A Very Naughty Girl

CHAPTER XVII.—THE FALL IN THE SNOW.

“Oh Jasper!” answered the girl—“oh, if only father could have some of that chicken! Do you know, I do not think he is at all well; he looked so cold and feeble last night. He really is starving himself—very much as I starved myself before you came; but he is old and cannot bear it quite so well. What am I to do to keep him alive?”

Jasper looked full at Sylvia.

“Do!” she said. “How can a fool be cured of his folly? That is the question I ask myself. If he denies himself the necessaries of life, how are you to give them to him?”

“Well,” said Sylvia, “I manage as best I can by hardly ever eating in his presence; he does not notice, particularly at breakfast. He enjoyed his egg and toast this morning, and really said nothing about my unwonted extravagance.”

“I have a plan in my head,” said Jasper, “which may or may not come to anything. You know those few miserable barn-door fowls which your father keeps just by the shrubbery in that old hen-house?”

“Yes,” replied Sylvia.

“Do they ever lay any eggs?”

“No.”

“I thought not. I wonder a prudent, careful man like Mr. Leeson should keep them eating their heads off, so to speak.”

“Oh, they don’t eat much,” replied Sylvia. “I got them when father spoke so much about the wasted potato-skins. I bought them from a gipsy. I did not know they were so old.”

“We must get rid of those fowls,” said Jasper. “You must tell your father that it is a great waste of money to keep them; and, my dear, we will give him fowl to eat for his dinner as long as the old fowls in the shrubbery last. There are ten of them. I shall sell them—very little indeed we shall get for them—and he will imagine he is eating them when he really is consuming a delicate little bird like the one you and I are going to enjoy for our dinner to-day.”

“What fun!” said Sylvia, the color coming into her cheeks and her eyes sparkling. “You do not think it is wrong to deceive him, do you?”

“Wrong! Bless you! no,” replied Jasper. “And now, my dear, what is the matter with you? You look——”

“How?” replied Sylvia.

“Just as if you were bursting to tell me something.”

“I am—I am,” answered Sylvia. “Oh Jasper, you must help me!”

“Of course I will, dear.”

“I have resolved to accept your most kind offer. I will pay you somehow, in some fashion, but if you could make just one of Evelyn’s frocks fit for me to wear!”

“Ah!” replied Jasper. “Now, I am as pleased about this as I could be about anything. We will have more than one, my pretty young miss. But what do you want it for?”

“I am going to do a great, big, dangerous thing,” replied Sylvia. “If father discovers, things will be very bad, I am sure; but perhaps he will not discover. Anyhow, I am not proof against temptation. I met Lady Frances Wynford.”

“And how does her ladyship look?” asked Jasper—“as proud as ever?”

“She was not proud to me, Jasper; she was quite nice. She asked me to take a drive with her.”

“You took a drive with her ladyship!”

“I did indeed; you must treat me with great respect after this.”

Jasper put her arms akimbo and burst into a loud laugh.

“I guess,” she said after a pause, “you looked just as fine and aristocratic as her ladyship’s own self.”

“I drove in a luxurious carriage, and had a lovely fur cloak wrapped round me,” replied the girl; “and Lady Frances was very, very kind, and she has asked me to spend Saturday at the Castle.”

“Saturday! Why, that is to-morrow.”

“Yes, I know it is.”

“You are going?”

“Yes, I am going.”

“You will see my little Eve to-morrow?”

“Yes, Jasper.”

Jasper’s black eyes grew suspiciously bright; she raised her hand to dash away something which seemed to dim them for a second, then she said in a brisk tone:

“We have our work cut out for us, for you shall not go shabby, my pretty, pretty maid. I will soon have the dinner in order, and——”

“But what have you got for father’s dinner?”

“A little soup. You can tell him that you boiled his chop in it. It is really good, and I am putting in lots of pearl barley and rice and potatoes. He will be ever so pleased, for he will think it cost next to nothing; but there is a good piece of solid meat boiled down in that soup, nevertheless.”

“Oh, thank you, Jasper; you are a comfort to me.”

“Well,” replied Jasper, “I always like to do my best for those who are brave and young and put upon. You are a very silly girl in some ways, Miss Sylvia; but you have been good to me, and I mean to be good to you. Now then, dinner is well forward, and we will go and search out the dress.”

The rest of the day passed quickly, and with intense enjoyment as far as Sylvia was concerned. She had sufficiently good taste to choose the least remarkable of Evelyn’s many costumes. There was a rich dark-brown costume, trimmed with velvet of the same shade, which could be lengthened in the skirt and let out in the bodice, and which the young girl would look very nice in. A brown velvet hat accompanied the costume, with a little tuft of ostrich feathers placed on one side, and a pearl buckle to keep all in place. There were muffs and furs in quantities to choose from. Sylvia would for once in her life be richly appareled. Jasper exerted herself to the utmost, and the pretty dress was all in order by the time night came.

It was quite late evening when Sylvia sought the room where her father lived. A very plain but at the same time nourishing supper had been provided for Mr. Leeson. Sylvia’s own supper she would take as usual with Jasper. Sylvia dashed into her father’s room, her eyes bright and her cheeks glowing. She was surprised and distressed to see the room empty. She wondered if her father had gone to his bedroom. Quickly she rushed up-stairs and knocked at the door; there was no response. She opened the door softly and went in. All was cold and icy desolation within the large, badly furnished room. Sylvia shivered slightly, and rushed down-stairs again. She peeped out of the window. The snow was falling heavily in great big flakes.

“Oh, I hope it will not snow too much to-night!” thought the young girl. “But no matter; however deep it is, I shall find my way to Castle Wynford to-morrow.”

She wondered if her father would miss her, if he would grow restless and anxious; but nevertheless she was determined to enjoy her pleasure. Still, where was he now? She glanced at the fire in the big grate; she ventured to put on some more coals and to tidy up the hearth; then she drew down the blinds of the windows, pulled her father’s armchair in front of the fire, sat down herself by the hearth, and waited. She waited for over half an hour. During that time the warmth of the fire made her drowsy. She found herself nodding. Suddenly she sat up wide awake. A queer sense of uneasiness stole over her; she must go and seek her father. Where could he be? How she longed to call Jasper to her aid! But that, she knew, would be impossible. She wrapped a threadbare cloak, which hung on a peg in the hall, round her shoulders, slipped her feet into goloshes, and set out into the wintry night. She had not gone a dozen yards before she saw the object of her search. Mr. Leeson was lying full length on the snow; he was not moving. Sylvia had a wild horror that he was dead; she bent over him.

“Father! father!” she cried.

There was no answer. She touched his face with her lips; it was icy cold. Oh, was he dead? Oh, terror! oh, horror! All her accustomed prudence flew to the winds. Get succor for him at once she must. She dashed into the kitchen. Jasper was standing by the fire.

“Come at once, Jasper!” she said. “Bring brandy, and come at once.”

“What has happened, my darling?”

“Come at once and you will see. Bring brandy—brandy.”

Jasper in an emergency was all that was admirable. She followed Sylvia out into the snow, and between them they dragged Mr. Leeson back to the house.

“Now, dear,” said Jasper, “I will give him the brandy, and I’ll stand behind him. When he comes to I will slip out of the room. Oh, the poor gentleman! He is as cold as ice. Hold that blanket and warm it, will you, Sylvia? We must put it round him. Oh, bless you, child! heap some coals on the fire. What matter the expense? There! you cannot lift that great hod; I’ll do it.”

Jasper piled coals on the grate; the fire crackled and blazed merrily. Mr. Leeson lay like one dead.

“He is dead—he is dead!” gasped Sylvia.

“No, love, not a bit of it; but he slipped in the cold and the fall stunned him a bit, and the cold is so strong he could not come to himself again. He will soon be all right; we must get this brandy between his lips.”

That they managed to do, and a minute or two later the poor man opened his eyes. Just for a second it seemed to him that he saw a strange woman, stout and large and determined-looking, bending over him; but the next instant, his consciousness more wholly returning, he saw Sylvia. Sylvia’s little face, white with fear, her eyes, large with love and anxiety, were close to his. He smiled into the sweet little face, and holding out his thin hand, allowed her to clasp it. There was a rustle as though somebody was going away, and Sylvia and her father were alone. A moment later the young girl raised her eyes and saw Jasper in the background making mysterious signs to her. She got up. Jasper was holding a cup of very strong soup in her hand. Sylvia took it with thankfulness, and brought it to her father.

“Do you know,” she said, trying to speak as cheerfully as she could, “that you have behaved very badly? You went out into the snow when you should have been in your warm room, and you fell down and you fainted or something. Anyhow, I found you in time; and now you are to drink this.”

“I won’t; hot water will do—not that expensive stuff,” said Mr. Leeson, true to the tragedy of his life even at this crucial moment.

“Drink this and nothing else,” said Sylvia, speaking as hardly and firmly as she dared.

Mr. Leeson was too weak to withstand her. She fed him by spoonfuls, and presently he was well enough to sit up again.

“Child, what a fire!” he said.

“Yes, father; and if it means our very last sixpence, or our very last penny even, it is going to be a big fire to-night: and you are going to be nursed and petted and comforted. Oh, father, father, you gave me such a fright!”

As Sylvia spoke her composure gave way; her tense feelings were relieved by a flood of tears. She pressed her face against her father’s hand and sobbed unrestrainedly.

“You do not mean to say you are really fond of me?” he said; and a queer moisture came into his own eyes. He said nothing more about the coals, and Sylvia insisted on his having more food, and, in short, having a really good time.

“Dare I leave him to-morrow?” she said to herself. “He may be very weak after this; and yet—and yet I cannot give up my great, great fun. My lovely dress, too, ready and all! Oh! I must go. I am sure he will be all right in the morning.”

Presently, much to Sylvia’s relief, Mr. Leeson suggested that he should sleep on the sofa, in the neighborhood of the big fire.

“For you have been so reckless, my dear little girl,” he said, “that really you have provided a fire to last for hours and hours. It would be a sad pity to waste it; I think, therefore, that I shall spend the night on this sofa, well wrapped up, enjoying the heat.”

“Nothing could be better, father,” said Sylvia, “except a big, very big, fire in your own room, and you in your own bed well warmed with hot bottles.”

“We should soon be in the workhouse,” was Mr. Leeson’s rejoinder. “No, no; I will enjoy the fire here now that you have been so extravagant; and you had better go to bed if you have had your supper.”

Sylvia had had no supper, but Mr. Leeson was far too self-absorbed to notice that fact. Presently she left him, and he lay on the sofa, blinking into the fire, and occasionally half-dozing. After a time he dropped off to sleep, and the young girl, who stole in to look at him, went out with a satisfied expression on her face.

“He is quite well again,” she said to Jasper, “and he is sleeping sweetly.

“Now, look here,” said Jasper. “What is fretting you?”

“I don’t think I ought to leave him to-morrow.”

“But I shall be here. I will manage to let him have his meals comfortable without his knowing it. Do you suppose I have not done more difficult things than that in my day? Now, my love, you go to bed and sleep sound, and I will have a plan all mature to give you your happy day with an undisturbed conscience in the morning.”

Sylvia was really very tired—dead tired. She went up-stairs, and as soon as she laid her head on her pillow was sound asleep.

Meanwhile Mr. Leeson slept on for two or three hours; it was past the middle of the night when he awoke. He woke wide awake, as elderly people will, and looked round him. The fire had burnt itself down to a great red mass; the room looked cheery and comfortable in the warm rays. Mr. Leeson stirred himself luxuriously and wrapped the blanket, which Jasper had brought from her own stores, tightly round his person. After a time, however, its very softness and fluffiness and warmth attracted his attention. He began to feel it between his fingers and thumb; then he roused himself, sat up, and looked at it. A suspicious look came into his eyes.

“What is the matter?” he said to himself. “Is Sylvia spending money that I know nothing about? Why, this is a new blanket! I have an inventory of every single thing that this house possesses. Surely new blankets are not included in that inventory! I can soon see.”

He rose, lit a pair of candles, went to a secretary which stood against the wall, opened it, and took out a book marked “Exact Inventory of all the Furniture at The Priory.” He turned up the portion devoted to house linen, and read the description of the different blankets which the meager establishment contained. There was certainly a lack of these valuable necessaries; the blankets at The Priory had seen much service, and were worn thin with use and washing. But this blanket was new—oh, delicious, of course—but what was the man worth who needed such luxuries! Mr. Leeson pushed it aside with a disturbed look on his face.

“Sylvia must be spending money,” he said to himself. “I have observed it of late. She looks better, and she decidedly gives me extravagant meals. The bread is not as stale as it might be, and there is too much meat used. This soup——”

He took up the empty cup from which he had drained the soup a few hours back, and looked at a drop or two which still remained at the bottom.

“Positively it jellies,” he said to himself—“jellies! Then, too, in my rambles round this evening I noticed that smoke again—that smoke coming from the kitchen. There is too much fuel used here, and these blankets are disgraceful, and the food is reckless—there is no other word for it.”

He sank back on his sofa and gazed at the fire.

“Ah!” he said as he looked full at the flames, “out you go presently; and for some time the warmth will remain in the room, and I shall not dream of lighting any other fire here until that warmth is gone. Sylvia takes after her mother. There was never a better woman than my dear wife, but she was madly, disgracefully extravagant. What shall I do if this goes on?—and pretty girls like Sylvia are apt to be so thoughtless. I wish I could send her away for a bit; it will be quite terrible if she develops her mother’s tastes. I could not be cruel to my pretty little girl, but she certainly will be a fearful thorn in my side if she buys blankets of this sort, and feeds me with soup that jellies, forsooth! What am I to do? I have not saved quite so much as I ought during the last week. Ah! the house is silent as the grave. I shall just count out the money I have put into that last canvas bag.”

A stealthy, queer light came into Mr. Leeson’s eyes. He crossed the room on tiptoe and turned the key in the lock. As he did so he seemed to be assailed by a memory.

“Was I alone with Sylvia when I awoke out of unconsciousness,” he said to himself, “or was there some one else by? I cannot quite make out. Was it a dream that I saw an ugly, large woman bending over me? People do dream things of that sort when they sink from exhaustion. I have read of it in stories of misers. Misers! I am nothing of that kind; I am just a prudent man who will not spend too much—a prudent man who tries to save. It must have been a dream that a stranger was in the house; my little girl might take after her mother, but she is not so bad as that. Yes, I will take the opportunity; I will count what is in the canvas bag. I was too weak to-night to attempt the work of burying my treasure, but to-morrow night I must be stronger. I believe I ate too much, and that is what ails me—in fact, I am certain of it. The cold took me and brought on an acute attack of indigestion, and I stumbled and fell. Poor dear little Sylvia! But I won’t leave her penniless; that is one comfort.”

Putting out one candle carefully, Mr. Leeson now laid the other on a table. He then went to his secretary and opened it. He pushed in his hand far, and brought out from its innermost depths a small bag made of rough canvas. The bag was tied with coarse string. He glanced round him, a strange expression on his face, and loosening the string of the bag, poured its contents upon the table. He poured them out slowly, and as he did so a look of distinct delight visited his face. There lay on the table in front of him a pile of money—gold, silver, copper. He spent some time dividing the three species of coin into different heaps. The gold coins were put in piles one on top of the other at his right hand, the silver lying in still larger heaps in the middle; the coppers, up to farthings, lay on his left hand. He bent his head and touched the gold with his lips.

“Beautiful! blessed! lovely!” he muttered. “I have saved all this out of the money which my dear wife would have spent on food and dress and luxuries. The solid, tangible, precious thing is here, and there is more like it—much more like it—many bags larger than these, full, full to the brim, all buried down deep in the fowl-house. No one would guess where I bank my spoils. They are as safe as can be. I dare not keep much treasure in the house, but no one will know where it really lies.”

He counted his gold carefully; he also counted his silver; finally he counted his copper. He wrote down the different sums on a piece of paper, which he slipped into the canvas bag; he put back the coins, tied the bag with the string, and returned it to its hiding-place.

“To-morrow night I must bury it,” he said to himself. “I had hoped that I would have saved a little more, but by dint of great additional economy I may succeed next month. Well, I must begin to be very careful, and I must speak plainly on the subject to Sylvia.”

CHAPTER XVIII.—A RED GIPSY CLOAK.

Mr. Leeson looked quite well the next morning, and Sylvia ate her scanty breakfast with a happy heart; she no longer felt any qualms at leaving her father for the day. Jasper assured Sylvia over and over again that all would be well; that without in the least betraying the secret of her residence in the house, she would see to Mr. Leeson’s comforts. The difficulty now was for Sylvia to dress in her smart clothes and slip away without her father seeing her. She did not want to get to Castle Wynford much before one o’clock, but she would leave The Priory long before that hour and wander about in her usual fashion. No outdoor exercise tired this energetic girl. She looked forward to a whole long day of unalloyed bliss, to the society of other girls, to congenial warmth and comfort and luxury. She even looked forward with a pleasure, that her father would put down to distinct greediness, to nice, temptingly served meals. Oh yes, she meant to enjoy everything. She meant to drink this cup of bliss to the bottom, not to leave one drop untasted. Jasper seemed to share her pleasure. Jasper burdened her with many messages to Evelyn; she got Sylvia to promise that she would contrive a meeting between Evelyn and her old maid on the following day. Jasper selected the rendezvous, and told Sylvia exactly what she was to say to Evelyn.

“Whatever happens, I must see her,” said the woman. “Tell her there are many reasons; and tell her too that I am hungry for a sight of her—hungry, hungry.”

“Because you love her so much,” said Sylvia, a soft light in her eyes.

“Yes, my darling, that is it—I love her.”

“And she must love you very much,” said Sylvia.

Jasper uttered a quick sigh.

“It is not Evelyn’s way to love to extremities,” she said slowly. “You must not blame her, my dear; we are all made according to the will of the Almighty; and Evelyn—oh yes, she is as the apple of the eye to me, but I am nothing of that sort to her. You see, dear, her head is a bit turned with the lofty future that lies before her. In some ways it does not suit her; it would suit you, Miss Sylvia, or it would suit Miss Audrey, but it does not suit little Eve. It is too much for my little Eve; she would do better in a less exalted sphere.”

“Well, I do hope and trust she will be glad to see you and glad to hear about you,” said Sylvia. “I will be sure to tell her what a dear old thing you are. But, oh, Jasper, do you think she will notice the smart dress made out of her dress?”

“You can give her this note, dear; I am sending her a word of warning not to draw attention to your dress. And now, don’t you think you had better get into it, and let me see you out by the back premises?”

“I must go and see father just for a minute first,” said Sylvia.

She ran off, saw her father, as usual busily writing letters, and bent down to kiss him.

“Don’t disturb me,” he said in a querulous tone. “I am particularly busy. The post this morning has brought me some gratifying news. A little investment I made a short time ago in great fear and trembling has turned up trumps. I mean to put a trifle more money—oh, my dear! I only possess a trifle—into the same admirable undertaking (gold-mines, my dear), and if all that the prospectus says is true I shall be in very truth a rich man. Not yet, Sylvia—don’t you think it—but some day.”

“Oh father! and if you are——”

“Why, you may spend a little more then, dear—a little more; but it is wrong to squander gold. Gold is a beautiful and precious thing, my dear; very beautiful, very precious, very hard to get.”

“Yes, father; and I hope you will have a great deal of it, and I hope you will put plenty—plenty of money into the—into the——”

“Investment,” said Mr. Leeson. “The investment that sounds so promising. Don’t keep me now, love.”

“I am going out for a long walk, father; it is such a bright, sunshiny day. Good-by for the present.”

Mr. Leeson did not hear; he again bent over the letter which he was writing. Sylvia ran back to Jasper.

“He seems quite well,” she said, “and very much interested in what the post brought him this morning. I think I can leave him quite safely. You will be sure to see that he has his food.”

“Bless you, child!—yes.”

“And you will on no account betray that you live here?”

“Bless you, child! again—not I.”

“Well then, I will get into my finery. How grand and important I shall feel!”

So Sylvia was dressed in the brown costume and the pretty brown velvet hat, and she wore a little sable collar and a sable muff; and then she kissed Jasper, and telling her she would remember all the messages, started on her day of pleasure. Jasper saw her out by the back entrance. This entrance had been securely closed before Jasper’s advent, but between them the woman and the girl had managed to open the rusty gate, although Mr. Leeson was unaware that it had moved on its hinges for many a long day. It opened now to admit of Sylvia’s exit, and Jasper went slowly back to the house, meditating as she did so. Whatever her meditations were, they roused her to action. She engaged herself busily in her bedroom and kitchen. She opened her trunk and took out a small bag which contained her money. She had plenty of money, still, but it would not last always. Without Sylvia’s knowing it, she had often spent more than a pound a week on this establishment. It had been absolutely necessary for her to provide herself with warm bedclothes, and to add to the store of coals by purchasing anthracite coal, which is almost smokeless. In one way or another her hoard was diminished by twenty pounds; she had therefore only forty more. When this sum was spent she would be penniless.

“Not that I am afraid,” thought Jasper, “for Evelyn will have to give me more money—she must. I could not leave my dear little Sylvia now that I find the dreadful plight she is in; and I cannot stay far from my dear Evelyn, for although she does not love me as I love her, still, I should suffer great pain if I could not be, so to speak, within call. I wonder if my plan will succeed. I must have a try.”

Jasper, having fulfilled her small duties, sat for a time gazing straight before her. The hours went on. The little carriage clock which she kept in her bedroom struck eleven, then twelve.

“Time for him to have something,” thought Jasper. “Now, can I possibly manage? Yes, I think so.”

She took a saucepan, which held something mysterious, out into the open air. It was an old, shabby saucepan. She hid it in the shrubbery. She then went back to her room and changed her dress. She was some little time over her toilet, and when she once more emerged into view, the old Jasper, to all appearance, had vanished.

A dark, somewhat handsome woman, in a faded red gipsy cloak, now stood before the looking-glass. Jasper slipped out the back way, pushed aside the rusty gate, said a friendly word to Pilot, who wagged his tail with approbation, and carrying a basket on her arm, walked slowly down the road. She met one or two people, and accosted them in the true Romany style.

“May I tell your fortune, my pretty miss? May I cross your hand with silver and tell you of the fine gentleman who is going to ride by presently? Let me, my dear—let me.”

And when the young girl she addressed ran away giggling, little suspecting that Jasper was not a real gipsy, Jasper knew that her scheme had succeeded. She even induced a village boy to submit to her fortune-telling, and half-turned his head by telling him of a treasure to be found, and a wife in an upper class who would raise him once for all to a position of luxury. She presently pounded loudly on The Priory gates. Mr. Leeson had an acute ear; he always sat within view of these gates. His one desire was to keep all strangers from the premises; he had trained Pilot for the purpose. Accordingly Jasper’s knocks were not heeded. Sylvia was always desired to go to the village to get the necessary food; trades-people were not allowed on the premises. His letter occupied him intently; he was busy, too, looking over files of accounts and different prospectuses; he was engaged over that most fascinating pastime, counting up his riches. But, ah! ah! how poor he was! Oh, what a poverty-stricken man! He sighed and grumbled as he thought over these things. Jasper gave another furious knock, and finding that no attention was paid to her imperious summons, she pushed open the gate. Pilot immediately, as his custom was, appeared on guard. He stood in front of Jasper and just for a moment barked at her, but she gave him a mysterious sign, and he wagged his tail gently, went up to her, and let her pat him on the head. The next instant, to Mr. Leeson’s disgust, the gipsy and the dog were walking side by side up to the door. He sprang to his feet, and in a moment was standing on the steps.

“Go away, my good woman; go away at once. I cannot have you on the premises. I will set the dog on you if you don’t go away.”

“One minute, kind sir,” whined Jasper. “I have come to know if you have any fowls to sell. I want some fowls; old hens and cocks—not young pullets or anything of that sort. I want to buy them, sir, and I am prepared to give a good price.”

These extraordinary remarks aroused Mr. Leeson’s thoughtful attention. He had long been annoyed by the barn-door fowls, and they were decidedly old. He had often wished to dispose of them; they were too tough to eat, and they no longer laid eggs.

“If you will promise to take the fowls right away with you now, I do not mind selling them for a good price,” he said. “Are you prepared to give a good price? I wonder where my daughter is; she would know better than I what they are worth. Stand where you are, my good woman; do not attempt to move or the dog Pilot will fly at your throat. I will call my daughter.”

Mr. Leeson went into the house and shouted for Sylvia. Of course there was no answer.

“I forgot,” muttered Mr. Leeson. “Sylvia is out. Really that child over-exercises; such devotion to the open air must provoke unnecessary appetite. I wish that horrid gipsy would go away! How extraordinary that Pilot did not fly at her! But they say gipsies have great power over men and animals. Well, if she does give a fair price for the birds I may as well be quit of them; they annoy me a good deal, and some time, in consequence of them, some one may discover my treasure. Good heavens, how awful! The thought almost unmans me.”

Mr. Leeson therefore came out and spoke in quite a civil tone for him.

“If you will accompany me to the fowl-house I will show you the birds, but I may as well say at once that I won’t give them for a mere nothing, old as they are—and I should be the last to deceive you as to their age. They are of a rare kind, and interesting from a scientific point of view.”

“I do not know about scientific fowls,” replied the gipsy, “but I want to buy a few old hens to put into my pot.”

“Eh?” cried Mr. Leeson in a tone of interrogation. “Have you a recipe for boiling down old fowls?”

“Have not I, your honor! And soon they are done, too—in a jiffy, so to speak. But let me look at them, your honor, and I will pay you far more than any one else would give for them.”

“You won’t get them unless you give a very good sum. You gipsies, if the truth were known, are all enormously rich.”

He walked round to the hen-house, accompanied by the supposed gipsy and Pilot. The fowls, about a dozen in number, were strutting up and down their run. They were hungry, poor creatures, for they had had but a slight meal that morning. The gipsy pretended to bargain for them, keeping a sharp eye all the time on Mr. Leeson.

“This one,” she said, catching the most disreputable-looking of the birds, “is the one I want for the gipsies’ stew. There, I will give you ninepence for this bird.”

“Ninepence!” cried Mr. Leeson, almost shrieking out the word. “Do you think I would sell a valuable hen like that for ninepence? And you say it can be boiled down to eat tender!”

“Boiled down to eat tender!” said the supposed gipsy. “Why, it can be made delicious. There is broth in it, soup in it, and meat in it. There is dinner for four, and supper for four, and soup for four in this old hen!”

“And you offer me ninepence for such a valuable bird! I tell you what: I wish you would show me that recipe. I will give you sixpence for it. I do not know how to make an old hen tender.”

“Give me a quarter of an hour, your honor, and you will not know that you are not eating the youngest chicken in the land.”

“But how are you to cook it?”

“I will make a bit of fire in the shrubbery, and do it by a recipe of my own.”

“You are sure you will not go near the house?”

“No, your honor.”

“But how can a fowl that is now alive be fit to eat in a quarter of an hour?”

“It is a recipe of my grandmother’s, your honor, and I am not going to give it until you taste what the bird is like. Now, if you will go away I will get it ready for you.”

Mr. Leeson really felt interested.

“What a sensible woman!” he said to himself. “I shall try and get that recipe out of her for threepence; it will be valuable for my little book of cheap recipes; it would probably sell the book. How to make four dinners, four lunches, and four plates of soup out of an old hen. A most taking recipe—most taking!”

He walked up and down while the pretended gipsy heated up the stew she had already made out of a really tender chicken. The poor old hen was tied up so that she could not cackle or make any sound, and put into the bottom of the supposed gipsy’s basket; and presently Jasper appeared carrying the stew in a cracked basin.

“Here, your honor, eat it up before me, and tell me afterwards if a better or a more tender fowl ever existed.”

It was in this way that Mr. Leeson made an excellent repast. He was highly pleased, for decidedly the boniest and most scraggy of the fowls had been selected, and nothing could be more delicious than this stew. He fetched a plate and knife and fork from his sitting-room, where he always kept a certain amount of useful kitchen utensils, ate his dinner, pronounced it to be the best of the best, and desired the gipsy to leave the balance in the porch.

“Thank you,” he said; “it is admirable. And so you really made that out of my old hen in a few minutes? I will give you threepence if you will give me the recipe.”

“I could not sell it for threepence, sir—no, not for sixpence; no, not for a shilling. But I should like to make a bargain for the rest of the fowls.”

“How much will you give for each?”

“Taking them all in a heap, I will give sixpence apiece,” replied the gipsy.

Mr. Leeson uttered a scream.

“You have outdone yourself, my good woman,” he said. “Do you think I am going to give fowls that will make such delicious and nourishing food away for that trivial sum? My little daughter is a very clever cook, and I shall instruct her with regard to the serving up of the remainder of my poultry. If you will not give me the recipe I must ask you to go.”

The gipsy pretended to be extremely angry.

“I won’t go,” she said, “unless you allow me to tell you your fortune; I won’t stir, and that’s flat.”

“I do not believe in gipsy fortune-tellers. I shall have to call the police if you do not leave my establishment immediately.”

“And how will you manage when you don’t ever leave your own grounds? I am thinking it may be you are a bit afraid. People who stick so close to home often have a reason.”

This remark frightened Mr. Leeson very much. He was always in terror lest some one would guess that he kept his treasure on the premises.

“Look here,” he said, raising his voice. “You see before you the poorest man for my position in the whole of England; it is with the utmost difficulty that I can keep soul and body together. Observe the place; observe the house. Do you think I should care for a recipe to make old fowls tender if I were not in very truth a most poverty-stricken person?”

“I will tell you if you show me your palm,” said the gipsy.

Now, Mr. Leeson was superstitious. It was the last thing he credited himself with, but nevertheless he was. The gipsy, with her dancing black eyes, looked full at him. He had a shadowy, almost a fearful idea that he had seen that face before—he could not make out when. Then it occurred to him that this was the very face that had bent over him for an instant the night before when he was coming back from his fit of unconsciousness. Oh, it was impossible that the gipsy could have been here then! Had he seen her in a sort of vision? He felt startled and alarmed. The gipsy kept watching him; she seemed to be reading him through and through.

“I saw you in a dream,” she said. “And I know you will show your hand; and I know I have things to tell you, both good and bad.”

“Well, well!” said Mr. Leeson, “here is sixpence. Tell me your gibberish, and then go.”

The gipsy looked twice at the coin.

“It is a poor one,” she said. “But them who is rich always give the smallest.”

“I am not rich, I tell you.”

“They who are rich find it hardest to part with their pelf. But I will take it.”

“I will give you a shilling if you’ll go. But it is hard for a very poor man to part with it.”

“Sixpence will do,” said the gipsy, with a laugh. “Give it me. Now show me your palm.”

She pretended to look steadily into the wrinkled palm of the miser’s hand, and then spoke.

“I see here,” she said, “much wealth. Yes, just where this cross lies is gold. I also see poverty. I also see a very great loss and a judgment.”

“Go!” screamed the angry man. “Do not tell me another word.”

He dashed into the house in absolute terror, and banged the hall door after him.

“I said I would give him a fright,” said Jasper to herself. “Well, if he don’t touch another morsel till Miss Sylvia comes home late to-night, he won’t die after my dinner. Ah, the poor old hen! I must get her out of the basket now or she will be suffocated.”

The gipsy walked slowly down the path, let herself out by the front entrance, walked round to the back, got in once more, and handed the old hen to a boy who was standing by the hedge.

“There,” she said. “There’s a present for you. Take it at once and go.”

“What do I want with it?” he asked in astonishment. “Why, it belongs to old Mr. Leeson, the miser!”

“Go—go!” she said. “You can sell it for sixpence, or a shilling, or whatever it will fetch, only take it away.”

The boy ran off laughing, the hen tucked under his arm.

CHAPTER XIX.—“WHY DID YOU DO IT?”

“Well, if she does, I don’t much care,” thought the happy girl. “After all, truth is best. Why should I deceive? I deceived when I was here last, when I wore Audrey’s dress. I had not the courage then that I have now. Somehow to-day I feel happy and not afraid of anything.”

She was met, just before she reached the front entrance, by Audrey and Evelyn.

“Here, Evelyn,” she cried—“here is a note for you.”

Evelyn took it quickly. She did not want Audrey to know that Jasper was living at The Priory. She turned aside and read her note, and Audrey devoted herself to Sylvia. Audrey had liked Sylvia before; she liked her better than ever now. She was far too polite to glance at her improved dress; that somehow seemed to tell her that happier circumstances had dawned for Sylvia, and a sense of rejoicing visited her.

“I am so very glad you have come!” she said. “Evelyn and I have been planning how we are to spend the day. We want to give you, and ourselves also, a right good time. Do you know that Evelyn and I are schoolgirls now? Is it not strange? Dear Miss Sinclair has left us. We miss her terribly; but I think we shall like school-life—eh, Eve?”

Evelyn had finished Jasper’s letter, and had thrust it into her pocket.

“I hate school-life!” she said emphatically.

“Oh Eve! but why?” asked Audrey. “I thought you were making a great many friends at school.”

“Wherever I go I shall make friends,” replied Evelyn in a careless tone. “That, of course, is due to my position. But I do not know, after all,” she continued, “that I like fair-weather friends. Mothery used to tell me that I must be careful when with them. She said they would, one and all, expect me to do something for them. Now, I hate people who want you to do things for them. For my part, I shall soon let my so-called friends know that I am not that sort of girl.”

“Let us walk about now,” said Audrey. “It will be lunch-time before long; afterwards I thought we might go for a ride. Can you ride, Sylvia?”

“I used to ride once,” she answered, coloring high with pleasure.

“I can lend you a habit; and we have a very nice horse—quite quiet, and at the same time spirited.”

“I am not afraid of any horses,” answered the girl. “I should like a ride immensely.”

“We will have lunch, then a ride, then a good cozy chat together by the schoolroom fire, then dinner; and then, what do you say to a dance? We have asked some young friends to come to the Castle to-night for the purpose.”

“I must not be too late in going home,” said Sylvia. “And,” she added, “I have not brought a dress for the evening.”

“Oh, we must manage that,” said Audrey. “What a good thing that you and I are the same height! Now, shall we walk round the shrubbery?”

“The shrubbery always reminds me,” said Sylvia, “of the first day we met.”

“Yes. I was very angry with you that day,” said Audrey, with a laugh. “You must know that I always hated that old custom of throwing the Castle open to every one on New Year’s Day.”

“But I am too glad of it,” said Sylvia. “It made me know you, and Evelyn too.”

“Don’t forget, Audrey,” said Evelyn at that moment, “that Sylvia is really my friend. It was I who first brought her to the Castle.—You do not forget that, do you, Sylvia?”

“No,” said Sylvia, smiling. “And I like you both awfully. But do tell me about your school—do, please.”

“Well,” said Audrey, “there is a rather exciting thing to tell—something unpleasant, too. Perhaps you ought not to know.”

“Please—please tell me. I am quite dying to hear about it.”

Audrey then described the mysterious damage done to Sesame and Lilies.

“Miss Henderson was told,” she said, “and yesterday morning she spoke to the entire school. She is going to punish the person who did it very severely if she can find her; and if that person does not confess, I believe the whole school is to be put more or less into Coventry.”

“But how does she know that any of the girls did it?” was Sylvia’s answer. “There are servants in the house. Has she questioned them?”

“She has; but it so happens that the servants are quite placed above suspicion, for the book was whole at a certain hour the very first day we came to school, and that evening it was found in its mutilated condition. During all those hours it happened to be in the Fourth Form schoolroom.”

“Yes,” said Evelyn in a careless tone. “It is quite horrid for me, you know, for I am a Fourth Form girl. I ought not to be. I ought to be in the Sixth Form with Audrey. But there! those unpleasant mistresses have no penetration.”

“But why should you wish to be in a higher form than your acquirements warrant?” replied Sylvia. “Oh,” she added, with enthusiasm, “don’t I envy you both your luck! Should I not love to be at school in order to work hard!”

“By the way, Sylvia,” said Audrey suddenly, “how have you been educated?”

“Why, anyhow,” said the girl. “I have taught myself mostly. But please do not ask me any questions. I don’t want to think of my own life at all to-day; I am so very happy at being with you two.”

Audrey immediately turned the conversation; but soon, by a sort of instinct, it crept back again to the curious occurrence which had taken place at Miss Henderson’s school.

“Please do not speak of it at lunch,” said Audrey, “for we have not told mother or father anything about it. We hope that this disgraceful thing will not be made public, but that the culprit will confess.”

“Much chance of that!” said Evelyn; and she nudged Sylvia’s arm, on which she happened to be leaning.

The girls presently went into the house. Lunch followed. Lady Frances was extremely kind to Sylvia—in fact, she made a pet of her. She looked with admiration at the pretty and suitable costume, and wondered in her own heart what she could do for the little girl.

“I like her,” she said to herself. “She suits me better than any girl I have ever met except my own dear Audrey. Oh, how I wish she were the heiress instead of Evelyn!”

Evelyn was fairly well behaved; she had learnt to suppress herself. She was now outwardly dutiful to Lady Frances, and was, without any seeming in the matter, affectionate to her uncle. The Squire was always specially kind to Evelyn; but he liked young girls, and took notice of Sylvia also, trying to draw her out. He spoke to her about her father. He told her that he had once known a distinguished man of the name, and wondered if it could be the same. Sylvia colored painfully, and showed by many signs that the conversation distressed her.

“It cannot be the same, of course,” said the Squire lightly, “for my friend Robert Leeson was a man who was likely to rise to the very top of his profession. He was a barrister of extreme eminence. I shall never forget the brilliant way he spoke in a cause célèbre which occupied public attention not long ago. He won the case for his clients, and covered himself with well-earned glory.”

Sylvia’s eyes sparkled; then they grew dim with unshed tears. She lowered her eyes and looked on her plate. Lady Frances nodded softly to herself.

“The same—doubtless the same,” she said to herself. “A most distinguished man. How terribly sad! I must inquire into this; Edward has unexpectedly given me the clue.”

The girls went for a ride after lunch, and the rest of the delightful day passed swiftly. Sylvia counted the hours. Whenever she looked at the clock her face grew a little sadder. Half-hour after half-hour of the precious time was going by. When should she have such a grand treat again? At last it was time to go up-stairs to dress for dinner.

“Now, you must come to my room, Sylvia,” said Evelyn. “Yes, I insist,” she added, “for I was in reality your first friend.”

Sylvia was quite willing to comply. She soon found herself in Evelyn’s extremely pretty blue-and-silver room. How comfortable it looked—how luxurious, how sweet, how refreshing to the eyes! The cleanliness and perfect order of the room, the brightness of the fire, the calm, proper look of Read as she stood by waiting to dress Evelyn for dinner, all impressed Sylvia.

“I like this life,” she said suddenly. “Perhaps it is bad for me even to see it, but I like it; I confess as much.”

“Perhaps, Miss Leeson,” said Read just then in a very courteous voice, “you will not object to Miss Audrey lending you the same dress you wore the last time you were here? It has been nicely made up, and looks very fresh and new.”

As Read spoke she pointed to the lovely Indian muslin robe which lay across Evelyn’s bed.

“Please, Read,” said Evelyn suddenly, “don’t stay to help me to dress to-night; Sylvia will do that. I want to have a chat with her; I have a lot to say.”

“I will certainly help Evelyn if I can,” replied Sylvia.

“Very well, miss,” replied Read. “To tell you the truth, I shall be rather relieved; my mistress requires a fresh tucker to be put into the dress she means to wear this evening, and I have not quite finished it. Then you will excuse me, young ladies. If you want anything, will you have the goodness to ring?”

The next moment Read had departed.

“Now, that is right,” said Evelyn. “Now we shall have a cozy time; there is nearly an hour before we need go down-stairs. How do you like my room, Sylvia?”

“Very much indeed. I see the second bed has gone.”

“Oh yes. I do not mind a scrap sleeping alone now; in fact, I rather prefer it. Sylvia, I want so badly to confide in you!”

“To confide in me! How? Why?”

“I want to ask you about Jasper. Oh yes, she wants to see me. I can manage to slip out about nine o’clock on Tuesday next; we are not to dine down-stairs on Tuesday night, for there is a big dinner party. She can come to meet me then; I shall be standing by the stile in the shrubbery.”

“But surely Lady Frances will not like you to be out so late!”

“As if I minded her! Sylvia, for goodness’ sake don’t tell me that you are growing goody-goody.”

“No; I never was that,” replied Sylvia. “I don’t think I could be; it is not in me, I am afraid.”

“I hope not; I don’t think Jasper would encourage that sort of thing. Yes, I have a lot to tell her, and you may say from me that I don’t care for school.”

“Oh, I am so sorry! It is incomprehensible to me, for I should think that you would love it.”

“For some reasons I might have endured it; but then, you see, there is that awkward thing about the Ruskin book.”

“The Ruskin book!” said Sylvia. She turned white, and her heart began to beat. “Surely—surely, Evelyn, you have had nothing to do with the tearing out of the first pages of Sesame and Lilies!”

“You won’t tell—you promise you won’t tell?” said Evelyn, nodding her head, and her eyes looking very bright.

“Oh! I don’t know. This is dreadful; please relieve my anxiety.”

“You will not tell; you dare not!” said Evelyn, with passion. “If you did I would tell about Jasper—I would. Oh! I would not leave a stone unturned to make your life miserable. There, Sylvia, forgive me; I did not mean to scold. I like you so much, dear Sylvia; and I am so glad you have Jasper with you, and it suits me to perfection. But I did tear the leaves out of the book; yes, I did, and I am glad I did; and you must never, never tell.”

“But, Eve—oh, Eve! why did you do such a dreadful thing?”

“I did it in a fit of temper, to spite that horrid Miss Thompson; I hate her so! She was so intolerably cheeky; she made me stay in during recreation on the very first day, and she accused me of telling lies, and when she had left the room I saw the odious book lying on the table. I had seen her reading it before, and I thought it was her book; and almost before I had time to think, the pages were out and torn up and in the fire. If I had known it was Miss Henderson’s book, of course, I should not have done it. But I did not know. I meant to punish horrid old Thompson, and it seems I have succeeded better than I expected.”

“But, Eve—Eve, the whole school is suspected now. What are you going to do?”

“Do!” replied Evelyn. “Nothing.”

“But you have been asked, have you not, whether you knew anything about the injury to the book?”

“I have, and I told a nice little whopper—a nice pretty little whopper—a dear, charming little whopper—and I mean to stick to it.”

“Eve!”

“You look shocked. Well, cheer up; it has not been your fault. I must confide in some one, so I have told you, and you may tell Jasper if you like. Dear old Jasper! she will applaud me for my spirit. Oh dear! do you know, Sylvia, I think you are rather a tiresome girl. I thought you too would have admired the plucky way I have acted.”

“How can I admire deceit and lies?” replied Sylvia in a low tone.

“You dare say those words to me!”

“Yes, I dare. Oh, you have made me unhappy! Oh, you have destroyed my day! Oh Eve, Eve, why did you do it?”

“You won’t tell on me, please, Sylvia? You have promised that, have you not?”

“Oh, why should I tell? It is not my place. But why did you do it?”

“If you will not tell, nothing matters. I have done it, and it is not your affair.”

“Yes, it is, now that you have confided in me. Oh, you have made me unhappy!”

“You are a goose! But you may tell dear Jasper; and tell her too that her little Eve will wait for her at the turnstile on Tuesday night at nine o’clock. Now then, let’s get ready or we shall be late for dinner.”

CHAPTER XX.—“NOT GOOD NOR HONORABLE.”

“Oh, did he not, my love? Oh, I am fit to die with laughter when I think of it! He imagines that he has demolished one quarter of the scraggiest hen in the hen-house.”

“What! old Wallaroo?” replied Sylvia, a smile breaking over her face.

“Wallaroo, or whatever outlandish name you like to call the bird.”

“Please tell me all about it.”

Sylvia sank down as she spoke into a chair. Jasper related her morning’s adventure, and the two laughed heartily.

“Only it seems a shame to deceive him,” said Sylvia at last. “And so Wallaroo has really gone! Do you know, I shall miss her; I have stood and watched her antics for so many long days. She was the most outrageous flirt of any bird I have ever come across, and so indignant when old Roger paid the least attention to any of his other wives.”

“She has passed her flirting days,” replied Jasper, “and is now the property of little Tim Donovan in the village; perhaps, however, she will get more food there. My dear Miss Sylvia, you must make up your mind that each one of those birds has to be disposed of in secret, and that I in exchange get in sleek and fat young fowls for your father’s benefit. But now, that is enough on the subject for the present. Tell me all about Miss Evelyn; I am just dying to hear.”

“She will meet you on Tuesday evening at nine o’clock by the turnstile in the shrubbery,” replied Sylvia.

“That is right. What a brave, dear, plucky pet she is!”

Sylvia was silent.

“What is the matter with you, Miss Sylvia? Had you not a happy day?”

“I had—very, very happy until just before dinner.”

“And what happened then?”

“I will tell you in the morning, Jasper—not to-night. Something happened then. I am sorry and sad, but I will tell you in the morning. I must slip up to bed now without father knowing it.”

“Your father thinks that you are in bed, for I went up, just imitating your step to perfection, an hour before he did, and I went into your room and shut the door; and when he went up he knocked at the door, and I answered in your voice that I had a bit of a headache and had gone to bed. He asked me if I had had any supper, and I said no; and he said the best thing for a headache was to rest the stomach. Bless you! he is keen on that, whatever else he is not keen on. He went off to his bed thinking you were snug in yours. When I made sure that he was well in his bed, which I could tell by the creaking of the bedstead, I let myself out. I had oiled the lock previously. I shut the door without making a sound loud enough to wake a mouse, and crept down-stairs; and here I am. You must not go up to-night or you will give me away, and there will be a fine to-do. You must sleep in my cozy room to-night.”

“Well, I do not mind that,” replied Sylvia. “How clever you are, Jasper! You really did manage most wonderfully; only again I must say it seems a shame to deceive my dear old father.”

“It is a question of dying in the cause of your dear old father or deceiving him,” replied Jasper in blunt tones. “Now then, come to bed, my love, for if you are not dead with sleep I am.”

The next morning Mr. Leeson was in admirable spirits. He met Sylvia at breakfast, and congratulated her on the long day she had spent in the open air.

“And you look all the better for it,” he said. “I was too busy to think about you at tea-time; indeed, I did not have any tea, having consumed a most admirable luncheon some time before one o’clock. I was so very busy attending to my accounts all the afternoon that I quite forgot my dear little girl. Well, I have made arrangements, dearest, to buy shares in the Kilcolman Gold-mines. The thing may or may not turn up trumps, but in any case I have made an effort to spare a little money to buy some of the shares. That means that we must be extra prudent and careful for the next year or so. You will aid me in that, will you not, Sylvia? You will solemnly promise me, my dear and only child, that you will not give way to recklessness; when you see a penny you will look at it two or three times before you spend it. You have not the least idea how careful it makes you to keep what I call close and accurate accounts, every farthing made to produce its utmost value, and, if possible—if possible, my dear Sylvia—saved. It is surprising how little man really wants here below; the luxuries of the present day are disgusting, enervating, unnecessary. I speak to you very seriously, for now and then, I grieve to say, I have seen traces in you of what rendered my married life unhappy.”

“Father, you must not speak against mother,” said Sylvia. Her face was pale and her voice trembled. “There was no one like mother,” she continued, “and for her sake I——”

“Yes, Sylvia, what do you do for her sake?”

“I put up with this death in life. Oh father, father, do you think I really—really like it?”

Mr. Leeson looked with some alarm at his child. Sylvia’s eyes were full of tears; she laid her hands on the table, bent forward, and looked full across at her father.

“For mother’s sake I bear it; you cannot think that I like it!” she repeated.

Mr. Leeson’s first amazement now gave place to cold displeasure.

“We will not pursue this topic,” he said. “I have something more to tell you. I made a pleasant discovery yesterday. During your absence a strange thing occurred. A gipsy woman entered the avenue and walked up to the front door, unmolested by Pilot. She seemed to have a strange power over Pilot, for the dog did not bar her entrance in the least. I naturally went to see what she wanted, and she told me that she had come, thinking I might have some fowls for sale. Now, you know, my dear, those old birds in the hen-house have long been eating their heads off, and I rather hailed an opportunity of getting rid of them; they only lay eggs—and that but a few—in the warm weather, and during the winter we are at a loss by our efforts to keep them alive.”

“I know plenty about fowls,” said Sylvia then. “They need hot suppers and all sorts of good things to make them lay eggs in cold weather.”

“We can do without eggs, but we cannot afford to give the fowls hot suppers,” said Mr. Leeson in a tone of great dignity. “But now, Sylvia, to the point. The woman offered a ludicrous price for the birds, and of course I would not part with them; at the same time she incidentally—silly person—gave herself away. She let me understand that she wanted the fowls to stew down in the gipsy pot. Now, of late, when arranging my recipes for publication, I have often thought of the gipsies and the delicious stews they make out of all sorts of things which other people would throw away. It occurred to me, therefore, to question her; and the result was, dear, not to go too much into particulars, that she killed one of the fowls, and in a very short time brought me a delicious stew made out of the bird, really as tasty and succulent as anything I have ever swallowed. I paid her a trifle for her services, and the remainder of the fowl is at the present moment lying in the cupboard in our sitting-room. I should like it to be warmed up for our midday repast; there is a great deal more there than we can by any possibility consume, but we can have a dainty meal out of part of the stew, and the rest can be saved for supper. I have further decided that we must get some one to kill the rest of the birds, and we will have them one by one on the table. Do you ever, my dear Sylvia, in your perambulations abroad, go near any of the gipsies?—for, if so, I should not mind giving you a shilling to purchase that woman’s recipe.”

Sylvia at this juncture rose from the table. She had with the utmost difficulty kept her composure while her father was so innocently talking about the gipsy’s stew.

“I will see—I will see, father. I quite understand,” she said; and the next instant she ran out of the room.

“Really,” thought Mr. Leeson when she had gone, “Sylvia talks a little strangely at times. Just think how she spoke just now of her happy home! Death in life, she called it—a most wrong and exaggerated term; and exaggeration of speech leads to extravagance of mind, and extravagance of mind means most reckless expenditure. If I am not very careful my poor child will soon be on the road to ruin. I doubt if I ought to feed her up with dainties—and really that stewed fowl made a rare and delicious dish—but it is the most saving thing I can do; there are enough birds in the hen-house to last Sylvia and me for several weeks to come.”