Beyond the hills

CHAPTER XII

"FAIREST MASONS"

Billy did not take long to fetch the bread. He arrived at the wood in a somewhat breathless condition.

"I ran," he explained, "'cos I saw Mr. Frampton's car outside the inn."

Nancy was troubled. She wished Billy did not think it so necessary to avoid him. She was quite sure she would have lingered rather than hurried if she had known he was near, for after the troubles of the afternoon a grown-up friend would have been so comforting. Besides, he had evidently hoped to meet them in Barsdon. To be sure they had not promised anything definite, but Nancy was quite sure that he would be disappointed at missing them.

"Billy, do say that if he comes this way we may stop him," she pleaded. "We needn't tell him about the purse."

Billy, after she had pointed out her reasons, agreed.

"He's sure not to come though—that lane would be the limit for a car."

Meanwhile, tea, such as it was, awaited them. They divided up the remains of the lunch before they attacked the loaf, as they would need as much of the latter as their present hunger would allow for breakfast. Acid drops, they found, filled up corners, though everyone still owned to a dreadful thirst after the meal was finished. Further up the hill they could see the chimneys of a cottage, and the boys volunteered to go for water, while the girls were unpacking blankets ready for the night. A whole brimming, welcome pailful they brought on their return, and after they had drunk their fill and had replenished the lemonade bottle there was still a deep draught for poor little Modestine, who sighed her contentment when she had sucked up the last cool drop.

Then, after the pail had been returned, they sat round and discussed things. Wonderful what a difference a meal makes. On the other side of it there had been terror for some of them at the thought of their penniless condition; now, with bread and acid drops between them and their loss, they could turn their thoughts from it and think only of how best to overcome the difficulty.

"If we could spare a penny for tin-tacks," Montague said, "I could make some little picture-frames out of that young elm-wood over there. I used to make frames for Jocelyne and me for our cigarette cards in Suffolk, but she's too grown-up for them now. I could use a stone for a hammer."

"Oh, and I've thought of something!" Mavis cried. "I can run in a race!"

"Run in a race?" Nancy repeated.

"Yes. While you and Billy were in the sweet shop, Monty and me were reading a bill in the window about a Flower Show at Barsdon. It's to-morrow, and there's a race for little girl visitors, an' the prize is seven and sixpence!"

Seven and sixpence! Why, it was a fortune! But would Mavis mind running? Of course she would get the prize.

"Yes, I'll do it," Mavis replied. "But can we spare sixpence for the entrance fee?"

Certainly they could. The loaf had cost fourpence and that left them with sixpence-halfpenny. Mavis should have the sixpence, and the halfpenny—well, one could not ask for a halfpennyworth of tin-tacks; they must be bought after the race; nevertheless, the halfpenny must not be despised; it was something, they felt, to have at least that to face the world with.

Everybody's spirits rose considerably. With the almost certain prospect of seven-and-sixpence in view what was there to worry about now? Seven-and-sixpence, carefully spent, would last a long time, especially if they gave up all idea of sleeping in cottages. Was not a blanket in a wood or near a haystack good enough for anybody? Would you not be robbing yourselves of many adventurous hours if you slept under a stuffy roof when the big night-world awaited you?

Montague returned to the subject of the frames. He would prepare them, he said, in the morning; it would take very little time to tack them together later in the day.

"Someday," he added, looking at Mavis, "I'll make you some for your dolls' house. Would you like them?"

For her dolls' house? Indeed she would. With the mention of the dolls' house a shadow crossed the little girl's mind. It suddenly seemed so long since she had played with it; since she had touched any of her dear toys. It would be so nice—but, with a little sigh, she pushed the regret away from her.

Nancy began to think of sleeping arrangements.

"Shall we just sleep on the ground?" she asked. "Nicolette, you remember, builded herself a lodge of leaves and branches."

"Who's Nicolette?" Montague enquired.

"Nicolette? Oh, she's in a book. She and Aucassin were in love with each other, only he's a king's son and she's poor, so they can't marry at first. We think Aucassin a bit of a muff—he weeps too much, but Nicolette was brave. She had all sorts of adventures and she lived in a wood."

"She had a much worse time than we've had," Billy interrupted. "Prisons and all sorts of things."

"Yes, she did. But she escaped and builded the lodge of saplings and made a tapestry of leaves and flowers. There's such a pretty picture of her building it in Aunt Letty's book."

"Does an aunt let you read her books—touch 'em?" Montague enquired with awe.

"Why, of course she does! We all go into her room on Sunday mornings and have lots of fun. Sometimes she tells us stories, but if she's sleepy then we each have a book. You have to have very clean hands 'cos it's generally her special books you like best."

Montague stared in silence. This Aunt Letty of whom they talked so much sounded so altogether different from his conception of an aunt that he found it difficult to picture her. Indeed, if she had not been an aunt he might almost have felt enough interest in her to wish to see her some day.

"An' you like going into her room?" he asked presently. "Why, of course!" Mavis spoke a little impatiently. "She's our Aunt Letty!" So tiresome of Monty not to understand what that implied.

Again Montague grew silent. Would he want to go to his aunt's room? Would she want him? Wouldn't she be horrified if he touched any of her possessions? And this aunt played with them—that meant there might be a noise in the house before breakfast.

"If there's a noise comes from my room before eight o'clock, well, I know it!" he growled.

Poor Montague! How different his life had been from theirs, they thought, and, until they had met him, they had simply accepted all the love and happiness that made up their days as their natural right. Now they were beginning to wonder—a little.

However, they were straying from the point; sleeping arrangements had not yet been decided. Montague voted eagerly for the lodge, or bower, for the girls; he and Billy would build them one—one as good as Nicolette's. But she and Nancy must help, too, Mavis declared; the boys could make the framework of boughs while she and Nancy wove a tapestry of leaves.

Now indeed was sleeping out of doors transformed into an adventure. Romance, with the building of that bower that was to rival fair Nicolette's, entered into the little wood; each in their different way felt it as they gathered armfuls of dry bracken or cut down slender saplings; but Montague most of all. To build a bower for Mavis! Why, it was like being a knight serving a princess. And he would guard her; he would sleep near her door presently and guard her from enemies just as a real knight would do. Not for a moment would he compare himself with Aucassin, who sat at home and wept; he was sure, however, that Nicolette was not more fairly beautiful than his little princess. "Fairest mason," Nancy said they called Nicolette in the book; well, that was what Mavis was, he thought stoutly, as he watched her artistic little fingers skilfully weaving a covering of leaves for the framework. "Very pretty it was and very dainty and well furnished, both outside and in, with a tapestry of flowers and of leaves." That, Nancy said, was Nicolette's bower. Yes, but nobody, not Nicolette herself (though she did turn out to be a princess after all) could wish for a daintier bower than this that had been "builded" by four modern children who knew how to find romance or adventure in the most trivial incident.

Time had passed rapidly during the building of the lodge. Evening was coming on, yet, though the trees shut out much of the daylight, it was still too light for them to sleep. And now that their preparations for the night were completed they all began to realize how very, very tired they were. The girls lay down in their dainty bower, and the boys sprawled together on a bed of bracken outside, yet nobody felt that bedtime had come. The evening was so warm that blankets were not needed yet; indeed, had it not been for an occasional breeze, the girls would have found their lodge almost stifling.

Though they could not sleep everybody was too tired to bother to talk. Nancy's imagination, scarcely ever at rest, carried her to Nestcombe and Nestley. Suddenly, a great longing for the familiar places swept over her. Their playroom, the paddock, the garden with its beloved trees, the high wall at the bottom of the garden, where they so often sat and gazed across the river—the river itself. How dear every corner of the home-place was. And yet, when they had had home all around them they had accepted it just as they accepted the love and happiness that was theirs. Why should coming to the hills awaken your heart to these things? When you were in the Land of your Desire, oh, it was curious that home should jostle that longed-for country into the background. And then there was the forest that would not let you forget it. Nancy closed her eyes, and saw it as it would be now in the twilight hour and in her imagination she listened to the great silence that was as much a part of the forest as the trees themselves. A wonderful silence that was filled with little still sounds and whispers, the stirring of night things, the breathing of sleepers, oh, a friendly, home-like silence. She seemed to hear too the sharp metallic clot-clot of the horse's hoofs ringing on the forest road—that, too, was simply part of the friendly silence.

And then again there was the smoke from the lime kilns high up in the forest, yes, and the smell of the smoke, the smell of the forest, oh, it was all home. What comfort even in the thought of those forest scents and sounds. To be sure, there was a whispering here amongst the tree-tops, yet it was not the familiar whispering of the forest; there was, indeed, almost a loneliness about it. Yes, deep in her heart Nancy owned to loneliness (Mavis, too, was feeling it, Nancy knew from the way the little fingers clung to hers), and remembering the troubles of the evening—she had forgotten the prospective seven-and-sixpence—disappointment came to keep the loneliness company. These hills that they had come out to see with hope so high in their hearts, what had they offered them more than the forest? They were lovely, oh yes; this afternoon they had seemed all laughter, but what a long, long time ago that seemed. And was there not a kind of mockery in the laughter? Would the forest, if children had come adventuring into its heart as they had come to the hills, would the forest have been so cruel? To offer so much, to pretend to take you right into its secret heart, then to thrust you out again. Ah, surely the forest would not do that!

And yet, and yet, there was Monty. What had the forest given to him? Wasn't it there, at the foot of the forest, that he had been so unhappy? Love abounded for them up and down the forest, besides in their own home, but Monty—why, wasn't it here in the hills that he was finding happiness? Wasn't there a kind of different look about him—something Nancy did not in the least know how to describe except by the word "happiness." Though his poor little body had been so battered about, some other more important part was receiving healing.

What an April girl was Nancy, what a child of moods. Disappointment and depression left her when she arrived at this stage in her reflections. She sat up suddenly and peeped out of the bower.

"Monty, tell me again what your guardian said about courage and life?" she demanded.

"He said, 'it's not life that matters, but the courage you bring to it,' an' he said he'd have to make a personal application of that sentence when he'd got Jocelyne and me living with him. I dunno what he means."

"Do you think, Billy," Nancy said, "it means us an' our travels? Could it mean that we mustn't mind losing our money?"

Yes, Billy replied, that certainly was his interpretation of the quotation. Not to mind things going wrong, or, at least, not to be turned from your purpose by the first difficulties that arose, that in his eyes was courage. Nevertheless, Billy was feeling somewhat uncomfortable in his mind. Ought they, he was wondering, to go on? If he had been alone he would have had no doubts or hesitations; little setbacks could not even have suggested giving in. But there were the girls. Was it fair to ask them to go on, perhaps to face worse things than had happened this afternoon? He even had a slight twinge of conscience concerning Mavis running in the race; he would have preferred to run himself, but he knew quite well that there was less certainty of him carrying off the much needed prize—besides, the race was for little girls. Yet, what ought he to do?

"I've been thinking," he blurted out presently. "If there's anyone of us doesn't want to go on, if—if anybody would rather go home, I'll send that telegram to the Prior to-morrow, or if we see Mr. Frampton ask him to take us home. If one goes then we'll all go. Let's decide now at once."

Nobody spoke a word in reply.

"Say quick if you'd like to go home. I'll not blame anybody if you do—you've been so plucky all the time, and I promise I'll never say you weren't sports not to go on. Which shall we do, Nancy?"

It was sleepy little Mavis, however, who decided. "Let's wait until after the race, an' if I don't win the prize, then we'd better go home, hadn't we?"

"But you know you'll win it. You always do!"

"Well then, if we've got seven-and-sixpence we'll be rich, and it'll be all right."

Billy sighed with relief, and again silence fell between them. And again their thoughts went wandering. To the hills and the big open world? No, not when the night is pushing loneliness towards you.

"When the young eyes of the day
    Open on the dusk, and see
All the shadows fade away
    Till the sun shines merrily,
Then I leave my bed and run
Out to frolic in the sun.
Through the sunny hours I play
    Where the grass is warm and long;
I pluck the daisies, and the gay
    Buttercups, or join the song
Of the birds that here and there
Sing upon the sunny air.
But when night comes, cold and slow.
    When the sad moon climbs the sky,
When the whispering wind says, 'Boh,
    Little Boy,' and makes me cry,
By my mother I am led
To my home and to my bed."

The daylight called them to the Unknown, but the night sounds whispered in each little adventurer's heart the one word "Mother." Just to see her, how comforting it would be. Yet, though they longed for her, none of them, not even Nancy, had yet awakened to her point of view—that awakening was to come later.

In Montague's heart, too, there must have been loneliness, for, presently, the other three heard a small voice speaking:

"I wish I had a mother."

He voiced his need so simply that the children's hearts ached for him. He should share their mother, Mavis said kindly, and never go back to that horrid aunt.

"There's three of you," Montague replied sadly; "she wouldn't have room for me."

Well, there was Aunt Letty. Now that she wasn't going to be married she would have lots of room for him. He could be her little boy.

"If she wasn't an aunt," Montague murmured doubtfully.

"She can't help being an aunt, you know, Monty dear," Nancy replied gently.

"No, an' I'd like you to love her," Mavis added.

"If I could think of her as not an aunt p'raps I might like her a little." Could he, even for Mavis, overcome his prejudice? Well, if she wished it he must certainly try.

Silence again and then, at last, the gentle breathing of four sleeping children.

For an hour perhaps they slept. Suddenly, their dreams were disturbed by a terrific sobbing sound—the sobbing of giants, it seemed. They awoke with a start to find that Modestine, who was used to either a comfortable stable or roaming at large in the paddock, was voicing her disapproval of her night-quarters, voicing it as only a donkey knows how. Billy sleepily admonished her.

"Come over here if you're feeling as bad as all that, but for goodness' sake don't make that row again," he said.

Sleep did not come again immediately, and while they were still lying awake the sound of a car in the lane broke on their ears. Then such a honking of a horn as they had never heard before! Honk, honk, honk, honk! The Barsdon people must have heard it and wondered, but the children did not wonder for they knew!

"Mr. Frampton! It's him!" they cried in one voice, and, being now wide awake, they sprang up and ran along the cart-track to the road.

Honk, honk, honk, honk!

Slowly, very slowly the car drew near.

"It's us he's honking for!" Nancy cried, and there was relief in her voice. "'Spect he heard Modestine, so knew where we were."

They stood where Dick could not fail to see them and waited breathlessly for the creeping car. At last it was here!

"Mr. Frampton! Oh, Mr. Frampton, we're so glad to see you," Nancy cried. "Have you been looking for us?"

Now, Dick was feeling both worried and annoyed. Worried because he had searched the country for miles, and could find no trace of the children until he heard Modestine's voice; annoyed because they had not waited for him in Barsdon. Even if they had decided to sleep out of doors after all, they might have let him know, he argued with himself, knowing nothing of the lost purse. To be sure they had not promised, yet in the afternoon they had seemed so friendly, so glad of his company that he could not understand their action. And he was quite prepared when he sighted his elusive charges to show his annoyance, but the reproach that was on his lips was checked by something in the children's voices. He was quite sure there was relief in their eager, welcoming shout; something in their attitude, too, as they stood there in the moonlight seemed to suggest forlornness. What could have happened? As he sprang from the car he noticed the boys' puffy, battered faces. Ah, there had been a fight, that was it; the details he would find out diplomatically later on.

"We did so hope you would come this way," Nancy said.

"But why didn't you wait for me in Barsdon?"

"We—couldn't," Billy replied awkwardly. "But we were awfully sorry not to."

Dick noticed his confusion but let the subject drop for the time being. Well, never mind, he said, but now could they tell him how to dispose of the car; clearly it could not be left in the road all night. They showed him the gate leading into the cart-track and he backed the car through it.

"Aren't you going to sleep at the inn?" Nancy asked, as he followed them into the wood.

"I'm not!" Dick replied decidedly. Lose sight of them now that, after his long search, he had found them? Not if he could help it! "I'm sleeping here. Besides, the inn is closed—it's nearly half-past eleven, and, do you know, I'm hungry, dreadfully hungry. I've had nothing to eat since that excellent lunch you gave me, and I shall have to ask you to take pity on me again."

The children flushed uncomfortably. The thought of offering dry bread to someone who had evidently gone without his dinner, in order to keep what he had considered an appointment with them, who had apparently spent hours searching for them, was humiliating. And it was all they had for breakfast! Well, they would have to go without any, for a Warden who was so conscientious in looking after travellers must certainly be fed.

"I—I'm sorry we've nothing to go with it," Nancy faltered, as she handed him the portion of loaf that was left. "We ate everything else up."

Dick smiled to himself at what he supposed was simply a happy-go-lucky kind of housekeeping and wondered whether they had even given a thought to breakfast. He accepted the bread gratefully, however; he was too hungry, he assured them, to need luxuries, in fact, never had anything tasted more delicious, and his enjoyment as he munched steadily through the loaf was apparent to the children.

"I am indebted to you little people for two meals," he laughed apologetically as he dug his teeth into the last crust. "To-morrow, please, it's my turn, and if you don't let me be responsible for the catering for the whole day I shall be more than hurt. Is it a bargain?"

How could they refuse such an offer? In making it Dick had not the remotest idea that otherwise they would have been foodless, that he himself had eaten their very last crust. Yet, for a moment Billy eyed him suspiciously. Could he possibly know that they were penniless? In the ordinary course of events he would simply have accepted Dick's offer without further thought, but poverty, unfortunately, has a way of making you think. Sixpence-halfpenny between you and charity was a miserable sum to a proud young person like Billy, and his thoughts of the lad who had stolen their money were by no means gentle. That Dick might have helped them recover the lost purse, had they confided in him, never occurred to him. The purse was gone, and that was the end of the matter.

Dick, meanwhile, had finished the last crumb and was feeling in his pocket for his pipe.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "what an ass I am! Your Prior has sent you some chocolates—I'd forgotten them!"

He produced four huge packets of chocolate. The children were glad of it, for being awake, they found, made you hungry. And how nice to be able to offer Mr. Frampton something more than dry bread! How grateful they were to the Prior.

And while they all munched, Dick told them how overwhelmed the Prior had been at the thought behind their gift. An unrepayable and unforgettable gift, he had said, and Nancy could just picture him saying it. She wanted to question Dick further about their kind friend, but seeing Mavis' sleepy little face he insisted on bed for them all immediately.

"We can talk to-morrow," he said, "so now good-night!"

And now they really settled down finally for the night. How comforting, Nancy thought, as she snuggled down with Mavis in the bower, how comforting to have a grown-up person near at hand (Dick was sleeping in the car); what a difference it made to the night-sounds! Somehow, all the loneliness vanished and Nancy was aware only of the beauty of the stars in the blue vaulted sky. Stars seen through tree-tops and you a little atom in the arms of Mother Earth! What a discovery, what an adventure in an unknown world of beauty for an imaginative child.

"Thank you, God," she murmured drowsily, "for the lovely star-world." And the Prior, I think, would not have called that little prayer "the gabbling of empty words."

CHAPTER XIII

EXPLORING WITH DICK

The children awoke the following morning to find Dick looking as well-groomed as though he had not spent the night in a car. He was gathering sticks and whistling softly to himself.

The children apologized for being so late.

"It was my fault for disturbing you last night," Dick protested. Then he went on to tell them that the woman at the cottage up the road would allow them to wash there and that she was going to supply them with breakfast.

"But we'll cook it ourselves," he added. "It'll be more fun; she's going to lend us a kettle and a frying-pan. So hurry up, please, I'm simply ravenous! Sleeping out of doors gives you an appetite, I find."

It certainly did, the children agreed. They ran off to the cottage, taking their brush and comb with them—four dishevelled little people they were, too, but when a quarter of an hour later they returned to the wood, even Montague presented a fairly respectable appearance.

And then followed the preparing of breakfast. Dick already had the fire burning, a somewhat smoky one—but what did that matter, wasn't it the inevitable, almost the correct thing at a picnic? They hung the kettle over it (the children had brought the breakfast things with them on their return from the cottage), and Dick made himself stoker-in-chief. Would the boys gather more sticks? he said, and would the girls spread the cloth, and after that, would Nancy fry the eggs and bacon? Would they not, indeed! How eagerly those four little people threw themselves into their allotted tasks! Mavis arranged the tea-cups and plates and gathered some scabious flowers for the cloth while Nancy cut stacks of bread and butter. Then came the frying of the bacon—and here Nancy began to feel her responsibilities. To fry eggs and bacon for a grown-up person made you feel as important as when you poured out coffee for a prior.

"Could you rake the wood away for me?" she enquired, looking gravely at the uneven heap of burning sticks. "I could fry better on the ashes I think."

"That's a good idea," Dick said, as he hastened to do her bidding.

How good the bacon smelt as it sizzled in the pan. Nancy felt a little nervous as to the eggs—would she make a horrid mess of them? Fortunately, however, they were so new-laid that the yolks simply had to remain whole, and it was a flushed and excited little girl who in a few minutes announced that breakfast was ready and would everybody please gather round at once and eat it while it was hot?

Nobody needed a second bidding, and very soon the whole party was deep in eggs and bacon, and rather smoky-tasting tea. There was no salt, for they had finished their own and had forgotten to bring any from the cottage, but who cared?

"'Tisn't a libation feast, so it doesn't matter, does it?" Billy said.

Everybody was out to make light of any difficulty that should present itself that morning. They chipped each other in a friendly spirit that hitherto had been unknown to Montague; at first he was scarcely sure whether they were joking or serious, but so infectious was the good-natured banter that, presently, he found himself being drawn into it and taking laughingly from Billy what he had taken from no other boy before. And Dick, glancing at his happy face and remembering the Montague of Riversham, marvelled that so short a time should so have transformed the boy. Certainly, as regarded him, the Prior was right to have suggested allowing them to continue their adventuring.

Billy, teasing, cheeky Billy, was the leader of the fun. Impossible this morning, he found, to be serious and worry yourself about ways and means and whether you ought to do this or that. Yesterday it had rankled with him that there should be real necessity for Dick's return of their own hospitality, but to-day, in the jolly sunlight, it seemed a small thing to worry about. Besides, was not a person who had offered up a libation with you a comrade, and between comrades was there not always give and take? When your luck happened to be in, it was your turn to give freely; why grudge the other fellow the pleasure of doing the honours? So Billy was just his happy irresponsible self, and it must be confessed he ate his full share of the fast-diminishing stack of food.

While they were gathering up the breakfast things after the meal was finished, Dick made a casual reference to the condition of the boys' faces.

"It was 'cos of me they got smashed about," Mavis explained. "Some big horrid boys tripped me up, and Billy and Monty settled them!"

"Oh!" Dick could see that the "settling" had been no easy matter, but he hesitated to question them further, for something in Billy's attitude suggested that the subject was one he did not wish to discuss. Curious they should be so reticent about the affair, he thought. However, no bones were broken, and they were in his care again now, so there was nothing to worry about.

"And what are your plans for to-day?" he enquired carelessly.

Nancy and Billy looked at each other.

"Why," said Nancy, "we haven't any for this morning. We—we thought we wouldn't travel to-day."

"Then why not come for a ride in the car? I'm sure those people at the cottage would let Modestine graze in the paddock for an hour or so. I wish you'd come—one gets tired of one's own company, you know."

The children looked at each other again. Why not go? Adventuring was out of the question until after Mavis had won the prize; besides, if you were flying along in a car there would not be the long, slow hours of waiting for the race. With their eyes they signalled "yes" to each other.

"Thank you ever so much," Nancy replied, "we should like it awfully. Only, please, could we be quite sure to be back here by two o'clock?"

Dick assented readily, again asking no questions. He could not fail to notice, however, that there was something behind this desire to return by two o'clock. There was something, too, behind this hanging about in one place when yesterday they were all for penetrating further into the hills. What could be the reason, and why were they so reticent about it? Dick was finding them a little difficult to understand. Their characters seemed so frank and open; their manner to him was so full of comradeship and yet every now and then a wall of reserve would seem to be between them. As to their engagement for the afternoon, was it, he wondered, connected with the fight? Ah, that must be it; hostilities very likely were to be renewed. Well, he would know this afternoon for he was fully determined not to let them out of his sight.

However, it was about time to be starting, and everybody bustled about. There were all the things to be returned to the cottage, their own blankets to be left there, and Modestine to be taken to her fresh quarters—a willing Modestine, for the grass along the edge of the wood had been scanty.

And now that their own adventure was at a standstill everybody began to take an eager interest in the ride. The hills towards Gleambridge they wanted to keep for their travels, but would it be possible, Nancy enquired, to go to that highest hill across the valley, the one in the far distance?

"Quite possible," was Dick's reply.

"And be back by two o'clock?"

"Yes, and be back by two o'clock."

And with this assurance everybody scrambled into the car and Dick set out for Birdstone, the highest point in the hills.

Nancy and Mavis sat with him in the front seat, and during that ride he learned a great deal about the family, about their home, about Nestcombe and the river and forest. Here, at least, they showed no reticence. That they worshipped every inch of those home-places was evident. Their father and mother, Aunt Letty and Uncle Val, how proud they were of them all, how they adored them, how endless was their chatter about them. Dick, as he listened, marvelled how they had ever come to leave such a home.

"The spirit of adventure and the blindness of childhood, I suppose," he thought. "By Jove! when they realize what they have done how miserable they will be, poor kiddies."

Presently they came to a small town that seemed to scramble down the hill towards the valley; a town of quaint old nooks and corners, while on the opposite side of the valley, the Gleambridge side, the loveliest little village they had ever seen, except, of course, Nestley, played "bo-peep" amongst some pines on the side of the hill. Nancy indulged in a "spasm" on Mavis when she remembered that to-morrow, perhaps, they might explore it.

Then on and on again, gradually getting away from the Gleambridge country. The miles flew past with hills piled up about them. Such tonic, too, in the air! The children responded to the exhilaration of it and forgot their troubles, forgot, almost, that Mavis was to run in the race, for both troubles and race seemed to belong to some far-off, unreal world.

They were on the main road now and the running was splendid. Yet, though they were so thoroughly enjoying the ride, in their secret hearts they were glad that their own private travels did not lie in this direction. Motoring along good, well-kept roads was one thing, but to seek adventure or romance here with civilization shouting at you—no, that would have been impossible.

Presently, they began to climb. Up and up, with deep wooded valleys dropping away to the right, and yet other hills stretching leftward. A lonely farm, a cottage here and there, a house; that was all apparently between them and the very heart of nature. All except that well-kept road that wound right up here into the loneliness of the hills, robbing them, for Nancy at least, of the charm she had found when trudging along the dusty roads across the valley.

Yet, though part of Nancy's mixed little mind disapproved of civilized hill-roads, another part of her was thoroughly enjoying itself. Mr. Frampton was so easy to talk to and seemed so interested in all they told him about themselves. And then again, flying through the air in a car always intoxicated Nancy. Had Dick been guided entirely by her wishes he would have exceeded the speed limit on the lower roads; up here in the hills the going, of course, was slower.

Quite suddenly, as it seemed to the children, the road opened out on to a wide plain. A neat, civilized-looking village was spread over it in orderly fashion, and when they arrived at a somewhat imposing-looking hotel Dick stopped the car.

"We've reached the top of the hill," he explained. "I'll go in and make arrangements for lunch, and then we'll explore a bit—there's plenty of time," he added, noticing anxious puckers in the children's faces. He knew, of course, that they were thinking about that mysterious engagement for the afternoon. He began to wonder as he entered the hotel whether he was right in imagining it to be a fight. Surely there was something more important to account for what he had seen in their faces at that moment. Besides (how stupid of him not to think of this before), Nancy and Mavis would not wish for the renewal of hostilities. Well, this afternoon he would know.

He rejoined the children after he had made arrangements for an early lunch, and then they began to explore. The village itself was too prim to interest them, but what amazed Montague was that there should be one at all up here. Being used only to the gently undulating hills of East Anglia, this hill was a mountain to him. How could they possibly get food for a whole village to such a height, he wondered? Even the other children, used as they were to finding houses tucked away in the heights of the forest, even they owned to a little astonishment at finding so large a village so far away from the world. They certainly must be glad of the good road that brought civilization nearer to them. Well-kept roads, even Nancy admitted, had their uses after all.

However, though the village was not interesting, Dick had something to show them, he said, that would delight Nancy. He led them off the main road down a lane where hill-flowers unknown even to the forest children were rioting along the steep banks. The girls were enchanted with them, but Dick assured them with a laugh that it was not flowers he had to show them. He scanned the landscape anxiously.

"Come here, Nancy," he said (Mavis was still picking flowers, and the boys were scrambling about on the banks), "you can just see them, but you'll have to look hard—they're barely visible."

Nancy knew by the way Dick spoke that it was something she would like very much.

"Oh, what is it?" she cried.

Three cathedrals! Three fair towers! Why, one alone sent poetry dancing through you. Three cathedrals rising out of the mist—a beautiful valley held in the keeping of three white towers! Nancy's imagination wanted to get to work at once on a poem. Oh, indeed, civilized roads were not to be despised if they brought you to this. And nothing romantic could happen, she had thought, on a motor ride. Why, that valley was alive with romance for those who had "imagination eyes"!

Dick watched the animated little face with pleasure. How "alive" the child was; what an interest she took in everything and everybody. She dreamed her dreams, but because of this intense "aliveness" she would never, he knew, develop into a mere dreamer—never could the word "mooney" be applied to her—except perhaps by a teasing brother—and, indeed, the quaint mixture that made up her character, the Aprilness of it was what interested Dick in her. Having no little sisters of his own, he hoped the future was going to give him a good deal of Nancy's company.

However, it was time now to be returning to the hotel, and everybody confessed that they were quite ready for luncheon. This out-of-doors life made one ravenously hungry, they found.

Fortunately, a generous meal awaited them. Dick led them to a table laid for five that had been reserved for them. Very grown-up and important these little people felt as they seated themselves, for it was the first time any of them had lunched at an hotel. And a waiter to attend to your wants, too; instinctively they straightened themselves and tried to live up to the occasion. Oh, indeed, there was a certain glamour about this civilization, especially the bits that belonged to the never-before-experienced world.

Immediately after lunch they started on the return journey. Dick took them another, and shorter, way, yet though the scenery was if anything more beautiful than that on the morning ride, the children could take no real delight in it, for the thought of the coming race crowded out all else. And supposing they should have a puncture, and not be there in time—the very thought of it made them sick with apprehension. To be sure they had allowed a good margin, for the races did not begin until three o'clock, nevertheless they began to wish that they had not asked Dick to bring them so far.

However, all their fears proved to be groundless, for the clock on Barsdon church struck two as they climbed the lane that led to their wood.

What a glorious ride it had been. A shame that part of it had been spoiled by the thought of the race. Oh, if their misfortune were only as unreal as it had seemed on their way to Birdstone; if they could just have spent the afternoon in the wood with kind Mr. Frampton. They heaped their thanks upon him, but he waived them aside. The pleasure had been his, he said, and, indeed, secretly he had rejoiced to have them safely under his eye for so long.

Nancy and Mavis, directly they jumped out of the car, turned to go to the cottage to wash and do their hair before going down to Barsdon.

"Are you going to Mrs. Hale's?" Dick enquired. "You might tell her we should like tea at five o'clock, unless," he added, "you would like to have it at the inn down in Barsdon?"

The wood, they all agreed, would be nicest, and Nancy promised to deliver Dick's message.

Their preparations were simple, and soon two somewhat nervous-looking little girls might have been seen hurrying down a field path at the back of the wood—a short cut to Barsdon of which Mrs. Hale had told them. "Do you really think I'll win?" Mavis enquired anxiously.

"Why, yes, of course. You always do, so don't worry, Babs!"

"I wish I'd got a better frock on," Mavis continued. "Everybody else will be dressed up. 'Sides, the mud did stain this one."

Again Nancy consoled her. Nobody would know her and people would be thinking too much about her pretty way of running to notice her dress.

Mavis was somewhat comforted. Nothing would have induced her to have appeared in a public place at home in a stained frock, but because they needed the money so badly she would try not to mind strangers seeing her in so sorry a garb.

"I'm glad we're miles and miles from home, though," she said, as they turned into the village. "I'm glad forest people don't come to hill Flower Shows."

CHAPTER XIV

THE RACE

The Flower Show, they found, was being held in the Rectory meadow, and thither, after someone had shown them the direction, they bent their steps.

"I wish you could have come in with me," Mavis said wistfully, when they reached the gate.

"So do I," Nancy replied, "but I can't as we've only one sixpence, but I'll stay quite near."

She turned to the man at the entrance and asked whether he could tell her about what time the race for little girl visitors would take place. The man looked at his watch.

"In about half an hour," he replied.

Nancy thanked him and drew Mavis away from the fast-gathering crowd at the gate.

"Let's walk round the outside of the meadow," she whispered, "and see if there's a hole in the hedge that I can watch through. Then you'll know just where I am, and it will be nicer for you."

The meadow was a large one. Presently, along the further side of it they found a small opening where it was possible to see all that was happening. Here they stayed till the half-hour was nearly up, watching the crowds round the swings and roundabouts, and thinking how, at any other time, they would have loved to be in the thick of all the fun.

When it was time for Mavis to go, Nancy took her as far as the gate. She watched the lonely little figure—with the sixpence clasped tight in her hand—advance timidly towards the race-course and then ran back to her opening on the other side of the meadow.

The next five minutes were five of the longest Nancy had ever known. Far across the race-course she could just see her little sister waiting with a group of other girls. Mavis would be wearing that dear little smile that made everybody love her and nobody would know how bad she was feeling inside. But Nancy knew. And as she waited her conscience began to trouble her. Ought she to have let a little girl of seven, the pet of the family, do this thing? To let her be there alone in that crowd of strangers—what would Mother say? Nancy pressed her hands tight together, and if it had been possible would have called the child back.

"Oh, I didn't think! I didn't think!" she cried with passionate regret. "Oh, why didn't Billy and I think?"

Suddenly, the whistle sounded, and the race started. Nancy scrambled further up the bank, and almost pushed herself through the hedge in her anxiety to see. About a dozen girls were running, all of them but Mavis wearing garden-party frocks. Most of them seemed to be about Mavis' own age, but three of them were almost as tall as Nancy herself. Could Mavis possibly beat them? After the first breathless second or so Nancy knew there was no need to fear, for Mavis was skimming over the ground so swiftly that the other girls, though some of them, apparently, were using far more energy, were left far behind. Nancy saw people craning forward to watch her little sister; she almost felt their admiration as the small figure skimmed bird-like over the ground. The applause when Mavis reached the rope was deafening. Nancy's heart swelled with pride as she listened to it and for the moment self-reproach slipped into the background.

She scrambled down into the road again and waited eagerly for Mavis to come to her. A few minutes later she saw her coming round the bend in the road and ran forward to meet her. Then she paused in consternation, for in that little figure coming slowly towards her, in the drooping head there was nothing of the conqueror. What could possibly have happened? With outstretched arms she flew towards the sad little figure that advanced so reluctantly.

"Mavis dear, what is the matter? Tell me," she cried, as she held her close. "You won the race—I saw you. Are you hurt? Do tell me, dear!"

Mavis clung passionately to her.

"Oh," she sobbed, "that horrid Margaret Seaton was there—I saw her just as I was coming away. And she saw me and she looked at my dirty frock and she'd got on her best knitted mauve silk. An' she'll tell everybody I ran for seven-and-sixpence! Oh, Nancy, let's go away—let's go home! I can't wait and take the prize in front of everybody looking like a tramp!"

Margaret Seaton, the most snobbish girl in Nestley, here in the hills! And only just before the race they had been comforted by the thought that forest people did not go to the hill Flower Shows. What could possibly have brought her here? Oh, of course! It was the holidays, and she was probably visiting friends in the neighbourhood. But that of all people it should have been Margaret Seaton! Nancy, knowing the girl, and knowing Mavis, was overwhelmed now with the remorse that had been tugging at her conscience while she waited for the race to begin. She hugged Mavis close and stroked her hair.

"No, dear, you shan't wait to take the prize. We ought never to have let you go in for the race. Mummy would say it was a dreadful thing for us to let our baby earn the money. Billy and I ought to have thought. If we can't earn it some other way we must go home."

"Oh, but are you sure you and Billy won't hate me? Billy will be so disappointed."

"Yes, but he'll understand—you know he will. I'll explain to him. Don't worry any more, dear. See, we'll sit down here together till your eyes are dry, 'cos you won't want people to see you've been crying; then we'll go."

And so together they sat down on the bank till the storm of tears should have subsided.

What was to happen now, Nancy wondered? The seven-and-sixpence belonged to Mavis, but even if the child should presently change her mind and be willing to go up to receive it, she was determined not to allow her to make the sacrifice. Poor old Billy, how disappointed he would be! She must call him aside and talk things over with him before anything could be decided.

"Look!" whispered Mavis, her voice trembling with agitation, "there's Billy coming along the road! Oh, Nancy, you will explain, won't you?"

Nancy re-assured her and stood up to wave to Billy, who had not yet seen them. He ran forward eagerly, and then he, too, paused as Nancy had done. No need to ask questions; he knew at once that they were still penniless. Poor little Mavis, how sorry she seemed. Ah, but she mustn't be—he must pretend that he, at least, did not care!

"Hullo!" he said. "No go, eh, old girl? Well, never mind—you were a little brick to try; you've been jolly sporty!"

"Oh, but I haven't!" Mavis wailed, her tears starting afresh. "I'm not a tiny bit sporty! I won the prize an'——"

"I'll tell him," Nancy interrupted.

And then she explained everything to Billy, telling also of her own remorse.

"Say something to cheer her up," she whispered. "She's feeling so bad about it."

For answer Billy slipped down on to the bank by Mavis and put his arms round her.

"It's all my fault," he said contritely. "I—I never thought till a little while ago up in the wood, at least, not properly. That's why I came to find you."

"Are Mr. Frampton and Monty still there?" Nancy asked, seating herself on the other side of Mavis.

"Yes. I said we'd be back to tea, but—but don't let's hurry. Let's sit here together a bit, just the three of us, shall we?"

Just the three of them in a fellowship that even Dick or Monty could not quite enter into yet because it required more even than the intimacy of the last few days to belong fully to the comradeship that existed between these three.

For a long while they sat there, saying nothing, but with understanding between them. Nobody passed them. Once a lady and a little girl came towards a house on the other side of the road. They watched them idly, noticing the daintiness of the child and the youngness of her mother, yet none of them was really interested, though at any other time they would have been struck by the music in the child's laugh.

"Billy," Mavis whispered presently, "p'raps I will go and take the prize. I—I could shut my eyes tight and not see anybody. P'raps Margaret Seaton will have gone."

"You'll do nothing of the land," Billy replied emphatically. "I'd rather starve than let you do it No! I've been thinking, and I can't see any way out but to go home. I left Mont cutting down wood for his frames, but he'd never sell enough to keep us all. 'Sides——" He broke off abruptly, not liking to remind Mavis that the sixpence for her entrance fee had left them with only a halfpenny. "So shall I ask Mr. Frampton to take us home or send the telegram to the Prior?"

They couldn't send the wire, Nancy said, for she had noticed that it was early closing day when they passed through the village.

"Then we must ask Mr. Frampton to take us home, and we'll have to have poor old Ladybird sent on somehow. We shall have to tell everything to Mr. Frampton 'cos we can't borrow money from him without letting him know that we can pay him back. We shall have to take it out of the Savings Bank."

"Yes," Nancy replied thoughtfully. "But need we go to-night, Billy?" For herself the glamour had gone out of the hills, for the time being, at least, but she knew what giving in would mean to Billy. "Couldn't we wait till to-morrow and just see if we can think of some plan?"

Billy shook his head.

"No, we can't. We can't sponge on Mr. Frampton. To-day was different, 'cos we thought—I mean—oh, it's difficult to explain."

Though he found it difficult to express his idea he knew quite well where the difference lay. To-day was not sponging, but to-morrow, if they stayed, would be. No, it would not be "cricket" to keep their penniless condition hidden any longer from Mr. Frampton. He must know everything.

"Shall we go and tell him now?" he asked. The explanation was not going to be easy, and the sooner it was over the better.

Three sad and forlorn little people set off dejectedly down the road. Sounds of merriment came from the meadow. The children heard them, but they would not turn their heads in the direction of a place that was now so hateful to them; as long as they lived, Flower Shows and all the jolly things attached to them that they had used to love would recall the bitterness of this day.

And so they walked along with their eyes fixed on the dusty road until a gurgle of laughter caused them to look up. Instinctively they paused, arrested by what they saw. Instinctively, too, they crept towards the fence that stood between them and that which had attracted them and stood with their noses pressed to it, their troubles for the moment forgotten, their interest thoroughly aroused.

"Oh, the darling!" Nancy whispered. "See! It's the little girl we saw go into this house this afternoon. Isn't she sweet?"

In a paddock at the side of the house was a pond with a willow tree drooping over it, and near the pond, with her back to the road was the little girl they had seen earlier in the afternoon. She was dancing, and as she danced she crooned a little song. Indeed, it was the song that seemed to suggest the dance. She sang of the "p'itty ripple" in the water, and as she danced her arms rippled through the air. She sang of the slow fluttering of leaves from the willow into the pond—again her fingers moved lightly as though she were scattering leaves. She sang of the "p'itty, p'itty sunshine that makes 'ittle girls happy," and as she sang she became the very embodiment of joy—as joyous as the swallows that had splashed their happiness about the Prior's garden. And then she paused for a moment and seemed lost in thought. With a nod of satisfaction she again took up the song and dance. She was a little mother now singing her dolly to sleep—a troublesome dolly who needed much crooning to before she would sink to rest on the grass by the pond.

The children watched with breathless interest. They were spellbound, fascinated. Never before had they even imagined anything like the dancing of this fairy of five. A grown-up person would have said that the child was the embodiment of poetry, that she spilt it from her beautiful little fingers. They would have said, too, if they happened to be gifted with artistic perception, that rhythm was perfected in the movements and crooning of the tiny person. Something of the kind Nancy herself would have said had she had the words at her command to express what she felt. As it was, she could only stand there with the other two children, each of them absorbed in the entrancing picture that certainly did not belong to the everyday world.

Time passed unheeded while they stood with their faces pressed to the fence and the child danced. Presently, however, she paused and seemed to be considering. Then a little gurgle of delight escaped her, and, clapping her hands, she ran swiftly towards the tree that hung over the pond. She stood by the edge of the water watching with delight something that evidently fascinated her.

"Is it a dragon-fly?" Mavis whispered.

Billy nodded.

"B'lieve there are lots of them, but I can't quite see. Wish she wouldn't get so near the water!"

The child talked and crooned to the dragon-flies. Stray words reached the children.

"P'itty sky things! Dear dancy things! Nonie loves 'oo—Nonie not hurt 'ittle sparkly things. Nonie dance like 'oo."

They saw her poise herself tiptoe with arms outspread, then, with a gurgle of laughter, skim with light flitting movements along the edge of the pond.

"Nonie sky thing, too, now," she gurgled. "But, oh, so sad, Nonie can't dance on water like 'oo."

Now, a root of the willow tree hung over the pond on a level with the bank like a great arm. The child saw the root and, in her desire to get closer to the fascinating dragon-flies, she tip-toed along it and stood, with hands clasped together, on the very edge of the arm.

The children gazed in horror.

"She'll fall! Oh, she'll fall!" Mavis whispered.

"Hush! We mustn't frighten her," Nancy replied. "But, oh, I wish she'd come off it! If we call her she'd fall in, I 'spect."

Billy said nothing, but his face went white with the tension of watching. He dared not move lest he should scare the child, but he was ready to vault the fence at the first hint of real danger.

For five long minutes they stood gripping the palings, while Nonie, regardless of her danger, crooned low and tenderly her delight in the flashes of blue life at her feet.

Suddenly, a dog entered the paddock from the garden and barking with joy rushed towards his little mistress. So absorbed was the child that she did not hear him until he reached the tree.

"Nikko!" she cried, "go back! Naughty—go back!"

The dog, however, was so delighted to see her that he ran along the root of the tree barking joyously, and then, reaching his beloved little mistress, jumped up to lick her face. Just a touch of his paw, just a touch of love, and with a frightened scream Nonie fell, her dress catching on the root of the tree and holding her just above the water.

Billy, however, had not waited to see the end. Before the dog had reached the tree he had vaulted the fence and was running towards the pond. He saw the child fall, he saw the little muslin garments catch on the jagged roots and hoped passionately that they would not give way before he could reach the suspended, frightened little girl.

"I'm coming!" he yelled. "Don't be frightened, Nonie!"

Pushing the excited dog out of the way he ran along the arm of the tree, and, kneeling down, reached for the screaming child. Then, regardless of the damage to her pretty clothes, he slipped his hands under her and dragged her away from the roots that had proved her salvation.

"Don't cry, dear," he panted. "You're safe now; wait just a minute and I'll crawl along to the bank with you. It's going to be jolly awkward, though!" he added to himself.

His arms ached from the strain of lifting the child, and his legs were cramped, for there was very little room for a big boy on the narrow ledge. Exactly how he should crawl back without dropping his precious burden he did not know, but Nancy solved the problem.

"Billy, wait a moment," she cried, as she and Mavis came running towards the tree. "I'll slither along sideways towards you, then I can take her from you and pass her on to Mavis. Now, are you ready?"

It was no easy matter for Billy to twist himself round and pass the frightened little girl to Nancy, but somehow or other he managed it. Nancy held the child tenderly a moment before passing her on to Mavis, and did her best to quieten her sobs.

"Oh, see!" Mavis cried, relief in her voice, "here's her mother running across the meadow. She'd better take her, hadn't she—she's stronger than me."

Nonie's mother reached the scene a moment later. Nancy smiled re-assuringly when she saw the alarm and agitation in her face.

"She's all right," she said. "But will you get where Mavis is, please, an' hold out your arms so I can pass her to you?"

Nonie's mother did not wait to be enlightened as to the cause of the tear-stained face and torn clothes, or the presence of the three little strangers, but simply held out her arms at Nancy's request, assured by her comforting smile that they, at least, were not responsible for the accident.

Nonie, when she saw that she was once more on firm ground, clasped her arms round her mother's neck.

"Nonie naughty 'ittle girl," she wailed repentantly.

"I rather think she is," her mother replied, holding her very, very close. "What is the naughty thing that my little girl has done this time?"

The children, who had scrambled to the bank, stood round watching the mother and child with undisguised interest. Nancy interrupted.

"It was really the dog," she explained. "He was so pleased to see Nonie an' he jumped up and pawed her and she fell, and, oh, wasn't it a good thing her dress got caught? Billy might not have got her out of the water in time if he'd had to jump in for her. He had to tear her clothes fearfully when he pulled her up, but he couldn't help it."

Couldn't help it? As though torn clothes mattered a scrap when Nonie was safe! Nonie's mother had listened gravely to Nancy's explanation, but now her hazel eyes lit up with a lovely smile as she looked at Billy over Nonie's head. Such a wonderful smile that Billy's young heart went out to her in worship. Again she turned to Nonie.

"I am still afraid that Nonie was right when she said she had been naughty. What, I wonder, was she doing on that narrow root? I seem to remember telling a little girl not to go near the water!"

Nonie looked up fearlessly into her mother's eyes and nodded.

"Yes, Nonie very naughty girl. It was the bits of sky things, they were ever pretty, an' I just wanted to know how to dance like them, an' so I forgotted, Mummy."

"I see. But now what is going to happen about it? How am I to punish you?"

"Oh!"

The cry broke involuntarily from the three children. Must this fairy-like little dancer who had held them so enthralled suffer ordinary, everyday punishment? Must she perhaps be smacked? It was unthinkable.

Nonie's mother seemed to take them into her confidence as she looked up at them with a sorry smile.

"You see," she explained, "little girls of five are not too young to learn to obey. Nonie has been told not to go near the pond."

Nonie suddenly looked up hopefully.

"But 'oo never said 'pwomiss,' did 'oo? Could honour do 'stead of punis'ment?"

The children listened incredulously. What could this baby thing possibly know of honour?

Nonie's mother remained thoughtful for a moment. The children fancied they saw relief in her eyes.

"Very well," she replied. "We will try."

She put Nonie down on the ground and immediately the baby thing straightened herself like a soldier and stood with head erect gazing fearlessly at her mother, who looked down at her gravely and tenderly.

"Nonie Brimscombe," she said solemnly, "do you know what honour is?"

"Yes, Mummy."

"And truth?"

"Yes, Mummy."

"Can you promise on your word of honour never to go near the pond alone again—not even to see a dragonfly?"

"Yes, Mummy."

"Can I rely on you to keep this promise?"

"Yes, Mummy, Nonie'll not bweak her word." Then she relaxed and held out her arms to her mother with a winning smile. "Are I forgived, Mummy dear? I are ever, ever sorry."

Mrs. Brimscombe stooped and kissed the child.

"Yes, and now we must go and change that frock. But we haven't yet thanked these little people for rescuing you, have we?"

She turned towards the children, who, during the little scene between Nonie and her mother, had been listening and watching intently. Was it a kind of "make-believe"? Ah, yes, it was that surely, and yet behind the "make-believe" they felt something real and big, something that made them each instinctively straighten themselves just as Nonie had done. Whether it was the words or the way in which Mrs. Brimscombe spoke them they hardly knew, yet all that was best in them responded to the little scene. If Flower Shows were henceforth to have a sting behind them the word "honour" was always to awaken the memory of this poignant little scene in the paddock. Yet why had Mrs. Brimscombe played this "make-believe" with Nonie and what was behind it? And again, why did the name "Brimscombe" seem, well, not familiar perhaps, but to stir up some memory? Suddenly, Billy remembered. This was the Mrs. Brimscombe whose husband had been drowned in a boating accident at Gleambridge the previous summer. He recollected it all; a friend of Aunt Letty's knew her and had told them all about it, how splendid she had been about it, how she had never forgotten the creed of the Guides to smile bravely through trouble. Ah, of course, she was the head of the Girl Guides in that district, Aunt Letty's friend had told them; and though Nonie was too young to belong to the Guides her mother evidently was training her to be one—that, of course, accounted for what they had just witnessed.

But Mrs. Brimscombe was speaking.

"I am wondering," she said, and her voice was tremulous with emotion, "how I am ever going to thank you. It is—difficult," she added, and her smile as she glanced from them to Nonie was so unspeakably tender, so alight with something that came from her very soul that not only Billy's, but the girls' hearts, too, went out to her. Then she pushed emotion from her and turned to Nonie. "I wonder, if we asked them very nicely, if our little friends would stay and have tea with us?" Now, so far Mavis had been somewhat in the background, and it was Billy, her Nonie's rescuer, of whom Mrs. Brimscombe had taken special notice. Suddenly, however, she looked at Mavis with eyes of recognition. "Why!" she exclaimed, "aren't you the little girl who won the Visitors' Race?"

Mavis, looking flushed and uncomfortable, hardly knew what to reply.

"Yes, I did win it," she began. "But—but——" She paused and threw an appealing glance at Nancy and Billy.

"Ah, then you certainly must stay and have tea with Nonie. The prizes won't be distributed until about six o'clock. Stay and play with Nonie till then, will you, dears? That is, if you can," she added.