Beyond the hills

CHAPTER V

THE OTHER SIDE

The little procession, with its reinforcement, set off down the hill. Mavis, who was still dissatisfied with Montague's appearance, made him take off his coat and shake it as they went along. If she had not been so fascinatingly pretty and if there had not been that irresistible motherliness in her voice, Montague would have been inclined to class her with Jocelyne.

"But Jocelyne she wouldn't go on an adventure," he told himself. "She'd want to go in a car and stop at swanky hotels."

For there were to be no hotels, the children informed him. There would be sleeping out of doors, or perhaps sometimes in a cottage if it was wet.

"An' there ought," they told him, "to be a monastery 'cos Stevenson slept at one one night."

They had turned now into the Gleambridge road.

"Why are we going this way?" Montague asked suddenly.

"We told you. We're going to the hills, we want to see the other side of them. And we've got to go to Gleambridge first, you know, to get there."

"Gleambridge!" Montague repeated slowly. "Then I can't come!"

He stood in the middle of the road, disappointment written all over him.

"Why not?" they asked, in surprise.

"'Cos my two crosses are there," he replied bitterly.

"Your two crosses?"

"Yes, Jocelyne an' Aunt. They've gone by car, an' we'd be sure to meet them an' they'd bring me back."

The children understood at once; they did not like the thought of the poor boy turning back or being brought back ignominiously by his aunt, yet what were they to do?

"We can't swim the river with a donkey and blankets and things," Billy said. '"Course there's the ferry, but the ferryman, well, he might not want to take us, or he might ask questions—and it'd be the end of everything."

Montague thought a moment.

"We could go by the ferry-boat," he said. "He's up in the forest to-day, I know, 'cos Jim Virgo—he's his son an' a great friend of mine—he told me he'll have charge of the boat all day, an' if I could slip away for a bit I could have a ride in it, he said. I was just thinking of going when you came. Aunt and Jocelyne," he added with a chuckle, "they don't like me talking to the village people, but my guardian he says I can if I like."

The children considered hard. Should they venture? Would it be too great a risk? Nancy's eyes sparkled and she suddenly felt queer inside. Think of it; the hills to-day!

"Oh, let's chance it, Billy!" she cried.

They had already passed the turning that led down to the river, and it meant going back a little, but what did that matter when perhaps some time to-day they would be in the heart of the hills?

The river road was deserted, but they hurried somewhat nervously along it, for the Riversham gardens sloped down to it and people might appear.

"You'd better go first, Mont," Billy said, "and see if the coast is clear. Wave to us if Jim Virgo is there alone. We won't risk it if his father's there."

Montague ran down to the riverside and the children waited breathlessly. In a moment, however, they saw a hand waving violently, and with hope high in their hearts, they reached the ferry. Jim Virgo, a fair-haired youth who was sucking a straw, greeted them with a sheepish grin.

"I've told him it's a secret an' he's promised not to tell," Montague announced.

Nancy slipped off Modestine and led her to the wide ferry-boat. Modestine, however, did not like the look of it and planted herself firmly on the bank.

Nancy pleaded with her and Jim Virgo stepped forward to take her bridle.

Modestine glanced at him, saw that he was wearing corduroy trousers—for some unexplainable reason she objected strongly to them—and immediately sat down on the bank, assuming her most angelic expression.

Billy, for a moment, abused her angrily, then his usually sunny face cleared.

"I expect," he said, "this is one of the not-nice things adventurers have to put up with."

Suddenly, Montague, pulling his hat down over his eyes, lurched up to Modestine and, planting himself in front of her, regarded her with a most diabolical expression.

"You donkey, you, just you get up or I'll have yer life!" he muttered hoarsely. "D'yer want to die, minion, eh?" he added, thrusting his face close to Modestine's.

For one brief second Modestine regarded him in angelic surprise, then, rising hastily, walked demurely towards the boat.

The children, shaking with laughter, followed, and Billy and Nancy ran forward and led her on to the boat. Jim Virgo followed, and, a moment later, there was the swish of oars being dipped into the water, and the boat was heading for the opposite bank.

"Hurrah!" cried Billy. "We've started; we're really on our way to the hills now! Isn't it ripping?"

Nancy for reply, took hold of a tiny portion of Mavis' dress and twisted it in her fingers. "A Nancy-spasm," the proceeding was known as, in the family, a spasm that told of a turmoil within that small person.

In such a little while now they would have crossed the broad river. How lovely it looked to-day, what a pity to be leaving it behind. What a dear river it was, almost like a friend. Hadn't the sound of it been in their ears and hearts all their lives; was it absurd to fancy that a little bit of it had got into themselves—some of its restlessness. And there would be water where they were going? There must be. Not even the hills could be perfect for Nancy if there was not the sound of water murmuring either big or little talk, it scarcely mattered which, somewhere in their midst.

How near they were getting. Oh, this excitement made you feel almost sick! Just a thin strip of water—now a bump! They were there!

Montague was the only person, when they had bidden good-bye to Jim Virgo, who did not realize the solemnity of the moment.

"Well, we're here!" they said simply, and nobody could think of anything else to say.

That they felt just a little small and lonely with the broad Gleam dividing them from home and all the familiar home places not one of them would admit. It was so wonderful to be here, just at the foot of the hills. Curious how far away it made yesterday seem, yesterday and all the other yesterdays with their little everyday happenings. How important those happenings had seemed at the time and now how small they seemed! Nancy had a curious feeling that something bigger than just half a day had grown up between them and the present moment. Nothing certainly had happened yet, no adventure had come; there had simply been the meeting with Mr. Frampton and the finding of Montague, nevertheless she felt, now they had really crossed the river, that they were not quite the same children they were yesterday.

And now that they were at the foot of the hills, adventure might begin at any moment. They discussed it as they tramped up a pretty lane leading from the river. What would it be like? Lions and tigers, Montague thought, but was promptly squashed by Billy. Lions and tigers in England! Lions and tigers belonging to a travelling circus, Montague explained doggedly. He wanted it to be something in the wild animal line so that he could have the joy of rescuing Mavis, and to be able to shine in her eyes.

At the end of the lane they came suddenly upon the village of Hampton. A few houses and a shop or two were scattered on either side of a long, wide green.

They eyed it dubiously.

"At Nestley," Mavis said, "all the houses snuggle together, don't they. This isn't very cosy, is it?"

Somehow, it seemed impossible that anybody could love so wide a village, such an apart kind of village. Never had they seen so large a green.

"But I have," Montague informed them. "Near us in Suffolk there was ever such a long green with crowds of huge trees on it. I like it better'n this," he added.

But after all, the village did not matter; they must decide which road to take. Which road would lead them quickest to the hills? A signpost a little further on pointed to the left for Gleambridge, and they decided to take it till they should find one branching off up to the hills.

Nancy, who was rested now, wanted Mavis to ride again, but the child was not yet tired and insisted on Nancy riding a little further.

Montague, trudging along by Mavis, felt extraordinarily happy, happier than he had been for the last three months. Something inside him seemed to be expanding; feelings he could not understand surged up within him, feelings that had been dead, or dormant for a long time. Long, long ago, when there had been a mother to be loved and protected he had felt like this; when it had been his happy privilege to wait on her and attend to her wants. To bring her cushions, to sit on a little stool at her feet, why, yes, this queer feeling had often come to him then. And again when his father had been home, just before he died—but three long, desolate, empty months lay between him and those happy days when someone had been glad of his service; three months brightened only by flying visits from a guardian who, if one saw more of him, one might learn to love; three months of rebellion against discipline; three months' loathing of a primness that shouted in every corner. And, so long are three months in the life of a small boy, that in even less than that time in such an atmosphere, feeling that he is uncared for, the finer instincts in him will shrink and shrivel; he will become a little animal caring for nobody.

And now he was tramping along, unrestricted, with three children who liked him, whom he liked.

"I could carry you if you're tired!" he growled suddenly to Mavis. "I'm strong. Will you let me?"

Mavis shook her head with a smile.

"No, thank you, Monty, I'll walk," she replied with decision. "You're not much bigger'n me either."

"I'm ten!" he replied proudly.

"An' I'm seven, an' I can walk a long way. At Nestcombe we always walk lots."

"Presently you'll be tired," he suggested hopefully.

"Then I can ride Modestine. Nancy said I could."

Poor Montague with this strange desire to serve and guard, and Mavis would have none of it!

Presently he spoke again.

"Could I hold your hand if you're just a little tired, but not tired enough to ride? It 'ud help you along."

Mavis looked at his hand. It was rather grubby still in between the fingers, but, somehow, in spite of the dirt, she had a motherly feeling towards her unkempt companion. Poor boy, he had no mother. Well, she would let him hold her hand just a little way, though she hoped there would be a brook presently where she could free herself from any dirt that might find its way from Montague's hand to hers.

Montague took the little hand reverently into his grubby paw. What a tiny hand it was and what a pretty shape. His mother's, he remembered, had been pretty and so very white. Mavis's was tanned, but it was a clean tan. Yes, after all, it was nice for girls to have clean hands. How warm the little fingers were, not a sticky warmth, but something that seemed to come from inside the child, a warmth that seemed to speak of friendliness and confidence. Montague's frozen young heart that had been gradually expanding under the influence of happy comradeship simply thrilled at the human contact. Yet he marvelled at himself. Imagine him, Montague, until to-day liking to hold anybody's hand! How he would have wriggled if the hand had been Jocelyne's—but then, Jocelyne thought him a terror and a nuisance, and Mavis, though she might not admire him as he would like to have been admired by her, was kind to him. Just how much this friendship was meaning to him none of the children, not even Nancy with her quick intuition, could understand. How should they when life had held nothing so far but sheltering love for them?

Montague's thoughts strayed to his aunt and Jocelyne in Gleambridge. They had left him at home because he was not an altogether desirable person to take shopping, they considered. Montague, remembering a shopping expedition with Jocelyne, suddenly chuckled wickedly.

"What's the joke?" Billy enquired.

"Nothin' really. Only I was thinking Aunt and Jocelyne wouldn't have been pleased to see me if we had gone to Gleambridge."

"Why not?" Mavis enquired.

"Oh, only 'cos something happened there once." Again he chuckled with impish enjoyment.

"Do tell us about it, Monty!" Nancy pleaded. The road was flat and not very interesting, and the turning up to the hills seemed a long time coming, and Nancy was ready for any distraction from the straightness of the road.

"There isn't much to tell, only Jocelyne and me and some of her friends went to Gleambridge. Stupid, giggling things those girls were, an' Jocelyne was sillier than any of them."

"Why? What did she do?" Mavis asked.

"Oh, I dunno. She talked silly—an' she's a proud thing, too!"

"Proud?"

"Yes. I met a great friend of mine—he's the blacksmith's son, and once he gave me a horseshoe, and sometimes he lets me help blow the bellows, and him and me were talking at the station and Jocelyne said I shouldn't talk to a village boy."

"Not talk to village boys!" Billy repeated. "Why we know everybody in our village. Jimmy Petherham, old Daddy Petherham's grandson, and I, often go fishing together."

"Well, you're luckier'n me," Montague replied bitterly. "I mustn't talk to any of them—but I do," he added, with a grin.

"An' then what happened?" Mavis prompted.

"Oh, nothing 'cept I'd forgot to put my garters on, and Jocelyne got cross and said I'd disgrace her and her friends."

"Well, I think sloppy socks or stockings are ugly," Mavis said.

"Do you?" Montague looked at her in a troubled way. Was she going to side with Jocelyne always? And yet—no—-there was something so different in the way this little person said things. It was as though she really cared about you being clean and tidy, not as though she said the things to hurt you.

Billy, however, grinned sympathetically.

"Garters get lost, don't they?" he chuckled.

"Yes, they do," Montague growled. "An' sometimes you want to use them for other things—same as you do handkerchiefs." He paused. "It's not your fault," he continued, "if you're made to get ready all in a hurry an' you've been using your handkerchief just before to collect worms in for chickens, an' you can't help it if you put it in your pocket and forget all about it and when you are in the train and you want to use it and earth and worms tumble on the floor."

Billy roared with laughter, but the girls were horrified.

"No wonder Jocelyne got cross!" they said.

"She didn't, not then," Montague replied. "I thought she meant to, but her friends, they just giggled and giggled, and she giggled, too—only a lady in the corner with glasses on a stick an' me didn't laugh. We thought them all silly, I can tell you! An' then in Gleambridge—well, I wouldn't have giggled like that in a town."

"Why did they giggle there?" Mavis enquired.

"Well, first," Montague replied, "Jocelyne was cross. She tried to hold my hand 'cos she didn't like the way I walked—I think it a nice way."

"Was it like when we first saw you?" Mavis asked. "I 'spect it was," she added, with a sigh.

"Me and the blacksmith's son like to walk like that," Montague muttered, "sometimes, anyway," he added, realizing that a lurching gait at the present moment would mean the withdrawal of the small hand he still held. "Then they went into the china shop," he continued, "and Jocelyne said I must stay outside, an' some of 'em said silly things about bulls and china shops, an' then I got tired an' so I just sat down on the pavement and went to sleep. And that was all," he ended abruptly.

"S'pose you got into hot-water for that?" Billy enquired sympathetically.

"No, I didn't—but they talked sillier than ever. If you'd seen them all standing round me giggling and giggling and 'tracting everybody's attention you'd have been ashamed, I can tell you. I was! An' the stupid things they said, too! Straws and camels' backs they talked about—I didn't know what they meant. You wouldn't like being in Gleambridge with Jocelyne," he finished bitterly.

"I don't think I should," Billy agreed.

"Perhaps she's a little bit nice," Nancy suggested hopefully.

"I don't think so," Montague replied emphatically. "My guardian he says there are possibilities in Jocelyne—or something like that. He says I can't see them yet, but I may later on—but I don't think I shall."

"I say, look! We're coming to a turning to the right," Billy cried excitedly, and even Montague caught the excitement, and forgetting Jocelyne, quickened his pace towards the road that should lead them up into the hills.

In a very little while the turning was reached, and they looked eagerly for the beginning of the hills. The road, however, was perfectly flat, and the hills, for they could see them quite plainly, were still some way off. Billy suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the road.

"Why, we've got the canal to cross—it's this side of the river, so we've a long way to go yet. Let's hope there will be a bridge across it, else we're done for to-day."

A little disappointed that they had forgotten the Gleambridge Canal and that the hills were still some way off, they hurried along. The road was hot and dusty, but soon they came to the canal, and, to their great relief, found that there was a bridge across it. At any other time they would have lingered, for the canal was nearly as pretty as a river, and water, almost any water, fascinated them. They paused only to watch the canal-man catch a packet of letters that someone threw from a passing steamer—a most extraordinary kind of post, they thought, and worth pausing for, because it was something they had never witnessed before.

And presently the road really began to rise, but so gradually that they did not at first realize that the hills were beginning at last. There were curves too, now, and great shady trees and walls splashed all over with crimson Herb Robert—low, inviting walls.

"We have hedges at home in Suffolk," Montague said, as he stared in surprise at the huge slabs of white stone piled on the top of each other.

"So do we in the forest," Billy said, "but Dad has told us about these walls. He said they kind of belong here and are part of the picture because they are hill stones."

They had to stand on the wall and peep through the trees.

"Why! There's our forest over there across the river!" Nancy exclaimed. "Isn't it funny to look at it from this side?"

The thought struck her that if it had not been their home forest they would have wanted to go straightway and explore it—it looked so beautiful from here, so different somehow. How grand and noble it was! Such lovely lights there were on the trees—and the coolness! Nancy could almost feel it. Yet how stupid, she thought, pulling herself together, to be lingering here gazing at a place one could visit any day in the year, when at last they were beginning to touch the hills.

Montague, too, was fascinated by the forest. At Riversham, though he lived on the fringe of it, he had never been actually in it, and in Suffolk, he explained there were only woods, not forests.

"We'll take you there when we go back," Billy said. "We know some ripping places for playing Robin Hood."

"When we go back!"

All the joy went out of Montague's life when he thought of returning to Riversham. Need they go back?

"Why, of course!" Mavis replied. "There's Muvee and Daddy and Aunt Letty." Then noticing his miserably face, "But there'll be us now for you to play with," she added kindly.

Mavis scrambled down from the wall, but rejected Montague's hand. The road with its pretty banks and walls was offering such lovely surprises in flowers and ferns that she wanted to be free to dart hither and thither like a joyous little butterfly.

"I could run, too," Montague grumbled.

"But not as quick as me, Monty, dear," she replied lightly, dancing swiftly along in front of the others. Presently she stopped and beckoned excitedly; they found her kneeling by the roadside drinking, with her hands for a cup, from a little stream that gushed from the bank.

"It's icy cold!" she gasped. "Come and drink and bathe your faces."

Modestine, of course, had to share in the happy find and very unwillingly she left the refreshing stream when the children were ready to take the road again. To rest her, Nancy led her up the hill and she ambled sulkily along, not appreciating the delights of the way that spurred the happy children on.

Presently they came to a high road running along the top. There was nothing particularly attractive about it, and a long belt of trees shut out the real hills, but behind them they could still see the river and forest and far away the blue mountains.

"I'm just dying with hunger," Billy announced. "I vote we have dinner here."

It was past one o'clock by Mavis's watch so, as the others were equally hungry, they decided to camp on a stretch of green near the belt of trees.

They unpacked the basket and remembered they had nothing to drink. How foolish not to have filled their bottle at the stream. However, in the distance was a farm, and the boys volunteered to go and beg some water, while the girls tethered Modestine and cut the bread and the pie.

In a very short time they returned with a bottle of milk which the farmer's wife had pressed on them, refusing any payment.

"They've got a cider-press there," Montague announced when they were all deep in veal and ham pie.

"He says he's never seen one before," Billy explained.

Not seen a cider-press? How strange! Well, they would certainly have to take him to see one working when the apples were ready.

"An' he says he's never been in a fishing-boat," Billy said, helping himself to a second slice of pie.

"Not been in a fishing-boat!" Nancy exclaimed. "Oh, you must come with us and Aunt Letty in Daddy Petherham's boat."

"Need the aunt come?" Montague enquired doubtfully.

"Why, yes, of course! You'll love Aunt Letty—she helps us 'make-believe.'"

Montague said nothing, but so intense was his dislike even of the word "aunt" that he found it impossible to work up any enthusiasm even for an Aunt Letty.

"And have you ever been shrimping, Monty?" Mavis asked.

He confessed that he had not.

The three children sat and looked at him in wonder. What kind of a place was this Suffolk he was always talking about? Was it a kind of foreign country? All the everyday things that seemed actually a part of their existence were unknown to Montague. They began to feel almost eager for the day that would see them back at Nestcombe, when they could introduce him to everything and everybody. People, places, and things suddenly took on a new interest in the thought of showing them to someone who knew nothing about them. Almost a pity it could not be to-day—but how absurd; fancy even thinking of home-places when you were on the fringe of the land of your dreams. All the same, it was strange how sometimes you wanted to be in two places at once. So troublesome, they sighed.

Montague, for his part, was feeling rather ashamed of his ignorance of everything that seemed so much a matter of course with his companions. Was there nothing he could tell them of Suffolk that they would find attractive? He remembered Mavis's delight in flowers.

"I've seen flax growing," he began hopefully. "It's like a field of blue sky, and afterwards it's silky like Mavis's hair, only not so goldy."

"Have you seen them cutting it?" Billy asked with interest.

Now was Montague's turn to score.

"They pull it!" he replied, feeling big.

They must know more about this Suffolk of his, they said. What else had they there? Well, there was the moat round their house with water-lilies growing in it, and he and Jocelyne had had a little canoe on it. And in the next village there was a house as big as a castle, lots of turrets and towers, and a huge moat and probably dungeons. As to the dungeons, Montague was drawing on his imagination, but he need not have done, for Suffolk, though so different from their home-places sounded romantic, the children agreed—almost like a story-book place.

Somehow, after the meal was finished nobody seemed inclined to move. After all, why hurry now, why not rest awhile, why not give one's self up for a moment to the drowsiness of the afternoon? Such a stillness there was in the air, such a fragrance, too, from all the sweet things that were tucked away in the short hill grass, such a musical murmur from myriads of unseen insects. How the heat and music and fragrance seemed to grow into each other out here on the hill top, how pleasant to close one's eyes——

In a little while four tired children were asleep. Modestine, cropping the grass near by, saw that stillness had come upon her talkative companions. There was loneliness in the silence, the grass lost its savour for her; better, she thought, get a little nearer to them, if the rope would allow it, and sleep, too. Very daintily she stepped amongst them and stood with Mavis between her legs. Ah, this was better than cropping grass alone. Modestine blinked a little, nodded, and then she, too, became part of the sleeping afternoon.

CHAPTER VI

THE PRIOR

The afternoon was well advanced when the children awoke. Montague was horrified to see Modestine standing over Mavis, but the child merely laughed and stretched a lazy hand to tickle Modestine's nose.

"She likes to be near us," she explained. "'Sides, she feels she had to look after us, you see."

Montague thought it a somewhat dangerous way of looking after anybody, but nobody else seemed to agree with him.

Once again they set out, Mavis riding. For a mile or so the road stretched along the top of the low ridge, then it began to descend inland. The belt of trees was no longer there to hide the view, and hills and valleys, sometimes wooded, sometimes with houses scattered about them, were revealed to their delighted eyes. Near the foot of the ridge they were descending, they could see a small village.

"We can buy something to eat there," said Nancy, "and I think we'll see if there's a nice cottage to stay at—just for the first night," she added apologetically.

For, somehow, the long rest in the afternoon did not seem to have been enough, and a comfortable bed seemed more inviting than the hard ground. Such a pity one had to get tired, such a trial that one's body would not let one do as much as one would like to do.

There were so many twists and curves in the road that they found the village was much further off than they had imagined. It was a pretty road, prettier even than the road that had so delighted them in the morning, and always now there were the great shoulders of the higher hills beckoning them. Yet, somehow, prettiness did not seem as important as it had done earlier in the day—even the hills were beginning to lose a little of their charm. Sleep and a clean white bed for to-night, and to-morrow a re-awakened enthusiasm.

At last they drew near the village. At the entrance was a huge saw-mill, and beyond it a few cottages and one small general shop. Here they bought their bread and butter.

The woman who served them looked at them curiously, but she asked no questions. They hesitated whether to enquire here about sleeping accommodation.

"Does—where does that road opposite lead to, please?" Nancy asked.

"That? Oh, that's just a private road to the Priory," the woman replied.

"The Priory!"

The children looked at each other and hurried out of the shop.

A Priory! Why, surely, this was the very place for them to seek a night's rest at. A monastery, of course, would have been the correct thing, but a Priory surely would do.

"Let's go and enquire," Nancy said. "I don't s'pose monks or priors would charge very much."

They hurried eagerly up the road, and very soon saw in front of them a pair of huge iron gates, and through some tall beech trees, the chimney-pots of the Priory. The Priory itself was hidden by a high wall, and until they reached the gates they were unable to see it.

They stood with their faces pressed against the gates, staring with admiration, mingled with nervousness. It was the most beautiful building they had ever seen—except the cathedral—the windows and the great front door looked, they thought, as though they belonged to a church. But it was so large, almost as large, Montague admitted, as the place with the turrets in Suffolk. Would it be too bold to seek a lodging here? No monks or priors were to be seen—were they all at their prayers? If only the place were not quite so imposing, if it were not so silent, if a monk would only appear!

"There's a man!" whispered Montague. "Over there, across the lawn."

The others looked and saw an elderly man coming up a little winding path beyond a lawn in front of the house. They studied him anxiously. They were a little surprised that he was not wearing the kind of dressing-gown affair that they supposed monks usually wore. Perhaps, however, he was the prior and could dress as he liked. And if he was the prior could they summon up courage to speak to him? Nancy noticed that his beard was soft and curly, and that he was bronzed; but what attracted her were his eyes.

"They're like two brown fires," she thought, "dancing fires."

His walk, too, re-assured her. It was so intensely alive, so young.

"He's kind," Nancy whispered, "I'll go and speak to him."

But the sharp eyes had already found the little group at the gates. For just one second their owner hesitated, then, with eager interest he darted towards them.

"Don't forget to raise your hat, Billy," Nancy reminded him hastily.

"You, too, Monty," Mavis whispered. For a moment Montague felt rebellious at the idea of raising his hat to a man, it was bad enough to have to do it to women; but when a little person trusts you to do a thing, well, you simply have to give in.

The man opened the gates, and, to Montague's amazement, raised his hat as courteously as though they had been grown-ups in a car instead of four travel-stained children with a donkey.

"You are wanting something? Tell me!" His voice and smile were so encouraging that immediately they felt at their ease.

Nancy was the spokesman.

"Please, we are travellers," she explained, "an' we are too tired to sleep out of doors to-night, and we were going to look for a nice cottage, but a Priory is better. It should be a monastery really, but we thought a Priory would be about the same. And so could you let us be boarders, do you think? We're quite respectable—it's only travelling that's made us a little untidy."

At first the stranger looked a little astonished, then a kind of waiting-to-hear-what-would-come-next expression settled on his face.

"How long would you want to stay?" he enquired.

"Oh, only one night, 'cos we're going on again to-morrow—we haven't time to stay long in one place." She hesitated. She wanted to enquire how much they would have to pay, yet somehow it seemed difficult to mention money to this distinguished-looking man. Would he understand that if you're only children you could not afford to stay at expensive places? "Could you—would you mind telling me what the charge is, please?" she faltered, flushing a little. "We should only just want some tea and a bed, and we'd be leaving before breakfast 'cos we've really got our tea in the basket, but it can be breakfast instead."

The Prior, if he was the prior, made a wide, sweeping gesture as though to push their breakfast-basket miles away.

"No visitor leaves the Priory without breakfast," he said emphatically. "It's one of the rules and can't be broken. Can you obey rules?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes, sir," Billy replied, not without some inward trepidation. The rules at a Priory might be terribly severe.

"Good. Well then, all visitors are requested to retire at seven o'clock and to attend matins behind the nuns' screen at 8.45 the following morning. After matins a collection will be taken and each visitor is expected to put in the bag exactly the amount he or she would put in the offertory bag on Sundays at home. Exactly, mind—neither more nor less."

The children breathed freely when the Prior got to the end of the rules. After all, there was nothing terrible for them to do. They might have had to sleep on stone floors or rise in the middle of the night for prayers. Nevertheless, one of the rules troubled Nancy, and she spoke of it to the Prior. Did he know, she enquired, that children only put a little money in the offertory bag? Should they put what they would give at Harvest Festival?

The Prior shook an admonishing finger at her.

"Not a penny more or a penny less than the usual Sunday offering," he said. "That is the rule."

His voice certainly was stern, but the children were not in the least afraid of him, for he beamed kindness upon them and Nancy was sure she saw flashes of fun in his eyes.

"But what about Modestine? What shall we give for her?" Billy enquired.

"Modestine! Modestine!" The Prior's quick eyes searched the children's anxious, upturned faces. Then he laughed. "Capital—capital!" he cried. "A donkey with so classical a name must receive free board and lodging. It is an honour to have her under one's roof—or rather one's stable-roof. I take off my hat to Modestine!" With that he took off his hat and made the little animal a sweeping bow. Modestine was unimpressed, but the children were delighted. "And now," continued the Prior, "come, my dears. There's a good woman here of the name of White, into whose hands I will put you to have those travel-stains (he looked whimsically at the earth that still clung to Montague's knickers) removed. And then for tea!"

"Oh, but can we just see to Modestine before we wash?" Billy asked. "She's dreadfully thirsty, and we must rub her down and give her a feed."

"Don't worry about Modestine, my boy," said the Prior. "There's a man of the name of Monk hanging about the stables with nothing particular to do. Time will hang less heavily on his hands with Modestine to occupy it."

"But would he do it properly?" Nancy enquired anxiously.

"Have no fears, my dear," said the Prior. "Monk has had a good deal of experience of donkeys in Egypt."

"Well," Billy replied, "if he finds he can't manage her I'll come and help him. It all depends on her mood, you see."

"Exactly. I'll tell Monk what you say. Ah, there he is. I'll take Modestine to him. Wait here one moment."

Modestine suffered herself to be led away, though nothing would induce her to allow the Prior to indulge in his quick, eager stride.

The children looked at the man called Monk with interest. So that was a monk. He looked quite ordinary; he was even wearing ordinary clothes, but perhaps, they decided, they were allowed not to wear a robe when they were working.

The Prior came dashing back across the lawn to them.

"Now, my children, come!" He held out a hand to each of the girls, and with confidence they took it. The boys followed.

"Does he wear his gown when he tells his beads?" Mavis enquired.

"Who?" For just the fraction of a second there was bewilderment in the Prior's eyes, but it quickly vanished. "Probably, my child," he replied.

"But don't you know?" Nancy asked. "Aren't you the head of the Priory, and don't they have to do what you tell them?"

The Prior laughed.

"Oh, yes, I'm the head of the place," he replied. "But I'm not a very strict person. I allow them all a certain amount of freedom. Freedom is good for the soul, you know. It helps it to expand—restriction contracts."

The children did not quite understand, but they thought it sounded nice.

"I should like to be a monk here," Montague rumbled. "I'd like freedom—if Mavis and the others could be here, too," he added.

The Prior pricked up his ears at the volcanic note in Montague's voice, and, pausing, turned to look at the boy. What he saw in the love-starved face hurt him. He dropped Nancy's hand and waved his own impetuously as though to push something painful away.

"Restriction and starvation of soul written all over the boy," he thought indignantly. Aloud he said, "You shall all live here for ever if you like," and the smile he gave Montague warmed the boy's heart towards him.

"I'm glad Mavis made me raise my hat to him," he thought.

Ah, but, Nancy said in reply to the Prior, though they would love him there were other people they loved, too—people who wanted them.

"There's nobody wants me at Riversham," Montague growled, "and nobody I want—'cept when my Guardian comes—so I could stay here."

They had reached the house now, and the Prior pushed open the great door, the most beautiful door they had ever seen. The children, with thrills of excitement running through them, followed him into a vast hall. Now, all four of them, Montague in his Suffolk home, the others in their dear old Nestcombe home were used to spacious, beautiful halls, yet, large though they were, both of them could have been put inside the one they had entered. It was paved with great slabs of stone, and the rugs and skins that were scattered about in profusion looked like little islands. A carriage might easily have been driven up the wide staircase, which wound its way to a gallery above; a beautiful staircase it was, too, with its carvings of the heads of many different saints. In a distant corner of the hall was some armour, and all the walls were hung with portraits—dozens of them, every period for centuries back being represented. Nancy thought they looked like ancestors, yet she was puzzled to find them here in a Priory, expecting rather that there would have been only madonnas and other sacred pictures.

The Prior had gone in search of Mrs. White, and presently he returned with a grand person in a rustling silk dress. He introduced her to them.

"And now," he said, "I am going to hand these little people over to you, Mrs. White. Just a little cleansing and brushing, you know—then tea on the lawn."

"Very good, sir," Mrs. White replied.

"Oh, and Mrs. White, will you see that Master Lionel's room is ready by seven o'clock? Put another small bed in there. The boys will like to share a room, I'm sure. And for the little girls——" He hesitated and his eyes swept the two little faces turned expectantly towards him, "prepare Miss Dorothy's room."

Mrs. White knew her master thoroughly. Nothing that he did, as a rule, surprised her, but at the mention of "Miss Dorothy's room" her surprise was visible. "Miss Dorothy's room," that had not been slept in since the "blessed lamb" had become an angel! Surely these little girls were very special friends of her master, for such a thing to happen. However, she pulled herself together, and assuring her master that everything should be as he wished, conducted the children upstairs.

Who, the children wondered as they followed Mrs. White, were Lionel and Dorothy? Were they the Prior's children? But did priors marry? And why was he here alone, and why did they not see more monks?

What a huge, huge house this was; how easily one could get lost here—what a ripping place for hide-and-seek! Ah, here were the pictures that should have been in the hall; saints and madonnas and holy families, all of them wearing the shiny plates round their heads that people called "halos." What lots of them, and what a lovely picture gallery, and what delightful window-seats. Nancy simply had to stop to scramble into one of them and gaze at the view of the hills. If they were beautiful seen from outside, how much more so looking through these wonderful mullioned windows that seemed to radiate green and gold lights. A feeling of worship swept over Nancy's impressionable young soul; depths that, so far, only the sound of the organ at the cathedral had touched, were stirred. But Mrs. White was waiting and she must follow.

The boys were left at a huge bathroom, and Mrs. White conducted Nancy and Mavis to her own room—a room that surely was made for no other person than Mrs. White, for everything about it was just as neat and sedate and unsurprised-looking as Mrs. White herself. Hats and hair ribbons must not be flung about here!

After supplying them with towels and hot water she left them for a few moments. They hoped she would not be long away, for the big, silent place somewhat overawed them. Such lots and lots of doors they had passed. Were they the cells, Mavis wondered; was a monk praying silently in each, and weren't they themselves going to sleep in cells? It seemed not, from what the Prior had said, yet were there ordinary rooms in a priory?

"I can't make things out a bit," Nancy replied. "It doesn't seem nice to ask lots of questions when you're kind of guests, but I would like to know about Dorothy. D'you s'pose she's a nun? P'raps she's at another priory or convent now."

"Couldn't we ask just that?"

"No, I think not, but p'raps we'll find out later. Let's wait and see, 'cos, after all, it's awfully exciting, isn't it? We don't know what will happen next! An' if we don't see the monks to-night we shall have to see them at matins to-morrow."

Two perfectly clean and tidy little girls awaited Mrs. White on her return. At the bathroom they picked up two passably clean boys, and Mrs. White led the whole party to the Prior, who was awaiting them under a great beech tree of beautiful proportions on the lawn.

"And now for tea!" said the Prior, beaming on the children. "A good substantial tea for hungry travellers."

He led them to a tea-table that was heaped with good things. A tall and solemn-looking man was hovering near it.

"That's all, Monk, thank you. We'll manage alone to-day, eh, children?"

Another monk, they thought with interest, as they gathered round the table, and again an ungowned one! Well, of course, the Vicar did not wear his cassock in private life; perhaps the same rule applied to monks. Yet why was there a kind of twinkle in the Prior's eyes when they questioned him as to why he called each one "Monk" and not "Brother so-and-so"? And why did he evade the question?

The tea was a delightful one. Chicken in aspic, cold ham, honey, and scones. "Grown-up" cake, too, with lots of currants in it, and raspberries and cream. Each of them you may be sure did ample justice to it. The Prior insisted that Nancy should act as hostess. The honour of it! To pour out with a grown-up there and such a distinguished grown-up, too; one, moreover, who treated you with as much deference as though you had been a duchess seated there behind the beautiful tea equipage instead of just a small girl. Nancy found herself trying to live up to the position; she thrilled to the importance of it, so that her hands moved gracefully amongst the tea-things, and she felt that she really was a hostess sharing the responsibilities of that tea with the Prior.

And while they ate the Prior talked. There was nothing religious about his conversation; it was mostly stories of travels. Yes, and that was another curious thing. He seemed to have lived abroad far more than at the Priory, but, perhaps, they thought, he had other priories out there, for apparently he was a kind of head-person always. Governor was the word he used, probably that was what they called priors abroad.

And yet he did not seem to have to shut himself up in any of these priories. Also he had parties there, children's parties with no other grown-up person there. He wanted the children to himself, he said; other grown-ups spoilt things.

And then there were stories of big game shooting that thrilled the boys. Stories, too, of snakes. They regarded with respect and admiration the man who had actually found a snake popping up through a hole in a bedroom floor; who had lived in a house haunted by vampire bats—crowds of them, and you heard weird flapping sounds, he said, when you were alone at night and suddenly—sizz! out would go the lamp and you were in darkness alone with that horrible dark flying thing!

Thrillingly interesting stories, all of them, but now tea was finished, and the Prior suggested that they should sit in the Sunk Garden till bedtime. The children followed him willingly along a broad walk on the further side of the house, where masses of flowers were blazing in the hot sunshine. Two youths and a man were at work, and they touched their caps as the Prior and the children passed.

"And are they monks?" Mavis asked, and again the Prior twinkled as he replied in the affirmative.

"And are they too busy to pray in the day-time?" asked Nancy. "I s'pose they have to pray longer at night to make up for it? They must be awfully tired doing both."

"I don't think," the Prior replied, "that they any of them spend long enough over their prayers for them to become a burden to them. Besides," he added. "there's nothing to prevent them doing the two things together. A man who can grow flowers such as these," he waved his hand towards the blaze of colour, "who can teach his sons to grow them, too, should have a prayer of gratitude to the good God continually in his heart and on his lips."

"Oh, are they his sons? Can monks have sons?" Billy asked.

"These Monks can," the Prior replied, and again, they were mystified by the fun in his eyes.

"Do they have specially long prayers for penance?" Nancy asked.

"Pray in penance?" the Prior's eyes flashed a protest. "Certainly not—not here! Prayer should be offered from the fullness of the heart, child. Prayer should be—joy! Prayer should be, not the gabbling of a few sentences, but the act of living, living joyously. Anything less is an insult to the good God. But my tongue is running away with me," he added with a smile. "You will think that I am going to preach."

Well, if this was preaching, the children thought, it was much more interesting than the dull sermons the Vicar preached on Sundays. They felt a little uncomfortable, however, when they remembered their own gabbled prayers. Had they insulted God? They hadn't meant to, of course, but it was not always easy to realize that God was listening to them. Certainly, the Prior's way of praying sounded much nicer—so alive and real.

They passed another youth who was busy hoeing. Montague eyed him with interest.

"When I'm a man," he growled, "I shall have a son an' a daughter. An' the daughter shall be fifteen, and she shall cotton peas all day, and the son he shall hoe and weed and pick up sticks. An' if he doesn't, well, he'll be sorry. An' he'll be sorry lots of other times, too—sorry all the time. If he fights with the village boys, or if he plays with them, or gives himself and them the best strawberries, and leaves none for the grown-ups' tea, then he won't like it—he'll wish he'd never seen a strawberry." Evidently something connected with strawberries rankled, for his voice was particularly bitter as he spoke of them. "And there will be a great-aunt to look after him," he continued, "an' I shall stay here and be a monk—not a gardening one—or live with my wife in a house by a wood, or p'raps go and kill lions by myself. And while I'm away the aunt will see if the boy wants punishing; she'll know how to do it, 'cos," and here his voice sank to a scarcely audible rumble, "she'll have had lots of experience."

He paused, but something in the curiously intent way in which the Prior was listening spurred him on.

"Well, if in a little while that boy forgets what happened about the strawberries and gives himself and the blacksmith's son a raspberry tart and a jug of cream that was meant for a dinner party an' a piece of duck each—well, I'll not be there—but the aunt will!"

The Prior said nothing when, at last, Montague came to an end, but he walked thoughtfully, his hands behind his back, and there was pity and indignation, and, well, perhaps a little amusement in his eyes as he studied the boy.

But now the Sunk Garden was reached. Instinctively everyone paused at the top of the steps. Something, before entering that peaceful garden, must be put away, left behind. Something that was alien to the gentleness that seemed to play about the sun-dial and the subdued colouring of the flowers; to the quiet sunlight flickering amongst the leaves on the tall trellis-work that enclosed the garden. The Prior put his hand affectionately on Montague's shoulder and rebellion suddenly seemed a little thing, so unimportant. The scent of heliotrope, the swooping of swallows, the lazy cawing of rooks seemed all that mattered.

The Prior led them to a stone seat round the sun-dial. Nancy immediately felt the atmosphere of the place and gave herself up to it. The swallows, too, attracted her. She watched them dropping and falling down the air; against the blue of the sky; their swift shadows on sun-dial or paving. Aunt Letty once said that the soul of a swallow was in its flight. Now, as she sat in the Sunk Garden, a garden that must have had swallows' shadows flickering over it for centuries, she began to understand what Aunt Letty had meant. Every movement of the blue and white speck was graceful, whether it flashed across the garden, or slid down the air or climbed up towards the sky, all was grace and all was joy. Suddenly, she looked at the Prior and he caught her glance with a smile and a question.

"What is it, child?" he asked.

"Only——" she hesitated. "P'raps you won't like me saying it, but suddenly I thought you're like the swallows."

"I—like the swallows?" He looked at her in surprise.

"Yes! You see, they're joy, every bit of them is joy—they kind of can't go fast enough to splash it out of them, an' that's like you. You won't mind, will you?" She slipped her hand into his and looked at him anxiously.

"Mind? Of course not, my darling! And do I splash joy about?" he added, his eyes shining like two brown stars.

"'Yes, indeed, it's all over you, and you kind of splash it all over us and over the garden, too."

"That's the nicest compliment I've ever had paid me in my life, child," and, lifting his hat, the Prior raised Nancy's hand to his lips.

"But it's not a compliment," Nancy protested, "it's the truth. We all love you, don't we?" she added, turning to the others.

"Yes, indeed!" Mavis cried, scrambling on to the Prior's knee.

Montague looked at the happy group and sighed.

"When I am a man," he began, "I shall find a little girl with gold hair and I shall buy her a golden chair to sit in, but sometimes I shall ask her not to sit in the chair, but on my knee, and I will tell her lots of lovely stories. And nobody," he continued, warming to his subject, "shall ever hurt that little girl or be unkind to her, 'cos there'll be me to look after her. And she shall be like a princess, and I shall do all the work for her and not let her carry things; an' if she doesn't like lessons, well, she needn't do 'em 'cos I shall say she needn't. An' if there's only one nice ripe pear she shall have it, and I shall wait till she's had all she wants before I have one. An' if she's tired there'll be me to carry her, 'cos I shall be big and strong then. An' I shall earn a pound a week and give it all to her, 'cept just enough to buy the food, an' she shall never have schoolroom cake or rice pudding!"

"Not boiled rice!" said Mavis. "Oh, I wouldn't like to be that little girl—I love boiled rice. An' wouldn't a gold chair be awfully hard?"

Montague, whose eyes had been fixed dreamily on a bed of heliotrope during his recital, looked up at Mavis with wonder in his eyes. Was it possible that a little girl whom he regarded almost as a princess could like boiled rice?

"With jam?" Perhaps it was the jam that appealed to her.

"No. Sugar and milk."

"Well, she should have it." There was resignation in his voice. "An' she could have a cushion on the chair if it was too hard."

The Prior, meanwhile, was wearing his waiting-to-hear-what-would-come-next expression. He called Montague and drew him to his knee.

"So you are going to be a champion of little girls, are you, my boy?"

"One little girl," Montague corrected him, "with gold hair. P'raps," he added, looking at Nancy, "there could be another with brown hair."

"What colour hair," asked the Prior, "had that unfortunate daughter who was to cotton peas?"

"Black!" Montague replied. "Thick black hair. The kind," he muttered, forgetting that he was in the Sunk Garden, "that you can pull!"

"Oh!" said the Prior, looking at him thoughtfully. "Why pull the black hair and not the gold or chestnut? Why not be a champion of them all? Why pull the hair of one and give the others golden chairs, and the best fruit? Why not let them all have gold chairs? Think of it, boy, just think of it, if you gave her a gold chair how she'd love you!"

"She wouldn't," growled Montague, "she would never love me, not if I was to give her a gold throne!"

"Well, try it and see the result," the Prior encouraged him.

A gold throne for Jocelyne? The Prior didn't know her or he could not have suggested it.

"And what are you going to do when you are a man, Billy?" the Prior asked.

"Me? Oh, I'm going to be a traveller like you and my Uncle Val," Billy replied unhesitatingly. "Only," he added, "there's such a long time to wait; it seems an awful waste of time going to school when you might be doing things."

"Yes, yes, but make the best of it, Billy-boy. It's not quite as wasted, perhaps, as you imagine. Preparation is needed, you know, before you can attack anything as difficult as the life of a traveller. For it is a hard life."

"Yes, I know. Uncle Val says if there's grit in you it brings it out, and he says you've got to have grit in you to stick to it. He sticks to it, and I shall stick to it too." Billy threw back his head and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "Uncle Val and I can't help going. He says it's Sir Walter Raleigh's fault."

"Sir Walter Raleigh's?"

"Yes. You see, when Uncle Val was a little boy there was always Sir Walter Raleigh calling him, calling him to look down the river away out to sea till he couldn't wait any longer. He made him join up when he was only seventeen, and after the war he made him go abroad. And now Sir Walter Raleigh hasn't got Uncle Val, so he's calling me instead—we live in his house, you see."

The Prior looked at Billy rather strangely, as though he were trying to see something in his face.

"Where is your Uncle Val now?"

"In Egypt," Billy replied.

The Prior's eyes danced unaccountably with pleasure. He put Mavis down and rose abruptly. There was something in the library, he said, that might interest them.

The children followed readily. They returned to the house by way of the kitchen and fruit garden, beyond which were the stables. Ah, might they just go and say good-night to Modestine, they begged. The Prior remained outside while they went in to Modestine. Scraps of his conversation with the Monk who had charge of their donkey reached them, though at the time they paid but little heed to them.

"Yes, he's coming by ferry. You'll take the car—no, I can't come after all." The children appeared in the doorway. "Ah, ready, children? Now for the library."

CHAPTER VII

LIONEL AND DOROTHY

They entered the house by a side door and followed the Prior down a short passage that led straight to the library. The wide, mullioned windows of the room faced that part of the garden where the flowers made such a pageant of colour. What a delightful room it was, the children thought; so different from the great, cold, silent hall where you felt such an insignificant atom. Here, with the wide windows letting in all the colour and sunshine of the garden, here, with the deep chairs and sinky-in carpet and the books and the curios and pictures you felt immediately at home.

The curios seemed to have come from all over the world, and you scarcely knew which to look at first.

"Just wander round and look at what attracts you most," the Prior said, seeing their bewilderment. "Anything you want to know about them I'll explain to you."

And for the next quarter of an hour he was busy answering questions.

"This? I got it in India. That's a Chinese junk—look at the carving. Yes, that's an exact model of a Japanese house. That head was carved by a Red Indian from the root of a tree. Those spears? I got them in the Sudan. Yes, these are panther skins. Yes, really, I shot the animals myself."

The children's interest was unabating. They tried to push away the unwelcome thought that seven o'clock must be nearly here.

Presently, Billy wandered over to a table that held some books and photos. Suddenly, he paused.

"Nancy, Mavis, come here!" he cried. "There's a photo of Uncle Val's friend, Mr. Pringle, here, just like the photo he brought with him last summer."

Nancy and Mavis, too interested in Billy's discovery to notice the smile of triumph on the Prior's face, flew across the room.

"Oh! It's him! Do you know him?" Nancy asked, turning eagerly to the Prior. "He's Uncle Val's greatest friend, and next time he comes home he's coming to see us. We don't know him yet 'cept what Uncle Val tells us about him. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him," the Prior replied.

"Have you known him long?" Billy asked.

"Nearly twenty-five years." The children did not know what to make of that baffling, teasing smile of the Prior's.

"An' is it long since you've seen him?" Mavis asked.

"I saw him when I came home from India in the spring. I stopped in Egypt especially to see him, because," he paused dramatically, "he's my son, you know!"

"Your son!" they shouted. "Then he's the Lionel who has a room here! Oh, isn't it wonderful."

Suddenly, a new thought struck Billy.

"You didn't see Uncle Val, too?" he asked slowly. "Uncle Val," he added, "is like me—only he's twenty-four and I'm ten."

The Prior still wore the teasing smile as he studied Billy.

"Let me see! Someone in Egypt like you? A grown-up edition of you, eh? Why, now I come to think of it, Lionel insisted on dragging along a certain Val Stafford with him. Could that be your Uncle Val?"

"Yes, yes!" they shrieked. "That's Uncle Val! And you've seen him! Oh, it's the God of Adventure that brought us here!"

The excitement was intense. When at length it subsided somewhat, Nancy enquired what the Prior thought of her uncle. Did he mind Lionel bringing him along? Did he like him?

The Prior turned and looked at Billy.

"If that young man over there grows up anything like his uncle he'll be a brother you can be proud of. I am proud that Lionel should have him for a friend."

"Oh, doesn't it make you kind of belong to us?" Nancy cried impulsively. She replaced Lionel's photo on the table and, as she did so, caught sight of another one. It was of a little girl of about her own age, a little girl who looked at her with Lionel's laughing eyes.

"Oh!"

She looked up quickly and caught the Prior's glance—no need to ask any questions, what she wanted to know was written on the Prior's face. She slipped her hand into his.

"An' you're letting Mavis and me have her room?"

"Yes, dear," he replied, his hand on her head. "You are just the kind of little girls she would have liked to share it with. My little Dorothy was an open-air child, just as you are."

"Was she—was she ill a long time?"

"No, dear. She was following the hounds and was thrown from her horse. Lionel, poor boy, found her. But—listen, children!"

Seven o'clock! Oh, what a waste of time bed would be at such a place as this!

A knock at the door and Mrs. White entered.

"Ah, Mrs. White! Hot baths, sponge cake and milk, and bed, please!"

He kissed Nancy and Mavis very tenderly and pressed an affectionate hand on the boys' shoulders.

"Good-night, and thank you for letting us have Dorothy's room," Nancy whispered.

They followed Mrs. White upstairs, each child busy with his or her own thoughts about this wonderful place and all that had happened there. Lionel's room came first, a real boy's room, into which the girls took a peep while Mrs. White was showing the boys where they should take their bath.

"Now, my dears, Miss Dorothy's room is down this corridor if you are ready."

They kissed Billy good-night and then, quite naturally first Nancy then Mavis turned to Montague and kissed him in turn, and, waving good-night, followed Mrs. White to Dorothy's room.

Montague for quite half a minute stood in the doorway. Nancy and Mavis had kissed him—just as they had kissed Billy. They had kissed him, not pecked him as Jocelyne did—how he writhed under those pecks! This had happened to him, Montague. Feelings he could not understand pounded away at the starved little heart; thoughts and words—comradeship, comradeship, that was it, that was how the Prior had touched him, that was what had been behind their kiss.

"If anybody ever hurts them I'll kill them," he growled inwardly.

"Come on, old chap, I'm half-undressed."

Comradeship again in Billy's jolly voice. How Montague responded to it, how wonderful it was. Later on, when after the baths and sponge cake and milk, the Prior's last injunction had been obeyed, and they lay in the two small beds side by side, Montague asked Billy a question.

"Do you love your sisters?"

"Why, of course!"

"I wish," Montague muttered, "I had a sister I loved."

"But why not love Jocelyne?"

"Love Jocelyne? You don't know her! 'Sides, she doesn't love me—we quarrel!"

"Well, so do we sometimes," Billy admitted. "Why, we used to fight like anything when we were little kids. Course we don't now 'cos boys don't hit girls when they're big, though sometimes they'd jolly well like to. But quarrels don't really make any difference—you can always make it up again."

"Not with Jocelyne," Montague protested mournfully.

And yet, and yet, had there not been a time long, long ago when their mother was alive when he and Jocelyne had loved each other? Why then did they not love each other now? Montague did not know, he could not remember when they had stopped caring.

"Listen! There's a car!" murmured Billy sleepily. "Another boarder, I s'pose. He won't be able to keep the rule of going to bed at seven—p'raps the Prior will excuse him."

"Well, we'll see him at matins or breakfast, I s'pose," Montague replied. And then silence fell between them, and a minute later two small boys were fast asleep.

* * * * * *

An hour or more later, while the children slept, the Prior and the new "boarder," who, apparently, was allowed to break rules, were walking up and down the beech lawn smoking and talking and thinking and planning.

"It's the boy Montague I'm thinking of," the Prior was saying. "The other three would certainly be bitterly disappointed if we sent them home to-morrow, Billy especially, for he's a sticker—he and Val Stafford are made of the stuff that does pioneer work, the finest stuff in the world, but they love their home and their parents, and the going back would have no sting in it apart from the fact of giving up their adventure. But Montague! That acidulated aunt should be made to suffer, the boy's spirit is cramped and starved, and these three little people, quite unconsciously, are having the right influence on him. A week or so with them, wandering about amongst the hills, forgetting himself in looking after little Mavis—what a difference it would make to the boy! What can you suggest, Dick?"