roger inquired bluntly.

"Aunt Mary. I took a note to her from mother."

"You'll like to come, won't you?" And Edgar regarded the other more
than a trifle anxiously.

"I don't know. Look here, Edgar! What did your father mean the other
day by saying I smoked, and why didn't you speak up for me? Had you
made out to him that I had been smoking cigarettes with you that
afternoon I was at the Rookery, when he and Aunt Janie were away?"

"No, on my honour I had not," was the emphatic response.

"Then, what did he mean?" Roger demanded. "He believed I had been
smoking. Did you know he thought so?"

"I—I—"

"Oh, speak out!" cried Roger, greatly irritated; "don't stammer like a
baby!"

"Well, don't get angry, then. You needn't look at me so—so furiously.
I've done nothing to injure you. It was like this. Father found out I'd
been smoking; at first I wouldn't own to it, but afterwards I did, and
he was awfully angry. But it was a Sunday, and mother stood up for me,
so there wasn't nearly such a row as I'd expected." Edgar paused for
a minute, then continued with heightened colour. "Of course, father
imagined, as you had been with me and there were several cigarettes
gone from the case—I'd taken them; I thought he wouldn't notice—that
you'd been smoking, too, and—and—"

"And you didn't tell him I hadn't?"

"No-o-o," Edgar was obliged to admit, "I—I didn't tell him one way or
the other."

"Why didn't you?" Roger was actually shaking with anger, the colour had
fled from his cheeks, and his eyes were alight with passion.

"Because—because father would have been angrier if he'd known you
hadn't smoked too," faltered Edgar. "Oh, Roger, I didn't tell a lie
about it, I only held my tongue."

"And let Uncle John believe that I—that I—"

Roger's voice failed him, so intense was his indignation. He had been
trying to keep his temper under control, but now it gained the mastery
over him, and, flinging himself upon Edgar, almost choking with rage,
he began to belabour him with his clenched fists. Edgar was no coward
physically, whatever he was morally, and he was on the defensive in a
moment. In a few minutes the two boys were engaged in a fierce fight,
and, being equally matched as to height and weight, there is no saying
how it might have terminated had not the sound of wheels warned the
combatants to desist. Panting and dishevelled, they stood aside to
allow the vehicle to pass; but, instead of doing so, it drew up,
and, looking to see the reason, Roger was shocked to see his aunt's
carriage, and his aunt herself in it with two lady visitors.

"Good gracious, boys!" cried Mrs. Marsh. "What is the meaning of this?
Edgar, what has happened? Why, my darling, you are covered in dust,
your clothes are torn, and —oh, surely you have not been fighting?
Roger, you naughty boy—"

"I am not more naughty than Edgar," interrupted Roger, "not nearly so
naughty if it comes to that, for I'm not a mean beast like he is." He
was far too angry to pick his words.

"How dare you use such language," began Mrs. Marsh, looking surprised
and shocked, for she had always considered her nephew a well-mannered
little boy, but he broke in again:

"We've been fighting," he said passionately, "and I began it, and if
you hadn't come up I'd have licked him. Of course you'll take his part,
Aunt Janie, you always do, but he knows he deserves a good thrashing.
I'll have nothing more to do with him, although he is my cousin, and I
won't go near the Rookery again."

"I suppose you've quarrelled," said Mrs. Marsh, glancing from her
visitors, who appeared highly entertained and evidently regarded the
scene in the light of a joke, to her son's downcast countenance. "What
have you fallen out about? How could you so far forget yourself, Edgar,
as to fight in the road?"

"You mustn't blame him for that, Aunt Janie," said Roger quickly, "for
I made him fight. I hit him first."

"But why?" questioned Mrs. Marsh, looking more and more mystified.
"I don't understand. Oh, I hope neither of you is much hurt! And, oh
dear—" with sudden alarm in her tone—"here comes your father, Edgar!
Oh, John," she proceeded as her husband came up, "do find out what has
happened to make the boys quarrel! They've been fighting."

"So I perceive," Mr. Marsh replied dryly; "you'd better drive on, my
dear, and I'll see to the youngsters. Now," he said sternly, as the
carriage passed on, "what have you two to say for yourselves? What is
the meaning of all this? I thought you were good friends."

"Friends!" echoed Roger in accents of deep disgust. "He's been no
friend to me, letting you believe I smoked with him when I never even
touched the cigarettes. I said I wouldn't tell he'd been smoking—it was
no business of mine—and I didn't, but I never thought he'd treat me so
shabbily. I've finished with him now," he continued bitterly, as he
brushed down his clothes with his hands and picked up his cap from the
dusty road, "and I'll never—"

"Stop!" commanded Mr. Marsh, "Don't make rash vows, Roger. Do you mean
to assert that you did not smoke with Edgar?"

"I did not," Roger answered firmly. "Ask him before me, and he'll tell
you the truth."

"What have you to say, Edgar?" Mr. Marsh looked anxiously at his son.

"Roger did not smoke with me, father," was the low-spoken response. "I
never said so."

"But you permitted me to think so. I am ashamed of you, Edgar. Roger,
my boy, I owe you an apology for doubting your word, you must forgive
me that I did not accept it," and Mr. Marsh laid his hand kindly on his
nephew's shoulder as he spoke. "Edgar owes you an apology, too, for his
cowardly and ungenerous treatment of you," he supplemented.

"Oh, it's all right, Uncle John, so long as you don't believe I told
you a lie," Roger said hurriedly. "I'll settle it with Edgar another
day."

"No, no, settle it now, and have done with it. I am quite satisfied you
told me the truth," and Mr. Marsh sighed as he glanced at his son, who
did not dare lift his shamed eyes from the ground, though he murmured a
few words of apology to his cousin.

After that, Mr. Marsh insisted that the two boys should shake hands,
which they did, reluctantly on Roger's part; and then he seized Edgar
by the arm, and marched him home in silence. Arrived at the Rookery,
Mr. Marsh took his son into the study, where Mrs. Marsh joined them,
anxious to learn the cause of the boys' quarrel. In a few words Mr.
Marsh explained everything to her; but when she would have tried to
excuse Edgar's conduct, he would not allow her to do so. "There is no
excuse for him," he said, "and he knows it. He has behaved in a false,
cowardly fashion towards his cousin, and I am heartily ashamed of him."

"I—I have been very unhappy about it," faltered Edgar; and there was
no doubt that he spoke the truth, for since the morning he had gone
primrose gathering with Polly and Roger his conscience had continually
pricked him. "And—and I don't believe Roger will ever forgive me; he
said he would never come to the Rookery again, and he's sure to keep
his word."

"What explanation shall I give our visitors as to the cause of the
disgraceful scene in the road?" asked Mrs. Marsh with a sigh.

"Tell them the truth—don't beat about the bush," advised her husband.
"Say Edgar was the one in fault."

"It is most unfortunate this has occurred, for I have asked Polly and
Roger to spend the afternoon here to-morrow," she said regretfully.
"Are they coming, Edgar?"

"Aunt Mary promised they should come, mother, but I don't suppose they
will now."

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "I will speak to their father and
tell him what has happened, and he will set things right. Roger has a
real grievance and has cause to be indignant, but I want him and Edgar
to be friends. Your brother is as straight as a line, Janie, and it
seems his son is the same. Now go to your visitors, my dear; I have a
few words to say to Edgar alone."

It astonished Edgar to see how deeply his conduct had affected Mr.
Marsh, who seemed more grieved than angry. That touched the little
boy, who was really much attached to the father who had always been
so indulgent to him, and he promised that he really would endeavour
to act as well as speak truly in the future. When, ten minutes later,
he left the study and ran upstairs to his bedroom to prepare for
luncheon—which, under the circumstances would be somewhat of an ordeal
that day—his eyes were blind with tears, and his father's parting words
rang again and again in his ears:

"Be true, my boy, whatever happens be true, and then I shall be able to
feel confidence in you. Don't ever again give me occasion to be ashamed
of my son."



CHAPTER XI

IN THE CLOCK CASE

Roger had quite made up his mind that nothing should induce him to
enter the doors of his cousin's home again; and after Mr. Marsh and
Edgar had left him, he hurried back to Princess Street, his heart full
of rage, and took his family into his confidence. Everyone agreed
with him that he had been treated shabbily, and Polly was loud in her
declamations against Edgar. It was Mrs. Trent who tried to soothe the
boy's angry mood, and pointed out to him that the present occasion was
an opportunity for showing a magnanimous spirit.

"You don't mean to say you will make me go to the Rookery to-morrow, do
you, mother?" Roger asked hotly.

"No, dear, certainly not," she answered. "You shall do as you please,
but—"

"Then I shan't go," he broke in, "so that's settled."

"I shan't go, either," declared Polly.

"You interrupted me in the midst of my sentence, Roger," Mrs. Trent
told the little boy in a tone of gentle reproof. "I was going to say
that you shall do as you please, but that by to-morrow I trust you may
see things in a different light. Edgar has treated you badly, that
I grant, but I hope you will forgive him, especially as you say he
offered you an apology, and let him see, by going to the Rookery, that
you do not bear malice in heart."

Roger made no response but when, that evening, his father said his
uncle had sent a message to him to the effect that he should expect
to see him on the following day, he realised that he would have to
overlook his cousin's cowardly conduct and consent to be his guest. "I
daresay Edgar is really sorry, and if so I suppose I ought to forgive
him," he remarked to Polly. "And, though I really don't want to go to
the Rookery, Aunt Janie always gives us a very good tea; so, all things
considered, perhaps we'd better go."

"Very well," agreed his sister, "I daresay you're right. I don't care
so much about the tea, but I should like to see the gardens and the
greenhouses."

"And the horses," supplemented Roger with a brightening face.

So the following afternoon found Polly and Roger the guests of their
cousin at the Rookery. There was unwonted shyness in Edgar's manner
as he met them in the hall and escorted them into the drawing-room to
speak to his mother, and he glanced askance at a bruise beneath Roger's
right eye, which he knew had been caused by his fist whilst Polly and
Roger both felt the awkwardness of the situation.

Mrs. Marsh greeted her little niece and nephew very cordially, and
introduced them to her friends—two fashionably dressed ladies; she
inquired for all at home, and then told them they might do whatever
they liked to amuse themselves as long as they did not get into
mischief. After that she dismissed them, and Edgar led the way upstairs
to the large room which had been his nursery, where he still kept all
his most treasured belongings, including several mechanical toys and a
big rocking-horse which had always been the envy of his cousins. Edgar
was on his best behaviour and tried to make the time pass pleasantly
for his visitors. He showed them his 'Pilgrim's Progress' and was
gratified by their admiration of its illustrations, which were indeed
very fine.

"It's the best mother could get for money," he informed them with great
satisfaction. "I expect it's a much better book than yours, isn't it?"

"Oh yes!" Polly admitted readily; "but I like our old book best."

All sense of awkwardness had died away now, and the three children were
on the best of terms with each other. By-and-by Edgar suggested a game
of hide-and-seek.

"We can hide anywhere in the house we like," he said, "and the nursery
shall be 'home.' Which of us shall hide first?"

"Oh, let me!" cried Polly eagerly.

"Very well," the boys agreed, and Roger added, "I don't suppose we
shall be long finding you."

"Don't be too sure of that," she retorted. "How long will you give me
to find a hiding-place?"

"Five minutes," Edgar replied, "and no longer, mind." Accordingly
the little girl left the boys in the schoolroom, and, after shutting
the door behind her, stole softly downstairs. She peeped into the
dining-room, but there seemed no hiding-place there, unless she got
behind a curtain, which of course would be searched immediately. "I
wish I could think of some really good place," she murmured, as she
stood in the centre of the hall hesitating which way to turn. "Perhaps
I'd better go up in the attics, there are several lumber rooms, I know,
but the boys will be certain to search them carefully."

Then suddenly a brilliant idea flashed through her mind, and her face
broke into smiles. She thought she knew one place where she could
conceal herself where the boys would never dream of looking for her,
but she must be quick and not waste time or the five minutes' grace
allowed her would be up before she had safely secreted herself.

At one side of the hall was a baize-covered swing door leading into
a passage, at the end of which Mr. Marsh's study was situated. Polly
pushed open the swing door, and a minute later she stood on the
threshold of the study. There was nobody in the room, and closing the
door she turned her attention to the tall clock, which, as has already
been said, stood against the wall near the writing-table. With fingers
trembling with eagerness, the little girl opened the door of the oak
case of the clock and peeped inside.

"There's heaps of room for me," she reflected triumphantly as she
scrutinised the swinging pendulum and the heavy iron weights of the old
time-piece. "It will be a splendid hiding-place. I am sure I can get
in, and if I do stop the clock I can easily set it going again. The
boys will never think of looking for me here. But I must hurry."

It was not so easy to get into the case of the clock as she had
anticipated it would be, for the door was nearly two feet from the
ground, but she succeeded in effecting the feat; and, once inside, she
found she could stand upright, though she was obliged to keep in one
position owing to the narrowness of the case. She laughed softly to
herself as she stood there, listening, ready to shut the door of her
hiding-place the minute she should hear sounds of anyone approaching
the room. Thus she waited several minutes; but, before very long, the
silence was broken by Edgar's voice in the passage, saying:

"I don't suppose she's in the study, but we'll have a look. I expect
she's upstairs in the attics somewhere. We must be sharp or she'll
manage to get 'home.'"

Polly smiled to herself and hastily drew the door of the clock case
close. It shut with a "click," and she was in complete darkness. She
heard the boys making a hasty search of the room, then followed the
sound of a door slammed, retreating footsteps, and after that complete
silence. The searchers had never thought of looking inside the case of
the old clock.

"What a famous joke!" thought Polly delightedly. "Now, whilst they're
in the attics I'll slip back to the schoolroom. I shall be on the
laughing side this time."

But she was not so sanguine on that point when, having allowed a few
minutes to elapse, she tried to push open the door of her hiding-place,
for to her dismay it would not move. Then it dawned upon her that she
had made herself a prisoner. Evidently the clock case could only be
opened from the outside.

At first the little girl was more vexed than startled at her situation
as she reflected that her cousin and brother would make merry over
it, and it was not until she had shouted again and again and, knocked
loudly, without bringing anyone to her assistance, that she began to
experience a distinct sense of alarm; but even then she was not very
frightened, for she felt certain her uncle would visit his study on his
return from business, he would doubtless have letters to write, so she
consoled herself with the hope that she would not be a prisoner very
long.

The minutes dragged slowly on, and Polly began to wonder if there were
spiders in the clock, or perhaps earwigs—she had a great horror of
earwigs. She had noticed that the inside of the case was very dusty,
as though it might harbour all sorts of creepy, crawly things; and
suddenly she thought she felt something on her neck, and uttered a cry
of fright. It proved to be only her imagination, however.

"Oh, this is terrible!" she exclaimed, now thoroughly alarmed. "I'm
getting so hot, I believe I shall be suffocated. Oh, will nobody come
to let me out! Roger! Roger!" And she beat against the door of the
clock case with her hand; then listened, but not a sound was to be
heard.

"I expect the boys have given up looking for me and are having tea,"
she thought miserably, with a pang of self-pity, and she shed a few
tears, for she was beginning to feel hungry, and thirsty too. She
pushed desperately against her prison, but the old oaken case was
firmly secured to the wall, and she could not move it though she
exerted all her strength; then she tried to change her position, for
she was growing cramped, but there was not room for her to do so.
Supposing, after all, no one came into the room that night and she had
to remain there till morning, how awful that would be; and the worst of
it was, she could not tell how time was passing, shut up there in the
dark. It appeared to poor Polly that she had already been imprisoned
for hours.

Meanwhile, Roger and Edgar were searching the house from attic to
basement; and it was not until tea-time that they ceased their quest.
Mrs. Marsh had driven out with her visitors, so the boys had their
tea alone in the dining-room, for, as Edgar remarked, it was no good
waiting for Polly to turn up, she could have her tea when she chose to
appear.

"I can't think where she can be," Roger said, a trifle uneasily, when,
after tea, he and his cousin strolled out into the garden. "I suppose
nothing can have happened to her?"

"What could happen to her?" questioned Edgar. "It's stupid of her to
keep away like this." Then, as they encountered a gardener, he asked
him if he had seen Polly anywhere about the grounds, only to receive a
decided reply in the negative.

About six o'clock Mrs. Marsh and her friends returned from their drive,
and were greatly astonished to hear of the little girl's disappearance;
and then Mr. Marsh arrived upon the scene and was informed that his
niece was missing.

"The little monkey is hiding to cause a sensation," he said with a
smile. "Why, Roger, you appear alarmed! That's foolish."

"Polly would not stay away at tea-time if she could help it," the
little boy responded gravely. "I know she must be hungry, because we
had dinner early. Suppose she should be shut up somewhere unable to get
out—in, a chest, perhaps, like the bride in 'The Mistletoe Bough'?"

Everyone laughed at this suggestion; it seemed so very improbable.

"Oh, she'll turn up presently, never fear," said Mr. Marsh consolingly.
"I shouldn't look for her any further. I expect she's laughing in her
sleeve at you all the while." He had been standing, talking, in the
hall, and now he pushed open the baize-covered swing door to go to his
study. "You boys can come and look at my stamps and coins if you like,"
he proceeded. "I don't think Roger has ever seen them. Good gracious!
What on earth is that? Why, someone's calling for help!" And he hurried
down the passage, followed by the boys, and entered the study.

"Oh!" wailed a muffled-sounding, frightened voice, though no one was to
be seen. "Come quickly! Oh, please do come and let me out!"



CHAPTER XII

COUSIN BECKY TELLS A SECRET

"Where can the child be?"

Mr. Marsh glanced around the room in bewilderment as he put the
question; then, a smile of intense amusement broke across his
countenance as there came in answer a series of sharp knocks from the
interior of the clock case. The boys burst out laughing and rushed
forward to release the prisoner, who stood revealed, a moment later,
with crimson cheeks, and eyes which shone through a mist of tears.

"Why didn't you come before?" she demanded, looking reproachfully at
her brother and her cousin. "You should have looked for me till you
found me, you cruel, cruel, boys!"

"Oh, I say, Polly, you needn't round on us like that," remonstrated
Edgar. "We've done nothing. Couldn't you get out?"

"No. Do you think I should have stayed here so long if I could have
helped it? I couldn't open the door from the inside, and—and oh, I
thought I should be suffocated! Help me out, one of you, please; I'm so
stiff I can scarcely move."

Mr. Marsh put the boys aside and lifted the little girl out of the
clock case. He was very kind, brushed the dust from her frock, and said
he hoped she had not been very frightened. Polly looked at him somewhat
shyly—she had never seen much of her uncle—and her lips quivered. She
felt shaky and unnerved; but she was not going to acknowledge how
alarmed she had been, so she made answer evasively—

"There was nothing to be frightened at really, only—only I thought
there might be spiders and earwigs there, and it seemed such a long,
long time to wait."

"Well, I'm glad we've found you at last," remarked Roger, "for it's
getting late."

"What time is it?" asked Polly. "I'm afraid I stopped the clock," she
said in an apologetic tone to her uncle, "but I don't think it's hurt;
there wasn't room for the pendulum to swing when I was in the case."

"Oh, I don't suppose it's hurt," he responded. "I will set it going
presently."

He took out his watch and looked at it.

"It's nearly seven," he said.

"Then it's time for us to go home," sighed Polly dolefully, "and—and I
haven't had any tea."

"Dear me, no, of course not!" exclaimed her uncle, as, overcome with
self-pity, the little girl's tears began to flow. "Edgar, call your
mother and tell her Polly's found. How long were you shut up in the
clock case, my dear?" he asked commiseratingly as his son went to do
his bidding.

"I don't know," she answered, "ages and ages!"

"About three hours," said Roger after some moments' reflection as his
uncle looked at him inquiringly.

"So long as that!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "Poor child, poor little girl!
Never mind, Polly, you'll feel better after you've had tea. Cheer up,
my dear."

A few minutes later Mrs. Marsh appeared upon the scene and took
possession of her niece. She was very kind and led her upstairs to her
own room, where Polly bathed the tear stains from her hot cheeks and
brushed her hair, after which she accompanied her aunt downstairs and
made an excellent tea. Then Mr. Marsh entered the room followed by the
boys, and handed her a beautiful bunch of hot-house flowers to take
home with her.

"Oh, thank you, Uncle John!" cried the little girl gratefully. "They
are lovely! Oh, how stupid I was to shut myself up in the clock case
like that, when I might have had such a nice time!"

"Never mind," said Mr. Marsh good-naturedly; "you shall come again, eh,
Janie?" he asked, appealing to his wife.

"Of course," she agreed. "How would you like to spend a day with me
when my visitors are gone, Polly?"

"Alone?" questioned the little girl dubiously. Then, as Mrs. Marsh
smilingly assented, she inquired impulsively, "Should I go for a drive
with you in your carriage, Aunt Janie?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Oh, I should like that! I never drove in a carriage with a pair of
horses in my life. But—" she paused for a moment in hesitation, then
added, "but I think, if you don't mind, I would rather you invited
mother instead."

"Why?" queried Mrs. Marsh, very surprised.

"Because it would be such a treat for mother to have a drive. You know
she is not very strong, and she cannot walk far because she so soon
gets tired."

"But I thought your mother did not care about going out," Mrs. Marsh
observed. "She is always such a home bird. I am sure I have often
advised her to go out more."

"Well, you see, she has a good bit of house work to do, and after that
she's very tired, and that's why she stays at home," Polly explained
in a matter-of-fact tone. "I daresay you would be tired yourself, Aunt
Janie, if you had to do all the things mother does."

"I daresay. And now Cousin Becky has taken up her abode with you your
poor mother must be busier than ever," Mrs. Marsh remarked with a
slight frown, and a note of dissatisfaction in her voice.

"Oh no!" Polly responded quickly. "There you're quite wrong, Aunt
Janie. Cousin Becky helps mother a great deal in the house, she doesn't
make any extra work."

"I'm glad to hear it. Well, Polly, remember it is understood that you
are to come and spend a day with me soon, and I will take you for a
nice long drive in the country."

"Thank you, Aunt Janie," the little girl replied earnestly and
gratefully, her face alight with a pleased smile.

"Polly, we ought to be going," said Roger. "You know mother said we
were not to stay to be in the way about dinner-time, and it's past
half-past seven."

"Dinner is not till eight to-night as we have several expected
visitors," Mrs. Marsh said as she kissed her little niece and nephew
good-bye, preparatory to going upstairs to dress.

"Fancy not having dinner till nearly supper-time!" cried Polly, opening
her eyes very wide. "I don't think I should like that!"

"Come, Polly," whispered her brother as she seemed disposed to linger,
"Uncle John's going to send us home in the dog-cart, and it's waiting
at the front door."

"Oh, how splendid!" exclaimed Polly. "How kind of you, Uncle John!"

Roger was no less delighted than his sister at the prospect of the
drive home. He took his place on the back seat of the vehicle, whilst
Polly occupied the seat by the groom in front, her bunch of flowers
in her lap; and the spirited horse between the shafts set off at a
swinging pace. Polly, who had regained her usual spirits by this time,
sat bolt upright, feeling herself a person of some importance to be
thus driven home in state, and amused herself on the way by bowing
gravely and impressively to various pedestrians, many of whom she only
knew very slightly. As they turned the corner of Princess Street,
the little girl caught sight of her mother and Cousin Becky at the
sitting-room window. She waved her hand to them, and smiled and nodded
as the dog-cart drew up.

"Wait a minute, missie," advised the groom as Polly made a movement to
get down, "and I'll help you."

"Oh, you needn't trouble, thank you," she responded hastily, as she
noticed her brother was already on the pavement, "I can manage quite
well by myself."

Forthwith she rose from the seat and turned round to descend backwards,
holding to the dog-cart with one hand, whilst with the other she
grasped her flowers; but her legs proved not quite long enough to
reach the step of the carriage, and the horse suddenly moving, she
lost her balance and was flung into the gutter. She picked herself up
immediately, however, and, declaring herself unhurt, went hurriedly
into the house, still grasping her flowers, which she was glad to
see were but little injured, and very conscious that her undignified
descent from the carriage had been witnessed by several pairs of eyes
from neighbouring windows.

"Oh, Polly dear, are you hurt?" cried Mrs. Trent, meeting her little
daughter at the front door and drawing her into the sitting-room. She
regarded her with some anxiety as she spoke.

"No," Polly answered promptly, "that is, not much. I've knocked my
elbow, but it's nothing. The stupid horse moved."

"You should have let the groom help you down, my dear."

"He wanted to but she wouldn't allow him," Roger said, overhearing his
mother's remark as he came into the room.

"Have you had a pleasant afternoon?" inquired Cousin Becky, after she
and Mrs. Trent had admired the bunch of beautiful flowers.

"Polly had a very pleasant afternoon," Roger replied, laughing, "and
where do you think she spent it? Why, shut up in a clock!" And he
proceeded to tell the tale of his sister's misadventure, which was
heard with considerable amusement.

"It's all very fine to laugh," Polly said, somewhat tearfully, "but it
was a terribly long while to be shut up in the dark with spiders and
earwigs, when I might have been having such a fine time, too! And I did
get so hungry! Uncle John was very kind, and Aunt Janie made me eat a
big tea, afterwards; I think they were really sorry for me, they didn't
laugh at me like the boys."

As the little girl had expected, she was not allowed to forget that
afternoon's adventure, for it was far too good a joke to be easily
dropped; but she was endowed with a sense of humour, and did not much
mind having the laugh turned against herself.

In the course of a few days Roger returned to school and a short while
later, Polly learnt that Mrs. Marsh's visitors had left the Rookery,
whereupon she began to speculate when she would be invited to spend the
day with her aunt which that lady had mentioned. But the looked-for
invitation did not arrive, and Polly was, at length, reluctantly
obliged to conclude that it was not coming at all.

"Aunt Janie could not have really intended to ask me," she thought
bitterly, "she cannot have forgotten what she said. She is very, very
unkind."

She did not mention her disappointment to her mother, but she spoke of
it to Cousin Becky, who listened and sympathised with her.

"Aunt Janie's a nasty, selfish thing!" cried Polly hotly.

"My dear, my dear—" began Cousin Becky expostulatingly, but the
indignant little girl continued in the same vehement tone—

"She is, Cousin Becky. I saw her driving by herself in the town
yesterday, and—and if you had a nice carriage with plenty of room in
it, wouldn't you want to give drives to people who never hardly have
any fun? I know you would, and so would mother, or anyone who wasn't
dreadfully selfish!"

"My dear, your aunt does not think. I am sure she never guesses how
much you have set your heart on driving with her—"

"No, and she doesn't care!" broke in Polly passionately. "Oh, how I
should like to be rich! It's miserable being poor."

"Do you want money so much, Polly?" the old lady questioned. "Tell me
what you would do if you had a lot of money."

"Oh, I'd do heaps of things! I'd give some to father, first of all,
because he lost all his, you know; and then I'd buy some new gowns
for mother—pretty ones, like Aunt Jane's; and Roger should have more
pocket-money—he gets so much less than most of the Grammar School boys;
and we'd all go away by the sea for a holiday—that would be best of
all! Uncle John and Aunt Janie and Edgar go to the sea-side every year,
but we never do; and last year, when mother was poorly, the doctor said
a thorough change would do her more real good than anything, but she
couldn't have it. Father was so sorry about it; and he wanted to tell
Aunt Janie what the doctor said, but mother wouldn't let him."

"Polly, can you keep a secret?" asked Cousin Becky.

"Oh yes, I am sure I can, though I never tried," was the confident
response.

"Well, then I will tell you one but you must keep it quite to yourself,
mind. Will you promise?"

"Yes; I won't tell anyone—not even mother."

"No, not even your mother." There was a slight flush on Cousin Becky's
cheeks, and a smile hovered around her lips and shone in her eyes. "A
little bird has told me that very likely—most likely, indeed—there will
be a holiday for you all this year."

"What!" Polly could scarcely credit that she had heard aright. "You
don't—you can't mean it!"

"Yes, I do, my dear. That's my secret. Mind you don't let it go any
further. And you mustn't ask me any questions. Well, just one then."

"Are you sure the little bird you spoke of knows?" Polly inquired
incredulously.

"Quite sure."

"I don't see how it's going to be managed—a holiday, I mean. But, oh,
it would be grand! Oh, Cousin Becky, do tell me!"

"No, I can tell you no more," Cousin Becky interposed, laughing.
"Remember to keep my secret, dear."

"Oh, I will," was the earnest assurance; "but it seems too good to be
true—too altogether wonderful. I cannot think how you should know, but
I am so glad you have told me. I don't in the least mind that Aunt
Janie has forgotten to invite me to spend a day with her now—I suppose,
after all, she must have forgotten, I don't really think she would mean
to be unkind."

Cousin Becky did not think so either. In truth, Mrs. Marsh had allowed
the promised invitation to slip her memory; and she would have been
considerably surprised, and more than a little sorry, had she known the
disappointment she had caused.



CHAPTER XIII

THE CALAIS NOBLE

"ROGER, come here, I want you a minute."

The scene was the playground at the back of the Beaworthy Grammar
School, one fine June morning after school hours, where a few of the
day scholars, including Roger Trent and his cousin, lingered talking
to the boarders before going home to dinner. Roger had been on the
point of leaving when Edgar, who had been holding a conversation with
a big boy called Cole, the son of a lawyer in the town, called to him
imperatively, and he turned back and inquired:

"Well, what is it?"

"I want you to tell Cole that I haven't been story-telling as he seems
to think I have," Edgar said, with a somewhat resentful glance at his
companion. His colour was heightened, and he appeared annoyed.

"He's collecting coins," he proceeded to explain, "and he won't believe
that I've a lot of valuable ones at home, or that I know anything about
them. You've seen my coins, Roger, haven't you?"

"Yes," Roger assented. "It's quite true that my cousin has a very
fine collection," he said, addressing the elder boy who still looked
incredulous. "I've seen his coins—such a lot of them, gold, silver, and
bronze; some are very old."

"Marsh says he has a Calais Noble," Cole remarked doubtfully. "I can
hardly believe that, for it's an exceedingly rare coin."

"What is a Calais Noble like?" asked Roger.

"Don't you remember my pointing it out to you?" said Edgar eagerly.
"Oh, you must, surely! There's a ship on it—I remember so well your
noticing the flag at the stern."

"Oh yes, of course, and you said your father bought it for you for five
pounds, which was very cheap!" Roger exclaimed, recalling the coin in
question to his recollection.

"I should like to see it," Cole said sceptically. "You might bring it
to school and show it to me, Marsh."

"I'm afraid I couldn't do that," was the hesitating reply.

"Why not?" questioned the big boy.

"Because if—if—" Edgar paused, appearing a trifle confused. He had
represented to Cole, as he had done to his cousin, that his father's
collection of coins was his own, and now he found himself in a
difficulty. "Oh, well," he proceeded hurriedly, "perhaps I will bring
the Calais Noble for you to see, but it's very valuable and—and—"

"I shan't believe you have it unless I see it," Cole interrupted rather
impatiently, "but you can do as you like, of course. I'd give a good
bit to own one myself."

"Oh, Edgar has it right enough, Cole," Roger declared. "I remember it
quite well now, but I got muddled looking at such a lot of coins."

"Seeing's believing," observed Cole sarcastically as he moved away.

Edgar was irritated by the knowledge that his big school-fellow had not
accepted his word, and he went home with the fixed determination of
getting possession of the Calais Noble on the first opportunity which
presented itself for his doing so, but it was some days before that
opportunity came; and as he was certain his father would never give him
permission to take the coin to school, he decided not to speak to him
upon the matter. At length, however, there arrived an afternoon when he
brought the Calais Noble to school and proudly exhibited it to Cole and
several other of his school-fellows. Cole, who owned no coin so old and
rare in his collection, admired it greatly and was quite apologetic in
his manner to Edgar.

"Take care of it, youngster," he advised, as, after a long and careful
examination of the coin, he returned it to the little boy. "I don't
think you ought to carry it loose in your pocket, you'd never get
another if you lost that one. You're a lucky chap to have it."

"Oh, I'll take care of it, never fear!" Edgar replied. "I know it's
valuable. I hope you believe now, Cole, that I really do understand
something about coins."

"Yes; and I'm sorry I doubted your word when you told me you had a
Calais Noble," said Cole deprecatingly. "I thought you were on the
brag, and I admit I didn't believe you had the coin to show."

Edgar was walking home from school, a short while later, in a decidedly
exultant mood when his cousin overtook him. Roger was looking unusually
solemn, and his first words gave the clue to the reason.

"Edgar, why did you deceive me about those coins?" he asked in a tone
of deep reproach.

"Deceive you? I don't know what you mean," was the untruthful response.

"Oh yes, you do! You made out to me—as you did to Cole, too—that all
those coins you showed me belong to you, and they don't—they belong to
your father."

"Well, that's the same thing," declared Edgar, determined to put a bold
face on the matter.

"How can it be the same thing? You know it isn't."

"It is. Everything of father's will be mine someday."

"Someday's not now. You deceived me, and you deceived Cole; but I've
found you out, and he hasn't."

"Oh, you needn't think I'm going to tell him, for I'm not! Father says
you had no right to show me the coins when Uncle John wasn't there.
I wouldn't have looked at them if I'd known that. The stamps aren't
yours, either. I was foolish to believe they were."

"Look here, Roger, don't you tell Uncle Martin I took that Calais Noble
to school; do you hear?"

"Why not?"

"Because he might mention it to father, and there'd be a fuss. You
don't want to make mischief, I'm sure. I've done no harm, and I'll put
the Noble back in its place, in the cabinet, immediately I get home,
and I won't touch any of the coins again without father's permission.
Promise you won't tell Uncle Martin."

"Well, I won't. It's nothing to do with me. But why can't you be
straight, Edgar? Why did you want to pretend the coins and the stamps
were yours? Just to show off, I suppose. It was as bad as telling a
lie, you know. That's what I can't understand about you—why you won't
keep to the truth—" and Roger regarded his companion with a very
puzzled expression in his honest, grey eyes.

"I haven't told a fib for ages," Edgar said in a shamed tone, "not
since that Sunday when I said I hadn't been smoking when I had. I don't
think there's much harm in pretending."

"Oh, but there is! It's making people believe what isn't true," Roger
said earnestly. "I wish you wouldn't do it, because, besides its being
wrong, one never knows when to believe you or not."

Edgar thought over all his cousin had said after he had parted from
him, and wished he had never pretended the coins were his own. He was
growing to like Roger more and more, and was wishful to stand well
in his estimation; he admired him for the very qualities he lacked
himself—truth and unselfishness. Roger was a great favourite at school
with both the masters and the boys, for, though he was certainly
hot-tempered, he was not unforgiving, as Edgar had proved, and he
was good-natured and obliging; whereas, his cousin—who had plenty of
pocket-money and was known to be the son of the richest merchant in
Beaworthy—was not nearly so well liked, simply because he always tried
to please himself first and had never been known to put himself out of
the way for anybody. It was a mark in Edgar's favour, however, that
he was not jealous of Roger's popularity. When the cousins had first
been thrown together at school, the rich man's son had been inclined to
patronise his poor relation, but he never tried to do so now—perhaps
because he was beginning to recognise his own inferiority.

Immediately on his arrival at the Rookery, Edgar hastened to the study,
but to his disappointment he found his father there writing letters.

"Well, my son, what do you want?" Mr. Marsh inquired, glancing around
sharply, for he was undesirous of interruption.

"Nothing, father."

"Well, then, run away. I'm busy."

Edgar needed no second bidding; but he was sorry he could not then
replace the Calais Noble in the cabinet, for the fact of its being in
his possession weighed upon his mind. After he had had tea he went to
the nursery, where he usually prepared his lessons, and set to work
to learn them; but whilst in the midst of that task his attention was
diverted by voices in the garden, and, going to the window, he saw his
father join his mother on a garden seat under a laburnum tree at a
short distance from the house. Now was the time to return the Calais
Noble, he thought, for Mr. Marsh had no doubt left his keys in the
study—he was never very careful of them. Reflecting thus, Edgar thrust
his hand into the depths of his trousers pocket where he had put the
coin, but, to his astonishment and alarm, he could not feel it.

Hastily he turned out the contents of his pocket—a pen-knife, an end
of pencil, a piece of string, and the sticky remains of a packet of
caramels—but the Calais Noble was gone.

"I can't have lost it!" he gasped. "Yes, I have—I must have! Oh, what
shall I do? It's really, really gone!"

It seemed useless to seek it, but he did so, searching the schoolroom
and the dining-room where he had had his tea, in vain.

"I must have lost it on my way home," he groaned, "but I dare not tell
father, he would be so dreadfully angry with me. Perhaps I dropped it
in the schoolroom but, no, I'm sure I didn't, for I showed it to Cole
in the playground, and I didn't take it out of my pocket after that."

Edgar, as may easily be imagined, spent the remainder of the evening in
a most miserable frame of mind; and he subsequently passed a restless
night, disturbed by distressing dreams. He dared not mention his loss
to anyone, and kept it a secret to himself, though he knew full well
that he ought to tell his father.

"He set such store on the Calais Noble," he thought unhappily. "I've
often heard him say what difficulty he had to get it, and, oh, I can't
tell him, I can't! But I do wonder what will happen when he finds it's
gone. He mayn't find it out for a long, long time, but sooner or later
he will." Conscience prompted him to speak out and confess the truth
to his father; but cowardice bade him hold his tongue, and he was
so little in the habit of facing any unpleasantness that he allowed
cowardice to prevail.



CHAPTER XIV

MR. MARSH DISCOVERS HIS LOSS

"EDGAR, dear, your father wants you," said Mrs. Marsh, meeting her son
at the front door one afternoon on his return from school a few days
after he had lost the Calais Noble. "He's in the study, and he's so
put out because he's missed some coin or other. He says you showed his
coins to Roger, and he's displeased at that—not that he minds Roger
having seen the coins, but because you had no right to meddle with his
keys as you must have done. I tell him he should not leave his keys
where everyone can get at them; but, all the same, you ought not to
have touched them, my dear. You'd better go to him at once."

Edgar obeyed in fear and trembling. He found his father seated before
the cabinet which held his coins, looking disturbed and perplexed.

"You want me, father?" the little boy said, in a faltering tone.

"Yes. Have you been meddling with my coins?" Mr. Marsh asked sharply.

"I showed them to Roger that time—you know, father, when he and I
were here alone. I didn't mean any harm. I found your keys on the
writing-table. I didn't think you'd mind Roger's seeing the coins—and
the stamps."

Mr. Marsh was pleased with this apparently frank response, and his next
question was put in a less irascible manner.

"Did you notice the Calais Noble when you and Roger were looking at the
coins?" he inquired.

"Yes, father."

"Ah, then it was safe up to that time! Well, now, I cannot find it
anywhere. You are sure it was here?"

"Yes," Edgar answered positively, "I am quite sure, because Roger
noticed the flag at the stern of the ship, and he was so surprised when
I told him the worth of the coin. He said he would soon sell it if it
was his."

"Oh, indeed!"

Mr. Marsh looked thoughtful, and Edgar regarded him with an anxious
scrutiny. There was a brief silence at length the former said: "Well,
evidently the coin is gone. I fear it must have been stolen."

"Oh, no, no!" the little boy cried vehemently. "Who would steal it,
father?"

"Ah, that's a question that I cannot answer. It's a puzzling business
which I do not pretend to understand; but one fact is indisputable,
the Calais Noble has disappeared, and someone must have taken it. I
have been careless in leaving my keys about, so I cannot hold myself
blameless in the matter; but I thought everyone in this house honest.
Your uncle told me you had exhibited my collections of coins and stamps
to Roger; he mentioned it because it struck him that I was unwise not
to keep my valuables in greater security. I am sure I wish heartily I
had done so. You had no right meddling with my belongings, Edgar, but I
am glad that you did not quibble when I taxed you with having done so;
if you had prevaricated you would have made me angry indeed, but you
did not, and I am pleased that you at once admitted the truth. By the
way, do not mention to anyone that the Calais Noble is missing; your
mother knows it, but I shall ask her not to speak of it to outsiders."

"Very well, father," Edgar answered, surprised beyond measure that
his father was taking his loss so quietly. He had blushed—Mr. Marsh
had thought with pleasure—when he had been commended for admitting
the truth. "Perhaps—perhaps the Calais Noble will turn up again," he
suggested.

Mr. Marsh shook his head doubtfully, he did not think that very likely.
He had his suspicion as to what had become of the coin, but he was not
going to confide it to his son. He was feeling very troubled, and the
expression of his face was exceedingly grave. One more question he put
to Edgar before dismissing him.

"Was Roger interested in my coins?" he asked.

"Oh yes!" Edgar replied. "He didn't think so much of them, though,
before I told him what they were worth, then he was simply astounded.
You know, father, Roger doesn't get much money to spend—very little
indeed, really—and he thinks a great deal of money in a way."

"In a way?" Mr. Marsh echoed inquiringly.

"Yes, he's always saying what he would do if he was rich."

"Oh, is he? Well—you may go now."

The little boy left the study gladly, and went upstairs in a very
relieved state of mind. Not until some time afterwards did he reflect
how cowardly he had been not to confess he had taken the Calais Noble
to school and inadvertently lost it; at present, he congratulated
himself that he had got over the interview with his father so
successfully. Why, he had not even been asked if he knew what had
become of the missing coin! How truly thankful he was for that, for
it had saved him the necessity of telling a lie. He did not suppose
he would hear anything about the Calais Noble again; but it made him
the least bit uneasy to remember that his father considered it had
been stolen, and he would have been more uneasy still had he known the
suspicion which troubled his father's mind.

Entering his bedroom, he found his mother there, engaged in examining
the contents of his wardrobe.

"I'm making up a parcel for your cousins," she explained, "so I'm
looking to see if there's anything of yours you can part with. That
suit of clothes is a little faded, but there's a lot of wear left in
it; it would do for Roger to wear at home during the holidays, I dare
say, and you won't want it again. See there's nothing in the pockets,
Edgar."

He did so. It was the suit he had worn on the memorable day when he had
lost the Calais Noble, and he drew an involuntary sigh as he noticed
a rip in the trousers' pocket, which doubtless accounted for the
disappearance of the coin.

"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Marsh, hearing the sigh, and
noticing the serious expression of his face; "your father was not angry
with you, was he? I know he was vexed because he had missed one of
his coins—he has probably mislaid it, as I told him—but he could not
possibly blame you for that, though to be sure, he was annoyed you had
meddled with his keys."

"He—he thinks the coin has been stolen, mother."

"What nonsense! Who would steal it? Oh, it will turn up again!
By-the-by, I'm going to drive to Princess Street after I've had a cup
of tea, and you can come with me if you like."

Edgar brightened on hearing this; and, when an hour later he drove off
with his mother in the direction of the town, he had quite recovered
his usual spirits—indeed, he was easier in his mind than he had been
for days, for he confidently hoped his trouble concerning the Calais
Noble was at an end.

The Trents were all at home with the exception of the master of the
house, and there was a flutter of excitement in the sitting-room when
Mrs. Marsh's carriage stopped at the door. Polly flew to the window and
reported the arrival of Aunt Janie and Edgar; and, a few minutes later,
Louisa showed them into the room.

Mrs. Marsh kissed her sister-in-law, and shook hands with Cousin Becky,
the latter of whom she complimented on her appearance, saying how much
better she looked than when she had arrived at Beaworthy; then she
turned her attention to the children, and Polly wondered if she would
now remember her promise and ask her to the Rookery. Soon the boys
withdrew to the window, where they talked together and remarked on
the passers-by; but Polly listened to the conversation of her elders,
observing her aunt with grave, grey eyes.

"Well, Polly," said Mrs. Marsh presently, with a smile, becoming aware
of her little niece's scrutiny, "how are you spending these beautiful
summer days?"

"As usual, Aunt Janie," was the response, given in accents of reserve.

"Let me see, I don't think we've met since that afternoon you shut
yourself up in the clock case, have we? No. By the way, I thought you
were going to spend a day with me at the Rookery; you have not been
yet?"

"No," Polly replied coldly; then, her indignation getting the better of
her, she added in a distinctly resentful tone: "I haven't been asked."

"Polly!" cried her mother in a shocked voice, whilst Mrs. Marsh flushed
slightly, and gave a rather embarrassed laugh.

"That's why I haven't been there," the little girl declared; "Aunt
Janie must know I shouldn't go unless she invited me, mother. I suppose
she forgot."

"Well, will you come to-morrow?" Mrs. Marsh asked quickly. "It will
be Saturday and therefore a holiday for the boys, and Roger will be
able to come too. Do let them come, Mary," she said, turning to her
sister-in-law, "the dog-cart shall call for them in the morning after
it has taken John to the office, and I will send them home safely in
the evening."

Mrs. Trent accepted the invitation for her children very gladly, for
few pleasures came their way; and, after that, Polly unbent towards her
aunt, and her face beamed with smiles.

Mrs. Marsh paid quite a long visit, and, when at length she took her
departure with Edgar, the big brown paper parcel she had left in the
hall was carried into the sitting-room, and the children began to
examine its contents.

"All old clothes, as usual," remarked Polly ungratefully, an expression
of disappointment flitting across her countenance. "Why, what's this?"
she cried, a moment later, as she came upon a small parcel wrapped in
tissue paper.

"Open it and see," said her mother.

She did so, and revealed to sight a pretty, green leather purse, which
contained a new half-crown and a slip of paper with "For Polly from
Aunt Janie" written across it in Mrs. Marsh's handwriting.

"Oh!" exclaimed the little girl, in mingled amazement and delight, "Oh,
it's really for me! How good—how kind of her!"

"I know why she's done it, because Uncle John tipped me a half-crown
when he met me with Edgar yesterday," said Roger, looking very pleased.
"Edgar must have told her, and she thought you ought to be remembered
too."

"Yes, she would not guess that you meant to divide your half-crown with
me. Fancy her putting the money in this beautiful purse—quite a new
purse too! See what a firm clasp it has! Oh, mother, isn't it a nice
present?"

"It is indeed, my dear." Mrs. Trent's face was as bright as her little
daughter's. "Aunt Janie is really very kind! I was sorry to hear you
speak to her as you did, Polly."

"Well, she shouldn't have pretended she expected me at the Rookery
without being asked, should she? She promised to invite me, and you
know you always say, mother, that a promise should be kept. She said
she would take me for a drive, and she ought to have thought I should
look forward to that."

"She did not realise, I expect, what a treat a drive would be to you;
she would not willingly disappoint you."

"No-o, perhaps not," Polly allowed, "that's what Cousin Becky said, but
I cannot imagine how a grown-up person can be so—so ignorant. I think
Aunt Janie means well," she admitted as she took another peep at the
bright half-crown inside the purse, "and I shall never be able to thank
her enough for this beautiful present. I wish, Roger, you had a purse,
too."

"Oh, boys don't want purses," her brother replied, "they carry their
money loose in their pockets. You needn't think I'm jealous, Polly."

"Jealous!" she cried with a happy laugh. "As though you would be that!
Now we shall have half-a-crown each. How shall we spend our money?"

They proceeded to discuss this momentous question in low, confidential
tones, whilst Mrs. Trent and Cousin Becky examined the various articles
of clothing they had strewn upon the table. Many of the garments were
in excellent condition, and Cousin Becky promptly promised her services
as a needlewoman to turn them to the best account.



CHAPTER XV

EDGAR LEARNS HIS FATHER'S SUSPICIONS

"AUNT JANIE, I should think you must be a very happy person," said
Polly, casting a contemplative glance around her.

Mrs. Marsh and her little niece were sitting on the garden seat beneath
the laburnum tree at the Rookery, where they had had their tea, an
arrangement which had delighted Polly and Roger, who were thoroughly
enjoying the day as their aunt's guests. The morning had been spent in
the gardens, and the afternoon in a long drive into the country; and
now the boys had betaken themselves to the stables, whilst Polly, tired
with pleasure and excitement, had gladly fallen in with her aunt's
suggestion to rest awhile.

"Why should you think so?" Mrs. Marsh asked curiously.

"Because you've such a beautiful home and plenty of money. It must be
nice to have plenty of money to be able to give people presents," Polly
replied ingenuously, her hand slipping into her pocket to make certain
her purse was safe. "I don't think I was ever so pleased before as I
was last night when I came across your present. I can never thank you
enough—"

"Why, my dear child," interposed Mrs. Marsh, with an amused laugh,
"you've thanked me over and over again already."

"Because I feel so very grateful, Aunt Janie. No one ever gave me a
half-crown in my life before. Roger has had several, though, and he has
always shared them with me; you know, girls don't get as many tips as
boys. That doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"I don't think it does. It has been very generous of Roger to share his
money with you; few brothers would do that, I fancy."

"Wouldn't they?" said Polly, rather surprised. "Don't you think Edgar
would if he had a sister? No. I don't expect he would, for Roger says
he always keeps the best of everything for himself; I suppose that's
because he's never had anyone to share with, Aunt Janie? It's a pity,
isn't it? Cousin Becky says it is a misfortune to be an only child."

"Cousin Becky knows nothing about it," Mrs. Marsh said coldly, an
expression of displeasure clouding her face. "Am I to understand she
has been finding fault with Edgar?"

"Oh no, Aunt Janie; she stuck up for him. She said we ought to make
allowances for him as he has no brother or sister; she likes him, she
does indeed." Polly paused, looking slightly distressed, conscious she
had been letting her tongue run away with her. "I'm afraid you don't
like Cousin Becky," she proceeded hesitatingly, "but you don't know how
kind she is to us."

"I think it is you, or your parents rather, who are kind to her."

"She pays for living with us," said Polly. "Father wouldn't allow her
to do that if he was better off—he said so—but you know he is not rich
like Uncle John, and—oh, I don't like to think how we should miss her
if she went away now! She helps us with our lessons, and she's always
doing things for mother; why, she made this frock! Isn't it pretty?"
And the little girl arose and turned slowly round in front of her aunt
that she might the better view Cousin Becky's handiwork.

"Yes, it is very nicely made," Mrs. Marsh allowed. "I expect Cousin
Becky is accustomed to work for young people as she brought up her
brother's children. By the way, does she ever hear from them?"

"Oh yes."

"Do they send her money, Polly?"

"I don't know, Aunt Janie, I don't think so. She reads their letters to
mother, I've heard her; they write very nice letters."

"And you never heard any mention made of money? No? Dear me, what
ingratitude! They ought to be contributing to her support, and so I
should like to tell them. Why, she was like a mother to those children
of her brother's, and to think that after devoting her life to them
and their father, she should fall back upon Martin for a home in her
old age—as though he had not enough weight upon his shoulders without
burdening himself with an additional care! I have always declared he
will live to rue the day when he took the charge of an old woman who
never had the least claim upon him. Cousin Becky should have gone
abroad to her nephew."

"But, Aunt Janie, she didn't wish to go, and I am sure, now, it would
grieve us all dreadfully if she went." There were tears in Polly's eyes
as she spoke, for Cousin Becky had won the devotion of her warm, young
heart.

"It does not appear that she contemplates leaving you," Mrs. Marsh
observed dryly, "so there is no cause for you to be distressed."

"What do you mean by saying father will live to rue the day when he
took the charge of an old woman?" Polly asked, after a brief pause in
the conversation, during which Mrs. Marsh had had time to regret what
she had said. "Do you mean he will be sorry Cousin Becky came to us? I
don't believe he will; and Cousin Becky says God will pay her debt to
father, she told me she was sure of it, because Jesus said, 'Inasmuch
as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have
done it unto Me.' That's in the Bible, Aunt Janie. Had you forgotten
it?"

No, Mrs. Marsh had not forgotten it, but she had not thought of it for
a long, long while; it had slumbered in her memory through many years
of prosperity, during which she had gone her own way thinking little
of those less fortunate than herself; and a look which Polly failed to
read crossed her face now—an expression of mingled shame and regret.

"Cousin Becky has found a champion in you, at any rate, my dear," she
said at length in a softer tone. "You are evidently very fond of the
old lady. I think I must try to see more of her in order to ascertain
wherein lies her charm."

At that point in the conversation the boys reappeared upon the scene,
and, a short while later, the master of the house arrived at home. The
latter seated himself by his wife's side on the garden seat. He made a
great deal of Polly, but he took but slight notice of Roger; indeed,
so marked was the difference in his manner to the two children, that,
after they had gone, his wife took him to task upon the subject.

When Edgar, who had volunteered to accompany his cousins to the
entrance of the Rookery grounds on their departure and had said
good-bye to them there, returned to his parents, he found them deep in
earnest conversation. They did not notice his approach, for, with the
mischievous intention of startling them and making them jump, he had
crept up behind the seat, meaning to spring forward with a "whoop;"
but, chancing to catch a sentence, spoken by his mother, he paused
spell-bound.

"I can never believe that Roger is a thief!" she had incredulously
exclaimed.

Then came her husband's answer, to which Edgar listened with breathless
interest. "My dear, I sincerely trust he is not. You must not repeat
a word of what I have said to Edgar, I would not have him know that I
suspect his cousin of having taken the Calais Noble for the world. I
like Roger, and I thought him straight like his father, certainly he
proved to be so over that matter of the cigarettes; but—I know what
boys are. My theory is this, that having learnt the value of the coin
from Edgar, he gave way to sudden temptation and took it. If I am
right, there is a possibility that I may yet get my Calais Noble back,
for the boy will not know how to dispose of it."

Edgar waited to hear no more; and, without having made his presence
known to his parents, he softly and swiftly hurried away and betook
himself indoors, where he ran upstairs and shut himself into his own
room, to consider this fresh development in connection with the Calais
Noble undisturbed. His father suspected Roger of being a thief! Oh,
he had never dreamed of such a contingency as that! What should he
do? "Confess the truth," whispered his conscience. "Let the matter
slide, you are not supposed to know your father's suspicion," whispered
cowardice, "he will never tax your cousin with the theft."

"But, it is dreadful he should think Roger would do such a thing," the
little boy thought distressfully, "it is so unjust! Oh, dear, I hoped
that I should never be worried about the Calais Noble again—that father
would think no more about it. Oh, what shall I do?"

Edgar was in a great state of mental trouble, tormented by feelings of
remorse and fear. What would his father say if he found out the truth?
Mr. Marsh had been both grieved and indignant when his son had allowed
him to misjudge Roger on a much slighter matter than this; Edgar told
himself he would never forgive him for exhibiting the same cowardice
again, and yet he could not pluck up the courage to acknowledge he had
lost the coin.

"I did not know he thought Roger had taken it if I had, I believe I
should have told him all about it," he reflected. "But you know it
now," conscience reminded him, "it is not too late to set the matter
right." That Edgar did not do, however; he acted as though he was in
total ignorance of his father's suspicion of Roger, and neither Mr. nor
Mrs. Marsh made any mention of the missing coin to him. But, though the
little boy kept silence concerning the Calais Noble, it was never out
of his mind by day or night, for it was the dread of his waking hours,
and it haunted his dreams which were troubled by harrowing scenes, in
which Roger figured either in the clutch of a policeman, or in prison
enduring punishment for a crime which he had never committed. It was
small wonder that he grew pale and languid; but he declared, in answer
to his mother's anxious questions, that he was quite well, and there
was nothing amiss. He shirked Roger as much as possible, because his
conscience worried him most when he was in his cousin's presence; and
Roger, as soon as he became aware of the fact that Edgar tried to avoid
him, kept out of his way.

Much to Polly's gratification, her aunt took her out driving on several
other occasions; and one afternoon—seeing Mrs. Marsh really desired
it—Mrs. Trent and Cousin Becky went too. On the latter occasion, the
subject of summer holidays was mooted.

"You really ought all to have a nice change to the sea-side this
summer, Mary," Mrs. Marsh said to her sister-in-law in her usual
inconsiderate fashion. "Surely Martin will be able to manage it?"

"I am afraid not," Mrs. Trent answered, a wistful expression creeping
into her eyes.

"You have not had a holiday for years," Mrs. Marsh persisted, "and
Martin himself must badly need a change."

"Yes," assented Mrs. Trent; "but I fear there is no greater chance of
his getting it this year than last," she added with a faint sigh.

"It is a long lane that has no turning," Cousin Becky quoted
cheerfully. She looked at Polly as she spoke, and, though the little
girl failed to grasp the meaning of the old proverb, she understood the
glance of Cousin Becky's eyes, which smilingly reminded her of their
secret.

How wonderful it would be if the little bird Cousin Becky had spoken of
had really told true!



CHAPTER XVI

UNDER A CLOUD

THE clay works adjoining Beaworthy extended over many acres of ground,
and were a source of great wealth to their owner—Mr. Marsh—who,
however, was seen there only occasionally, for he employed an outdoor
manager in whom he had implicit confidence. One hot July afternoon
he arrived unexpectedly upon the scene of operations, driving in his
dog-cart with his little son by his side, and called a man off his work
to come and hold the horse.

"I can do that, father," said Edgar eagerly; "Darkie is very quiet, I
can manage him all right."

"I daresay you can," Mr. Marsh admitted, for the horse, though
spirited, was free from vice, "but I should not be satisfied to leave
you in charge alone. I may keep you waiting some time, and if so Darkie
will probably grow fidgety."

So the man—a thin, pale-faced man he was—took up his position at the
horse's head, and stroked the creature's sleek neck. Darkie was a
strong, brown cob, with a mealy nose and a satin-smooth coat. Edgar,
who, at his mother's suggestion, was taking a half-holiday from school,
thought his father might have trusted him alone with Darkie. The boy
was not looking well, and he seemed in very poor spirits. For some
minutes after Mr. Marsh had left him he did not speak; but at last he
turned his attention to his companion, and inquired his name.

"Caleb Glubb, sir," was the response.

"Why, you are the man who had that bad accident back in the spring,
then!" Edgar exclaimed, interested at once. "I've heard all about you
from my cousins, and I know where you live. Are you quite well now?"

"Yes, thank you, sir, though not so strong as I was before my accident,
perhaps. I was in hospital a long while, and after I came out I wasn't
fit for work for weeks. Sickness does pull one down and no mistake. Ah,
your cousins were very good to my poor wife in her trouble! There are
not many children so kind as they are, but Sarah—that's my wife—says
they're brought up to be feeling-hearted."

"What could they do for her?" asked Edgar. "Did they give her money?"

"They did, sir." The man's pale countenance brightened into a smile,
and his voice bespoke his gratitude. "Would you believe that they
actually saved their pocket-money and gave it to Sarah? Yes, that's
what they did, and we're not likely to forget it."

"Was it much?" questioned Edgar; "but no, they get very little money to
spend."

"That's what touched me so deeply," said the man. "They'd been rich
folks it would have been different. Sarah took the money because they
wished it, and—bless their dear hearts!—she said it made them so happy
to think they'd been able to help her."

Edgar was silent for many minutes, whilst he reflected that he had
never helped anyone in his life. He could not but admire the generous
spirit which had prompted his cousins to assist the family in distress,
though he would have understood it better if they had had more money to
spare. Although he had a plentiful supply of pocket-money, he always
spent it on himself; no one had ever had cause to bless him as this man
had blessed Polly and Roger who had so little to give.

"I heard about the postal orders which your wife received every week,"
he said by-and-by. "Did you ever find out who sent them?"

"Never, sir. They came regularly every Saturday morning until I was
well enough to earn full wages again, and then they stopped. I'd give
a great deal to know who our unknown friend is, but we can't even make
a guess as to who it can possibly be. As Sarah says, whoever it is
doesn't wish to be thanked, that's certain. I shall never forget the
first time Sarah told me she'd had a postal order for a pound sent her!
It seemed like a miracle; and when, the next week, the same amount of
money came again, and the week after, and so on, I knew God had raised
up a friend for us who didn't mean to see my wife and children go
short."

By-and-by Edgar grew tired of his position in the dog-cart, and got
down. He wandered about watching the men at work in the various pits.
In some they were cutting the clay out in squares; in others they were
engaged in propping up the sides of the shafts with wooden stays; and
from several water was being pumped up. It was a busy scene and one
of considerable interest to Edgar, who visited the clay works but
seldom, as he had received strict injunctions never to go there alone.
Presently he turned his attention to a couple of men who were busily
employed in sawing a tree into planks in a saw pit. It was most trying
work for a hot summer's day, and when they stopped to indulge in drinks
of cold tea from a keg, their faces were covered with perspiration, and
they appeared quite done up. One of them good-naturedly offered Edgar
a drink, but he declined it, and moved on. The clay which was being
raised from one of the shafts was nearly as black as coal, and beside
this shaft stood Mr. Marsh in conversation with the manager of the
works. He turned to his little son, remarking that he supposed he had
grown tired of waiting for him.

"Yes," Edgar assented, "so I have been having a look around. What dirty
looking clay, father! Is it any good?"

"It is, indeed," Mr. Marsh answered, exchanging an amused glance with
the manager. "In fact, it is of far greater value than the white clay,
and we hope there is a big vein of it."

"I thought it was poor stuff," Edgar said, much surprised.

"On the contrary," his father assured him. "This dark clay will burn
whitest of all and make the best quality china."

"Fancy that!" the little boy exclaimed, approaching nearer the edge of
the shaft and peering down.

"Don't go too close," advised the manager hastily. "One false step and
you'd have a dreadful fall—be killed, perhaps."

"I'll be careful," Edgar answered as he stood leaning forward, looking
into the black depths below.

His father caught him by the arm and pulled him sharply back with a
stern rebuke for his foolhardiness.

"There was no chance of my falling," Edgar declared, rather
disconcerted. "I never get giddy."

"You cannot be certain you would not," Mr. Marsh said somewhat sternly.
"You had better keep by my side, and then I shall know you are safe. I
see you are not to be trusted by yourself."

"Very well, father," his son agreed. "I won't go away."

Subsequent to a little further conversation with the manager, Mr. Marsh
retraced his footsteps to the dog-cart and Edgar followed him. They
took their seats in the vehicle; and Caleb Glubb, after putting the
reins into his master's hand, touched his cap and returned to his work,
whilst Darkie started homewards at a good rate.

"Do you know who that man is?" Edgar inquired as soon as they were in
the high road and passing the long rows of labour-men's cottages. "He
lives there in that little house with the flowers in the garden."

"Does he?" Mr. Marsh said carelessly. "He is the poor fellow who met
with a serious accident in the spring. But how did you come to know of
him? I suppose you've been talking to him, eh?"

Edgar explained all he had heard concerning Caleb Glubb and his family
from his cousins, winding up by repeating his conversation with the man
that afternoon. Mr. Marsh listened at first with little interest; but
he grew more alert towards the conclusion of his son's tale.

"I believe your cousins are good-natured children," he said when Edgar
had ceased speaking. "Polly is a nice little girl, open as the day; and
Roger—by the way, you have not seen much of him these last few weeks,
have you?"

"No, father."

"How is that?"

"He—he avoids me," Edgar admitted, not explaining that that was his
fault.

"Avoids you, eh? Why?"

"I don't know."

"I thought you were going to be friends." There was a decidedly
troubled expression on Mr. Marsh's face, and he was so taken up with
his own thoughts that he did not notice how guilty Edgar was looking.

By this time they had reached the town, and, shortly after passing
the Grammar School, they overtook Roger himself on his way home. The
little boy lifted his cap to his uncle, whilst a smile lit up his
face; and Mr. Marsh asked himself if the owner of such a bright, frank
countenance could possibly have robbed him of the missing coin. It
seemed incredible, and yet his suspicion of his nephew was very strong.

"Roger is generally liked at school, is he not?" he asked. "He holds a
good character, eh?"

"Oh yes," Edgar responded earnestly. "All the masters like him, and so
do the boys."

"I hope he deserves their good opinion."

"I am sure he does, father."

Edgar was not sorry when the drive was at an end, for the doubtful
way in which his father had spoken of his cousin had made him utterly
miserable. He sometimes felt that he never would be happy again, for
the sight of Roger was a constant reproach to him; and they might have
been such good friends. He knew how true-hearted Roger was, and that he
would scorn to act in any way that was not strictly honourable. What
would his feelings be if he ever found out his uncle's suspicions of
him? But he was not in the least likely to find it out. Edgar tried to
obtain consolation in that thought, and then another would occur to his
troubled mind. Supposing Roger discovered that the Calais Noble was
lost, would he tell that his cousin had exhibited it at school? No, he
had promised he would not, and he could be trusted to keep his word, at
all costs.

Poor Edgar! He tried to think his guilty secret was safe with himself;
but he was always in terror, lest by some unforeseen means it should be
found out. The summer term, which should have passed so pleasantly, was
completely spoilt for him; he had no heart to play cricket, but moped
about the grounds at home on the weekly holiday, whilst it puzzled his
mother why he did not care to join his school-fellows in their various
pursuits. Why should her boy be different to others, she wondered? She
was not unsociable herself, and she could not understand why Edgar
should prefer to keep himself to himself. She had hoped he would have
made friends at school.



CHAPTER XVII

IN VIEW OF A HOLIDAY

"WHAT a lot of letters you get, Cousin Becky!"

It was Polly who made this remark, one morning, as on taking her seat
at the breakfast table she noticed several envelopes by Miss Trent's
plate. It was very innocently said, not instigated by curiosity, and
the little girl was quite unprepared for the look of confusion and
the deepening colour with which it was greeted by Cousin Becky, who,
however, merely replied that she had a large circle of correspondents.

"Attend to the business in hand, Polly, and eat your breakfast," said
Mr. Trent, a trifle sharply. "You talk too much, my dear."

"That's what I am always telling her; she's a regular Poll parrot,"
laughed Roger, who, boy-like, was ever ready to tease his sister.

Polly deigned no answer, and during the meal she kept a dignified
silence; but when she and her mother were alone, at lesson time, she
reverted to the subject of Cousin Becky's letters.

"I did not know it was rude to speak of them," she said in a slightly
injured tone. "Do you think it was, mother?"

"Not rude, exactly," Mrs. Trent answered, "but it was scarcely good
manners. You would not like Cousin Becky to consider you inquisitive
about her correspondence, would you?"

"No, indeed; but I am sure she would not think that. Perhaps I had
better apologise to her?"

"No, dear, that would be making a great deal too much of a slight
matter; but, in future, do not be so quick to remark upon another
person's business."

"I am afraid Cousin Becky did not like my mentioning her letters,"
sighed Polly, "but she must know I did not mean to be rude. I think she
is very fond of writing letters, mother, she writes so many in her own
room."

"No doubt she is," Mrs. Trent responded carelessly; but she looked
a trifle puzzled, for, like her little daughter, she had on several
occasions been struck by the number of Miss Trent's correspondents.

It was the second week in July by this time, and the weather was
intensely hot by day. The evenings were delightful, however, and often
Miss Trent, who was a capital walker for a woman of her age, took
her young cousins, after they had learnt their lessons, for pleasant
rambles in the country. On one of these occasions they were passing the
Rookery when they saw Edgar looking disconsolately through the bars of
the big entrance gate, and Cousin Becky asked him to join them in their
walk. His face brightened perceptibly at her invitation, but it clouded
again as he caught sight of Roger's expression, which was anything but
pleased.

"No, thank you," he answered with a little choke in his voice. "Roger
doesn't want me, I see."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Cousin Becky. "You would like to come with us,
would you not?" She looked from one boy to the other in bewilderment
as she spoke. "What is amiss?" she questioned in accents of growing
concern. "Have you fallen out?"

"Oh no, it's not that," Polly responded, seeing neither her brother nor
her cousin had an answer ready; "but Edgar's much too high and mighty
for Roger—"

"I'm not, Polly, you know I'm not!' Edgar broke in passionately, amazed
at her words, and stung by the sarcasm of her tone.

"No, you're not," she agreed, "but you think you are! You consider
yourself above us because you're richer than we are—because your
father's richer than our father, I mean. Roger's told me everything—how
you've been keeping him at a distance, hardly ever speaking to him, and
never walking home from school with him as you used to do. Don't think
we want you to come with us, pray." The little girl paused and looked
indignantly at her cousin. To her surprise there were tears in Edgar's
blue eyes, and instead of showing resentment he seemed greatly abashed.
"You're no better than Roger," she added, "and if you think he wants to
have anything to do with you, you're much mistaken."

"Hush, hush, my dear," admonished Cousin Becky, "you give that sharp
tongue of yours too much licence. I did not know you could be such a
little shrew."

"Indeed, Polly, you're wrong; I don't think myself better than Roger,"
Edgar said tremulously, and there was a ring of sincerity in his tone
which his hearers could not fail to note. "You don't understand—I—I
think you're very unkind, and I—oh, dear, you can't imagine how
wretched I am! I'm so lonely."

"Lonely?" exclaimed Cousin Becky. "Then why not come with us?"

"But they don't want me," Edgar demurred, looking dubiously from one
cousin to the other. "I—I don't wish to spoil their walk."

"You won't do that," Cousin Becky assured him. "Come, children," she
continued persuasively, "have done with misunderstandings, and let us
all be friends. Roger, won't you speak to your cousin, my dear?"

Roger hesitated; but, meeting an appealing glance from Edgar, his heart
relented towards him, and he said simply:

"I don't want to be unfriendly with you, Edgar; but, really, you're the
oddest boy I know. I never know how to take you, you're so changeable;
you've been keeping out of my way for weeks, I cannot imagine why."

"And I can't explain," Edgar replied; "if I did you'd understand the
reason quick enough, and you'd hate and despise me."

This sounded very mysterious; but knowing how prone children are to
exaggeration, Cousin Becky was not so impressed as might have been
expected. Polly and Roger exchanged questioning glances, but they
refrained from putting any questions. Edgar was outside the gate by
this time, and he raised no further objections to joining in the walk.
At first he appeared in a very depressed state of mind; but by-and-by
he grew more cheerful, and began to enjoy the company of his cousins.
His manner was so unusually subdued and humble that even Polly relented
towards him after a while, and when, on their way homewards, they said
good-bye to him at the Rookery gate, she remarked in a tone, which
though condescending was not unkind:

"I think it's a great pity you're not always so nice as you've been
to-night."

After that evening Edgar frequently joined his cousins in their walks,
and the cloud which had overshadowed him certainly lifted a little. His
conscience still continued to prick him when he was in Roger's society,
but not so sorely as it had done; for he was growing more and more
hopeful that his cousin would never find out the Calais Noble was lost,
and his fear of being questioned by him about it was passing away.

Meanwhile, it was drawing near the end of the term, and there was
much talk amongst the Grammar School boys about the coming holidays.
Mr. Trent was to get a holiday of three weeks in August, too; but he
had not suggested spending it away from Beaworthy, so that when, one
evening, Cousin Becky asked him if he proposed going to the sea-side,
he glanced at her in surprise as he answered promptly:

"Oh no! It's quite out of the question."

"But, Martin, you want a change badly," his wife reminded him. "Don't
you think it would do him good if he would go away by himself for a
fortnight," she continued, appealing to Cousin Becky, "to some place
where he could get good boating and fishing?"

"No, I do not," Cousin Becky replied with a ring of decision in her
voice. "I don't think he would enjoy a holiday without his wife and
family. You ought all to go."

"I thought you realised the impossibility of such a plan," Mrs. Trent
said, almost reproachfully, astonished that Cousin Becky, who had
proved herself quick-witted on more than one occasion, should be so
uncommonly dense now.

"But is it impossible?" Cousin Becky queried; "I don't think so. I
know a charming village called Lynn on the coast of Norfolk, which
would be the very place for you to go to, for it is most remarkably
healthy and bracing. I stayed there myself with my dear brother on
various occasions, at a house belonging to a lady—a great friend of
ours. She—this lady—wants me to go there again this summer; but I am
determined I will not unless you all accompany me. There is the house,
furnished, and waiting for us to occupy it, and all we have to do is to
pack up here and take possession of it."

"But I don't understand," said Mrs. Trent, her face a picture of
bewilderment. "Does your friend let her house furnished?"

"No, she never lets it, though she rarely occupies it herself; she only
lends it to her friends. What do you say to closing the house here at
the beginning of next month? Should you object?"

"Object?" Mrs. Trent echoed. "No, indeed, on the contrary—"

"Then let us all go together for a few weeks' holiday to the Mill House
at Lynn. You will have no rent to pay there, and it will be a most
pleasant change at very little expense. Shall we say it is decided?"
And the old lady looked from one to the other of her cousins with a
smile which hid the anxiety with which she anticipated an answer.

"Oh, how splendid it would be!" cried Polly, who, with her brother,
had been listening to the conversation in silence hitherto. "Oh, dear,
dear Cousin Becky, I do believe that little bird told you the truth,
and that we are really going to have a summer holiday!" And the child
danced wildly round the room in her excitement.

"And it's near the sea?" questioned Roger eagerly. "Oh, that's grand!
We shall be able to bathe, and father will teach me to swim—won't you,
father?"

"Not so fast, my son," admonished Mr. Trent, "you speak as though
everything was settled. Cousin Becky," he proceeded, turning to the
old lady who was regarding him appealingly, "you have planned a most
alluring programme for us, but it seems to me we ought not to accept
so great a favour as the loan of a house would be from a complete
stranger."

"But I know her very well," Cousin Becky broke in eagerly, "and I am at
liberty to entertain who I like at the Mill House during August; you
will be my guests. You do not suggest, I suppose, that I should go to
the Mill House alone? Oh, Martin, I have set my heart on our all having
a nice holiday together; please do not disappoint me! Think how much
good a thorough change of air will do you all. I want to see some roses
in your wife's white cheeks, and Polly is looking a great deal too
pale. Do not go against me in this matter, pray."

Mr. Trent hesitated, whilst he glanced inquiringly at his wife. "What
do you think about it, my dear?" he asked. "Do you wish to accede to
this plan which Cousin Becky has made for our benefit?"

"So much, Martin," she confessed. "It has taken me by surprise, but it
would be so very nice if we could all have a holiday together. We have
not had one for so long."

There was a ring of unconscious pathos in Mrs. Trent's voice, which
settled the question as far as her husband was concerned, for he turned
immediately to Cousin Becky, and said:

"It shall be as you will, but we shall be under a great obligation to
your friend; I hope you will make her understand how grateful we feel.
Is she at Lynn at present?"

"No, she is very rarely there, and if we do not occupy the Mill House
next month, no one else will, so you need not burden yourself with
any sense of obligation. It is a comfortable house, old, and plainly
furnished; but I am sure you will like it. I think, by the way, it
would be a good plan to take Louisa with us instead of getting help
from the village."

Mrs. Trent agreed. She was only a little less excited than the children
at the prospect of a holiday, and Cousin Becky was plainly delighted
at having gained her own way, and confessed that she had been planning
this treat for them in her mind several weeks, and had been awaiting a
favourable opportunity to broach the subject. Mr. Trent, too, seemed
very pleased; but at the same time he was rather puzzled. He wondered
who Cousin Becky's friend could be and why she had not mentioned her by
name; he had remarked that she had carefully abstained from doing so.

By-and-by Polly rushed off to the kitchen to impart the news of the
impending holiday to Louisa, and was beyond measure gratified by the
sensation she caused.

"Wonders will never cease, Miss Polly!" exclaimed Louisa impressively,
after she had fully grasped the facts that the house in Princess Street
was to be shut up and that she, too, was to go to the Mill House at
Lynn. "Why, I'm so surprised and pleased that I can't find a word to
say." This was a mistake on Louisa's part, however, for she found a
great many words, and asked a great many questions about the Mill
House, which of course the little girl could not answer, and finally
she inquired the name of this friend of Miss Trent's who was not
against lending her house in such a casual way.

"Cousin Becky didn't say, but I'll ask her," Polly replied; and,
forthwith, she returned to the sitting-room to put the inquiry.

But Cousin Becky shook her head when questioned, and replied with a
smile:

"I cannot tell you my friend's name, because—to be plain—she does not
wish it told. It doesn't matter, does it? She is an eccentric person,
who likes to do little kindnesses when it is possible, without being
thanked."

"I see," Polly responded gravely. "Well, I shall call her our good
fairy, for she must be another such person as the one who was so kind
to poor Sarah Glubb. How nice it is to think there are so many good
fairies still left in the world!"



CHAPTER XVIII

THE REAPPEARANCE OF THE CALAIS NOBLE

"I am so glad Martin has decided to take his family away this summer,"
remarked Mrs. Marsh, at the breakfast table one morning, a few days
after her brother had agreed to Cousin Becky's plan for a holiday.
"I met Mary and the children in the town yesterday, and they were quite
excited at the prospect of turning their backs on Beaworthy for a few
weeks—poor things! I daresay I should feel the same if I had not had a
change for years. Cousin Becky is to accompany them to Norfolk, I hear."

"It's through Miss Trent that they're going," Mr. Marsh replied. "A
friend of hers has lent them a furnished house, it appears—the Mill
House, at Lynn. Your brother asked me if I knew the place. I remember I
chanced to visit it once from Cromer."

"Who can Cousin Becky's friend be, I wonder?" said Mrs. Marsh musingly,
her face expressive of surprise and curiosity, for this was news
to her. She had only had a few words with her sister-in-law on the
previous day, and had heard no details in connection with the projected
holiday.

"Ah, that's a secret," Edgar informed her. He was very inquisitive upon
the point himself. "Roger says Cousin Becky hasn't told anyone—not even
Uncle Martin. The lady the house belongs to doesn't wish her name to be
known."

"How extraordinary!" exclaimed Mrs. Marsh, "And how very mysterious!
A lady, you say?" She paused as her son assented, a pucker of thought
between her brows. By-and-by she proceeded, turning to her husband,
"John, have you considered at all where we shall go this summer? It is
quite time we settled upon a place."

"I have not thought about it," Mr. Marsh admitted. "In fact, I do not
want to leave home during August, this year."

"But Edgar must have a change of air in his holidays, he has not
been looking well lately," Mrs. Marsh reminded him, "and the school
re-assembles in the middle of September."

"Well, why not send him with his cousins?" suggested Mr. Marsh. "I
think that would be a good plan. Then you and I could go to Scotland
later in the autumn. How would you like that, eh?"

"Very well," Mrs. Marsh answered, after a minute's reflection. "And I
should be quite contented to trust Edgar with his aunt and uncle, but
perhaps it may not be convenient for them to take him. However, I can
easily ascertain that."

"Oh, they will take him," Mr. Marsh said confidently. "I have no doubt
about that. Make what arrangements you please, my dear. I see by
Edgar's face the plan meets with his approval."

Accordingly, that afternoon Mrs. Marsh repaired to her brother's house
in Princess Street, where she found her sister-in-law and Polly at home.

"I am come to ask a favour of you, Mary," she said, after greetings had
been exchanged, and Mrs. Trent had told her that Cousin Becky was out,
"and I have every hope that you will grant it."

"You may depend I will if I possibly can," was the earnest reply.

"I am sure of it. Well, John does not want to leave home at present,
and of course we wish Edgar to have a change of air during his
holidays, so we have been wondering if we can prevail upon you to take
him with you to Lynn. I am sure he will be very little trouble." She
paused and looked at Mrs. Trent inquiringly. "Of course we will pay you
for his board and lodgings," she added. "We will agree to your terms."

"I was not thinking of that," Mrs. Trent answered, a slight flush
rising to her pale cheeks. As a matter-of-fact it had flashed through
her mind that the charge of her nephew would be a great responsibility,
but she refrained from saying so. "You know, we shall be actually
Cousin Becky's guests," she continued, "but for her we should not be
going away at all, so I must consult her before I give you an answer.
I do not know the exact size of the Mill House, whether there will be
a room to spare for Edgar or not; but if there should be, and Cousin
Becky is willing for him to make one of our party—"

"Well, talk the matter over with her and let me know," broke in Mrs.
Marsh. She was a trifle vexed at the hesitancy in her sister-in-law's
manner, for she had thought she would have immediately acceded to her
request, and she had intended to have had the matter settled at once.

"I hope you will have a pleasant holiday," she proceeded, "for I am
sure you all need it. I was never in Norfolk myself."

"Cousin Becky says the Mill House is only about five minutes' walk from
the sea," explained Polly. "Oh, I am certain we shall have a lovely
time! Isn't it kind of Cousin Becky's friend to lend us the house!"

"Very," agreed Mrs. Marsh. "And you have not the least idea who she is,
have you?"

"No," Mrs. Trent replied; "we only know she is an eccentric lady, who,
when she does a kindness, dislikes being thanked for it. Cousin Becky
has known her all her life."

"Mother, you have not told Aunt Janie about the coin," said Polly,
abruptly changing the conversation.

"I was going to do so in due course, my dear." Turning to her
sister-in-law, Mrs. Trent asked: "You remember that suit of clothes of
Edgar's which you left here in a parcel with some other things, do you
not?"

"When you gave me my purse, Aunt Janie," supplemented Polly.

"Yes," assented Mrs. Marsh. "The suit was faded but very little worn. I
thought Roger might find it useful in the holidays."

"Indeed, he will find it very useful," Mrs. Trent agreed. "Well, this
morning Cousin Becky was examining it to see if it wanted any mending,
when she discovered something between the material and the lining near
the hem of one of the legs of the trousers she ripped the hem and
found an old coin, which Martin says he believes must be one from your
husband's collection. He calls it a Calais Noble."

"A Calais Noble!" echoed Mrs. Marsh. "Are you sure? Why, that is the
coin John lost, and which he has been so worried about. He thought that
it had been stolen. How could it possibly have got where Cousin Becky
found it?"

"There was a little rip in the pocket near the top," Polly was
beginning to explain when her aunt interrupted her excitedly.

"Oh, dear, how sorry I am! Then he did take it, after all! I could not
believe it possible when John suggested it. Oh, Mary, I am so terribly
grieved that this should have happened."

"I don't understand," said Mrs. Trent, in utter bewilderment. "Who do
you imagine took the coin?"

"Roger, of course!"

"Roger!" shrieked Polly, her eyes flashing anger and reproach at her
aunt. "Do you mean to say you think Roger stole it? Oh, you cruel,
wicked—"

"Hush, Polly," commanded her mother sternly. "Please explain your
meaning," she said quickly to Mrs. Marsh. "I fail to see why, because
this coin has been found in Edgar's suit of clothes, you should think
Roger a thief."

"John feared he had taken it," Mrs. Marsh admitted. "He knew he had
had the opportunity of doing so on an occasion when Edgar showed him
the coins, and I believe Edgar told him that this particular coin was
a valuable one. Give me the Calais Noble, Mary, and I will hush the
matter up. I expect after Roger took it he—"

"Roger did not take it!" Polly broke in passionately, regarding her
aunt with defiance. "I am certain he did not; besides, the Calais Noble
was found in Edgar's clothes, not in Roger's."

"Roger has never worn that suit of clothes," declared Mrs. Trent, her
face, which had been very troubled, suddenly clearing. "The coin was
evidently put in the trousers pocket, and I think it is far more likely
that Edgar can account for the coin having been where Cousin Becky
found it than Roger, who never had the clothes in his possession."

There was a long silence, during which Mrs. Marsh's fine colour faded
and her expression became anxious, almost frightened. It did not seem
likely that Edgar should have taken the Calais Noble, and yet she saw
the force of her sister-in-law's argument.

"Where is the coin?" she asked at length, in a faltering tone.

"Father has it," Polly answered. "He is going to return it to Uncle
John; he will be sure to see him this afternoon at the office. Oh, Aunt
Janie, say you don't think Roger took it!"

"I don't know what to say or think," sighed poor Mrs. Marsh. "Does
Roger know where the coin was found?"

"Oh yes! He was so amazed when Cousin Becky told him and showed it to
him. He said at once, 'Why that's Uncle John's Calais Noble!' Didn't
he, mother?"

"Yes, he recognised it immediately," said Mrs. Trent.

Then she remembered how silent Roger had afterwards become, and she
grew a little uneasy again. He had suggested taking the coin to school
and giving it to Edgar to deliver to Mr. Marsh; but his father had
negatived the idea, saying he would return it to his brother-in-law
himself. Roger had appeared rather dissatisfied with that arrangement,
she reflected; she wondered why. She longed for him to return from
school so that she might question him upon the point. Of one thing she
was certain, however, that her boy was not a thief. That there was a
mystery in connection with the Calais Noble was evident, but she never
for a moment doubted that Roger would be able to clear himself from
blame.

"My husband will be pleased to get his coin back, for he set great
store by it," Mrs. Marsh observed, as she rose rather hurriedly to
take her departure. "I am extremely sorry I mentioned his suspicion of
Roger. I feel sure you are right and that he did not take the coin,
though I cannot understand its having been found in Edgar's suit. I
think the best way will be to let the matter stand as it is. You don't
agree with me? Well, I will question Edgar and see if he can throw any
light on the subject. Dear me, what constant worries boys are!"

After she had gone, mother and daughter looked at each other
questioningly, and the latter cried:

"Oh, mother, how dreadful to think that Uncle John believes Roger to be
a thief! How dare he?"

"He will learn his mistake, my dear," Mrs. Trent responded soothingly,
with difficulty concealing her own indignation. "He has misjudged my
boy terribly, I am positive of that."

"He thinks Roger took the coin because it is valuable," the little
girl proceeded, her voice quavering with anger. "He wouldn't think it
if we had plenty of money like himself. Oh, mother, how hard it is to
be poor! I believe that somehow this is Edgar's fault. Oh, whatever
happens don't let him go to Norfolk with us! I shall beg Cousin Becky
not to take him."

"Do nothing of the kind, Polly and I must forbid you to interfere in
this affair of the Calais Noble, my dear, it will be sifted out, never
fear; your father will see to that. It will be better, for everyone
concerned, not to make a fuss about it. I have not the slightest fear
on Roger's account, though I think it is not unlikely that he knows
something about the Calais Noble, that I must find out. It has hurt me
very deeply to hear of your uncle's suspicion, but I am confident Roger
will be able to clear himself from it. The truth always prevails, you
know."

Mrs. Trent's lips quivered as she spoke, and her eyes grew misty with
tears. She had experienced a shock that afternoon, which had shaken her
composure; and she was really quite as indignant as her little daughter
that anyone should deem Roger so utterly devoid of right principle as
to be capable of theft. Anxiously she awaited the boy's arrival; but,
contrary to his custom, he was late for tea; and when five o'clock
struck, Cousin Becky having returned, they had the meal without him.
Miss Trent was informed of all that had occurred during Mrs. Marsh's
visit, and her utter incredulity and amazement when she was told of Mr.
Marsh's suspicion of Roger was witnessed with the keenest relief by the
boy's mother and sister.

"I knew you'd believe in Roger," Polly said tearfully. "I would—against
all the world!"



CHAPTER XIX

AN ACCIDENT TO EDGAR

"MOTHER has gone to see Aunt Mary to ask her to take me to Lynn next
month," Edgar Marsh informed his cousin, as they passed out of the
Grammar School building at about the same time that his mother was
leaving Princess Street. "I say, Roger, shall you like me to go with
you?" he asked eagerly.

"I don't know," Roger answered dubiously. "But how is it you aren't
going for a holiday with Aunt Janie and Uncle John?" he inquired.

"Because father doesn't want to leave home till later. I hope you don't
mind—" Edgar broke off in the midst of the sentence, and regarded his
cousin anxiously.

"Oh, I don't mind. But, look here, I want to speak to you about Uncle
John's Calais Noble. Such an odd thing has happened! Why, how queer you
look!"

Well might Roger say so, for his companion had grown very pale, and
was gazing at him with an expression of mingled dismay and alarm in
his blue eyes; seeing which Roger was confirmed in the suspicion which
had entered his mind as soon as he had heard of Cousin Becky's find.
"Didn't you put the coin back that day you brought it to school?" he
asked. "Did you lose it? What happened, Edgar?"

"I—I don't know what you mean," gasped Edgar.

"Why do you speak of the Calais Noble? What do you know about it?"

"Not so much as you do," Roger replied significantly, with a ring of
scorn in his honest voice. "Why do you try to deceive me? I know you
couldn't have put the coin back in the cabinet as you said you would,
or it wouldn't have been found in your clothes."

"Found in my clothes!" cried Edgar, feeling more and more surprised
and frightened. "Oh, Roger, don't go home yet! Come for a walk with me
where we shan't be disturbed, and tell me what you have found out."

"Well, I will, if you'll promise to tell no more stories," Roger said
relentingly, "not otherwise."

Edgar promised earnestly that he would speak no word which was not
absolutely true; and, accordingly, his cousin accompanied him down a
side street which made a short cut into the road leading to the clay
works, and there, perched by the side of Roger on a five-barred gate,
he explained in faltering tones that he had been unable to put the
Calais Noble back in its rightful place for the simple reason that he
had lost it; whereupon Roger informed him how and where the coin had
been found, after which there was silence for some minutes.

"I'm in a pretty bad fix," Edgar remarked dejectedly, at length,
heaving a deep sigh.

"Why?" asked Roger. "I should think Uncle John will be very glad to get
his Calais Noble back. Aren't you glad it's found?"

"N-o-o, I'd rather not have heard anything more about it. Of course
father missed it, but I—I didn't tell him I'd taken it; he didn't ask
me if I had, so I held my tongue."

Roger stared at his cousin with deepening amazement; then an expression
of contempt crossed his face.

"Father would have been so dreadfully angry if he'd known I'd taken
the Calais Noble to school and lost it," Edgar proceeded excusingly.
"He never guessed I had anything to do with it, he thought it had been
stolen."

"What a coward you are!" Roger exclaimed in a tone which made the other
wince. "Who did Uncle John think had stolen it? One of the servants, I
suppose? What a shame of you to let him think that! I do feel disgusted
with you. But he'll know the truth now."

"Yes," agreed Edgar with a groan of despair. "I wish I'd told him all
about it at the time I lost the coin, but I never thought it would turn
up again. There would have been a row, of course, but it would have all
blown over long before now. You can guess what a state of mind I've
been in lately."

Roger made no response. He could not understand the spirit of cowardice
which had kept his cousin from confessing the truth; but he realised
that the thought of the missing coin must have been a weight upon his
conscience.

"I suppose Uncle Martin has given father the Calais Noble by this
time," Edgar remarked mournfully by-and-by. "He will be sure to tell
him where it was found."

"Sure to," Roger replied; "you'll have to own up, now."

"I see that. I suppose you think pretty badly of me, Roger, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," was the frank admission.

"You'd rather I didn't go with you to Lynn?"

"Well, you see, Edgar, you're not to be trusted," Roger said gravely,
"and I hate having to do with a fellow I can't trust. I like my friends
to 'act on the square,' as father says, but you know you don't do that."

"Then you won't ever be friendly with me again?" Edgar asked in dismay.

"I don't say that, because you're my cousin; but I think you've been a
big coward to let your father believe the Calais Noble had been stolen,
when you knew all the time you'd lost it. I didn't tell at home that
you'd taken it to school because I'd promised you I wouldn't; but, of
course, everyone will know about it now. I shan't hold my tongue any
longer."

"I don't know what Polly will think of me," said Edgar dolefully; for,
truth to tell, he was afraid of the little girl's sharp tongue. "Mother
meant to call to see Aunt Mary this afternoon," he continued, "so I
expect she knows by now that the Calais Noble is found. Oh, dear, what
a to-do there will be when I get home! I do dread it. I wish I hadn't
been a coward and had told father the truth, but—but he would have been
so angry."

"I expect he'll be angrier now, won't he?" questioned Roger.

Edgar nodded, his eyes full of tears, a choking sensation in his
throat. Much though his companion blamed him, he was sorry for him too,
and when he spoke again his voice took a gentler tone.

"Father says if we do anything wrong it's always right and much easier
to confess it at once," he said. "And Uncle John isn't very strict with
you, he wouldn't be hard on you, I know."

"Of course not; but, you see, I had no right to touch his coins."

"There now, that's what father says," said Roger, "it's doing wrong
that makes us cowards. If you'd taken the Calais Noble with Uncle
John's consent you wouldn't have been so afraid to tell him you'd lost
it. But, I say," he proceeded with an abrupt change of the subject as
several carts passed them laden with black clay, "look at the stuff in
those carts! Did you ever see clay like that before?"

"Yes, I saw the pit it comes from the other day; it's the best clay,
father says, and will burn quite white. He hopes there's a big vein of
it; they are at work on one shaft now."

"Let us go on, Edgar, now we're so near the works, and have a look
round, shall we?" Roger suggested.

Edgar hesitated. He was wishful to assent to the proposition, which
would delay his return home for a short while; but he had been
forbidden to visit the clay works—a fact of which his cousin was
unaware. He glanced at his watch—a present he had received from his
parents on his last birthday—and asked:

"Have we time? It is already half-past four."

"I don't want to be home before five," Roger answered, "and I can run
home in quarter of an hour; and as for you—well, I suppose it doesn't
matter to five minutes or so what time you get back, does it?"

Edgar admitted that it did not; and, accordingly, the two boys went on,
passed the cottages, and entered the clay works. Roger was particularly
anxious to see the pit from whence the black clay was procured, and
Edgar felt a sense of importance at being able to tell him all about
it. Several men were at work in the shaft, but they were so busily
employed that for some time they did not notice the two boys standing
on the edge of the pit watching them; at last, however, one chanced to
glance up, and immediately shouted a warning to be careful.

"All right," Roger replied, moving back at once. "We'd better not go
too close, Edgar. Come away."

There had been heavy rain during the night, consequently the ground was
very cloggy, and as Roger looked back to ascertain if his cousin was
coming, he was horrified to see Edgar, who had turned around to follow
him, slip, and with a piercing yell of terror fall backwards into the
mouth of the pit.

In a moment the scene was one of the greatest confusion, for the
accident had been witnessed by several men engaged in loading
carts with clay, and they one and all rushed to the spot where the
unfortunate boy had fallen, shouting questions to those below. For a
minute Roger was too shocked to move, and when he would have joined
the group at the edge of the shaft, someone caught him by the arm and
stopped him.

"Let me go to him!" Roger implored. "Oh, poor, poor Edgar! He must have
been killed. Oh, please, let me go to him!"

"No, sir," replied a familiar voice, and, looking quickly at his
captor, the little boy recognised Caleb Glubb. "You wait here with me
till we hear more about what's happened. My mate's gone to find out if
your cousin's much injured, or—" The man paused with a shudder. "You
can't do any good if I let you go," he added, "you'd better wait, it
won't be for long."

Roger's teeth chattered with fright, and his legs trembled so much that
he could scarcely stand, but he tried to restrain his emotion, whilst a
wild prayer of agony to God rose from his heart. Oh, how awful if Edgar
should have been killed! Who would tell the harrowing news to Aunt
Janie and Uncle John? So engrossed was he in contemplating the horrors
of what might be that he never noticed the arrival of his uncle's
dog-cart, nor did he see his uncle hurry past him to the mouth of the
pit; but, presently, he became aware that Caleb Glubb was speaking
again.

"They've brought him up, Master Roger," Caleb said. "He's unconscious,
but they say he isn't dead; maybe, after all, he's not very badly hurt."

"Let me go and find out," Roger said huskily, moving forward. There was
a mist in front of his eyes, but he saw several figures bending over
the inanimate form of his cousin at a little distance. "Is he dead?" he
asked with a sob. "Oh!" he cried as he caught sight of Edgar's pallid
face and closed eyes. "Tell me he is not dead!"

"No, no," someone answered, "and no bones are broken; the injury seems
to be to his head. He fell on a piece of timber and stunned himself."

Roger did not hear the completion of the sentence, for suddenly he
found himself confronted by his uncle's familiar figure.

"Uncle John!" he gasped, terror-stricken by the sight of Mr. Marsh's
countenance, which was ghastly in its pallor. "Oh, Uncle John!"

His uncle took him by the arm and drew him aside so that they could not
be overheard.

"How is it you are here?" he demanded sternly. "Did you persuade Edgar
to come?" Then, as Roger assented, never dreaming of explaining how
little persuasion had been required, he continued, "I thought as much.
Go home and keep out of my sight. I never wish to see you again. You
are a worse boy than I thought. Go."

"But is Edgar much hurt?" asked Roger, too full of anxiety on his
cousin's account to resent his uncle's words. "Oh, Uncle John, tell me,
do!"

"I don't know myself," Mr. Marsh replied. "I have sent for a doctor and
a carriage to convey my poor boy home. The best thing you can do is to
go home yourself."

Roger obeyed without further demur; and half an hour later he turned
the corner of Princess Street, and caught sight of Polly's face at the
sitting-room window. She saw at once that something had happened, and
met him at the front door; but he brushed past her into his mother's
presence, and flung himself, weeping bitterly, into his mother's arms.
It was such an unusual sight to see her brother in tears that the
little girl was struck with mingled awe and dismay; but when, between
his sobs, he explained what had happened, she no longer wondered at his
emotion, but cried bitterly too.



CHAPTER XX

COUSIN BECKY TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE

ALL was bustle and confusion at the Rookery when Edgar was brought
home, for the news of the accident had so frightened Mrs. Marsh that
she had been utterly incapable of giving any instructions to the
servants, and, at the sight of her son's unconscious form, she had
become so completely unnerved that the doctor, seeing that he could not
rely upon her for assistance, had requested her to remain downstairs
until he had satisfied himself as to the extent of Edgar's injuries.
At the present moment the unhappy mother, overcome with grief and
suspense, was pacing up and down the hall, waiting for news of her
boy—Edgar had been conveyed to his own bedroom—and bemoaning her
inexperience of sickness and her lack of self-control.

"It terrified me to see his dear face looking so deathly," she wailed,
when one of the servants ventured a word of consolation. "I could not
help crying out. Who's that? There's someone at the front door."

As she spoke the front door opened, and Cousin Becky and Mr. Trent
entered, their faces expressive of the greatest concern and sympathy.
Cousin Becky had come to know if she could be of any assistance, "for I
have seen much sickness and I am really a capital nurse," she explained
as Mrs. Marsh regarded her more than a little doubtfully.

"How good of you to come!" Mrs. Marsh replied, much touched. "They have
taken my poor boy upstairs, but the doctor will not allow me in his
room because I cannot help crying—I fear I am very foolish. Oh, Cousin
Becky, I am so thankful you are here."

Cousin Becky divested herself of her bonnet and cloak, and handed them
to a servant; then she turned again to Mrs. Marsh, and said: "I am
going upstairs at once to offer my services as a nurse. Your brother
will remain with you, for I know he will not return to Princess Street
until he has heard the doctor's report."

"I will show you Edgar's room," Mrs. Marsh said, and she preceded the
old lady upstairs. On the first landing she pointed to a closed door,
and whispered: "In there."

Cousin Becky nodded; and Mrs. Marsh watched her as she quietly opened
the door and entered the sick room. The next moment the door was closed
again; and, though the anxious mother listened attentively, no sound
reached her ears; so, very sick at heart, she went downstairs and
joined her brother. She was much calmer now, and able to discuss what
had happened; she admitted that Edgar had been forbidden to visit the
clay works.

"Roger was with him and witnessed the accident," Mr. Trent informed
her. "It has been a great shock to him, as you may imagine. It appears
he asked Edgar to accompany him to see a new shaft which had lately
been opened; he did not know Edgar had been told not to go there. Oh,
Janie, thank God your boy was not killed! He might have been, indeed it
was marvellous he was not. Fortunately his fall was broken by a wide
piece of timber which spanned the shaft, and a man who was standing on
the timber at work caught him, or he would have rebounded and fallen to
the bottom of the pit. I heard all about it from another man who was
at work in the same shaft. Come, try not to cry any more, but pluck up
your heart, for there is every reason to hope that Edgar is not very
seriously hurt. He will have the best that human skill can do for him;
and he is in God's care, dear Janie, don't forget that."

Mrs. Marsh's tears continued to flow, but her brother's words comforted
her, and her face brightened as she remarked: "It was very good of
Cousin Becky to come to us in our trouble."

"Cousin Becky is very good and kind," Mr. Trent answered. "Directly
she heard of poor Edgar's accident she thought you would want help and
suggested offering her services to you. You were wise to accept them,
and I am sure she will be a great comfort to you."

Mrs. Marsh did indeed find Cousin Becky a great comfort to her in the
anxious days which followed, for, though it proved that Edgar had not
been dangerously injured, he had slight concussion of the brain and
required careful nursing. And, with the best intentions in the world,
his mother was very incapable in sickness, so that it was upon Cousin
Becky that most of the nursing fell. Cousin Becky was so quiet and
gentle in her ways, her voice was so soft and soothing that it did not
worry an aching head, and she was so unfailingly cheerful, whilst her
skirts never rustled, and her footsteps could scarcely be heard. In
short, she was a perfect nurse.

It was several days after his accident before Edgar was in a fit
condition to think of anything; but, with returning strength, he
remembered many matters to worry about, and he became very troubled
and unhappy. His father visited him every morning before he went to
business; but he never mentioned anything he thought would distress
his little son, so that no word had been said concerning Edgar's
disobedience in going to the clay works, and there was still the
mysterious disappearance of the Calais Noble to be explained. His
mother, too, though she spent hours by his bedside daily now, would not
permit him to talk on any unpleasant subject, and stopped him with a
kiss when he began to say that he was sorry he had been disobedient and
caused everyone so much anxiety and trouble.

"Don't talk about it, darling," she said tenderly. "You were no more to
blame than Roger."

"It was not Roger's fault; mother," he told her earnestly, "I did not
tell him I had been forbidden to go to the clay pits. Roger must not be
blamed."

"Very well, dearie," Mrs. Marsh replied soothingly, "but don't think
about what is past. We want you to make haste and get well."

During the first few days of his illness Edgar had progressed very
favourably; but now the doctor was not so satisfied with him, and was
puzzled to account for his restless, feverish condition. Cousin Becky,
who was a very shrewd observer, thought the patient had something on
his mind, and one afternoon, when she was left alone in charge of the
little boy, instead of discouraging him when he showed an inclination
to become confidential, she sat down on a chair by the bed where she
could watch him, and allowed him to talk.

"Have you seen Roger lately, Cousin Becky?" he asked.

"Not since the night of your accident, my dear," she answered. "You
know the holidays have commenced, and your cousins and your aunt and
uncle have gone to Lynn."

"What, without you?" he cried in surprise.

"Of course," Cousin Becky replied with a soft laugh, "or I should not
be here with you now."

"But I thought you intended going with them?"

"I hope to join them later on when you are better, my dear boy. I have
promised your mother to remain at the Rookery till you are properly
convalescent."

"Thank you so much," he said gratefully, "I—I really don't think I can
do without you yet; that is, unless you want to go very particularly.
Do you know there was a talk of my going to Lynn too? Mother and father
wished it; but Roger didn't want me, and I don't suppose Polly did
either."

"Why not, my dear?"

"Because—because—Roger said I was not to be trusted, and, it's true,
I'm not. You don't know what a bad boy I've been, no one knows except
Roger, I had to tell him."

He raised himself in bed as he spoke and looked at his companion with
feverishly bright eyes. "You found the Calais Noble," he said with a
slight sob, "so you know something about it, but not all. I took it
from father's cabinet to show it to a boy at school, weeks ago, and
I lost it; but I never told father, I was afraid to, because it's a
valuable coin and very rare. Father thought Roger had stolen it, I
heard him tell mother so, and—and I let him believe it. Oh, no wonder
you look so surprised and shocked! Oh, dear, you'll never like me
again!" And the little boy burst into a storm of tears.

Cousin Becky made no response; but she rose and put her arms around his
quivering form, and her silent sympathy soothed and comforted him. He
felt she understood his remorse and his wretchedness; and, by-and-by
when he grew calmer, he told her the whole story of his cowardice, and,
in her pity for his distress of mind, she volunteered to lay all the
details before his parents.

"They will forgive you, I know, for you are so very dear to them both,"
she said earnestly; "but at the same time I am sure they will be very
hurt to think that you allowed them to harbour a baseless suspicion
of your cousin, simply to save yourself from blame. And Roger is so
straightforward, too!"

"Yes!" sighed Edgar. "It has made me dreadfully miserable to know that
father thought badly of him."

"And yet you had not the pluck to acknowledge the truth and clear his
character in your father's eyes! Oh, child, why cannot you be straight
like your cousin? Do you not wish to be honourable and truthful?"

"Oh yes! But—but it's so difficult."

"Do you pray for strength to overcome this moral weakness of yours?"
Cousin Becky asked, her bright dark eyes watching him anxiously.

"No," he admitted. "I—I never thought of doing that."

"It's only by prayer and God's help that you can do it, my dear boy.
You know what is right; and yet, to save yourself punishment and blame,
you deliberately take a crooked path. It is the greatest thing in the
world to be true, for only the truthful soul can ever be happy and
fearless. 'Great is the truth, and it will prevail.' That is a proverb
worth remembering. Do try to bear it in mind, and humbly ask your
Father in Heaven to make you a better—a more truthful boy. God has been
very merciful to you, my dear. Have you thought how very near you were
to meeting a shocking death when you fell down that clay shaft? You had
almost a miraculous escape. Have you thanked God for sparing your life?"

"No, but I will," Edgar responded earnestly. "Oh, Cousin Becky, I am so
ashamed of myself altogether; you do believe that, don't you?"

"Yes, my dear, I do."

"And will, you try to make mother and father believe it also?"

"I will do my best. Now lie down and rest. I want you to get well and
strong as soon as possible, and then I am going to ask your parents a
favour."

"What is that?" Edgar inquired as he sank wearily back upon his pillows.

"I am going to ask them to let me take you with me to Lynn."

"Oh, Cousin Becky, after—after all you know about me?"

"Yes; because I believe you're going to turn over a new leaf and try
to walk a straight path in the future—because I'm going to trust you,"
said Cousin Becky as she tucked the bed-clothes around him. She bent
over him and kissed him affectionately; but he made no reply, he was
too deeply touched. Then she withdrew to the window, where she stood
looking thoughtfully out into the sunlit garden until she heard by the
patient's regular breathing that he had fallen asleep.

That evening Miss Trent told Mr. and Mrs. Marsh the true story of the
loss of the Calais Noble. It was a blow to both of them to learn how
their son had behaved; but it came less as a surprise to Mrs. Marsh
than to her husband, who reproached himself bitterly for his suspicion
of Roger. Needless to say, Edgar was forgiven; but his parents were
deeply grieved and mortified that he should have acted so deceptively
and allowed his cousin to be blamed in his stead, and Mrs. Marsh was
troubled by the remembrance of her last visit to Princess Street, when,
in her surprise at hearing the Calais Noble had been found, she had
spoken as though Roger was the culprit who had taken the coin.

At first Mr. Marsh absolutely refused his permission for Edgar to
accompany Miss Trent to Norfolk when the project was broached to him.
He thought, under the circumstances, that it would be pleasanter for
his cousins to be without him, he said. However, Cousin Becky begged
him to reconsider the matter and to let the boy go with her as a favour
to herself, and, reflecting that they were under a great obligation to
her, he felt he must give in to her wish.

"It shall be as you please," he said at length; "you have been very
kind to us, and it is exceedingly good of you to burden yourself with
the charge of our wayward boy. We are deeply indebted to you, indeed."

"You were in trouble and wanted me," said Cousin Becky simply. "I am
very glad to have been of use."

The colour deepened in Mrs. Marsh's cheeks as, at that moment, she met
the old lady's glance, for she could not help remembering that she had
declined to have Cousin Becky beneath her roof as a guest only a few
months ago, and she felt suddenly abashed. Perhaps memory was busy,
with Cousin Becky, too; if so, her countenance did not show it, and
there was nothing but kindness and goodwill in the expression of her
bright, dark eyes, though there lurked a slight gleam of humour in
their tranquil depths.



CHAPTER XXI

AT THE MILL HOUSE

The Mill House at Lynn was a picturesque old dwelling, with a smooth
lawn stretching before its front windows, and a large kitchen garden
at the back, beyond which was the mill leat and the big mill wheel,
which was silent nowadays; for, like so many small grist-mills, this
one did not pay to work. No one at Lynn knew much of the present
owner of the Mill House, except that she was an elderly lady who had
purchased the house for a country residence some few years previously,
though she seldom chose to occupy it. An old man and his wife—Jabez
and Sarah Triggs—dwelt there as caretakers; and they made it known in
the village, when one day at the commencement of August strangers took
possession of the Mill House, that their mistress had lent the house to
some friends for a few weeks.

The Trents had been in residence at the Mill House for nearly a
fortnight when there arrived a letter from Cousin Becky intimating that
she hoped to join them shortly and bring Edgar with her. The news was
received with very mingled feelings by the young folks of the family.
Like their elders, they had been greatly disappointed at having had to
leave Cousin Becky at Beaworthy; but Mr. Trent had arranged the time
for his holiday, and Cousin Becky had begged them to go to Norfolk
without her, which they had accordingly done. Delighted though they
were to know that the old lady would soon be with them to share in
their enjoyments, it must be admitted that there was not a member of
the Trent family who would not have been better pleased if she had been
coming alone; and when, one morning, at the breakfast table, Mrs. Trent
put down the letter she had been reading and announced that Cousin
Becky and Edgar might be expected on the following day, Polly and Roger
exchanged quick glances and became suddenly thoughtful.

"It is good news to hear Edgar is well enough to travel," Mrs. Trent
remarked. "I am glad he is making such a quick recovery."

"So am I," rejoined Roger heartily; "but, somehow, I wish he wasn't
coming. We've had such a happy time, and he's sure to spoil everything."

"And he's been so horrid to you, Roger!" Polly exclaimed resentfully.
"Of course, I've been sorry for him since he's been ill; but think
how he's made you suffer for his fault. He didn't mind letting you be
thought a thief."

"That's what I feel I can't forgive him for," Roger said, turning
crimson with indignation at the remembrance. "When you told me all Aunt
Janie had said and I recollected how Uncle John had spoken to me, I—oh,
I can't explain what I felt! And even now, when everyone knows it was
Edgar himself who lost the Calais Noble, and Uncle John has written me
such a nice, kind letter, I can't help being furious against Edgar for
letting people think so badly of me."

"He has made all the reparation possible," Mr. Trent said gravely,
regarding his little son with a look of understanding and sympathy.
"You know, Cousin Becky wrote in her last letter that he had made a
clean breast of everything, even to his knowledge of the suspicion
his parents had entertained of you. I confess I wish Cousin Becky was
coming without him; but, as she has elected to bring him with her, we
must make the best of him. Remember, he has been ill, and it will be
far more trying for him to meet you. Roger, whom he has wronged, than
it will be for you to meet him."

Roger made no answer; but his face wore a very thoughtful expression as
he looked out of the open window, his eyes wandering over golden corn
fields, dotted with scarlet poppies waving in the pleasant breeze, to
distant sand-dunes and woods, between which and the corn fields ran a
silvery river on its course to the German Ocean. Here and there was to
be seen a windmill with extended sails; but there was no sight of any
habitation, for the village of Lynn was only to be seen from the back
windows, as it lay between the Mill House and the sea.

"What time are Cousin Becky and Edgar coming, mother?" inquired Polly
by-and-by.

"They will arrive at about six o'clock in the evening, my dear. Louisa
and I will have to be rather busy this morning, so you must go with
your father and Roger, if they will take you."

"Of course we will," Mr. Trent replied, smiling. "We have planned a
sail—that is, if the wind is suitable."

"There's Jabez in the garden, let us ask him what he thinks of the
weather before we start," said Polly as they all rose from the table.

Accordingly, whilst Mr. Trent lingered conversing with his wife, the
children repaired to the front garden to interview Jabez Triggs. He
was a tall, old man, whose duty it was to attend to the Mill House
gardens. Until the last few years he had been a fisherman, and he was
as interesting to talk to as sea-faring people usually are; he had on
several occasions greatly entertained Polly and Roger with stories of
the wonderful adventures he had experienced in his youthful days, and
had been gratified by the attention with which they had listened to
him. They thought him the nicest old man they had ever met, and Polly
consulted him every morning as to what the weather was likely to be
during the day. Sometimes he became quite confidential with her, and
once he had told her that his wife, being deaf, had the advantage of
him in many ways.

"You see, missie, a man can't argue with a woman who's as deaf as a
post," he had said aggrievedly, "and, though, maybe, it's all for
the best, it's hard on me, you'll agree. Sarah's a good wife and as
trustworthy as—but, there, we're both that, I hope, and Miss Trent
knows it, or she wouldn't have put us in charge of the Mill House."

"Did Cousin Becky—that's Miss Trent, you know—get you your situation
here?" Polly had inquired curiously.

"Why, of course, missie," the old man had replied, evidently surprised
at her question. "She heard tell of Sarah and me in the village—how we
were getting up in years and had always been respectable people, and
she offered us the post of caretakers, and here we've been for nigh
four years now. I often think what a blow it must have been to poor
Miss Trent to have lost her brother, so wrapped up in him as she was,"
the old man had concluded meditatively.

On this particular morning, Jabez Triggs, upon being consulted,
foretold a fine day, and declared the fresh wind was blowing the right
sort of breeze for a pleasant sail, with no chance of a squall. Then
Polly informed him that Miss Trent was expected on the morrow, and his
weather-beaten countenance broke into a beaming smile.

"Well, I am pleased to hear it," he said with a glad ring in his voice,
"and Sarah will be, too, I'll answer for that. I must run over the
grass with the machine this afternoon; but I don't think Miss Trent
will find the gardens have been neglected, and she was never one to
complain without cause."

The children spent a delightful morning with their father, sailing; and
when they returned at dinner-time, they were in high spirits, and their
faces, which had already become sun-burnt, glowed with excitement as
they proudly presented their mother with several fine mackerel which
they had caught by means of a hook and a line. Mrs. Trent had been
assisting Louisa to prepare the bedrooms for Cousin Becky and Edgar,
and had passed a busy morning; but she was looking very bright, and was
not feeling in the least over-tired. The complete change of air and
scene was doing her an immense deal of good, and though they had been
barely a fortnight at the Mill House, she had lost much of the languor
which had characterised her movements during the height of the summer
at Beaworthy, and it was no exertion for her to be cheerful now.

"I believe Cousin Becky will find us all looking better," Mr. Trent
said complacently. "I know I feel it myself."

And when, on the following evening, Cousin Becky arrived with her
pale-faced little companion, her very first words were to exclaim
joyfully how well and bright everyone was looking. Edgar found himself
greeted very kindly by his aunt and uncle, whilst Polly was quite
touched by his wan appearance, and regarded him commiseratingly as she
addressed him in a much friendlier tone than she had intended to adopt.

"Dear me, you do look bad," she said candidly. "I don't think I ever
saw anyone look worse. Do you feel ill now?"

"No," he answered, "not at all, thank you. I'm all right." Although
he was speaking to Polly he was looking at Roger the while. Roger had
shaken hands with him, but he had not uttered a word, nor had he met
the appealing glance of his cousin's eyes.

"You don't look all right," Polly remarked, "you've altered a great
deal. I suppose you are still rather weak, and that makes your voice
sound so quivery."

"Of course I feel not quite myself," Edgar admitted. "My head gets
dizzy and my legs shake, but I'm getting better every day."

Edgar was sent to bed early on the night of his arrival at the Mill
House, for he was naturally very tired after his journey. His aunt came
to say good-night to him the last thing before she went to her own
room, also Cousin Becky, and his uncle paused at his door to call to
him, "Goodnight, Edgar. Pleasant dreams, my boy."

An hour previously he had heard Polly and Roger whispering on the
landing; neither of them had entered his room, however, nor spoken to
him; and now, when all the household had retired for the night, he lay
awake, physically weary, but too troubled to sleep, tortured by the
haunting thought that his cousins were displeased he had come. He was
unwelcome, he was sure of that, for, though Polly had certainly spoken
to him kindly on his arrival—he was grateful to her for having done
so—neither she nor her brother had taken any further notice of him
during the rest of the evening, and Roger had not even looked at him
once.

"I suppose he hates me, and I'm sure it's no wonder," Edgar thought
miserably, bursting at last into a flood of tears.

He hid his head under the bed-clothes and tried to stifle his sobs; but
Roger, in bed in the next room, on the point of falling asleep, heard
them, and was on the alert in a moment. He had determined to keep his
cousin at a distance; but the sounds of his passionate weeping made him
feel very uneasy. What could be the meaning of Edgar's crying like that?

"I suppose he's doing it because he's been bad," he muttered. "But
what a booby he is! He'll make himself ill again if he doesn't mind. I
suppose I'd better go and find out what's wrong."

Accordingly he got up, and, stepping noiselessly so as not to disturb
the other members of the household, went to Edgar's room. It was not
quite dark, for the blinds were not drawn, and the moon was up. Edgar
was crying less noisily now; but he did not hear Roger's footsteps
approach the bed, so that he started up with a faint cry of surprise
and alarm when someone pulled the bed-clothes from off his head and
demanded to be told what all the row was about.

"Oh, Roger," he gasped. "Is it you?"

"Yes. What are you blubbering about?" Roger asked bluntly. "I can't
sleep if you go on like that—crying like a girl! Why, Polly wouldn't do
it. She'd be ashamed."

"I'm very sorry," whimpered Edgar, "but I—I can't help it."

"Are you feeling ill?" Roger questioned more gently. "If that's it, I'd
better speak to mother or Cousin Becky."

"No, no. I'm not ill; it's only that I'm so miserable because of the
way I've behaved about—about you."

"So you ought to be!"

"I know, I know! I'm very sorry, Roger, I am, indeed!"

"I should just think you are! But it's no good howling about it and
keeping me awake. Do shut up and go to sleep." Roger spoke gruffly,
but in his heart of hearts he was sorry for his cousin's distress. The
moonlight showed him such a wan, thin face, with big, hollow, blue eyes
which sought his wistfully. "I daresay you feel pretty bad in your
mind," he proceeded, "I should if I were you; but Cousin Becky wrote
that Aunt Janie and Uncle John had forgiven you everything, and—"

"Yes; but you haven't forgiven me," Edgar interrupted with a sob.
"Don't you think you ever will?"

"I—I—I have," Roger answered slowly. "I didn't think I could, but I
have. I couldn't say, 'Our Father' if I hadn't. And, look here, don't
talk any more about it—that will help me to forget."

"Oh, Roger!" There was amazement and a world of thankfulness in Edgar's
eager voice. "I've been so mean, so cowardly," he said deprecatingly,
"and you—you're such a brick!"

"Oh, shut up!" Roger responded impolitely, with a yawn. "Do lie down
and go to sleep. I'm going back to bed, I'm getting quite cold. What
are you doing?" he cried, as the other flung his arms around his
neck and, in a transport of gratitude, kissed him upon the cheek. "I
don't know what's come to you to-night," he continued when his cousin
released him and he retreated towards the door. "What do you think the
boys at school would say if they saw you do that? We're not girls. I
shan't tell Polly; but—mind you don't do it again."

"I won't," Edgar promised. "I don't know what made me then, only I felt
I must because—because you're been so awfully good to me."

Then as Roger's white-clad figure stole out of the room, and he was
alone once more, he lay himself back in bed thinking that surely this
cousin of his was the noblest, most generous boy in the world. He
had not deserved Roger's forgiveness, that he knew well; he had been
treated far, far better than he had deserved.



CHAPTER XXII

AN UNFORESEEN EXPERIENCE

It was wonderful how quickly Edgar improved in health and spirits after
his arrival at the Mill House. In a very few days he was able to join
his cousins in their amusements, and showed no sign of spoiling their
pleasure as they had feared he would do. Surely some great change
had taken place in the boy to make him so different from the old
Edgar, who had set his own pleasure above every other consideration,
for now, though the selfishness he had cultivated so long peeped out
occasionally, he was evidently trying to check it, and—a more difficult
task still—he was earnestly endeavouring to be straightforward in word
and deed. Much to his relief no one mentioned the subject of the Calais
Noble, not even Polly, who, however, made him give her a description of
his accident, afterwards remarking that it could have been actually no
worse than a nightmare such as she had frequently experienced herself
when she had dreamt of falling over a precipice and had awakened to
find herself safe in bed.

"Yes, it was just like that," Edgar replied, "only I awoke with a
frightful headache. Wasn't I surprised to see Cousin Becky there!
Mother says she shall never be able to repay her for her kindness to
me."

"And yet Aunt Janie wouldn't ask her to stay at the Rookery when she
wrote about coming to Beaworthy," Polly reminded him, for she had an
excellent memory. "Cousin Becky belongs more to us than she does to
you, Edgar, you must see that," she added; and her cousin did not argue
the point.

All too quickly the August days passed by, and Mr. Trent's three weeks'
holiday was nearly spent when he received a letter—as welcome as it
was unexpected—from his employer, telling him he could be spared from
the office for another week. Everyone was delighted, and Polly fairly
lost her head and capered round the dining-room in her excitement on
learning the contents of her uncle's letter.

"A whole week longer in this beautiful place!" she exclaimed
ecstatically. "Oh, I do hope the weather will continue fine so that we
can spend most of the time out-of-doors! What are we all going to do
to-day?"

"I intend to hire a pony carriage—there is one to be had in the
village—and take your mother and Cousin Becky for a drive this
afternoon, Polly," her father informed her. "So you young people will
have to find your own amusements."

"We can easily do that," she replied; and the boys agreed.

Accordingly, after dinner, when their elders had started for their
drive, the children, left to their own devices, wandered through the
village to the beach. The tide was out, and they walked round the
cliffs, pretending they were explorers in a strange country where they
had to guard against sudden attacks from wild beasts and savages. This
game amused them for some time; but it was tiring making their way on
the wet sand, and when they came to a pretty little cove, they sat down
beneath the shelter of the cliffs to rest.

"We're safe here," remarked Edgar, "because if the tide came in and we
couldn't get back to Lynn by the shore, the cliffs are not very steep,
we could easily climb them."

"Yes I but it takes the tide a long time to come in," Polly replied. "I
don't think it's low water yet."

"Oh yes, it is," corrected her cousin. "Jabez Triggs told me it would
be low water at three o'clock, and it must be quite that. Why, it's
past four," he amended, as he took out his watch and looked at it. "How
the afternoon has flown!"

"And what an age we've been coming here!" exclaimed Roger, surprised at
the time.

"We've had a fine game," said the little girl, taking off her
broad-brimmed straw hat and fanning her hot face with it. "How we
shall think and talk of all the fun we've had here when we get home—to
Beaworthy, I mean! I wonder if we shall come to the Mill House another
year? I asked Cousin Becky, and she said it was quite possible."

"I never enjoyed a holiday so much in my life before," Edgar declared.
"I'd much rather stay at a village than at a larger place. Last year we
went to Bournemouth, and I had a dreadfully slow time. I say, what an
old chap Jabez Triggs is, isn't he?"

"Yes, but I like him," Roger answered, "he tells such exciting stories.
What do you think he told me yesterday? Why, that not very many years
ago there were acres of land between the village and the sea, and now
you know the houses are close to the beach."

"How's that?" questioned Polly.

"Because the sea is gradually sucking away the land," her brother
explained.

"Some people believe there are villages buried beneath the sea, and the
fisher folk say they can sometimes hear the bells ringing in church
towers—"

"Under the sea?" interposed Edgar unbelievingly.

"Yes, but perhaps that's not true, they may only fancy it," Roger
admitted. "But Jabez says every storm takes away a bit of the land,
that's quite certain. He remembers when he was a boy that a whole row
of cottages was washed away one night; he pointed out to me the spot
where they used to stand, and even when it's low tide it's covered with
deep water now."

Polly gave a little shudder, and listened in silence whilst her
companions continued their conversation. She was glad there had been no
storm during their sojourn at the Mill House, for the thought of the
encroaching sea was somewhat alarming to her mind.

"I think it's about time we went home," she observed at length, as she
put on her hat and rose to her feet. "The tide seems to be coming in
very fast now, so we ought to be going, for I know one can only get to
this cove at low water."

"Polly is nervous," said Roger teasingly. "All right, we'll come; but
there's no need to hurry."

The little girl was not certain of that; however, she held her peace
and walked ahead of the boys in the direction of the point which hid
the cove from sight of the village of Lynn. By-and-by she turned and
came running back. "It's no good going on," she informed them, a
startled expression in her eyes, "for the tide's come in, and—and—"
She paused, looking anxiously at the cliffs which she knew they would
now be obliged to climb, and she shuddered as she reflected how easily
she became giddy. "I wish we'd turned back before," she added with a
tremble in her voice.

The boys hastened on to the point, but they could not get around it,
for, as Polly had represented to them, the sea had come in, and they
were cut off from Lynn. However, they were not in the least dismayed.

"This is something like an adventure," Roger said as he and his cousin
joined his sister again. "Why, Polly, how scared you look! We can
easily get home by the cliffs."

"You may, but I can't," Polly replied despondently. "I shall be sure to
get giddy and fall."

"Oh, nonsense!" her brother exclaimed impatiently. "You'll be all
right. I'll go ahead and give you a hand. It will be rare fun, you'll
see."

Polly doubted it, and the expression of her face was so dolorous that
her companions both burst out laughing. Greatly offended, she turned
from them and made her way towards the base of the cliffs, her figure
held very upright—as though she had swallowed a poker, as she heard
Roger tell Edgar—and her heart indignant against her brother and cousin
alike. Her eyes were full of angry tears which blurred her sight; and
perhaps that accounted for what followed; for, suddenly, she slipped on
a piece of seaweed and fell, twisting her ankle as she did so.

"Oh, Polly, you should be more careful!" exclaimed Roger as he darted
forward and assisted his sister to get up. She clung to him for a
minute, then sank back on the ground. "What's the matter?" he asked
anxiously.

"I've hurt my foot, Roger; I can't go any further."

"But, Polly, you must," he insisted, with a swift glance seawards.

"And I tell you I can't," she said, beginning to cry. "I can't walk,
it—it hurts me."

"Oh, here's a pretty kettle of fish!" cried Roger, looking despairingly
at his sister.

"Can't you really walk, Polly?" questioned Edgar. "At any rate, try."

She made the attempt; but the few steps she took caused her keen pain;
to climb the cliff was out of the question. "She can't do it," Edgar
said decidedly. "It's cruel to try and make her. Don't cry, Polly.
We'll go back to Lynn and get a boat to fetch you."

"But supposing the tide comes up before you have time to get the boat
here?" she inquired. "It's coming in very fast. Oh, do you mean to say
you are going to leave me alone?"

"One of us will stay with you if you wish it," said Roger, beginning to
realise the gravity of their position. "I'll stay whilst Edgar—"

"No, you go, Roger, because you'll be quicker than I could be," Edgar
interrupted. "You can run much faster than I can, and when you reach
the top of the cliff you must run all the way to Lynn, because—because
I think there isn't much time to waste," he concluded in rather a
trembling tone.

"Yes, yes, you go, Roger," urged Polly eagerly, for she had more
confidence in her brother than in her cousin. "Edgar's quite right, he
wouldn't be so quick as you."

"All right, then; I'm off," Roger answered. "I won't be longer than I
can possibly help. Don't get low-spirited, Polly."

They watched him nimbly climb the side of the cliff, which presented
no difficulties to him, for he was sure-footed and possessed a steady
head. On reaching the summit he shouted and waved his handkerchief
encouragingly, then disappeared from view. Polly heaved a sigh of
relief, and expressed a hope that they would not have a great while
to wait, to which her companion made no response. He was watching the
incoming tide, and trying to calculate how long it would be before it
would reach the bottom of the cliffs; he trusted nothing would happen
to delay Roger on his mission.

"It's good of you to stay with me," Polly said gratefully, at length.
"I suppose it was selfish of me not to want to be left alone. Isn't it
nearly time for the boat to come?"

Edgar shook his head and he became silent, whilst they both listened to
the soft lap-lap of the waves as they slowly drew nearer and nearer.
Polly crouched on the ground close to the cliff, her face pale and
frightened, and Edgar stood by her side, eagerly watching the point
around which the expected boat must appear. Slowly the time dragged on
until Roger had been gone more than an hour, and only about a dozen
yards of sand divided the children from the water now.

"What shall we do if the tide comes right up to us?" asked Polly, in
a voice which betrayed the intensest anxiety. "Shall you climb up the
cliff?"

"And leave you? No, no, I won't do that. But I think we shall see a
boat soon now. I wonder which of us will see it first."

He tried to speak cheerily for the sake of his companion, but a sense
of terrible fear and hopelessness was creeping over him. He glanced at
Polly; but instead of watching for the boat, she had covered her face
with her hands, and he guessed she was praying. Then from the depths
of his heart he prayed, too; and, mingled with his earnest petition
for deliverance from the incoming tide was the prayer that, whatever
happened, he might not, on this occasion, prove himself a coward.



CHAPTER XXIII

RESCUED

NEARER and nearer the sea approached the cliffs; on—on it came, until
at length a little rippling wave out-did its fellows and flowed in
almost to the children's feet. Polly uttered a shriek of terror, and
clutched her cousin by the arm.

"Oh, Edgar, we shall be drowned!" she wailed. "What can we do? Oh, what
can we do?"

"We must try to climb a short way up the cliff, Polly," he replied,
endeavouring to speak reassuringly and hide his own alarm. "Come, I'll
help you. I'm sure you can do it if you will only try."

"I can't, I can't! Oh, Edgar, you had better leave me; you'll be
drowned, too, if you stay here. Oh, I'm so frightened, but—but you
mustn't stay with me any longer. Go! Go!"

"I shall do no such thing," he declared stoutly. "But I do think you're
very silly and—and unkind not to try to climb a short distance. Would
you rather stay here and let us both be drowned?"

"No, no! But my foot hurts me so dreadfully if I rest on it."

"If you could manage to get as far as there," Edgar said persuasively,
indicating a ledge of rock not far above their heads, "we should be
safe for another half-hour; do try, Polly. See—" and he climbed a few
feet up the cliff, "give me your hand, and try to bear the pain."

There was a minute or two of great anxiety as Polly, driven to
desperation, clutched his hand, and, with many exclamations and groans,
scrambled after him and perched herself on the ledge, by his side, in
comparative safety.

"Oh, my foot!" she sobbed, as she leaned against the cliff and tenderly
felt her injured ankle. "Oh, I'm so giddy! I dare not look down."

"Well, don't," he replied. "I'm sorry your foot is hurting you so much,
but aren't you glad you're here?"

"Yes, of course I am. I—I don't want to be drowned. Oh, surely we shall
see a boat coming soon! What can Roger be doing to be so long?"

"It isn't long, really but it seems a great while."

There was silence after that for some time; still there was no sign of
the expected boat. Polly was crying hopelessly now, and Edgar felt very
inclined to do the same; but he manfully strove to retain his composure
and to hearten his companion. Venturing to peep downwards at length,
the little girl was horrified to note how high the water had risen—very
soon it would reach them again.

"Edgar, I can't climb any higher," she said tremulously, "I really
can't."

"No, Polly," he answered, and she caught the tone of despair in his
voice.

"I—I don't want you to stay with me any longer," she faltered. "I—I'd
rather you'd go. It would be dreadful for Aunt Janie and Uncle John if
you were drowned. It's no good your staying."

Edgar made no response, and he did not move. Escape was so easy for
him, but he had no intention of leaving his cousin to her fate, and all
that was noblest and best in his character arose to kill the selfish
desire for personal safety against which he had been fighting since
Roger had gone.

"Are you not going?" the little girl asked by-and-by. "No?" she said
wonderingly as he shook his head.

"You mean to say you will stay even when the sea comes up to the ledge?
Oh, you must not!"

"It's very brave of you to speak like that," he replied earnestly, "but
I'm not going to leave you. I'm not such a coward as you think. I mean
to wait with you till—till Roger comes with a boat to rescue us."

She made no answer in words, but the look she gave him was eloquent
of the deepest gratitude, not unmixed with admiration, for, at that
moment, he appeared a veritable hero in her sight. She crept close to
him and caught his hand in her chill, trembling fingers, and thus they
crouched together for a while longer, watching the white-winged sea
gulls passing to and fro, and ever and again turning their anxious eyes
in the direction from which help must come.

At last, when the tide was within a few inches of the ledge of rock, a
boat appeared in sight, and springing to his feet, Edgar pulled out his
handkerchief and waved it wildly.

"Take care!" cried Polly. "Don't fall! Oh, don't fall!"

"Is the boat corning for us, do you think?"

"Yes, yes," he answered excitedly. "I can see Roger in the bow,
and—yes—Uncle Martin, too! There are two fishermen rowing. Oh, Polly,
we're saved! Oh, how thankful I am!"

"Are you certain they see us?" the little girl asked, rubbing her eyes,
which were full of tears—tears of glad relief and joy now.

"Oh yes, yes! They're coming straight towards us as fast as ever they
can. It will be all right now, Polly."

Ten minutes later the children had been rescued from their hazardous
position and in little more than half an hour afterwards, the two
stalwart fishermen who plied the oars ran the boat high and dry upon
the beach at Lynn, where quite half the village had assembled, as well
as Mrs. Trent and Cousin Becky, all anxious to be assured of the young
folks' safety. Polly, on account of her injured foot, had to be carried
to the Mill House, and made the journey in her father's arms, whilst
her mother walked by her side, listening, with breathless interest,
to her account of all that had occurred. Cousin Becky followed with
the boys; and Roger explained to Edgar that he had had some difficulty
in getting a boat, and when he had at length succeeded in his quest
and had been on the point of starting, his father, who had meanwhile
returned from his drive, had come down to the beach and been just in
time to accompany him.

"Father was dreadfully frightened," Roger said, "and the fishermen were
awfully grave, for you know the tide will rise much higher yet. It
would have been all right if Polly had not hurt her foot, for she could
have climbed the cliff as well as I did, though, of course, she would
have made a fuss. It was very kind of you to stay with her, Edgar.
Don't you think so?" he asked of Cousin Becky.

"Very kind and very brave," she answered promptly. "I am sure every one
must think so."

Cousin Becky was right, for it was unanimously agreed that Edgar was
the hero of the occasion. His heart swelled with pleasure when his
uncle spoke of his pluck, and his aunt kissed him and thanked him
gratefully for his consideration for her little girl.

"I couldn't have climbed any higher," Polly declared with a shudder as,
later on, having had her ankle bathed and bandaged, she reclined upon
the sofa in the sitting-room and was waited upon by Roger, who brought
her her tea, "and Edgar wouldn't go even when I told him to and said
I'd rather he did. I'm afraid that wasn't quite true, because I was
so frightened at the thought of being alone, but I didn't want to be
selfish. Oh, Roger, do you remember that we didn't wish him to come to
Lynn? I'm sure I should have been drowned to-day if hadn't been for
him. He made me climb up to that ledge of rock, and if I hadn't—"

"Don't talk of it any more," Roger broke in. "It was awfully fine
of Edgar to behave as he did. I'm glad I forgave him for the way he
treated me about the Calais Noble," he added, "for he's made up for
everything now."

"I shall tell him what you say," Polly returned. And she kept her word,
thereby giving her cousin the keenest pleasure he had experienced for
many a day.

The sprain to the little girl's ankle did not prove a severe one;
but, much to her dismay—for she soon tired of playing the role of an
interesting invalid—it tied her to the sofa for several days, and she
begrudged the time thus wasted indoors. Therefore, when one evening
Cousin Becky made a suggestion that she and the young people should
remain at the Mill House until the middle of September, whilst Mr.
and Mrs. Trent and Louisa returned to Beaworthy at the date which had
previously been arranged, Polly's delight was boundless. "Jabez and
Sarah Triggs will look after our comforts," Cousin Becky said when Mrs.
Trent began to demur, "and if I want further help I can get it from the
village. It seems a pity to take the children home just at present."

"But will it not appear as though we are presuming on your friend's
good-nature?" began Mrs. Trent doubtfully; then, catching the humorous
expression in Cousin Becky's dark eyes, she paused and looked at her
inquiringly.

There was a brief silence, during which everyone gazed curiously at the
old lady, who had grown rosy red and seemed more than a little confused.

"I can answer for my friend," she said at length. "She will not think
you in the least presumptuous."

"She must be a dear old thing!" exclaimed Polly. "I should like to see
her and tell her what I think of her."

"So should I," agreed Roger.

"I am not certain we have not all seen her," Mr. Trent said in a
deliberate tone. "I am not certain that we do not know her very well."
Then, as Cousin Becky started and looked at him quickly, he continued:
"Isn't it time for the good fairy to reveal herself? Surely she might
show herself in her true colours now?"

"Oh, Martin, you have guessed?" cried the old lady.

"I have suspected you ever since we came to the Mill House," he replied
gravely. "I have heard you spoken of in the village as the owner of
this place, and Jabez always mentioned you as though you were his
employer. I have never asked any questions; and Sarah, being deaf, has
been unable to converse with any of us, or doubtless we should have
learnt the truth from her. You are the mistress of the Mill House,
Cousin Becky, and we are really your guests; we have no one to thank
but you."

"Yes," Cousin Becky acknowledged, "that is so. My secret has been a
harmless one, and I have enjoyed keeping it. No wonder you all look
puzzled!" She laughed as she met the bewildered glances of Mrs. Trent
and the young people. "Let me explain. You took it for granted I was
poor, and I did not undeceive you, for your sympathy was very sweet to
me, and I was very lonely and sad. One may be rich in pocket and very
poor in other ways. If you had known me to be well off, you would not
have invited me to visit you or offered me a share of your home, and I
should have been the loser then. You have known me hitherto as 'poor
Cousin Becky,' but you will not love me the less now, will you, because
you know I am not poor? You will let me keep the places in your hearts
which I believe I have won; and, because you have given to me, you will
not deny me the happiness of giving to you?"

"You are not poor," murmured Mrs. Trent in bewilderment, "and the Mill
House is yours, and we never guessed it—at least, it seems Martin did!
Oh, Cousin Becky, it appears incredible you could keep this secret to
yourself! How blind we must all have been!"

"Then it is you who are our good fairy," said Polly, putting her arms
around the old lady's neck and hugging her in a transport of affection
and delight. "Oh, how glad I am! How wonderful it all is, like a real
fairy tale, isn't it? Oh, boys, aren't you surprised? I am, and so
very, very pleased!" And she hugged her again.

"You'll let the children stay at the Mill House with me, won't you?"
Cousin Becky asked as soon as Polly would allow her to speak. Then, as
Mr. and Mrs. Trent both gave assent, she added, "I feel sure Janie will
let Edgar remain, too and when you see her, Mary, as you will be sure
to do on your return to Beaworthy, you can explain matters to her."

"Won't she be astonished to hear Cousin Becky's not poor, Edgar?"
whispered Roger to his cousin.

"Rather," was the emphatic answer, "but I am sure she will be very
glad."



CHAPTER XXIV

CONCLUSION

EDGAR had spoken truly when he had said that his mother would be very
glad to hear that Cousin Becky was not poor; but her first sensation on
hearing the news, which she learnt from her sister-in-law's lips, was
one of the deepest humiliation. By her timely assistance during Edgar's
illness, Cousin Becky had won Mrs. Marsh's lasting gratitude; and the
mistress of the Rookery had determined to see a great deal more of the
old lady in the future, and had meant to be very kind to her in return
for kindnesses received.

"The Mill House belongs to Cousin Becky and she is really very
well off!" she cried, after Mrs. Trent had succeeded in making her
understand the disconcerting truth. "Why, I never heard anything so
extraordinary Never!"

"It appears Cousin Becky had considerable property left to her about
ten years ago by a relation of her mother's," Mrs. Trent explained.
"She never thought of mentioning that when she wrote about coming to
Beaworthy, and we all took it for granted that she was badly off. On
her arrival, she saw at once the mistake we had made; but I don't
think we have any right to blame her for keeping her true position a
secret from us. She did not deceive us; as a matter-of-fact, she never
mentioned her affairs at all."

"I always wondered why she did not tell you her exact position," Mrs.
Marsh admitted; "but, of course, she had a right to keep her business
to herself. It is very kind of her to have the children at the Mill
House, and I am pleased to let Edgar stay. By-the-by, I suppose she
will not return here?"

"It is her intention to do so. She wishes to continue living with us. I
think she has become attached to us all, and we are certainly very fond
of her."

"You were always her champions," Mrs. Marsh replied, with a somewhat
regretful sigh; "and I so feared she would prove a burden to you! I
thought it very unwise of Martin to have her here, and I was vexed with
you all for making so much of her. Ah, well, I learnt to value Cousin
Becky at her true worth when she came to us in our trouble and nursed
our boy in his sickness. You have no idea, Mary, how good she was to
him; and he confessed to her what he had feared to confess to his
father or me, all about the Calais Noble, and—and—"

"We won't say anything more about that," Mrs. Trent interrupted gently
as her companion hesitated and looked distressed. "It was a painful
business; but Roger and Edgar are good friends now, and we won't revert
to the past. How do you think your brother is looking?"

"Capital," Mrs. Marsh answered heartily, "and as for you, Mary, you
are actually quite rosy and not nearly so painfully thin as you were a
month ago. Norfolk air has done wonders for you."

When Cousin Becky and the children returned to Beaworthy, in September,
they all brought a fund of health and good spirits as well as the
happiest memories of a pleasant holiday with them. Edgar, who had
left home wan and thin, was "as plump as a partridge and as brown as
a gypsy," so his father declared at the dinner-table on the night of
his arrival when the little boy dined with his parents and entertained
them with accounts of his doings at Lynn. They had heard all about
his experience with Polly when she had sprained her ankle, so he did
not dwell on that story but, on chancing to mention it, his father
remarked: "I was glad to hear my son did not play the coward," and he
met the gaze of his mother's eyes full of a tender, loving light, and
his heart thrilled with happiness, whilst he determined never, if he
could possibly help it, to do anything to grieve his parents or make
them ashamed of him again. That night, ere he went to bed, he sought
and found the cigarettes, which he had secreted so many months before
at the bottom of a drawer in the set of drawers in his bedroom. Whilst
at the Mill House, he had often wondered if they would be discovered in
his absence, and what would be thought of him for having hidden them,
for he had forgotten to get rid of them before leaving home. It was a
weight off his mind to be able to destroy them now; so he tore them to
pieces, which he flung out of the window. That done, he went to bed
happy, glad to be at home once more, and grateful to his parents for
having made no reference to the past.

Within a week of the return of Cousin Becky and the young people to
Beaworthy the Grammar School reopened and work-a-day life recommenced
for Roger and Edgar; whilst Polly, much to her satisfaction, found that
she, too, was to be sent to school.

"I believe it's Cousin Becky's doing," the little girl said
confidentially to her brother. "And, do you know," she continued in her
most impressive manner, "I'm almost certain it was Cousin Becky who
used to send Sarah Glubb those postal orders when her husband was in
the hospital. I asked her about it yesterday, and she laughed and told
me not to be inquisitive, but I'm sure I'm right."

"I daresay you are," Roger replied. "How amused she must have been to
hear us discussing who Sarah's good fairy could be! It must be nice to
be rich, Polly, to be able to do people good turns like that."

"Aunt Janie said father would rue the day when he took the charge of
an old woman who never had the least claim upon him," remarked Polly,
who had recollected the exact words her aunt had used, and had often
pondered over them; "but she was wrong. She didn't know Cousin Becky
properly then or she would not have said it. Mother says Cousin Becky
has been a real blessing to us, and—"

"And I'm sure she was a blessing to Aunt Janie when Edgar was ill,"
broke in Roger eagerly.

"Yes, that was when Aunt Janie found out what Cousin Becky was really
like," nodded Polly.

Better days were coming for the Trent family; that is to say, days
when good fortune was to shine upon them once more. Shortly before
Christmas, Mr. Trent returned home one evening with the news that the
head clerk in the clay office was retiring, and Mr. Marsh had offered
him the post, which was a responsible one with a very good salary
attached to it; and early in the new year he took a pretty house in the
suburbs of the town, whither, in due course, he removed his family. Of
course, this new abode was in no wise to be compared with the Rookery
in any way, but to the Trents it seemed quite a palatial residence
after the house in Princess Street, and it possessed a small garden
which was a source of endless pleasure to Polly, who, always a lover
of flowers, took up gardening with a will, and retained an especially
sunny spot for her own cultivation.

One Saturday afternoon, in spring time, the little girl was occupied
in her favourite recreation when Mrs. Marsh's carriage drew up at the
garden gate, and Mrs. Marsh herself descended from it. Polly went
immediately to meet her, and returned her kiss cordially, for there was
a better understanding between the two than there had been formerly.

"I'm not going to stay," Mrs. Marsh said as she slipped a small package
into her niece's hand. "Take that, my dear, and give it to Roger, will
you?"

"He's not at home, Aunt Janie," Polly replied; "but I'll give it to him
the moment he comes in."

"It's a present from his uncle and me for his birthday, to-morrow,"
Mrs. Marsh explained. "I hope he will like it. No, I can't stay to come
in, thank you. Give my love to your mother and Cousin Becky." And she
went back to her carriage and was driven away.

Naturally Polly was all impatience till her brother returned, when he
promptly opened the package, and revealed to sight a handsome silver
watch, similar to Edgar's, which he had always greatly admired. His
amazement and delight were unbounded, and he could not understand why
his aunt and uncle had remembered his birthday this year, when they
had never done so before; but his parents rightly conjectured that Mr.
and Mrs. Marsh had awaited an opportunity to make him this present as
a slight amends for the unjust suspicion which had been entertained of
him.

Roger and his cousin were the best of friends with each other now; and
if Edgar was ever tempted to turn away from the path of truth, the
thought of the Calais Noble and all the trouble it had caused returned
to his mind to warn him that deception brings nothing but unhappiness
in its train. Certainly his father was stricter with him than he had
been of old, but he was not less kind; and if his mother was still
over-indulgent, he no longer tried to take advantage of her affection
to gain his own selfish ends as he had once been in the habit of doing.

There remains little else to be told. A few more words about Cousin
Becky and her champions, and then my story is at an end. Cousin Becky
still continues to make her home with those who so hospitably opened
their doors to her when they believed her to be as poor as themselves
and she is still the owner of the Mill House, which she often lends to
those of her acquaintances who, otherwise, would not be able to afford
holidays, and sometimes she visits it herself. She is on excellent
terms with all her relations at Beaworthy, and is always a welcome
guest at the Rookery now; but the warmest, tenderest spot in the old
lady's heart, next to that occupied by her dead brother's children, is
reserved for those who loved "poor Cousin Becky" and proved themselves
her champions without thought of reward.



                            THE END



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