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

[Illustration: THE CORNISH FLOWER-FARM.]



                           LITTLE SUNBEAM



                                 BY

                         ELEANORA H. STOOKE


                      AUTHOR OF "GRANFER," ETC.



                 WITH FRONTISPIECE BY MYRA K. HUGHES



                              LONDON
                    NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
                     BROAD SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTER
            NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE

                       [All rights reserved]



                            PRINTED BY
            SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., NEW-STREET SQUARE
                             LONDON



                        BY THE SAME AUTHOR

                  GRANFER, and ONE CHRISTMAS TIME.
                             Price 1s.

                    NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY,
                     Sanctuary, Westminster, S. W.



                             CONTENTS

CHAPTER

   I. KNOCKED DOWN

  II. CONCERNING AUNT CAROLINE

 III. THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION

  IV. PEGGY'S FIRST DAY AT LOWER BRIMLEY

   V. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

  VI. MISS LEIGHTON'S DISCOVERY

 VII. A GREAT SURPRISE

VIII. CONCERNING ELLEN BARNES

  IX. TEA AT LOWER BRIMLEY

   X. GOOD-BYES

  XI. HOME AGAIN

 XII. AUNT CAROLINE'S DISAPPOINTMENT

XIII. PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS

 XIV. CONCLUSION



                           LITTLE SUNBEAM

CHAPTER I

KNOCKED DOWN

"COME along, Billy. Mother said we were not to be long; and I'm sure
we've been more than half an hour."

The speaker—a little girl of about nine years old, clad in a somewhat
shabby blue serge coat and skirt, with a Tam o' Shanter cap on her
golden curls—tried to pull her brother away from the toy shop window
into which he was gazing longingly; but he resisted, and still lingered.

"There's plenty of time, Peggy," he assured her. "You know we never
have tea till five o'clock, and you can't imagine what a heap of jolly
things there are in this window. I wish you could see them."

"I wish I could," she answered. "Never mind, you can tell me all about
them by-and-by."

It was a cold, dull, February day; but it did not rain, and the street
was thronged with vehicles, whilst the pedestrians—mostly of the lower
classes, for the district was a poor one—hustled against each other
on the pavements. No one took any notice of the two children who had
been standing before a toy shop window for the last ten minutes. And,
indeed, there was nothing about them to attract the observation of a
casual observer, although the countenance of the little girl, with its
finely-cut features and sweet expression, possessed a delicate beauty
which was certainly out of the common. No one looking at Peggy Pringle
would have guessed that she was blind, for her eyes, in colour the
darkest blue, were as clear as crystal; but the sad fact was that the
blessing of sight was denied to her.

It had been a terrible trouble to the child's parents when, some months
after her birth, they had learnt the truth, that the happy baby, whose
rosebud lips seemed formed only for smiles, and whose eyes were "bits
of Heaven's blue" as her young mother had used to declare, would never
see the light of day, and they had grieved deeply. But Peggy had never
appeared to realise how great was her affliction, and at the present
time it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to find a more
contented little girl. "Little Sunbeam" her father had nicknamed her
years before, and a veritable sunbeam in the household she continued to
be.

Peggy and her brother, who was only thirteen months her junior, had
been sent to buy buns for tea, and she was holding the bag which
contained them with one hand, whilst with the other she kept a firm
grip of Billy's coat. She was not exactly nervous in a crowd, for she
had been accustomed to London all her life, and her home was in a
thickly populated district. But she experienced a sense of bewilderment
as she listened to the hurrying footsteps on the pavement and the
continual roll of carriage wheels, and she wished Billy would tire of
looking into shop windows and return home.

"Come, Billy," she urged again, "mother will wonder what is keeping us.
Do come."

Accordingly, Billy took his sister by the hand with an air of
protection, and they walked on. At the corner of the street, they stood
waiting for a favourable opportunity to cross.

"Is there a policeman near?" asked Peggy.

"There's one on the other side of the road," replied Billy, "but we
don't want him. I can manage all right. When I say 'Now,' mind you come
right on."

A minute later Billy cried, "Now!"

So, hand in hand, the children went fearlessly forward. And they would
have effected the crossing in safety had not a private carriage, drawn
by a pair of spirited horses, turned the corner from a side street.
Billy hurried his sister on; but the road was slippery, and, in her
haste, the little girl stumbled and let go her brother's hand. Some
one flung Billy on one side, whilst the coachman driving the pair of
horses pulled them back on their haunches in time to prevent a serious
accident, but not before one of the animals had struck poor Peggy on
the shoulder with its hoof. She was borne to the pavement in the arms
of the policeman whose help Billy had disdained, and in a few minutes a
small crowd had congregated.

"What has happened?" inquired an imperious voice from the interior of
the carriage. "Is any one injured?"

"A little girl," answered the policeman. "I think she's more frightened
than hurt, though," he added, as he set Peggy on the ground, and Billy,
pale and frightened, rushed to her side.

"Was my coachman at fault?" was the next question.

"No, ma'am. He was driving carefully, and had the horses under proper
control; but—"

"That's all I want to know, thank you."

A head was thrust out of the carriage window, and the crowd saw the
face—a haughty, handsome face it was—of a white-haired old lady, who
beckoned to the policeman to approach, which he did.

"You had better take the little girl to a hospital, if she is hurt,"
the old lady said, in a tone which expressed neither interest nor
sympathy. "I suppose that would be your duty? Well, you know your
business; it is none of mine, as my servant, you assure me, is
blameless. However, here is my card should you require to communicate
with me."

The handsome old face drew back from the window, and the carriage was
driven away, whilst the crowd dispersed, leaving only the policeman and
one other—an elderly clergyman, who had come upon the scene after the
accident—with the frightened children.

"Where are you hurt, my dear little girl?"

Peggy's shocked face brightened at the sound of the kindly voice, which
she recognised immediately as belonging to Mr. Maloney, the Vicar of
St. John's Church, where her father was the organist.

"It's my shoulder," she answered. "Oh, Mr. Maloney, do please take me
home!"

"Of course I will, my dear," he responded promptly, with a reassuring
nod and smile at Billy. "What happened?" he inquired of the policeman,
who briefly explained, adding that no one had been in fault.

"Billy couldn't have helped it," Peggy said hastily, fearful lest blame
should be attached to her brother.

"No, the little boy was not to blame," agreed the policeman. "Are you
going to take charge of the children, sir?" he asked of the clergyman.

"Yes. I know them well; their father is Mr. Pringle, the organist of
St. John's Church. What is this?" Mr. Maloney questioned as he took the
card the policeman presented to him.

"The lady in the carriage gave it to me, sir. I have made a note of the
name and the address. Maybe the little girl's father will make some
claim—"

"I imagine not," interposed the clergyman quickly; "but I will take the
card and give it to Mr. Pringle. Thank you,"—and he slipped the bit of
pasteboard into his vest pocket.

"Oh, Billy, I dropped the buns!" exclaimed Peggy regretfully. They had
no money to buy more, and the buns had been purchased for a treat.

"The horses trod on them," Billy replied; "but, never mind, mother
won't think anything about them when she knows what's happened. I'm
afraid she'll never trust you out alone with me any more."

The little girl made no response. The pain in her shoulder was making
her feel sick and faint, and her legs trembled as she walked along by
Mr. Maloney's side, her hand in his. He saw she was suffering, and
regarded her with compassionate eyes, whilst he exchanged remarks
with Billy. Soon she began to lose the drift of her companions'
conversation, and when at length, home—a small house, one of a
terrace—was reached, the shock she had received proved too much for
her, and she fell insensible into her mother's arms.

When Peggy regained consciousness, she found herself undressed and
in bed. Everything was very quiet, but she was aware of some one's
presence, and it was no surprise when soft lips met hers in a loving
kiss, and her mother's voice said, "You are better, Peggy dear."

Then she was gently raised in bed, and, to her astonishment, she found
her shoulder was bandaged; but she was not in much pain now, so she
took the bread and milk offered to her, and lay down again, feeling
strangely weak and tired, and disinclined to talk.

"Sleep if you can, darling," her mother said tenderly. "You will be
much stronger to-morrow. The doctor has attended to your poor shoulder.
Thank God you are not more seriously hurt!"

"What is the time mother?" Peggy asked. "Have you had tea? I was so
sorry about the buns. I dropped them, you know."

"Did you? As if that mattered! No, we have not had tea. We have been
too anxious about you to think of it. Now we shall have tea and supper
together. It is nearly seven o'clock—not quite your usual bedtime, but
never mind that to-night. Rest will do you good. I want you to sleep."

"I am very tired," Peggy murmured, "but I haven't said my prayers,
and my head feels so funny that I can't think. I will say my 'little
prayer' to-night.' Then she repeated very slowly and softly:

   "Holy Father, cheer our way
    With Thy love's perpetual ray:
    Grant us every closing day
       Light at evening time."

It was a pathetic prayer, coming as it did from the lips of one who
lived in permanent darkness. But it had been one of the first Peggy had
learnt and she had always been very fond of it, calling it her "little
prayer." To-night her eyelids closed as she repeated the last line, and
a few minutes later she had fallen asleep.

Mrs. Pringle remained by the bedside some while longer, tears, which
she had repressed till now, running down her cheeks, though her heart
was full of gratitude to Him Who had spared her child's life. She was a
most affectionate mother, devoted to both her children; but her little
daughter, doubtless by reason of her affliction, was always her first
care. She shuddered as she thought what might have been the result of
the accident that afternoon, and pictured her darling trampled beneath
the horses' hoofs.

"God gave His angels charge over her," she murmured, as she bent her
head once more, and kissed the little sleeper. Then she stole softly
away, and went downstairs to the sitting-room where Billy his father
were keeping each other company, both heavy-hearted, though the doctor
had assured them there was no cause for alarm.

"How is she now?" they asked, with one accord, as she entered the room.

"Sleeping peacefully," she told them, a smile lighting up her pale,
tearful countenance. "You may go and look at her; but please be very
careful not to disturb her. I have every hope that she will be better
after a good rest. We have much to thank God for this night!"



CHAPTER II

CONCERNING AUNT CAROLINE

WHEN Mr. Pringle and Billy returned to the sitting-room after having
been upstairs to look at Peggy asleep so comfortably, they found that
Mrs. Pringle, with the assistance of Sarah, the maid-of-all-work of the
establishment, had prepared the long-delayed tea. Whilst the family sat
down to the meal, Sarah, at her own suggestion, went to keep watch by
the little sleeper; and a few minutes later there was a knock at the
front door.

"Go and see who's there, Billy," said Mr. Pringle. "I should not be
surprised if it is Mr. Maloney," he proceeded, turning to his wife,
"for he was very concerned about Peggy and said he hoped to look in
by-and-by to hear the doctor's report."

And Mr. Maloney the visitor proved to be. He accepted Mrs. Pringle's
offer of a cup of tea, and took the chair Billy placed for him at the
table.

"I am glad to know the doctor thinks your little girl is not much
hurt," he said in his pleasant voice. "Billy greeted me with the good
news the moment he opened the door."

"The only injury she has sustained is to her shoulder," replied Mr.
Pringle, "but of course she has experienced a great shock. Her escape
from a frightful death was quite providential," he added with a slight
break in his voice.

"Quite," Mr. Maloney agreed. "It was too bad of the owner of the
carriage to drive on, as she did, without ascertaining the extent of
the poor child's injuries," he continued warmly. "The least she could
have done, under the circumstances, one would have thought, would have
been to have driven her home."

"She was a nasty old woman, I'm sure she was," declared Billy with
flushing cheeks and sparkling eyes. "She told the policeman, he had
better take Peggy to a hospital if she was hurt, and she said it was
his business, not hers. She spoke in such a proud way—as though she
didn't care for anything or any one."

"Well, Peggy found a friend in need," Mr. Pringle remarked with a
grateful glance at Mr. Maloney, who smiled and said he was glad to have
been of service.

The Vicar and the organist of St. John's were on terms of friendship,
though the former was elderly and the latter not middle-aged. Mr.
Maloney had lived most of his life in London. He was a hard worker,
and much beloved by all who knew him. But some of his acquaintances
declared him lacking in ambition, for on several occasions he had
declined preferment, choosing to retain the living of St. John's, which
he had held for more than twenty years. He was an unmarried man, and
consequently the living, though a poor one, supplied his simple needs.

He was getting an old man now, but the bright, unquenchable light of
that enthusiasm which had made him a faithful labourer in Christ's
vineyard all his days still shone in his earnest, deep-set eyes, and
earnestness was stamped indelibly upon his countenance. And the truth
was that his ambition soared far and away beyond the worldly meaning of
the term: he was working for the "Well done" of the Master for Whose
sake he had elected to live amongst those of little account in this
world.

Mr. Pringle had been the organist of St. John's since his marriage ten
years previously. He was a tall, fair man with a thoughtful face and
clear blue eyes. Peggy much resembled him; whilst Billy took after his
mother in appearance, being brown-haired and brown-eyed. The Pringles
were a very united family, and theirs was a happy home though it was
a rather poor one, and Mr. Pringle was glad to add to his salary by
taking music pupils.

"I did not see the owner of the carriage," Mr. Maloney remarked
by-and-by, after they had discussed Peggy's accident at some length.
"Why, dear me, how stupid of me!" he exclaimed, a sudden recollection
crossing his mind. "I have her card in my pocket here! She gave it
to the policeman, who, in his turn, gave it to me, thinking that you
might be inclined to seek redress from her for poor Peggy's injuries, I
believe. Let us see who the unsympathetic old lady is."

He had produced the card by this time, and now handed it to Mrs.
Pringle, who glanced at it, uttered a cry of astonishment, and grew
very red.

"You know her?" Mr. Maloney inquired.

"Yes," she replied in a low tone, "I do. I can understand that she
evinced no interest—though she could not have known whose child Peggy
was."

She passed the card to her husband as she spoke.

A brief silence followed, during which Billy, keenly observant, noticed
that his mother was trembling, and that his father's face had grown
very stern.

"Who is the lady, father?" he ventured to ask at length.

"She is called Miss Leighton," was the answer. "You never heard of her,
Billy; but I expect you have?" he said, addressing Mr. Maloney.

"I think not," the Vicar responded. "Is she a person of importance?"

"She is a very rich woman. Her father was James Leighton, the great
ironfounder who died so immensely wealthy—"

"Ah, then I have heard of her," Mr. Maloney broke in. "But I thought
she was quite a philanthropist—hardly the sort of woman who would act
as this Miss Leighton did to-day."

"That is exactly how she would act," Mrs. Pringle said decidedly. "We
are speaking of the same person. She gives away vast amounts of money
yearly to charities, but she denies herself nothing in order to do so,
for she is very wealthy. She was never a woman who showed kindness in
little ways or to individuals. I know her well; in fact, she is my
aunt."

"Really?" the Vicar said, looking intensely astonished. He knew the
Pringles were not well off—that they lived solely on Mr. Pringle's
earnings, and it seemed odd that so rich and charitable a lady as Miss
Leighton should do so much for strangers and nothing for her relations.

"The truth is, my wife offended her aunt by marrying me," Mr. Pringle
explained, rightly reading the expression of Mr. Maloney's countenance;
"and Miss Leighton never forgives any one who offends her."

"Then God help her!" the Vicar exclaimed solemnly.

"Yes," said Mrs. Pringle, sighing, "poor Aunt Caroline! She was very
good to me years ago, she had me educated when my parents died, and
afterwards she allowed me to live with her. She would have continued
to provide for me, if I had not become engaged to John," glancing at
her husband with a loving smile. "I had to choose between him and Aunt
Caroline, and since my marriage I have never seen my aunt. 'She washed
her hands of me,' she said, on my wedding day. She declared she would
never willingly look on my face again, and I know she will keep her
word."

"You can realise now what sacrifices my wife has made for my sake," Mr.
Pringle said, rather sadly, as he met Mr. Maloney's interested glance.

"I have made no sacrifices," Mrs. Pringle returned quickly. "But,
sometimes it grieves me to think of the bitter feelings Aunt Caroline
harbours against me. She considers me ungrateful; I was never that. I
do not want her money, but I should like to be on friendly terms with
her. It was ten years ago I saw her; she must be getting an old woman."

"She looked very old, mother," Billy said, and as he spoke, Mrs.
Pringle started, for in the excitement of talking of her aunt, whom she
rarely mentioned now even to her husband, she had forgotten the boy was
present, listening to every word.

"Her hair was quite white," he continued, "as white as snow. I didn't
like her eyes, they were so very sharp. Oh, mother, how odd that she
should be your aunt! And how surprised she would have been, if she had
found out that Peggy was your little girl, wouldn't she? I expect she
would have been sorry for her, then, don't you think so?"

"I—I—perhaps so," his mother replied, "but she did not find out, and it
was best as it was."

She took up the card which her husband had laid on the table and tore
it into little bits, which, upon rising, she threw into the fire.

"There, we will talk no more of Aunt Caroline," she said. "Thinking of
her always makes me unhappy, and I don't want to be that to-night, when
I ought to be feeling nothing but thankfulness on Peggy's account."

A short while later, Mr. Maloney took his departure, and, after that,
Billy said good-night to his parents and went upstairs. He peeped into
Peggy's room; but did not go in, for Sarah, who was still watching by
the bedside, raised a warning finger when she caught sight of him in
the doorway. She was to be relieved from her post very soon by her
mistress, whose intention it was to sit up all night.

Although Billy was really tired and was soon in bed, it was long before
he could get to sleep, for he felt strangely restless and excited; he
continually pictured the pair of high-stepping horses which had so
nearly trodden his sister beneath their hoofs, and he was haunted by
the proud face of the old lady who had appeared so unconcerned.

"She must be very wicked," thought the little boy, "for father said she
never forgives any one who offends her. How dreadful that is! Doesn't
she know it's wrong, I wonder! And, oh, how strange that she should be
mother's aunt! How surprised Peggy will be when she knows!"

Then he forgot Miss Leighton in thinking of Peggy once more. He had not
omitted to thank his Father in Heaven, as he had knelt by his bedside
before getting into bed, for having spared his sister's life; but
his full heart thanked Him again and again as he lay awake mentally
reviewing the events of the last few hours, and he fell asleep, at
length, with the fervent prayer upon his lips:

   "Dear Jesus, please always take care of Peggy, and remember she is
blind."



CHAPTER III

THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION

A MONTH had elapsed since Peggy's accident, and the little girl, though
about again, had not recovered her usual health and spirits. Her mother
watched her with loving solicitude, noting how shattered her nerves
seemed to be, for she started at any sudden sound and dreaded being
left alone. The doctor pronounced her to be suffering from the effects
of the shock to her nervous system, prescribed a complete change of
air, and said time would work a cure.

"How can we send her away for a change?" Mrs. Pringle asked her husband
despairingly. "It is impossible."

"I wish you could take her to the seaside for a few weeks, Margaret,"
Mr. Pringle responded, looking much troubled. "But I really do not see
how it can be managed—where the money is to come from, I mean."

"Never mind, father," Peggy said quickly, "I am sure I shall be well
soon. I am a lot better, really."

"Do you feel so, darling?" he questioned, as he drew her towards him,
and anxiously scrutinised her face.

Then, as she assured him she did, he kissed her gently, an expression
of deep pain and regret on his own countenance.

It grieved Mr. Pringle that he could not afford his little daughter
the change of air which the doctor had prescribed, and he went off to
give a music lesson with a very heavy heart. When he returned, an hour
later, upon opening the front door the sound of a man's hearty laugh
fell upon his ears, and almost immediately Peggy, with a flush of
excitement on her cheeks, came out of the sitting-room, her sensitive
ears having warned her of his arrival, and whispered:

"Oh, father, we've a visitor! Guess who it is. But, no, you never will,
so I may as well tell you. It's Mr. Tiddy. You remember who he is,
don't you? The Cornish gentleman who married Miss Bates."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Pringle, suddenly enlightened. Miss Bates had
been a school friend of his wife's. The two had always corresponded
regularly, though they had not met of late. Miss Bates had earned her
living as a governess until five years previously, when she had married
a well-to-do farmer in Cornwall.

"He is a very nice man, father," Peggy continued, "and he's brought us
a hamper full of all sorts of good things to eat—cream, and butter, and
eggs, and a big cake, which his wife made herself, with a sugary top,
and a couple of chickens! Do come and see him at once."

Accordingly Mr. Pringle allowed his little daughter to lead him into
the sitting-room, where the visitor was being entertained by Mrs.
Pringle and Billy, and after a few minutes' conversation with him, he
mentally agreed with Peggy that this new acquaintance was a very nice
man.

Ebenezer Tiddy was a thorough countryman in appearance, being clad
in a tweed suit, and boots which had evidently been made to keep out
inches deep of mud. He was tall and vigorous, with a ruddy, kindly
countenance, and steady grey eyes which looked one straight in the
face. He had entered the house a complete stranger half an hour before,
but already the children were at their ease with him, and Mrs. Pringle
was looking decidedly more cheerful than when her husband had left her
after their conversation about the doctor's prescription. Mr. Pringle
felt glad Mr. Tiddy had come, since his presence had evidently proved
exhilarating.

"I arrived in town last night," the visitor explained, "and the first
thing this morning I said to myself, 'I'd better execute my wife's
business before I attend to my own.' And now you're here, Mr. Pringle,
I'll speak of the real object of my visit. Said my wife to me one day
last week, 'Ebenezer, how I should like to have little Peggy Pringle
to stay with us for a while! Her mother has written to me that she met
with an accident and doesn't seem to pick up after it as she ought. I
believe a change of air would be the best medicine for her now.'"

Here Mr. Tiddy paused, and looked at Peggy, who, sensitive like all
blind people, was fully conscious of his gaze.

"Oh, Mr. Tiddy!" she exclaimed. "And—what did you say?"

"That she'd better write and invite you to visit us at once, my dear,
believing, as I do, that Cornish breezes and Cornish living would
make you strong in no time. 'But she can't travel alone,' said my
wife, who is quicker of thought than I am, 'and how are we to get her
here, Ebenezer?' 'That can be easily managed,' I replied; 'when I go
to London next week to interview the florist who is going to buy our
flowers this spring, I'll ask her parents to trust her to me.' And
if they will," concluded Mr. Tiddy, looking smilingly first at Mrs.
Pringle, then at her husband, "I am sure I shall be very pleased and
proud, and my wife and myself will do our best to make her visit a
happy one. The little maid won't have any children for playmates, but
I don't think she'll be dull, for there's always something or other to
interest folks at a farm, and I need hardly say we'll take good care of
her."

"How kind you are!" Mrs. Pringle exclaimed, her face alight with
pleasure, "Peggy does indeed need a change very badly, and we have been
bemoaning the fact that we could not give her one. I am sure she would
be quite happy with you and your wife."

"I remember Miss Bates," said Peggy. "She stayed with us once when I
was a little girl."

"And what are you now, pray?" asked Mr. Tiddy, highly amused. "A big
girl, eh?"

"I am nine years old," she answered, in a dignified tone. "But I am not
very tall for my age."

"Cornish air will make you grow. Will you make up your mind, then, to
travel westwards with me? Would your brother care to come too?"

"Billy goes to school, and it is the middle of the term," Mrs. Pringle
explained; "being Saturday, it is the weekly holiday: that is why you
find him at home now. You are very kind to give him an invitation, but
he knows he must not neglect his work."

"He must pay us a visit in his summer holidays, then," said Mr. Tiddy,
sympathising with the disappointment he read in the little boy's face.
"I shall not forget. And now, Mrs. Pringle, do you think you can part
with your little maid on Tuesday? I hope to return to Cornwall as soon
as that. I only require one clear day in town to transact my business."

"Peggy can be ready by Tuesday," Mrs. Pringle answered, after a few
moments' reflection, whilst Peggy herself felt quite bewildered by the
suddenness with which everything was being arranged.

"Come and spend to-morrow with us," suggested Mr. Pringle hospitably,
"that is, if you have made no previous engagement."

"I have not. Thank you, I shall be delighted to come," answered Mr.
Tiddy, his countenance beaming with pleasure. "I have heard so much of
you all from my wife that I can't fancy you were strangers to me till
this last hour."

When at length he took his departure, which was after a little further
conversation, he seemed quite an old friend, and the children were
pleased and excited at the prospect of his visit on the morrow.

"It is as though a load has been lifted off my shoulders," Mr. Pringle
confessed, as he returned to the sitting-room after having said
good-bye to Mr. Tiddy at the front door. He sat down in an arm-chair
as he spoke, and his little daughter took a stool at his feet and
rested her golden head against his knee. "It seems so marvellous this
invitation should have come for Peggy just at this very time," he
proceeded earnestly, "when it seemed utterly impossible to carry out
the doctor's prescription. Surely God must have prompted Mr. Tiddy to
come to us to-day."

"Yes, and there's no one I would so gladly entrust Peggy to as my old
friend," Mrs. Pringle answered contentedly. "You're pleased you're
going, are you not, Peggy?" she questioned, noticing a faint shadow on
her little daughter's face.

"Y-e-s," was the response, given a trifle doubtfully. The thought of
a visit to Cornwall had filled Peggy with a transport of delight at
first; but now, she had had time to reflect that she would have no
mother and father and Billy with her, and she had never been parted
from them before. "I shall miss you all so much," she murmured with
quivering lips, "and Cornwall is so far away."

"We shall miss you, little Sunbeam," her father assured her as he
softly stroked her curly hair, "but we are glad you are going, because
we want you to get well and strong. I believe you will have a most
enjoyable time, and, of one thing I am quite certain, that both Mr. and
Mrs. Tiddy will be kindness itself. I only hope they won't spoil you
and want to keep you altogether."

"I shouldn't stay, if they did," Peggy returned, half indignant at the
suggestion. "And—and I'm beginning to wish I wasn't going at all."

She lay awake a long while that night, crying at the thought of the
coming separation from her family, but she did not admit it the next
morning.

Mr. Tiddy spent Sunday with his new friends as had been arranged, and
in the evening he accompanied them to St. John's. After the service, he
waited with Mrs. Pringle and the children to hear the voluntary. It was
"The Heavens are telling," which Mr. Pringle played at his visitor's
request.

"Did you like it, Mr. Tiddy?" Peggy whispered at the conclusion of the
piece as they passed out of the church.

"Yes, I liked it," he answered earnestly. "Your father plays the organ
beautifully. 'The Heavens are telling the glory of God!' So they do,
don't they?" They were in the street by now, Peggy's hand in the firm
clasp of her new friend. "I can't tell how folks can prefer to live in
town," he proceeded. "Give me the country and plenty of fresh air. Ah,
my dear, I'll show you some rare sights in Cornwall—"

"You forget," interposed Peggy, "I cannot see."

"Poor dear!" he said softly. "How thoughtless of me to forget!"

"Does it seem to you very dreadful to be blind?" she asked, catching
the tone of tender sympathy in his deep voice.

Then, as he hesitated what answer to make, she continued:

"You know, I shall never see as long as I live, but I think I shall get
on very well. Mother says I am very useful in the house. I am learning
to do lots of things—to play the piano and to knit, and father says, if
he had more money—Oh, here are the others!" And she suddenly broke off.

That was the first occasion on which Peggy had been to church since her
accident. Her mother had been doubtful about taking her to-night, and
had wanted to leave her at home with Sarah for her companion. But the
little girl had begged to be allowed to go, and had gained her own way,
and the service had had a beneficial effect upon her, having soothed
her nerves instead of having excited them. She slept well that night,
and the next day was spent in making preparations for her visit, and
passed so busily that when bedtime came again, she was too weary to lie
awake thinking of the parting from all those who made up her little
world, which was so near at hand.

She was called early on the following morning, and after breakfast—of
which she partook but little—and a somewhat tearful good-bye to Billy
and Sarah, she drove off in a cab with her parents to Paddington
railway station, where she was consigned to the care of Mr. Tiddy, who
had already selected a comfortable carriage and procured a foot-warmer
for his little charge.

"Good-bye, Peggy, darling," whispered her mother, as the guard bustled
by requesting people to take their places. "God bless and protect you,
dear."

"Good-bye, little Sunbeam," said her father cheerily, as he lifted her
into the carriage and wrapped her up in a rug. "We shall expect you to
come back well and strong."

"Yes," murmured Peggy, bravely smiling. "Good-bye—oh, good-bye!"



CHAPTER IV

PEGGY'S FIRST DAY AT LOWER BRIMLEY

ON a certain bright March morning, Mrs. Tiddy stood beneath the
creeper-covered porch at the front door of Lower Brimley Farm, waiting
for her husband, who had been up and out-of-doors since daybreak, to
return to breakfast. Mr. Tiddy had arrived home from London on the
previous evening, having brought Peggy Pringle with him. But the little
girl, over-tired as the result of the long journey, had been sleeping
firmly when her hostess had visited her bedroom half an hour before,
and orders had been given that she was not to be awakened.

The mistress of Lower Brimley was a small-sized woman with a trim
figure and a pleasant countenance, which wore a very contented
expression at the present moment. The view over which Mrs. Tiddy's blue
eyes wandered admiringly was a most beautiful one, for Lower Brimley
was situated on the slope of a hill, not ten minutes' walk from the sea
and the small fishing village which straggled in one steep street from
the beach to the old grey church on the cliff.

The soft air was sweet with the scent of flowers on this sunny spring
morning, for the land close by was given up to the cultivation of
daffodils and narcissi of nearly every species, which flourished in the
rich moist soil and were now in full bloom, and the garden in front of
the house was a fine show, too, with violets, hyacinths, and purple
and scarlet anemones, against a background of rhododendron bushes. In
short, there was a wealth of flowers everywhere; and as Mrs. Tiddy's
contemplative gaze roamed over her own domain to the distant sea,
glimmering like silver in the bright sunshine, it was caught and held
by the golden furze on the cliffs, and she murmured admiringly:

"What a glorious sight! And to think that that dear child will never
know how beautiful it all is! How sad to be blind!"

An expression of deep regret crossed Mrs. Tiddy's face as she thought
of her little visitor; but it gave place to a bright smile as she
caught sight of her husband approaching. And she ran down the path
to the garden gate to meet him, anxious to hear that he had found
everything on the farm in good order. She was soon satisfied upon
that point, for he was in high spirits, and complimented her upon
her management during his absence. And then they went into the
house together, and sat down to breakfast in the parlour, a large
comfortably-furnished room, the windows of which commanded a view of
the village and the sea.

"And how is my fellow-traveller?" Mr. Tiddy inquired by-and-by.

"She was sleeping firmly half an hour ago and I have given orders that
she is not to be disturbed," his wife-responded. "She was so very tired
last night, and I fancy she felt home-sick—poor little soul! She has
never been away from her own people before, you see, and oh, Ebenezer,
think how helpless one must feel to be always in darkness!"

"Yes," he agreed, "but though she has been denied sight, her other
senses seem preternaturally keen. It's always the way with blind
people, I've heard. And—why, here she comes!"

Mr. Tiddy rose as the door opened, and Peggy stood hesitating upon the
threshold of the room. Going to her side, he gave her a hearty kiss,
inquired how she was this morning, and, having been assured that she
was quite well, led her to his wife.

"I thought you were still in bed and asleep, my dear child," said Mrs.
Tiddy, her voice expressing the surprise she felt.

"I woke up, and I was afraid I was late for breakfast, so I dressed as
quickly as I could and came down," Peggy explained, as she returned
Mrs. Tiddy's kiss and took the chair by her side.

"How clever of you to find your way alone!"

"Clever!" laughed Peggy. "You forget I had my supper in this room last
night, and I heard your voices as I came downstairs. What a lovely
morning, isn't it? I smelt violets and hyacinths when I opened my
bedroom window, and I heard the sea."

"The sea is very calm to-day, almost as still as a mill-pond," remarked
Mr. Tiddy somewhat dubiously. "You must have very sharp ears, if you
heard it."

"Oh, but I did," persisted Peggy. "The waves were whispering ever so
softly, but I heard them. I was never at the seaside but once before,
when we all went to Bournemouth for a week, nearly two years ago."

The little girl was looking very bright this morning, and she did full
justice to the fried bacon and chopped potatoes to which Mr. Tiddy
helped her, remarking, as he did so, that he hoped she could enjoy
country fare. And at the conclusion of the meal, he suggested that she
should put on her hat and jacket and go for a stroll with him about the
farm, whilst his wife attended to her domestic duties in the house.

Accordingly, Peggy accompanied her host out into the brilliant spring
sunshine, and asked him numerous questions about his flowers. He
explained all about their cultivation, and watched her with keenly
interested eyes as she felt the various blooms with her sensitive
fingers.

"I shall remember all you have told me," she declared. "This is a
'Princess Mary,' is it not? And this is the daffodil you said the
country people call 'butter and eggs'?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "But how can you possibly tell?"

"I can feel the difference, Mr. Tiddy, and I can smell. It seems to me
all these daffodils have different scents."

"To me, they are alike," he admitted, "but I suppose they are not.
Really, Peggy, you are a very clever little girl."

When they returned to the house they went by the back way, where,
in the yard, they were met by a big, black-and-white smooth-haired
sheep-dog, who sniffed at Peggy suspiciously at first. But when she
ventured to extend her hand to him, he licked it with his great pink
tongue, whilst a very soft expression crept into his amber eyes.

"He likes you, my dear," Mr. Tiddy said. "And he does not take to every
one, let me tell you. He evidently intends to regard you as a friend."

"What is his name?" Peggy inquired, as she passed her hand over the
dog's sleek head.

"Wolf. We gave him the name when he was a puppy, because he was such a
lean, fierce-looking creature. He is a splendid house-dog; but he is
not very sociable, as a rule. He seems to have taken a fancy to you,
however."

"He knows I like him," Peggy said, as she caressed her new
acquaintance, who continued to wag his tail amicably. "What a tall dog
he is! Wolf—dear old Wolf!"

The animal gave a delighted cry, and Mr. Tiddy nodded his head
approvingly.

"I'm glad he's taken to you," he said. "For you couldn't get a better
protector than Wolf."

Peggy never forgot that first day at Lower Brimley. The afternoon she
passed quietly in the house with Mrs. Tiddy, who wrote a long letter to
her old school fellow in which were many messages from Peggy.

"Tell her how much I miss them all," said the little girl. "But please
say, too, that I am sure I shall be very happy here, because every one
is so kind to me, and it is a lovely, lovely place! And, please don't
forget to send my dear love!" And for a few minutes, her blue eyes were
full of tears.

"Peggy," said Mrs. Tiddy by-and-by, "I have heard all the details in
connection with your accident from my husband, and I do not wonder it
was a shock to your nerves. Is your shoulder quite well now, dear?"

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Tiddy. It got well very quickly. Every one said it was
a wonder I was not killed; but I think myself God took especial care
of me, because He knew I wasn't quite like other people—not being able
to see, you know. Mr. Maloney—that's the Vicar of St. John's—thinks so
too. Wasn't it strange that it should have been mother's aunt who was
in the carriage?"

"Very. Your mother never sees her Aunt Caroline, does she?"

"Never. Do you know her, Mrs. Tiddy?"

"No, though, of course, I have heard a good bit about her from your
mother."

"Billy and I never heard of her at all till my accident. I don't think
she can be nice; and Billy said she looked very proud. I heard her
speak, but I was too frightened then to take much notice of her voice.
I always tell what people are like by their voices."

"Do you, my dear?"

"Yes," Peggy nodded. "I knew Mr. Tiddy was good and kind, the moment I
heard him speak: I felt I could trust him. Do you know, I quite enjoyed
the journey yesterday, after we had properly started. Of course, I
didn't like saying good-bye to mother and father. I had never been in a
corridor-train before, and we had dinner at a big table just as though
we were in a proper room, and there was a kitchen on the train, and
cooks. Oh, how Billy would have liked to have been there! What a lot I
shall have to tell him when I go home! Oh, Mrs. Tiddy, it was kind of
you to think of inviting me to stay with you!"

"I am sure your visit will be a great pleasure to me, my dear," Mrs.
Tiddy replied cordially. "And I shall be well content, if I can send
you home with roses in your cheeks. To-morrow I will take you into the
village and down to the beach; but I must not let you do too much on
your first day. There, I have finished my letter, and can now have an
idle hour before tea."

She put aside her writing materials as she spoke, and went to the
window, where Peggy was seated, listening to the sparrows twittering
beneath the eaves of the roof and the sound of children's voices wafted
upwards from the village below.

"You and Mr. Tiddy are so very kind to take so much trouble to explain
everything to me," the little girl said, with a grateful ring in her
sweet, clear voice, "that I am already beginning to know this place
quite well—the house and the grounds, too."

"Shall I tell you what I see from this window?" asked Mrs. Tiddy.

"Oh, please!" Peggy answered delightedly. Then as her kind hostess
did so, she listened with attention, her face aglow with interest and
pleasure. "How well you make me understand!" she cried, as Mrs. Tiddy
ceased speaking. She leaned her head out of the open window and sniffed
the fresh salt breeze appreciatively, and listened to the murmur of the
sea. It seemed a very beautiful world to Peggy in spite of her lack of
sight.



CHAPTER V

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

IN a very few days, Peggy had settled into the routine of life at Lower
Brimley, and had become well known by sight to the villagers, who took
a kindly interest in Mrs. Tiddy's guest—"the pretty little maid," as
they called her, who, though she was blind, could play the piano, so
the servants at the farm reported, and was so clever that wherever she
went once she could go by herself a second time.

Accompanied by the lean, long-legged sheep-dog, she was now a familiar
figure on the beach, where she would sit for hours, listening to the
incessant murmur of the sea or talking to the fishermen, whose deep
voices insensibly softened in addressing her. For nowhere so much as in
Cornwall is more respect shown to those whom God has afflicted; and,
though Peggy knew it not, she was continually watched by friendly eyes
to see that she came to no harm.

Mrs. Tiddy, who had been nervous about letting her visitor wander out
of her sight at first, soon grew less vigilant, and was quite satisfied
if she knew Wolf was with her, for the dog had constituted himself
her faithful companion, and showed marked signs of jealousy, if any
stranger came near her.

One afternoon, about a week after her arrival at Lower Brimley, Peggy
was standing in a gateway waiting for Mr. Tiddy, who had gone across
a meadow to look at some sheep, when Wolf, as usual at her side, gave
a low, warning growl and drew closer to her. She put her hand on the
dog's collar and listened, hearing at length the sound of footsteps
slowly approaching. Some one was evidently ascending the hill which led
from the village to the farm.

After that one growl, Wolf remained silent, and Peggy did not move as
the footsteps drew near. But when they suddenly stopped, the little
girl, still holding the dog by the collar, turned her face, with an
inquiring expression upon it, towards the spot where she knew some
one—a woman, she thought, from the sound of the footsteps—to be.

"Can you tell me, if this is the way to Lower Brimley Farm?" asked a
somewhat patronising voice—the voice of a lady, Peggy's sharp ears
informed her at once.

"Yes," the little girl answered. "You will come within sight of the
house, I know, when you turn the next corner. Are you going to call on
Mrs. Tiddy? Perhaps you are a friend of hers? She is not at home; she
has driven in to Penzance."

"And I have driven from Penzance. But I have no acquaintance with Mrs.
Tiddy—the mistress at the farm, I presume? I have no desire to see
her, but I want to have a look at her flowers. I am told the daffodils
and narcissi at Lower Brimley are especially fine. People talk so much
nowadays of the flower-farms of Cornwall that I am curious to see one."

The speaker—a tall, thin, erect old lady, with snow-white hair and
very sharp dark eyes, looked carelessly at the child, and proceeded to
question her: "Do you live here? Are you the farmer's daughter?"

"No; I am no relation to either Mr. or Mrs. Tiddy, although they are
so very kind to me," Peggy answered simply. "My home is in London;
I am only here on a visit. I am sure Mr. Tiddy will let you look at
his flowers; he is very proud of them, and no wonder, for they are so
beautiful! He has gone across the meadow, but he will return directly.
Perhaps you can see him?"

"Do you mean that big man in breeches and leggings?"

"Yes, that's Mr. Tiddy. I promised to wait here with Wolf—that's the
dog—till he came back. Is he far off? Is he coming this way?"

"Cannot you use your eyes, child?" began the lady, a trifle
impatiently. Then she paused abruptly, and scanned the little girl's
face with keener scrutiny.

"I cannot see," Peggy responded, "because I am blind."

"Blind! How shocking!"

The stranger's voice had softened perceptibly, and sounded no longer
indifferent. Peggy, conscious of the change, smiled, and a faint colour
rose to her pale cheeks as she remarked:

"Every one is surprised to hear I am blind, but it is quite true."

"And have you been blind long?"

"All my life."

"And yet you look happy!" was the wondering exclamation.

"I am very happy. Mother says I must always remember how many blessings
God has given me, and so I do. Oh, here is Mr. Tiddy!" the little girl
cried, with a sudden change of tone.

The farmer came up, glancing curiously at Peggy's companion, who now
put forward a request—it sounded almost like a command—to see his
flowers, adding that she had come from Penzance on purpose to look at
them, and had left her carriage at the foot of the hill.

"You are just in time to see them at their best," Mr. Tiddy told her
pleasantly. "In another week, I shall have cut them all: we rear them
for the London markets. Lead the way, Peggy. A little friend of ours
from town," he explained, lowering his voice as the child and the dog
went on ahead. "She's been laid up ill and hasn't picked up her health
and spirits yet. We're trying what our Cornish air will do for her."

"I trust it will do wonders," said the lady, and her voice, though
still cold in tone, was not ungracious. "She looks a delicate child,
and she tells me, she is blind."

"Ah, yes, poor dear," sighed Mr. Tiddy. "Though I don't know why I
should pity her," he proceeded, "for she's as happy as the day is
long. Her father—he's the organist of St. John's in the East End of
London—calls her 'little Sunbeam,' and the name just suits her. Her
mother and my wife were school friends, and—but here we are!"

The stranger was evidently much gratified by the sight of the flowers,
and she was greatly impressed by the knowledge Peggy evinced concerning
them. And the more she conversed with Mr. Tiddy, the more gracious her
manner became, till by-and-by she asked him if there were comfortable
lodgings to be had in the neighbourhood.

"There's a farm higher up the hill, the adjoining farm to this, Higher
Brimley it's called—where they let apartments during the summer
months," he replied. "I expect they'd consider themselves fortunate, if
they obtained a lodger as early in the year as this. Ford, the people
are called, and Mrs. Ford is a nice, respectable woman who'd make you
very comfortable."

"You never take lodgers here?" the stranger inquired hesitatingly.

"Never," was the decisive answer. "My wife has plenty of work to do in
connection with the poultry and the dairy, and—to be plain—we like our
home to ourselves."

When the lady had gazed her fill at the daffodils, Mr. Tiddy led the
way into the garden, which she declared to be her idea of what a
country garden should be. The kindly farmer, pleased at her admiration
for his belongings, thereupon invited her into the house, and had tea
brought into the parlour. "I wish my wife was at home," he observed
regretfully, "but Peggy must play hostess in her place."

"And a very nice little hostess she makes," replied the old lady, her
curious gaze upon the child, who was offering her some of Mrs. Tiddy's
home-made cake. "Do you always treat strangers as you are treating me?"
she inquired, turning to Mr. Tiddy again. "I have heard of Cornish
hospitality, but I never believed in it till now. You don't know
anything about me—" She paused and laughed rather bitterly, then added:
"Most people would not think it worth while to entertain a stranger—one
never likely to cross their path in life again."

"Then you do not mean to seek lodgings in the district?" Mr. Tiddy
asked gravely.

"I have not made up my mind on that point yet. I almost think I could
be contented in a spot like this."

Having finished her tea, she rose and prepared to depart. Mr. Tiddy now
noted for the first time, how costly was her dress—evidently she was a
woman rich in this world's goods—and he thought as he glanced at the
deep lines of discontent around her hard mouth, that, in spite of her
undeniably handsome face, she was the most ill-tempered looking old
lady he had seen for many a long day, and doubted much if she would be
contented anywhere.

"Good-bye, child," she said stretching out her delicately-gloved hand
to Peggy. "It is quite possible that we may meet again."

"If we do, I shall remember you," was the grave response. "I shall
remember you by your voice. And I can't help thinking that somewhere
we have met before, or perhaps it is only that you remind me of some
one—that must be it."

The lady looked at Peggy searchingly, and shook her head. Then she went
away, leaving the little girl in a very thoughtful frame of mind. When
Mr. Tiddy returned, after having accompanied the stranger down the hill
and placed her in the hired carriage in which she had been driven from
Penzance, he asked Peggy what she thought of their late visitor.

"She seemed rather unhappy, didn't she, Mr. Tiddy?" she questioned.

"Unhappy?" he said, reflectively. "I don't know about that. To me she
appeared simply discontented. She is a selfish woman, I'll be bound—so
maybe you're right, my dear, for selfish folk are never happy—and
wrapped up in her own concerns. But she liked my daffodils, didn't she?
I could see she had a real love for flowers. And she was interested in
you, too. One mustn't judge by appearances altogether—"

"I judge by her voice," said Peggy, as he broke off, leaving his
sentence unfinished.

"A hard, cold voice, wasn't it?" questioned Mr. Tiddy.

"Y-e-s. Was she very old, Mr. Tiddy?"

"Over seventy, I should say."

"That's a great age, isn't it? I wonder if she is always alone like she
was to-day. Perhaps she has no one to love and care for her now she
is old. How sad that must be! Poor old lady!" And there was deepest
sympathy in her tone.

Mr. Tiddy looked at the speaker with a tender smile; but he did not
think it worth while to say that, to him, their visitor had appeared
anything but poor. Perhaps, he reflected, the child might be right
after all, for he knew how often those rich in worldly possessions are
poor in heart.



CHAPTER VI

MISS LEIGHTON'S DISCOVERY

THE daffodil blooms had all been gathered; March had given place
to April; and, day by day, Peggy was improving in health, whilst
roses—faint as yet, it is true—were appearing in her cheeks. The
doctor's prescription of a change of air was evidently what she had
needed; and Mrs. Tiddy was much gratified at being able to write most
cheering reports of her visitor's condition to Mrs. Pringle, who read
them aloud to her husband and Billy with deep thankfulness in her heart.

"How we shall miss the child when she leaves us!" Mr. Tiddy remarked to
his wife one evening, as they strolled up and down the path in front
of the house when the work of the day was over, listening to the music
which Peggy's fingers were drawing from the piano in the parlour. The
little girl was naturally musical and had been well taught by her
father, who had often told her that if she worked hard and practised
industriously, she might become a real musician some day, and to be a
real musician was her most earnest desire.

"But she is not going to leave us for a long while yet," Mrs. Tiddy
responded. "I have written and told her mother that she must spare
her to us for another month, at least, and I think she will be glad
to let her stay, as her health is benefiting so much by our Cornish
air. By the way, Ebenezer, have you heard that there are lodgers at
Higher Brimley? No? An elderly lady and her maid have taken Mrs. Ford's
apartments. They were pointed out to me in the village this afternoon
when Peggy and I were returning from the beach. And Peggy says she is
sure the lady is the one who came from Penzance on purpose to look at
our flowers. She is a tall, thin, old lady with quite white hair."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the farmer. "I told her she could get
apartments at Higher Brimley, but I did not think she really meant to
see about them. Did she speak to Peggy?"

"No; she did not see her, for we were in the post office when she
passed with her maid. Peggy recognised her by her voice."

"I wonder who she is. You did not hear her name, I suppose?"

"No. Listen! The child is singing!"

They stood silently by the open window of the parlour and listened as
the little girl's voice, low and sweet in tone, rang out clearly and
softly:

   "Holy Father, cheer our way
    With Thy love's perpetual ray:
    Grant us every closing day
       Light at evening time."

"Dear child," murmured Mrs. Tiddy, tears springing involuntarily to her
eyes, "it does seem hard lines that one naturally so bright and joyous
should be blind! But there, God knows best, and I suppose He has denied
her sight for some good reason; and she has His love to cheer her way,
I'm certain."

"I think there's light in her heart," said Mr. Tiddy simply, and his
wife agreed.

It was on the following morning that Peggy, who had wandered down to
the beach with Wolf in attendance, met the lodgers from Higher Brimley.
The old lady spoke to the little girl, and inquired if she remembered
her. And, receiving an answer in the affirmative, she dismissed her
maid, telling her to wait within sight, and requested Peggy to sit down
by her side on an upturned boat, and talk to her for a while.

Peggy complied readily, for she was of a very sociable disposition,
and commenced the conversation by informing her companion that she had
recognised her voice when she had heard it on the previous day.

"I was in the post office with Mrs. Tiddy when you passed," she said,
"and you were talking. We were told you had taken Mrs. Ford's rooms."

"I do not know how long I shall remain there-perhaps only a few days,
perhaps longer. I suppose the daffodils are all gone now?"

"Yes," Peggy nodded regretfully; "but there are more flowers than ever
in the garden, and those will not be cut. Mr. Tiddy grows them for
himself and his friends; but the daffodils and narcissi, he sells."

"You are looking better than when I saw you before," observed the
stranger. "I suppose you will be going home soon?"

"Not for some weeks yet. Oh, yes, I am a lot better! I feel really
well; and Mrs. Tiddy says I am getting quite rosy and sunburnt. I am so
glad, because they will be pleased at home."

"Are you one of a long family?"

"No. I have only one brother—Billy. Father is the organist of St.
John's, but I do not expect you know the church. Mr. Maloney is our
Vicar. He's a great friend of ours. I'm sure you'd like him, because
he's such a good man. Mother says he's very clever, and people come a
long distance often to hear him preach, so I suppose he must be."

"I think I've heard of him," said the old lady thoughtfully. "He gives
up his life to working amongst the poor, does he not?"

"Yes. Nearly every one in our parish is poor. Mr. Maloney is, I
believe, and we are, you know, because father's salary isn't much,
and his music pupils don't pay him as they ought. But father is very
clever, too, and some day I dare say we shall be better off. Father
composes music, and there are very few people who can do that," the
little girl said, with a ring of affectionate pride in her voice. "Do
you live in London, too?" she inquired, thinking it was her turn to ask
a question now.

"I have a house in town. Will you come and spend a day with me there
when we both go back to our own homes?"

"I—I hardly know," Peggy replied doubtfully, flushing with surprise.
"It's very kind of you to invite me; but I must ask mother. I don't
know who you are, and—"

"And I don't know who you are, either! Suppose you tell me your name?"

"It is Margaret Pringle; but I am always called Peggy, because father
calls mother Margaret."

"Pringle!" exclaimed the old lady, growing suddenly crimson. She looked
almost angrily at Peggy as she spoke, but of course the little girl was
unconscious of that fact, though she caught the sound of agitation in
her voice. "Pringle!" she repeated. "Is it possible? Tell me, is your
father's name John?"

"Yes. You have heard of him?" Since her companion had evinced some
knowledge of the Vicar of St. John's, it did not occur to Peggy as at
all unlikely that she should know something of the organist too. "He
plays most beautifully," she continued impressively. "Mr. Tiddy will
tell you so, for he heard him one Sunday evening when he went to church
with us. It was the first time I had been to church after my accident.
Oh, I haven't told you about that! I was knocked down when I was out
with Billy, and it was a great wonder that I was not killed!"

And she recounted the story of her adventure at some length, utterly
unconscious of the effect it was having upon her listener, who had lost
all her colour again now, and was looking paler than before.

"The—the person in the carriage would not have understood that you were
blind," the old lady remarked at length, subsequent to a long pause
which had followed the conclusion of Peggy's tale.

"No, of course not," the little girl agreed, "but Mr. Maloney says
the least she could have done would have been to have driven me home.
Billy thinks she didn't care, if I was hurt or not. And—isn't it
strange?—she's supposed to be a very charitable person!"

"Then you know who she is?"

"Oh, yes! She gave the policeman her card, and mother used to know her
quite well—years ago."

"Ah!"

"I—I am afraid I have been talking too much," Peggy said hesitatingly,
with a sudden touch of reserve in her tone as she became aware that she
had let her tongue run away with her. She hoped she had not wearied her
companion with her chatter.

"Why did you say she—the person in the carriage, I mean—is supposed to
be very charitable?" asked the old lady presently.

"Because she gives away heaps and heaps of money," was the prompt reply.

"Well, that is very generous of her, is it not?"

"Yes. But I don't think she can be really charitable, if she isn't kind
in little ways and if she's unforgiving. I asked Mr. Maloney what he
thought."

"Well? What did he say?"

"He repeated that verse in the Corinthians, 'Though I bestow all my
goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and
have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.' He didn't say anything but
that; but I know what he meant, don't you? But, don't let us talk about
her any more—I am not sure that I ought to have spoken of her at all."

"You have done no harm. So that accident was actually the cause of your
illness?"

"Yes. And just when the doctor said I must have a change of air, Mr.
Tiddy arrived and invited me here. Wasn't it kind of him, and of Mrs.
Tiddy too? You know I couldn't possibly have had a change but for them,
for father couldn't have managed it, and it made him so dreadfully
unhappy that he couldn't. Both he and mother were so worried about me."

Soon after that the old lady rose, remarking that she found the wind a
trifle chilly. She said good-bye to Peggy and joined her maid with the
intention of returning to her lodgings. Left alone, the little girl
reflected that her late companion had been decidedly less affable at
the conclusion of their conversation, than at the commencement, and
wondered why that had been. Had she unwittingly said anything to cause
her annoyance? She felt puzzled and uneasy; and, though she had been
encouraged to talk, she wished she had been less communicative.

Meanwhile the old lady, who, as the reader has no doubt guessed, was
no other than Miss Leighton, Mrs. Pringle's aunt, was walking up the
hill towards Higher Brimley in anything but a happy frame of mind. That
morning she had spoken of remaining some while longer in Cornwall, and
had professed herself quite satisfied with the arrangements which had
been made for her comfort; but now, she had almost decided to quit the
neighbourhood at once.

She had been greatly attracted by the blind child on the occasion
of her visit from Penzance to look at Mr. Tiddy's flowers. And when
she had caught sight of her on the beach an hour previously, she had
determined to cultivate her acquaintance. But having learnt that Peggy
was the daughter of the niece whom she had never forgiven for what she
called her ingratitude, she was experiencing mingled feelings of anger,
bitterness, and regret.

"I will have no more to do with her," she thought.

Then she shuddered as she reflected on the accident. How terrible it
would have been if her horses had killed Margaret's little daughter!
She had made no inquiries concerning her niece since her marriage and
had not even known where she was living, or if she had any children
or not. Therefore, it had been somewhat of a shock to discover she
had a child who was afflicted with blindness. She pictured Peggy,
golden-haired and sunny-faced, and an unwonted expression of tenderness
crossed her countenance. After all, she decided, she would remain at
Higher Brimley for the time, for—it was weak of her, no doubt—she felt
she must see Peggy once again.



CHAPTER VII

A GREAT SURPRISE

NOT quite a week later, Mr. Tiddy, crossing the fields in his usual
leisurely fashion towards the house at dinner-time, caught sight of his
wife and Peggy, standing at the garden gate, evidently waiting for him.
As he drew near enough to see the expression of their faces, he noticed
that both appeared excited, and as he joined them the little girl cried
eagerly:

"Oh, Mr. Tiddy, we've had a visitor! She came and knocked at the door
and asked if she might go round the garden. And who do you think she
was?"

"Why, the old lady who's lodging at Higher Brimley, to be sure,"
answered Mr. Tiddy promptly, evincing no surprise. "I met her this
morning, and she stopped and spoke to me. She expressed a desire to see
our flowers, so I told her, she'd be welcome to look at them, whenever
she pleased. She didn't lose much time in taking me at my word," he
concluded, smilingly.

"Ah, but do you know who she is?" demanded Peggy. "No, we thought not.
You'll be simply astounded when you hear. She didn't tell us until just
as she was leaving, and then she said her name was Leighton, and that
I was related to her—distantly related, she said. She's mother's Aunt
Caroline, the rich lady who was in the carriage when—"

"What!" broke in the farmer, "You don't say so!" He looked
questioningly at his wife as he spoke, and she hastened to reply:

"Yes, Ebenezer, it is true. There can be no doubt about it. She is that
rich Miss Leighton of whom we have heard so much."

"I told her who I was that day she talked to me on the beach," Peggy
said, with face and voice full of excitement. "She asked me my name;
and—and I told her, too, all about my accident and how unkind we
thought it of her to have driven away when I was hurt. I think perhaps
she was cross at what I said, but I never dreamt who she was, so I
don't think really it was my fault, do you, Mr. Tiddy?"

"No, my dear, I do not," he agreed.

"Still, perhaps I ought not to have talked as I did to a stranger. She
was very nice to-day, though, wasn't she, Mrs. Tiddy?"

"Very. Will you run into the house, Peggy, and say we are ready for
dinner?"

Then as the little girl obeyed, Mrs. Tiddy turned to her husband and
said gravely:

"Ebenezer, what can have brought Miss Leighton here? Until Peggy told
her her name the other day, she had no idea who she was or even that
her niece had children. I don't believe she has forgiven Peggy's mother
yet. Isn't it shocking to bear malice in one's heart so long? 'I don't
wish to hear anything concerning your friend or her husband,' she said
to me in a tone without an atom of feeling in it; 'but I was never one
for visiting the sins of the parents upon the children. My niece proved
herself ungrateful, and I regard ingratitude as a sin, but I feel no
resentment against her innocent daughter.' I should think not indeed!
I made no answer, however, for I was afraid, if I did, I might say too
much."

"Surely she did not make that remark before Peggy!" exclaimed Mr.
Tiddy, his ruddy colour deepening with indignation.

"No, certainly not; Peggy was not within hearing then. What shall I do?
Miss Leighton asked me to call on her and bring Peggy with me, and I
half promised I would; I did not like to refuse. I think the old lady
has taken a fancy to the child. Isn't it strange that those two should
have crossed each other's path again?"

The farmer nodded, a very thoughtful expression on his face. "There's
One above Who planned they should meet, that's my opinion," he said
gravely; "and I don't think we ought to try to keep them apart. Maybe
the old lady will get to feel more kindly towards her niece when she
knows Peggy better and realises what a dear little soul she is and how
well her mother has brought her up. I am sure Mrs. Pringle will not
object to your taking the child to call on her aunt. By the way, does
Miss Leighton like her lodgings?"

"She said they were fairly comfortable. She strikes me as a rather
dissatisfied body. She is anything but a happy woman, Ebenezer, though
God has given her so much; and I hear from the servants, who have
become friendly with her maid, that she is a very jealous, exacting
temper, and she is always imagining people are trying to cultivate her
acquaintance on account of her wealth."

"Well, she cannot possibly imagine that about you," Mr. Tiddy replied,
"for she has sought your acquaintance herself. I suppose we had better
go in to dinner now. There's Peggy under the porch beckoning to us."

Mrs. Tiddy decided she would not call upon Miss Leighton until she had
mentioned the matter to her old school friend; so she wrote to her that
same day, and received an answer by return of post. Mrs. Pringle said
very little about her aunt in her letter, but she raised no objection
to her little daughter's calling with Mrs. Tiddy at Higher Brimley.
"Aunt Caroline is not fond of young people," she remarked, "so please
don't force the child upon her notice—but I am sure you will not do
that."

"I certainly will not," Mrs. Tiddy reflected as she folded up her
friend's letter, "but I will take Peggy to call on Miss Leighton, as
the old lady made a point of my doing so. We need not stay very long,
any way."

Peggy experienced a feeling of unusual shyness when, one April
afternoon, she accompanied Mrs. Tiddy to Higher Brimley; and, although
Miss Leighton received them with every sign of cordiality, she was
anything but at ease in her presence. As the little girl sat in silence
listening to the conversation of the two ladies, she was aware that the
elder's eyes were upon her, and she alternately flushed and paled as
she thought over the small amount of information she had gleaned from
her mother since her accident about this aunt of hers. Her tender heart
had gone out in sympathy towards the old lady, whom she had sincerely
pitied because she had fancied she might be all alone in the world, but
now she mentally regarded her from quite another point of view.

"Mother would have loved her, if she would have let her," she
reflected. "It is her own fault if she is lonely. I wonder if she will
speak of mother to me!"

But Miss Leighton did not once mention her niece's name. She addressed
herself very kindly to Peggy every now and again, and seemed wishful
to make much of her, and Mrs. Tiddy saw she was disappointed and
half-vexed by the child's evident disinclination to talk.

"What have you done with your dog this afternoon?" Miss Leighton
inquired, when at length her visitors rose to go.

"We shut him up in the stable before we started," Peggy answered. "He
wanted to come because he loves a walk."

"He is rather quarrelsome with other dogs," Mrs. Tiddy explained, "so
we thought it wiser to leave him at home. The poor creature was very
disappointed, for he spends most of his time with Peggy now, and we
always feel she is safe if Wolf is with her."

"What will he do when he loses her altogether?" asked Miss Leighton.
"Peggy does not propose taking him back with her to London, I presume?"

"No," the little girl answered, accepting the question seriously, "I
wouldn't do that, even if Mr. Tiddy would give him to me, for I am sure
he would be wretched in town. I'd rather know he is here, guarding the
yard and looking after the sheep, and going on as he always does—having
such a good time! He will miss me at first, but—where is Mrs. Tiddy?"
she asked quickly.

They had left the house and were in the garden now, Mrs. Tiddy having
lingered at the door to exchange a few words with Mrs. Ford.

"She is talking to my landlady," Miss Leighton replied. "She will be
here presently. Are you in a great hurry to go? You have no objection
to being alone with me for a few minutes, I suppose?" she questioned
sharply.

"Oh! No!" Peggy assured her. "And—and now we are alone, I should like
to say that I hope I wasn't rude to you the other day on the beach,"
she proceeded, looking distressed. "I would not have spoken like that
if—if I had known who you were. I—I have thought of it often since,
and I am sorry if I said anything you did not like. I was afraid,
afterwards, that you were displeased with me."

"People are seldom pleased to hear others' opinions of themselves,"
was the dry response. "You evidently considered my conduct towards you
had been heartless; but I am not angry with you, child. You only said
frankly what you thought."

"Yes," Peggy agreed, colouring hotly in her confusion. "I am glad you
are not angry, though, because I did not mean to be rude, and I am
afraid I must have been," she added deprecatingly.

"I think you are prejudiced against me." Miss Leighton paused
momentarily, and sighed, then continued, "Well, it is natural you
should be. I am sorry, nevertheless. Cannot you dismiss all you have
heard of me from your mind and take me as you find me?"

"I—I will try. I have not heard much about you, indeed! I never heard
of you at all till after my accident! Then Billy told me who you were,
and I was so surprised! Billy and I have often talked of you since!"

"Really? I dare say you heard Mrs. Tiddy ask me to take tea with her
one afternoon, soon? I shall hope then to hear you play. I hear you are
quite a musician."

"Oh, no! But I love music. I play to Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy every night."
The mantle of reserve was falling from Peggy and the brightness was
returning to her face. "Do you love music too?" she inquired, lifting
her sightless blue eyes to her companion's countenance.

"Indeed I do; so we have that much in common, at any rate."

"Oh, we have more than that, for I am sure you love flowers, and so
do I. Do you know, there are such a lot of sea-pinks growing on the
cliffs—"

"You do not go on the cliffs alone?" Miss Leighton interposed.

"Oh, no! But I have been several times with Mr. Tiddy, and I hold fast
to his hand. There is a sheep-track along the cliffs, you know, and
it is quite safe if you keep to that. I could find my way alone, I am
sure, but I never mean to try, because I have promised, I won't."

"That's well. Perhaps you and I might walk there together some day. Do
you think you could put up with an old woman for a companion?"

"Yes, Miss Leighton," Peggy answered, smiling.

"And you shall show me the sea-pinks, and we will take Wolf to protect
us both. But do not call me 'Miss Leighton,' child; call me 'Aunt
Caroline,' for you are my great-niece and—and I should like to be kind
to you."



CHAPTER VIII

CONCERNING ELLEN BARNES

MISS LEIGHTON'S maid—Ellen Barnes—was a plain, sad-faced, middle-aged
woman who had been with her present employer for many years. She had
known Mrs. Pringle before her marriage, and consequently, it was with
considerable satisfaction and some astonishment that she saw the
interest with which her mistress regarded the daughter of the niece,
the very existence of whom she had ignored so long.

It cannot be said that Miss Leighton was on anything like confidential
terms with her maid; but she trusted her, and she would have certainly
been at a loss without the services of the quiet, rather spiritless
woman who rarely spoke except in answer to a question.

Miss Leighton had now been nearly a fortnight at Higher Brimley, and
had had several interviews with her little great-niece on the beach,
and had walked with her along the sheep-track on the cliffs to look at
the sea-pinks. But she had not yet taken tea with Mrs. Tiddy as had
been suggested, and when, one sunshiny morning, Peggy arrived with an
invitation for her to do so that afternoon, she accepted it immediately.

"Of course I will come," she replied, after Peggy—rosy with the
exercise of walking—had delivered her message. "Please give my kind
regards to Mrs. Tiddy and say I accept her invitation with pleasure.
Did you walk here by yourself, child?"

"No," answered Peggy. She had been ushered into Miss Leighton's
sitting-room by Ellen Barnes, who had been on an errand to the post
office for her mistress and had overtaken the little girl on her way
home. "I started to come alone," she said, "but I had not gone far
before I heard some one calling to me. It was Barnes. So we walked on
together. What a very nice woman she is, Aunt Caroline! We had such a
long talk!"

"Humph!" exclaimed Miss Leighton, rather surprised. "And, pray, what
did you find to talk about?"

"Oh, about things at home, first of all," was the somewhat vague
response. "My home, of course I mean. I did not know till to-day that
Barnes knew my mother."

The little girl had taken the chair which had been placed for her close
to the open window by which Miss Leighton was sitting, and the bright
spring sunshine fell full upon her face framed in its golden curls.
Certainly she made a very pretty picture.

"I like Barnes," she proceeded in a tone of decision as her companion
vouchsafed no response. "How very fortunate you are to have such a nice
woman for your maid, Aunt Caroline!"

"I believe she is thoroughly trustworthy," Miss Leighton remarked,
somewhat astonished at this expression of opinion, "and that is a great
deal to be able to say of any one. Barnes has been with me many years.
I pay her good wages and she is not overworked. I believe she values
her situation."

"Oh, yes, I am sure she does!" Peggy agreed earnestly.

"How can you tell, child?" Miss Leighton asked, a slightly amused smile
curving her lips.

"She told me she did, Aunt Caroline."

"Did she?" There was gratification in the old lady's voice. "But—how
strange of her to say so to you! She must have been very confidential."

"She was telling me about her brother, and how she values her situation
with you because you pay her such good wages that she is able to send
home more than half she earns. Oh, Aunt Caroline, when she told me
about her brother, I thought how thankful I ought to be that God has
only made me blind! Suppose I was like poor Barnes's brother: how much
worse that would be!"

"What about Barnes's brother?" inquired Miss Leighton, in utter
bewilderment. "I have never heard anything about my maid's relations;
she has a week's holiday every summer; I suppose she goes to see them
then. Stay—I think I remember hearing her once mention a mother, who,
by the way, must be a very old woman, for Barnes herself is quite
middle-aged."

"Barnes's mother is more than eighty years old, and she lives in a
little village near Plymouth with her son. Oh, Aunt Caroline, he is
only two years younger than Barnes, and he has been an idiot all his
life!"

"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Leighton, feeling really shocked. "I never
heard that before. Barnes never told me."

Peggy looked intensely surprised for a minute, then an expression of
comprehension crossed her face. "I expect she did not like to tell
you," she said. "Perhaps she thought you would not be interested, you
know."

"Why should she think that?" Miss Leighton questioned sharply.

The little girl was silent. She had heard Mrs. Tiddy say that Barnes
looked a broken-spirited woman; and Mrs. Ford, when she had called
at Lower Brimley a few days previously, had declared her to be a
perfect slave to her mistress's whims, and wondered why she did not
seek another situation with some one who, at any rate, would be less
inconsiderate and exacting. In the conversation the little girl had
had with Barnes, she had discovered the reason which induced her to
keep her post. It was because it enabled her to do so much for her poor
mother and her imbecile brother in their cottage home.

"Why should you think that?" Miss Leighton persisted. "Come, speak out,
child! Don't be afraid of me!"

"I'm not," Peggy answered truthfully, for she was not in the least in
awe of the old lady. "I meant that—that perhaps if you have never asked
Barnes about her relations, she would think you would not care to hear
about them. But it does seem so very odd that she should have lived
with you so many years, and you should not know all about her mother
and brother!"

"The brother is an idiot, you say?"

"Yes; but Barnes and her mother are very fond of him; it would break
her mother's heart to be parted from him, and Barnes says they shall
never be separated as long as God gives her health and strength to
work. They get parish pay, and with what Barnes sends them they manage
to live pretty comfortably. Oh, Aunt Caroline, mustn't it be dreadful
to have a brother like that! Oh dear, I do think it is so very sad!"
And the pitiful tears rose to Peggy's blue eyes and ran down her cheeks.

"You mustn't take other people's troubles to heart like that!" Miss
Leighton exclaimed hastily.

"I feel so sorry for Barnes," Peggy said, with deepest sorrow in her
tone, "because I am sure it must make her very unhappy to think of her
brother and her old mother sometimes. She must wish to see them so
much, and always be wondering how they are getting on. Mrs. Tiddy says
Barnes looks a very sad woman. I wish I could do something to make her
happier."

"I said so to her just now," she continued, with a brightening face,
"and what do you think she answered? That I had helped her by being
sorry for her brother; she said she wouldn't have told me anything
about him if I hadn't been afflicted myself, and it warmed her heart to
know I cared. I told her I should pray to God every night to make her
brother right in his mind, and she said she was afraid that would never
be in this world. Poor fellow! He's like me, Aunt Caroline, in that
way, isn't he? He will have to bear his cross as long as he lives, and
his cross is so much heavier than mine."

A silence followed, during which Miss Leighton sat gazing, unseeingly,
out of the window. There was a mist before her eyes, and a lump in her
throat which prevented her uttering a word. By-and-by Peggy rose to go.

"Mrs. Tiddy said she hoped you would come early this afternoon," she
observed. "Please do, for I've so many things to show you."

"I certainly will," Miss Leighton replied. "Shall Barnes take you home?"

"Oh no, thank you, I know the way quite well; I have only to keep to
the road. Good-bye, Aunt Caroline—till this afternoon."

Miss Leighton stood at the window and watched the little girl out of
sight, a gentler expression than usual on her face. Then she resumed
her seat and took up the book she had been reading before the child's
arrival; but it failed to interest her now, for her mind was full of
uneasy thoughts. Barnes had lived with her for nearly twenty years,
she reflected; and yet how little she really knew of the woman! Well,
it could not be expected that she would interest herself in her maid's
concerns. And yet, how surprised Peggy had been at discovering her
ignorance of aged mother and her imbecile son. Peggy had learnt all
there was to know about them in less than half an hour.

Miss Leighton paid her servants liberal wages—she was never stingy
where money was concerned—and it had often occurred to her that Barnes
must be of a miserly disposition, for she dressed very plainly and it
had been impossible not to notice that she begrudged spending money.
Now she understood where the woman's wages had gone. Barnes had not
been making a purse for herself, but spending it upon those dear
to her, and, all the while, she had been regarding her as a mean,
poor-spirited creature.

It was difficult to realise that the humble, silent woman who had borne
with her mistress's haughty temper so patiently, had been leading a
life of self-sacrifice and self-repression from the noblest of motives;
but Miss Leighton now realised that such had been the case, for Peggy
had thrown a new light upon the maid's character.

What had made Barnes tell Peggy about her brother? the old lady
wondered. Was it because her heart had been hungry for sympathy,
and she had known instinctively that she would receive it from the
blind child? Probably so. She had preferred to confide in a stranger,
rather than in the mistress whom she knew to be accounted a charitable
woman—one lavish in giving of her wealth.

"I don't think she can really be charitable, if she isn't kind in
little ways," Peggy had said ingenuously, passing her childish judgment
on her mother's rich aunt, and the words returned forcibly to Miss
Leighton's mind now, and cause her a strange pang, whilst she asked
herself if she had ever been really kind to Ellen Barnes, or for that
matter, to any member of her household. She was a lonely old woman;
but, after all, was it not greatly owing to her own fault? She had
certainly never been "kind in little ways."



CHAPTER IX

TEA AT LOWER BRIMLEY

IT was not the ordinary "afternoon tea" to which Miss Leighton was
invited, but a substantial meal laid on the square mahogany table in
the parlour at Lower Brimley, with a mass of primroses in the centre
intermingled with sprays of beautiful fern moss, surrounded by plates
of daintily cut bread-and-butter and various kinds of preserves in
glass dishes, an old china bowl full of clotted cream, a plum cake, and
some saffron buns—"knobbies" as they are called in Cornwall.

It was but natural that Mrs. Tiddy should put her best possessions
before this relation of her little visitor's, so the silver tea-service
had come out of its flannel wrappings, and Miss Leighton drank her tea
from a rare old china teacup with a wreath of pink roses inside its
brim—one of a set which had been treasured in Mr. Tiddy's family for
three generations and was only used on great occasions—and stirred her
tea with an apostle spoon, worn thin with age; whilst, much to her
hostess's gratification, she evidently appreciated the efforts which
were being made to entertain her.

Seated at Mrs. Tiddy's right hand at the tea-table, the old lady looked
about her with a sense of unusual contentment. For once in a way, she
was satisfied with the company in which she found herself. Yes, she
liked this hearty, out-spoken west-country farmer and his pleasant,
intelligent wife, for she was under the impression—a true one—that
they would have welcomed her as cordially if she had been poor instead
of rich, and she so seldom felt that about people. After tea, Peggy
took possession of her, and, after visiting the yard and inspecting
the poultry, she was led into the great farm kitchen, where, in one
corner of the oak settle close to the fire was a flannel-lined basket
containing two weakly chicks.

"Mrs. Tiddy thought this morning that they would die," Peggy said as
she covered the invalids with her warm hands. "But they are getting on
nicely now, and to-morrow, they'll be strong enough to run with their
brothers and sisters."

Miss Leighton glanced around the kitchen with admiring, appreciative
eyes, noticing the shining tins on the mantel-piece, the big copper
warming-pan and the tall, brass-faced clock against the wall, and the
linen bags hanging from the beams which spanned the ceiling, containing
home-cured hams and sides of bacon. And then, after a visit to the
dairy, she returned with Peggy to the parlour, where the tea-things had
disappeared from the table, and the easiest chair in the room was drawn
near the window for the guest.

"What a peaceful scene it is!" Miss Leighton exclaimed, as her eyes
rested on the village below and the distant sea. "I suppose, Mrs.
Tiddy, you have become greatly attached to this charming spot?"

"Yes," Mrs. Tiddy answered. "I love Lower Brimley as I imagine only
a woman who has been homeless and dependent can love her home. There
was nowhere in the world where I could feel I had a right to be, till
I married, for I was left an orphan at an early age and brought up by
relations who regarded me in the light of an incubus. The bread of
charity is very bitter, Miss Leighton—how bitter, it is impossible for
those who have never tasted it to guess. I finished my education in a
school as a pupil teacher, so I can truthfully say, that after I was
seventeen, I maintained myself. You know I was a governess for several
years, but I prefer being a farmer's wife," she concluded with a happy
laugh.

"Your lines have fallen in pleasant places," Miss Leighton remarked,
with a smile which was very gracious.

And Mrs. Tiddy agreed.

Then Peggy was asked to give them some music, and she went to the piano
willingly. Miss Leighton was astonished to hear the child could play so
well, and expressed herself delighted, remarking that she had evidently
been most carefully taught.

"Soon I am going to learn the organ," Peggy informed the old lady,
twisting round on the piano-stool, "and then, perhaps, when I am quite
grown up I shall be able to earn my own living. How splendid that will
be! I think I would rather be a musician than anything else, because
it makes people happy to hear music. Oh! here's Mr. Tiddy!" she cried,
catching the sound of footsteps in the hall; and a minute later the
farmer entered the room.

"You've been having some music?" he said, glancing at Peggy on the
piano-stool. "Well, now, won't you sing something, my dear? She has a
voice as sweet as a lark's," he continued, turning to the visitor. "I
am sure you would like to hear her sing, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed I should," Miss Leighton replied.

"I don't know any songs," Peggy said doubtfully; "only a few hymns, and
little scraps from anthems which I've heard at church."

"Sing that hymn about 'Light at evening time,' my dear," requested Mr.
Tiddy. "I dearly like to hear you sing that."

Peggy complied immediately, and when her sweet voice ceased there was
dead silence for a minute or so. Surprised, the little girl turned her
sightless eyes in the direction of Miss Leighton, wondering why she did
not at least say, "Thank you."

"Don't you like it?" she asked. "It's my favourite hymn, and when I was
a very little girl mother taught me to say the first verse as a prayer.
I say it every night now, and I expect I always shall. I suppose I like
it so much because I'm blind. I don't know what light is, but I know
it's very beautiful and wonderful, because Jesus is called 'The Light
of the World,' and people seem to think it's so dreadful to be without
it."

"The light our Saviour brought into the world is given to the blind as
freely as to others," Mrs. Tiddy reminded her gently. "Its home is in
the heart, making peace and happiness and joy." She glanced at Miss
Leighton as she spoke and was surprised at the expression of her face.
The old lady was regarding the child with yearning eyes, and her whole
countenance—generally so repellent in its pride—was softened by an
emotion which rendered her incapable of speech.

At that moment Peggy started to her feet, declaring she heard Wolf
outside the window—he was in search of her—and hastened out of the
room. A few minutes later, she and her faithful canine friend ran down
the garden path side by side, the dog barking joyously at having lured
her from the house.

"How full of life and high spirits she is!" remarked Mr. Tiddy, as he
moved to the window to watch the pair. "She is looking capital, isn't
she? I declare her cheeks have become quite round and rosy, and she was
such a pale little soul not much more than a month ago."

"It is terrible that she should be blind!" Miss Leighton exclaimed, a
sort of restrained vehemence in her tone as she found her voice once
more. "Can nothing really be done for her? Has she had good advice?"

"The best in London, I believe," Mrs. Tiddy answered with a sigh.

"Then money would be no good—" The old lady paused as both her
companions shook their heads. "Because if it was a question of money
I would gladly pay any amount for the child's sake," she proceeded
eagerly. "I—I have taken a great fancy to her. I do not know when I was
so much attracted by a child before. I would give a great deal if she
could be made to see."

"Hers is not a case money can touch," Mr. Tiddy responded gravely, "I
have been assured of that by her parents. As long as her life lasts,
the little maid will be blind, and she knows it, but she's contented to
wait. Her eyes will see the King in His beauty by-and-by, and meanwhile
His love is lightening her darkness and cheering her way. Did you like
that hymn she sang?"

"Yes," Miss Leighton assented, "but it made me sad. To me, blindness
seems the heaviest affliction that can fall upon any one."

She glanced out of the window, her expression one of mingled affection
and pity as her gaze fell upon the little girl who was now leaning over
the garden gate in the attitude of listening.

"Ah, here comes Barnes to escort me home!" she exclaimed. "I have to
thank you for a very pleasant time," she continued earnestly, looking
from one of her companions to the other. "I am afraid I shall have no
opportunity of returning your hospitality now, for I am leaving Higher
Brimley at the end of the week; but surely, Mr. Tiddy, you sometimes
bring your wife to town?"

"She has not been back to London since I married her," Mr. Tiddy
replied smilingly, "and she says she has no desire to go. But I mean
for us both to take a holiday in the autumn—after the corn harvest—and
then—"

"And then you will come to London," Miss Leighton interposed quickly,
"and do come and stay with me. Don't say 'No,' but think it over. It
would give me so much pleasure to have you for my guests, and you
should do as you pleased in every way. At any rate, promise you will
not visit London without seeing me."

"I readily promise that," Mrs. Tiddy answered, secretly much surprised
at the invitation she and her husband had received. "You are very
kind—so many thanks. Won't you stay a little longer? Barnes can wait
for you."

"I think I must go, for I would rather return before dark, and the
evening is drawing in. There is a mist rising from the sea; I dare say
it is 'only for heat and pilchards' as you Cornish folk say, but I am
liable to bronchitis and I fear to be out in a fog."

Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy escorted their visitor to the garden gate, where
Barnes was waiting for her, in conversation with Peggy; and five
minutes later, mistress and maid were climbing the hill towards Higher
Brimley.

"I shall leave here at the end of the week," Miss Leighton abruptly
remarked as they neared their destination.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Barnes, in her usual quiet tone.

"It is my intention to return to town, but I think I shall break our
journey at Plymouth," Miss Leighton announced. "I may probably stay
there for a day or so."

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied again. Not a muscle of her face moved, nor
was there any sign to show the delight she experienced as her mistress
made known her plans, though her heart was palpitating with joy at the
thought that she might soon have an opportunity of seeing her mother
and brother.

Miss Leighton was disappointed. She had planned to stop at Plymouth
solely on her maid's account; but of course, she reflected, Barnes
could not know that.

"By the way, you have relatives living near Plymouth, have you not?"
she asked, after a brief hesitation.

"Yes, ma'am—my mother and my brother." Barnes regarded her mistress
dubiously, then added: "I shall be glad to see them, if you will allow
me a day to myself, for my mother is very old, and my brother is sorely
afflicted—he has no mind, or none to speak of. It will be a great
pleasure to me to go and see them."

"How is it you never mentioned them to me before?" Miss Leighton
demanded sharply. "You are deeply attached to them, are you not?"

"Yes," Barnes admitted, "I am." But she did not explain why their names
had never passed her lips, and her mistress did not ask her again.



CHAPTER X

GOOD-BYES

"HAVE you nearly finished, Barnes?"

The speaker—Miss Leighton—put the question in a querulous tone. She
had that moment entered her bedroom at Higher Brimley, where her maid
was engaged in packing her belongings; and, taking off her bonnet and
cloak, she flung them upon the bed with an irritability of manner which
showed she had been put out.

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes answered, as she proceeded to lock the last trunk
and securely fasten its leather straps.

"I have been to Lower Brimley," Miss Leighton announced. "I thought I
would call and say good-bye to the Tiddys this evening, but they have
gone to Penzance for the day and taken the child with them."

There was a distinct note of disappointment in her voice, and her face
wore an expression of mingled annoyance and regret.

"They might have thought that I should call to-day!" she exclaimed,
vexedly.

"Do they know you are leaving to-morrow, ma'am?" Barnes questioned,
respectfully.

"I told Mrs. Tiddy I intended leaving at the end of this week: probably
she imagines that would be on Saturday—not Friday. I should like to
have said good-bye to little Peggy. Barnes, what I would give if the
child's parents would consent to my adopting her!"

"Ma'am!" cried Barnes in great astonishment, rising to her feet—she
had been kneeling to secure the straps of the trunk—and staring at her
mistress as though she doubted if she had heard aright. "Her mother
would never permit it!" she declared decisively.

"How do you know?" queried Miss Leighton, with a frown and a cold
glance of displeasure.

"Of course I don't know, ma'am," Barnes answered quietly, "and
perhaps I have no right to pass my opinion; but, from what I've heard
Miss Peggy say herself, I judge that it's very unlikely her mother
and father would part with her, especially as she's blind. Parents
generally love an afflicted child so much more dearly than those who
are better fitted to face the world!" And Barnes's face softened into
tenderness as she spoke.

"But they will have to provide for her future, and my niece's husband
is a poor man. If anything happened to him—if he died, his widow
and children would be penniless, and what would become of Peggy
then—helpless and blind? Surely if her parents are so deeply attached
to her, they will consider her interests! I will have nothing to do
with Margaret herself, but she shall not be a loser if she will allow
me to adopt Peggy. What do you think of my plan, Barnes?"

"I don't like it," Barnes responded in a low tone. "No, I don't like
it," she repeated, gaining courage to speak her mind; "the little girl
has a happy home, though I suppose it's a poor one, and she's been
accustomed to a great deal of love—"

"And if I did not love her, should I desire to adopt her?" Miss
Leighton broke in with unusual impetuosity.

"Your love is not like that which she's had all her life," Barnes said,
refraining from meeting her mistress's glance. "How can it be, ma'am?
You've taken a fancy to the child and you want her for your own sake,
because she's sweet and loveable; but her mother and father will think
of what's best for her—"

The maid's sentence was never finished—and perhaps it was as well, as
Miss Leighton's countenance had darkened with anger—for at that moment
Mrs. Ford knocked at the door with the information that there were
visitors downstairs. And on descending to her sitting-room, the old
lady found Mrs. Tiddy and Peggy awaiting her.

"We are so sorry we were not at home when you called, Miss Leighton,"
said Mrs. Tiddy, "especially as you are leaving to-morrow—I thought you
would not go till Saturday. We have just returned from Penzance, where
we have spent the day."

"I hope you have had a pleasant time," Miss Leighton remarked genially.
"But are you not very tired?"

"I think Peggy is," Mrs. Tiddy replied, "but when we heard you had been
to Lower Brimley in our absence to say good-bye to us, she felt with me
that we could not let you go without a word of farewell, so we decided
to come straight on here. We must only stay a few minutes, though, as
my husband is waiting in the dog-cart outside."

"We have had such a lovely day," Peggy informed Miss Leighton. "We had
dinner at an hotel, and we rode to Land's End in a Jersey car; Mr.
Tiddy said I must not go home without having been to Land's End."

"And when do you go home?" Miss Leighton inquired.

"At the end of the month," Peggy answered, "when father is coming to
fetch me. It has all been arranged. Father is going to take a few days'
holiday; and I shall be able to show him the sea, and the village, and
the church on the cliff, and all the poultry and the animals on the
farm! Oh! I am so much looking forward to that! But I shall be very
sorry when the time comes to leave Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy and dear old
Wolf! I shall never forget my visit to Cornwall as long as I live! I
shall not forget you, either," she went on, taking the old lady's hand
between her own and pressing it. "I don't suppose we shall ever meet
again, but I shall remember you—always. I wish you were not unfriendly
with mother! I am sure she would like to be friendly with you. Don't
you think, Aunt Caroline, you might forgive her now?"

"Did any one tell you to say this to me?" questioned Miss Leighton
suspiciously, glancing from the child to Mrs. Tiddy, who looked
somewhat alarmed.

"Oh, no, no! But it seems so dreadful and—and sad that you and mother
should not be friends, for I know you used to be kind to her long ago;
and you have been very kind to me—so different from what I thought you
were like!"

"It's my great desire to be always kind to you, Peggy," Miss Leighton
said gravely and impressively. "I wish you to bear that in mind. But
you must not meddle between your mother and me. Little girls should not
interfere in matters they do not understand."

Peggy blushed rosy red and her blue eyes filled with tears, but she
managed to keep them back. She felt snubbed and uncomfortable, and was
very relieved when Mrs. Tiddy declared they must go. Miss Leighton rose
to escort her visitors to the garden gate, and, as they were leaving
the room, Barnes came downstairs. Peggy recognised the maid's step
immediately, and meet her with extended hands.

"Good-bye, Barnes," she said, adding in a whisper, "I sha'n't forget
all you told me about your poor brother, and I shall remember always to
pray for him as I said I would. If you ever see me in London, you'll be
sure to speak to me, will you not?"

"Yes, miss," Barnes responded. She glanced hastily around and saw that
her mistress had followed Mrs. Tiddy out of the front door, then she
put her arms around Peggy and kissed her. "Good-bye, you dear little
soul," she said affectionately. "You're going home soon, are you not,
my dear?"

"Yes," Peggy assented happily.

"Ah, you'll be glad to be with your mother and father and brother
again, won't you?"

"Indeed I shall," agreed Peggy.

"There's no place like home and the love we get there—remember that,
Miss Peggy. It's better to be rich in love than in money, any day!"

"Of course it is," smiled the little girl. "And I shall be very glad to
be at home again, though Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy have been as kind as kind
could be!"

"They're good, kind people, miss; any one can see that, and you've been
happy with them, I know; but—there, I mustn't keep you any longer!" And
Barnes kissed Peggy once more and hurried away.

After that, Peggy hastened to join the others at the garden gate. Mrs.
Tiddy had already taken her place on the front seat of the dog-cart,
and Mr. Tiddy was shaking hands with Miss Leighton and telling her, in
his hearty, hospitable way, that she must never pay that district a
visit without coming to Lower Brimley. She assured him that she never
would.

"Now then, Peggy. Ready?" he inquired briskly.

The little girl assented, approaching Miss Leighton and holding out her
hand. She raised her face to the old lady's and received a lingering
kiss, which she returned rather shyly. Then, Mr. Tiddy lifted her in
his arms and placed her on the back seat of the dog-cart, bidding her
keep a firm hold of the rail of the vehicle and not fall out.

"Good-bye, Aunt Caroline!" cried Peggy brightly, waving her hand, as
they started off for home.

But Miss Leighton made no response. There was a choking sensation in
her throat, and she dared not attempt to speak for fear her voice
should betray her emotion. She had a feeling, at that moment, that
Peggy was going from her for ever, and that made her very sad.

The spring evening was closing in fast now; and, as the dog-cart
disappeared from sight, Miss Leighton turned and slowly retraced her
footsteps towards the house, encountering Barnes as she entered the
front door. The maid looked at her mistress a trifle curiously, and
received a somewhat defiant glance in return.

"Tell Mrs. Ford I shall require my supper immediately, as I shall have
to be up early in the morning, and therefore shall go to bed in good
time to-night, Barnes," Miss Leighton said, in her usual cold tone.

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied. "I am glad, ma'am, that Mrs. Tiddy
brought little Miss Peggy to say good-bye to you," she ventured to add.

"I have said good-bye to the child for the present," Miss Leighton
responded deliberately; "but she too will soon be returning to town,
and I have planned that we shall meet again."



CHAPTER XI

HOME AGAIN

"I SHOULD think they will be here very soon now!"

The speaker was Mrs. Pringle, who stood at the sitting-room window of
her home, looking out into the narrow street, one cold, wet, spring
evening. Her arm was around Billy's shoulders; and the little boy's
face, which wore an expression of eager watchfulness, was pressed close
to the window-pane.

"Yes," Billy answered, "I hope so. It always seems so long when one is
waiting, doesn't it, mother? How it is raining!"

"I wish it had been a finer evening for Peggy's return," Mrs. Pringle
remarked. "We must keep the fire up."

She moved back from the window and put mare coals into the grate.

"We will give our little Sunbeam a warm welcome, at any rate," she
added with a smile.

All day, she had gone about her household duties with the happiest
of hearts, and every now and again she had run upstairs to make sure
that Peggy's bedroom was quite in order. For her husband, who had gone
to Cornwall a few days previously, was expected to bring his little
daughter home that night. Needless to say, Billy was no less delighted
than his mother at the prospect of so soon seeing Peggy again; whilst
Sarah, in the kitchen, had opened the door, that she might hear the
expected cab pull up before the house, and kept the kettle on the boil
in readiness to make tea the minute the travellers should arrive.

"Here they are!" cried Billy excitedly, at last, and, followed by his
mother, he rushed into the passage, almost colliding with Sarah, who
was hurrying from the kitchen, and flung wide the front door, admitting
as he did so a blast of cold wind.

"Don't go out into the rain, Billy," advised Mrs. Pringle, her face
aglow with expectancy. "See, your father is lifting Peggy out of the
cab; he will bring her straight in."

The next minute, Peggy was in her mother's arms, rapturously returning
her mother's welcoming kiss; then came Billy's turn to be embraced,
and after that, Sarah's. The little girl's countenance was one beam of
happiness, and her cheeks were so rosy that her brother gazed at her in
surprise.

"Why, Peggy, how you've altered!" he cried. "And I do believe you've
grown!"

"I'm sure she has," Mrs. Pringle agreed. "She is looking remarkably
well. She left home as white as a lily, and she has returned like a
red, red rose."

"Are you glad I've come home?" Peggy asked, not because she was in the
least doubtful on the point, but because it was so sweet to know she
had been missed and how welcome was her presence at home once more.

"Glad?" exclaimed Billy, "I should think we are! We've all of us missed
you most dreadfully, Peggy. Even Mr. Maloney noticed that the house
seemed quite different without you!"

"Yes; but now our little Sunbeam has returned to us," Mrs. Pringle said
lovingly, "and it is such happiness to have her given back to us well
and strong!"

"And has no one a welcome for me?" asked Mr. Pringle at that point.
He had seen about the luggage and dismissed the cabman, and now stood
regarding the excited group with a glance half humorous, half tender.
"Have you forgotten that you have not seen me for three whole days?
Never mind," he continued, after he had kissed his wife and his little
son, "I am content to take the second place to-night. But Peggy and I
are both tired and hungry; so, suppose we have our tea at once—as soon
as Peggy has removed her wraps."

A very pleasant meal followed; and afterwards the family drew round the
fireplace, in a circle, to talk.

"I've so much to tell you, that I don't know where to begin," Peggy
remarked. "Oh, I do think the very nicest part of going away on a visit
is the coming home again!"

There was a general laugh at that, and Mr. Pringle said:

"That's good hearing, my dear. We left Cornwall bathed in glorious
sunshine this morning," he continued, addressing his wife. "Your
schoolfellow's home is in a most beautiful spot. I cannot express how
greatly I have enjoyed my three days' holiday at Lower Brimley. Both
Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy have been kindness itself, and never shall we be
able to repay them for all they have done for Peggy!"

"I was—oh, so sorry to say good-bye to them," the little girl said
soberly, "and there was Wolf—poor Wolf! He had to be shut up in the
stable for fear he would follow us to the station and want to go by
train. He is such a dear, dear dog! You will love him, Billy, when you
see him!"

"Do you think I shall ever see him, Peggy?" Billy asked, anxiously. "Do
you really think Mr. Tiddy will remember to invite me to Lower Brimley
in the summer holidays?"

"I am sure he will," the little girl replied positively. "I heard him
mention it several times; he won't forget, he always keeps his word."

"And what about Aunt Caroline?" Mrs. Pringle at length asked. "I was
never more surprised in my life than when I heard you and she had met!"

"Was it not strange?" Peggy said seriously. "You know she came from
Penzance on purpose to see Mr. Tiddy's daffodils, and she was so
pleased with them."

"Did she find out who you were, then?"

"Oh, no—not until long after that—when she was lodging at Higher
Brimley. I met her on the beach and she spoke to me, and—and I talked
rather much, for I told her my name—she asked me, I think—and all about
my accident. Even then she didn't say who she was. But afterwards she
came to Lower Brimley and asked permission to go around the garden—Mr.
Tiddy had told her she might—and Mrs. Tiddy and I went with her, and
just before she left she said I was distantly related to her and
explained who she was. After that, she was very nice and kind to
me—very kind indeed!"

"But you don't like her, Peggy, do you?" cried Billy. "I thought her
such a proud, cross old woman!"

"She speaks in rather a proud way sometimes," Peggy allowed
reluctantly, "but she isn't cross when you know her—at least, she
wasn't to me. She said she wouldn't have driven away so quickly after I
had been knocked down by her horse, if she had known I was blind. Yes,
I rather like her, but I don't suppose I shall ever meet her again,
though I should like to. And then there's Barnes—"

"Barnes? Is she still with Aunt Caroline?" broke in Mrs. Pringle,
eagerly.

"Yes," nodded Peggy, "and she asked me such a lot of questions about
you, mother. I like Barnes. She told me about her poor afflicted
brother, and—wasn't it strange?—Aunt Caroline had never heard of him
till I happened to speak of him to her."

"I dare say not, my dear," Mrs. Pringle answered, evincing no surprise.
"I remember about poor Barnes's brother," she proceeded. "He is not
right in his mind, and Barnes helps support him and her mother too. The
mother must be a very aged woman now."

"Yes," the little girl answered. "Poor Barnes! Aunt Caroline used to
speak so sharply to her sometimes—I heard her—but that is her way, I
suppose."

"It used to be," Mrs. Pringle admitted with a sigh, "and, from what you
tell me, I imagine she has not altered much these last ten years."

"I don't think she's a bit happy," Peggy said, shaking her golden head.
"That seems very sad, doesn't it? Barnes told the servants at Lower
Brimley that Aunt Caroline has no friends, because she always thinks
people who are nice to her want her money."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Pringle understandingly, with a quick glance at
her husband. "Poor Aunt Caroline!"

She sat in silence after that, listening whilst Peggy expatiated at
great length upon all the delights of life at a farm. Billy drank in
every word with keen interest, reflecting that some day, not so very
distant, he would most likely enjoy his share of the pleasures which
his sister explained so marvellously—considering she had been unable to
see.

"I know everything was very beautiful," she said, in conclusion, "for
there seemed to be flowers everywhere, and the scent of the gorse on
the cliffs was wonderful—I never smelt anything so sweet or strong
before! And the air was so warm, and the sun shone nearly every day,
and—"

"And now you have come back to rain and cold," interposed Mrs. Pringle;
"you will feel it a hardship, I fear, after the mild climate you've
enjoyed of late and after having spent so much time out-of-doors, to be
cooped up in a small house again."

"I don't mind the rain and the cold in the very least," Peggy declared,
"and I love our little house. Oh, I'm so glad to be at home! Yes,
indeed I am! I've enjoyed my visit to Cornwall; but I think I've missed
you all as much or more than you have missed me. I'm glad I went, but
I'm gladder still to be back again—to be able to hear your voices and
put out my hands and feel you are here! You would understand what that
means, if you were blind. Oh, I think I was never so happy in my life
before as I am to-night."

"Thank God for that, my darling," Mrs. Pringle responded in a tremulous
voice. "Oh, we have much to thank Him for!" she added softly, as
she remembered the pale, delicate little girl she had seen off at
Paddington railway station with a very heavy heart six weeks previously
and mentally compared her with the one—a picture of health and
contentment—who now nestled close to her side. She had prayed—oh, so
earnestly!—that Peggy might be restored to her well and strong, and her
Father in Heaven had answered her prayer.



CHAPTER XII

AUNT CAROLINE'S DISAPPOINTMENT

THE first few days after Peggy's return home were very wet and cold,
although it was late spring. But one morning, she arose conscious of a
change in the atmosphere and that the sun was shining into her bedroom
window, whilst the sparrows were twittering noisily outside as though
they had matters of great importance to discuss with each other.

"I think we are going to have a taste of spring weather at last,"
observed Mr. Pringle at the breakfast table that morning. "There's the
promise of a beautiful May day, and I hope," he continued, addressing
his wife, "that you will manage to get out for a while in the
sunshine—you and Peggy."

"I want to do so," Mrs. Pringle replied. "I have some shopping to do
first of all, and afterwards we may, perhaps, extend our walk."

Accordingly Peggy and her mother spent most of the morning
out-of-doors. They were both in excellent spirits, and though, of
course, they had to take their walk in the streets, they thoroughly
enjoyed it. Mrs. Pringle looked into the shops and told her little
daughter what the windows contained; and they bought a bunch of
wallflowers from a costermonger's barrow, for a penny, which smelt
almost as sweet as those at Lower Brimley, Peggy declared, and she
wondered if they had come from Cornwall—that corner of the world which,
to the blind child, would always be remembered as a paradise of flowers.

Then, on their way home, they encountered Mr. Maloney, whom Peggy had
not met since her return. He turned and walked with them as far as
their own door, listening with a rather preoccupied air, Mrs. Pringle
thought, to the little girl's chatter, and watching her animated
countenance with an expression of grave scrutiny in his kindly eyes.

"I want a private conversation with you and your husband, Mrs.
Pringle," he remarked. "If I call this evening, shall I find you both
disengaged?"

"Yes," she assented, adding anxiously, "there is nothing wrong, is
there? You have no bad news to tell us?"

"Oh, no!" he responded, with a reassuring smile. "Please do not imagine
that for a moment. I will call this evening, then, about seven."

Peggy wondered what Mr. Maloney could have to say to her parents in
private. And Mr. Pringle expressed astonishment when his wife informed
him at dinner-time of the reason the Vicar had assigned for his
proposed call. Whilst Billy, though he made no remark, was filled with
intense curiosity, and by the evening had become quite excited, and
found great difficulty in concentrating his mind to prepare his lessons
for the following day.

Mr. Pringle had given orders that the Vicar was to be shown into the
music-room, as the small apartment was called which was apportioned
to the use of the master of the house. And as soon as Mrs. Pringle,
who had been sewing in the sitting-room, heard Sarah admit Mr. Maloney
punctually at the hour he had appointed, she laid aside her work, and
the next moment, the children were alone.

Billy continued to pore over his lesson books, whilst Peggy sat
opposite to him at the table, her busy fingers engaged in knitting a
sock, one of a pair she was making for her father. Sarah had taught the
little girl the accomplishment of knitting during the long evenings
of the previous winter, and the pupil did her teacher great credit.
There had been silence in the room, except for the click of Peggy's
knitting-needles, for some minutes, when the little girl suddenly
dropped her work, and springing to her feet, stood listening intently.

"What is it?" asked Billy, glancing at her quickly, and noting that she
had grown very pale. "What do you hear?"

"Nothing, now," she answered tremulously. "But I thought—I thought—I
suppose it was my fancy!"

"What did you think you heard?" he questioned curiously. "Why, you have
turned quite white! What startled you, Peggy?"

"I thought I heard mother crying, but I suppose I was wrong. I don't
hear anything now."

Billy went to the door, opened it, and listened; but nothing could be
heard except a murmur of voices from the music-room. He shut the door
and returned to the table.

"Why should mother cry?" he demanded, uneasily.

"Didn't you tell me Mr. Maloney said nothing was wrong?"

"Yes," Peggy responded, "and he wouldn't have deceived us, I know."

"Then mother wouldn't cry for nothing!"

"I expect it was my mistake, Billy."

More than half an hour passed—an hour—and at last the children heard
the music-room door open and footsteps in the passage. Then the front
door opened and shut, and a moment afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Pringle
entered the sitting-room without their visitor.

One glance at his mother told Billy that his sister's sharp ears
had not deceived her, for there were traces of recent tears on Mrs.
Pringle's face. She crossed the room and took a chair by her little
daughter's side, and her voice bespoke strong emotion as she said:

"Peggy, dear, we have decided to tell you what brought Mr. Maloney here
to-night. Yesterday, he had a visit from Aunt Caroline, who wishes
to—to—"

"Oh, I know!" cried Peggy joyfully, as her mother hesitated. "She
wishes to be friendly with you, mother! Isn't it that?"

"No, dear," Mrs. Pringle replied sadly. "She has no desire to have
anything to do with any of us but you. She would like to adopt you,
Peggy—to have you to live with her—"

"Oh mother!" broke in the little girl. "No! No!"

"That is what she wishes. She offers to bring you up and provide for
you, and to make you a rich woman some day. But your father and I have
declined her offer, Peggy darling. We will keep our little daughter and
trust to Providence to take care of her future."

"You have been crying," said Peggy distressfully, "and I can hear the
tears in your voice now. Oh, don't cry, mother! What can Aunt Caroline
be thinking of, to imagine you and father would let her adopt me! As
though I could leave you all to go and live with her!"

"I knew she was a nasty old woman!" cried Billy, in tones of the
greatest indignation. "And now I know she is cruel too! It is cruel of
her to wish to take Peggy away from us! And the idea of her going to
Mr. Maloney and—"

"Hush, Billy!" admonished Mr. Pringle. "She went to Mr. Maloney because
she knew he was our friend," he proceeded. "You must not misjudge her;
certainly she did not mean to be cruel. I have no doubt she imagines
she is acting kindly; but she does not understand us or realise that
Peggy would not be happy separated from the members of her own family.
We have talked over Miss Leighton's offer with Mr. Maloney, and we have
declined it. I think we are right, and Mr. Maloney thinks so too; but
he could not well refuse to put Miss Leighton's offer before us, as
she had made a point of his doing so. To-morrow he will give her our
reply, and I fear she will be very angry as well as disappointed; but
we cannot part with our little Sunbeam," he concluded tenderly.

"Did she want me to live with her altogether?" Peggy asked wonderingly,
taking her mother's hand and holding it in a firm clasp.

"Yes, dear. She said you might come home sometimes—that she would not
object to your coming to see us now and again, but—oh, Peggy, Peggy!"
And poor Mrs. Pringle caught the little girl in her arms and kissed her
passionately. "I hope we haven't been selfish," she continued, "but God
gave you to us, and I cannot think it would be right to give you up
for the sake of worldly advantages. No, I cannot think that! You have
always had a happy home, have you not, Peggy?"

"Oh, so happy!" the little girl answered earnestly. "Why do you cry,
mother—when I am not going to leave you?"

"I am very foolish, I dare say," said Mrs. Pringle. "But it hurts me to
think Aunt Caroline could imagine I would give up my own child."

"Poor woman, she over-estimates the worth of her money," Mr. Pringle
remarked, with a pitying note in his voice. "She does not understand
that there are things even in this world not to be purchased with gold."

"Why should she want to adopt me?" questioned Peggy wonderingly,
turning her flushed face towards her father. "It is not even as though
I wasn't blind! Why doesn't she adopt some little girl who has no
mother or father or brother to love her? Why should she want me?"

"Because, somehow, you have touched a soft spot in her heart, little
Sunbeam," Mr. Pringle answered. "I can think of no other reason. Poor
Miss Leighton! I am afraid she will be very disappointed when she hears
we cannot favour her plan."

"Poor Aunt Caroline!" sighed Peggy. "Why can't she be friendly with us
all, and come and see us and be nice like she was when she came to tea
at Lower Brimley?" And she shook her head sorrowfully as she thought of
the old lady, so rich in money, so poor in other ways.

Billy, looking at his sister, wondered at the regretful expression of
her face. He could not tell, and he certainly would have been amazed,
had he known that her tender heart was ready to pour a portion of the
wealth of its affection upon her whom he regarded, not unnaturally,
as one of the proudest and most disagreeable of people, and he felt
triumphant as he reflected that Miss Leighton would be disappointed at
finding herself balked in her selfish plan.

When, on the following day, Miss Leighton heard from Mr. Maloney that
Mr. and Mrs. Pringle had considered her offer and courteously declined
it, she made no comment on their decision whatever. But she was even
more disappointed than Billy had anticipated she would be, and there
was more of sorrow than of anger in her heart. Briefly she informed
Barnes that Peggy's parents had refused to allow her to adopt the child.

"You were right, Barnes," she admitted with a sigh. "You thought my
niece would refuse my offer, did you not?"

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes answered briefly. She said no more, for in her
heart she was confident that Peggy would be better and happier at home.



CHAPTER XIII

PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS

FOR many months, the Pringle family heard no more of Miss Leighton.
Spring gave place to summer; and in the early autumn Billy paid his
visit to Cornwall, returning, after a never-to-be forgotten six weeks'
holiday, with Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy, who spent a short while in London,
during which time they went to see Miss Leighton, mindful of the
promise which they had made to her.

But, although the old lady received her Cornish acquaintances with
every sign of cordiality and pleasure, she never once mentioned Peggy,
and when Mrs. Tiddy spoke of her, she quickly changed the conversation,
so that her visitors came to the conclusion that her liking for the
little blind girl had been merely a passing fancy, and that she had
lost the interest she had certainly once entertained for the child.
Such, however, was not the case.

It was the end of September when the Tiddys returned to their Cornish
home; and shortly afterwards Miss Leighton had a long and serious
illness, the result of a neglected cold. When she had recovered and
was able to dispense with the services of the trained nurse, who, with
Barnes, had nursed her back to health, it was December, and every one
was preparing for Christmas.

The season of peace and goodwill never brought much happiness to Miss
Leighton nowadays; but it made many calls upon her purse. And when
she had written several cheques to be sent to the various charities
to which she was a regular contributor, she generally considered she
had done all that could be reasonably expected of her for her fellow
creatures.

But this year, as she sat by the fire in the drawing-room of her London
house, one afternoon about a week before Christmas, a sense of unusual
dissatisfaction with herself began to creep over her. Memory was busy
with her; and, gazing into the fire, she pictured a little figure clad
in a shabby blue serge coat and skirt and a Tam o' Shanter cap, and saw
once more a fair face with a halo of golden curls around it—a happy
face, beautiful with that inward peace and light which only God can
give. Then, in her imagination, she heard a clear, child's voice say:

"But I don't think she can be really charitable, if she isn't kind in
little ways and if she's unforgiving!"

Miss Leighton winced as she recalled the words and the decided tone
in which they had been uttered. How the child's judgment of her had
rankled in her heart! It had hurt her at the time it had been given,
though she had never resented it: it hurt her a great deal more now.

"I would have been kind to Peggy, if her parents would have let me,"
she thought. "There is nothing I would have denied her. I should like
to do something to please her—to add to her happiness this Christmas.
How I should like to see her again! She was such a bright, contented
little girl! When I was ill, she was continually in my thoughts, and
one night, I fancied I heard her singing that hymn about light at
evening time—she has a very sweet voice. I wonder if Margaret would let
the child come and see me? I hardly like to ask her a favour, but I
long to see Peggy once more. Ah, here's Barnes!"

The maid had been to match some silks for a piece of fancy-work her
mistress was making; but Miss Leighton was not in the mood to look at
her purchases now.

"Sit down, Barnes," she said. "I want to speak to you."

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied, taking a chair and glancing at her
mistress inquiringly. There was a better understanding between these
two than there had been formerly, for each had discovered of late, that
the other had a heart; and Barnes had nursed Miss Leighton devotedly
during her long illness, a fact Miss Leighton was not likely to forget.

"I suppose the shops are very gay?" Miss Leighton questioned.

"Yes, ma'am, they are full of Christmas presents."

"And doubtless you've made some purchases to send to your mother and
brother?"

Barnes assented, a pleased flush rising to her pale cheeks at the
unusual kindness of her mistress's tone. She was emboldened to give
Miss Leighton a list of the articles she had bought to send home to her
people.

"I pack up a hamper for them every Christmas," she explained in
conclusion, "and my poor brother is always so excited to see it
unpacked."

"But would it not be much less trouble to you to send your mother the
money you spend and let her buy what she wants herself?" Miss Leighton
inquired.

"Perhaps so, ma'am; but that would not be half so much pleasure to
mother or to me. I like thinking and planning how I shall fill the
hamper with those things which I know will be most acceptable, and when
mother receives it and takes out its contents, she knows I've borne her
wants in mind. I've knitted her a nice warm shawl, and she'll be much
prouder of it, because I've made it, than if I'd bought it ready made."

"I see, Barnes. I wonder what sort of Christmas my little grand-niece
will spend."

Barnes started, and a somewhat guilty expression crossed her
countenance as she answered hurriedly:

"A very happy one, I expect. Children mostly love Christmas time, and
she has a very happy home."

"How do you know?" Miss Leighton asked suspiciously.

"I— I've been there, ma'am. I went to St. John's one Sunday afternoon
to hear Mr. Maloney preach at a children's service, and I saw Miss
Peggy there with her mother and brother. After the service, outside the
church, I spoke to them, and Mrs. Pringle asked me to their house to
have a cup of tea—and I went."

"Well?" said Miss Leighton, with repressed eagerness in her voice.
"What is the place like?"

"The house, ma'am? It's one of a terrace, very small but comfortable
and homely. Perhaps I ought to have told you that I'd been there, but I
did not like to mention it."

"Has my niece altered much?" Miss Leighton asked after a brief pause.

"No, ma'am, very little. She inquired for you and looked so sorry when
she heard how ill you'd been, and Miss Peggy said—" Barnes paused
abruptly in some confusion.

"Well, what did Miss Peggy say? I insist upon your telling me."

"She said, 'Poor Aunt Caroline! How dreadful it would have been if she
had died and we had never known! How I wish she would be friends with
us all! She used to be so nice in Cornwall.' That's what she said,
ma'am, shaking her curly head—you remember how she used to do that?
It's natural she shouldn't understand how you feel towards her mother."

Miss Leighton sighed. During her late illness she had been brought
face to face with death; and, for the first time, doubts of herself
had assailed her, and she had seen her unforgiving spirit in its true
light. Pride had always been her stumbling-block through life; and it
had been her pride which had suffered when her niece, to whom in her
way she had really been attached, had elected to marry the hardworking
music-master who was now the organist of St. John's.

Her only reason for objecting to Mr. Pringle as her niece's husband
had been because he had been poor. She had always thought so much of
riches, but they had never brought her happiness; as a matter of fact,
they had stood between her and her fellow creatures, they had warped
her sympathies; and sadly and regretfully, the woman of great wealth
admitted to herself that though she had given her money to clothe the
naked and feed the poor, it had profited her nothing, for the spirit of
charity had never been hers.

"I am an old woman, and no one cares for me," she thought. "The love I
might have had, I deliberately put away. I should not be lonely to-day,
if I had not cast Margaret aside when she married. How she wept when I
said I would never willingly look on her face again, and I thought it
was my money she was regretting, not me!"

Aloud she said:

"Does Mr. Maloney hold a children's service every Sunday afternoon,
Barnes?"

Then, as Barnes assented, she continued: "I have heard high praises of
his preaching, and I should like to hear one of his sermons. If I go to
St. John's next Sunday afternoon, will you accompany me?"

"Certainly, ma'am," Barnes responded promptly, her face showing the
intense amazement she felt. She regarded her mistress with anxious
scrutiny, marvelling at the softened expression on her countenance. She
hoped she was not going to be ill again.

"Perhaps we shall see Miss Peggy there," she proceeded; "but, if so,
I expect her mother will be with her. I suppose you will not speak to
them, ma'am?"

"I cannot tell," Miss Leighton answered musingly. "I—I shall be guided
by circumstances."

"Oh, ma'am!" cried Barnes eagerly. "Don't be angry with me for saying
this; but, if you could bring yourself to forgive Mrs. Pringle—"

"That will do," broke in Miss Leighton with a return of her usual
imperious manner. "I can imagine what you were about to say. No, I'm
not angry. You're a well-meaning soul, Barnes, but—you may go!"

Barnes needed no second bidding. She slipped quietly out of the room,
fearing she had done more harm than good; whilst Miss Leighton leaned
back in her easy chair, a prey to anxious thoughts. She had said she
would go to St. John's on the following Sunday, and she meant to keep
her word, for she really was curious to hear Mr. Maloney preach, and
she hoped she might at any rate catch a glimpse of Peggy, though she
determined, now, that she would not speak to her. How could she ignore
the mother and notice the child?



CHAPTER XIV

CONCLUSION

IT was Sunday afternoon. The children's service at St. John's was
nearly at an end; and now the Vicar had ascended into the pulpit to
address a few simple words to his congregation before giving out the
number of the concluding hymn. He took for his text the Saviour's
promise, "He that followeth Me shall not walk in darkness," and, in
the first place, reminded his hearers that in a very few days, they
would be commemorating the birth of Him Who is called "The Light of the
World." Would they not try to follow Him? he asked.

Then he pictured the childhood of Jesus, and many a pair of bright
young eyes grew earnest and thoughtful as their owners' interest was
chained by the story which the Vicar knew so well how to tell, pointing
out to the children that the Christ-Child should be their pattern,
that, like Him, they should be good, and kind, and obedient. And that,
if they trusted in Him, He would be their Saviour and their Friend.

Finally, he explained that darkness meant selfishness and sin, and that
the child who was untruthful, or dishonest, or unkind, was walking in
darkness, apart from God. And that to follow Jesus, they must learn to
be gentle, and pitiful, and loving, and faithful in word and deed: then
would Christ's promise be for them—"He that followeth Me shall not walk
in darkness!"

It was a very short sermon, but so simple that no child could fail to
understand it; and when it was over, and the Vicar descended from the
pulpit, Peggy Pringle, who, seated by her brother's side, had listened
to every word Mr. Maloney had said with the closest attention, turned
her face to Billy with a pleased smile curving her lips, and thus
allowed an old lady close behind her, a sight of her profile.

The old lady, who was no other than Miss Leighton, felt her heart begin
to beat unevenly as she recognised Peggy. She had been on the lookout
for her all through the service; but the church was so full of children
that she had not picked out her little great-niece amongst so many, and
lo! All the while she had been within reach of her hand.

In another minute the congregation had arisen, and with a dream-like
sensation, Miss Leighton once more listened to the same hymn Peggy had
sung to her in Cornwall months before:

   "Holy Father, cheer our way
    With Thy love's perpetual ray:
    Grant us every closing day
       Light at evening time."

Tears dimmed the old lady's eyes, and a softening influence stole
into her proud heart; and when, at the conclusion of the hymn, the
congregation knelt in prayer, Miss Leighton covered her face with her
hands and prayed fervently that she, who had walked in darkness so
long, might be guided into the way of light.

"Barnes, I must speak to Peggy," she said in an agitated voice, as she
and her maid left the church and stood under the lamp outside. "Do not
let her pass us by."

"She is with her brother, ma'am," Barnes answered. "I do not think Mrs.
Pringle is here."

At that instant Peggy and Billy appeared, hand in hand, and Miss
Leighton stepped quickly forward; but, immediately, Billy put himself
between her and his sister.

"Go away!" he cried indignantly, for he had recognised Miss Leighton,
and the wild idea that she might wish to lure Peggy away from him, then
and there had flashed through his mind. "I'm not going to let you touch
her!"

"What do you mean?" demanded Miss Leighton in surprise. "Peggy! It's
I—Aunt Caroline! Won't you speak to me, child?"

At the sound of the well-remembered voice the little girl flushed
rosily, a look of astonishment and—Miss Leighton saw she was not
mistaken—of joy lighting up her face; seeing which, Billy allowed her
to receive the old lady's warm embrace, though he still retained a firm
grasp of her hand.

"How are you, Peggy?" Miss Leighton began. "You look very well," she
continued, without waiting for a reply. "We—Barnes and I—came to hear
your friend Mr. Maloney preach, and I thought I should like a word with
you. We sat close behind you in church."

"Did you?" said Peggy, smiling. "Wasn't it a nice sermon? And we had my
favourite hymn! Oh, Aunt Caroline," she proceeded sympathetically, "we
were so sorry to hear you had been ill. Are you really quite well now?
Yes. Oh, I'm so glad! Oh, Barnes, how do you do? Aunt Caroline, this is
Billy. Billy, you remember Aunt Caroline, don't you? You know you saw
her once before and you said you would know her again."

Billy had no alternative but to shake hands with Miss Leighton. And,
now he came to regard her more closely, she did not look the sort of
person who would steal his sister from him. He thought he read goodwill
towards himself in her face, as he scrutinised it in the light of the
lamp near which they were standing, and she showed no resentment for
the decidedly rude way in which he had treated her, the real fact
being that she had guessed the impulse which had prompted his strange
behaviour. For some minutes, he watched her talking to Peggy whilst
Barnes stood aside patiently waiting. Then, he reminded his sister that
if they did not go home, their mother would wonder what had become of
them.

"Yes," agreed Peggy, "we mustn't wait any longer. Mother's at home
alone—it's Sarah's afternoon out—and she's always anxious if we're
later than she expects us."

"One moment more," said Miss Leighton. "I must wish you a very happy
Christmas before we part, and I want you to tell me what I can give
you for a present. Choose whatever you like. And Billy—he must choose
something too!"

"Oh, how kind of you!" cried Peggy. Whilst Billy's eyes glistened
with delight, and a look of approval settled on his face—approval of
this great-aunt of his, against whom he had entertained such a strong
prejudice before.

"I want to do something to add to your happiness," Miss Leighton said,
in a voice which trembled with an emotion which she tried in vain to
repress.

"Do you, Aunt Caroline?" the little girl questioned earnestly. "Do you,
indeed?"

"Yes, my dear—"

"Then if you really and truly want to add to my happiness," Peggy broke
in excitedly, "you'll come home with us now—we've not far to go—and be
friends with mother again! Oh, do come! It grieves mother dreadfully to
think you're angry with her! But, you're not angry any longer, are you?"

Miss Leighton could not say she was, for her bitterness against Peggy's
mother had been slowly fading away since she had known Peggy herself.
Her head was in a whirl with conflicting thoughts. But she felt she
must accept or decline her little niece's invitation at once—she could
not discuss it there in the street.

"My dear, I cannot—" she was beginning, when a rush of tenderer,
better feelings than she had experienced for years filled her heart
and caused her to hesitate. She looked at Peggy's expectant face with
its sightless blue eyes, and the last remnant of her pride died away,
though she repeated, "I cannot, I cannot!"

But the sharp ears of the blind child had caught the note of indecision
in the other's tone, and taking the old lady by the hand she said
persuasively:

"Come, Aunt Caroline, we will go on, and Barnes and Billy will follow.
I know the way quite well. Oh, do come!"

And, much to Barnes's astonishment, and Billy's intense excitement,
Miss Leighton answered in a voice which no longer wavered, but had
become decided and firm:

"To please you, little Sunbeam, I will!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Here's wonderful news from the Pringles!" exclaimed Mrs. Tiddy on
Christmas morning, as she stood in the hall at Lower Brimley, ready
to start for church with her husband, and glanced hastily through the
letter she held in her hand—one of several which the postman had just
delivered. "I cannot stay to read all Margaret says now, but I see she
has had a visit from her aunt, and there must have been a complete
reconciliation, for—fancy, Ebenezer!—the old lady is going to dine with
them to-day!"

"I'm heartily glad to hear it," Mr. Tiddy responded. "Depend upon it,
Peggy has brought that about—the reconciliation, I mean. But come, my
dear, or we shall be late for church."

Then as they passed down the garden path, side by side, he continued:

"I always felt there was One above Who arranged that Miss Leighton and
Peggy should meet here and get to know each other. I expect the old
lady will have a happier Christmas to-day than she has had for many a
long year."

And Mr. Tiddy was right, for this year, Miss Leighton found fresh
beauty in the angels' message of peace and goodwill, and her Christmas
Day was a very happy one, spent in her niece's home. God had softened
her proud heart by the unconscious influence of the blind child, and He
was granting her light in the evening time of her life. Miss Leighton
had never felt so rich before as she did on this Christmas Day.



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