Lizzie explained her position to this youngster, after peeping over his shoulder to see if there was any older person in the office to whom she might appeal.
"Can't help it. Ticket's fourpence," was the sullen reply.
"But I have told you I am just a penny short. If you will let me have a ticket, I will leave something with you worth many shillings. This silk umbrella, my silver pencil-case, or one of my parcels. You can look inside."
For a moment the sullen face relaxed; but no, the young clerk was in a savage mood, and determined to revenge himself on all the other passengers who might come to him for the dishonesty of that one who had gone off with more than his lawful change. He therefore shook his head, and gruffly said, "Booking-offices are not pawnshops."
No other reply could Lizzie get, and she turned from the little window with a slight quiver of the lip, which told of a little sinking of the heart at the thought of her predicament. To add to her discomfort, the train by which she should have gone on, came in and went without her. There would be another in a few minutes; after that a very long interval. She must make an effort to obtain a penny, if she even begged for it. She was far too tired to walk the weary miles between her and home, had she known the way, and it would be a very expensive cab ride. Edith would certainly scold her roundly if she were to use that mode of conveyance. She must not think of it.
Glancing along the platform, Lizzie saw a lady and a gentleman sauntering slowly towards her, arm-in-arm. The thought crossed her mind that a lady would be sure to help a girl like herself out of such an unexpected dilemma, and she accordingly advanced towards the couple, and, in as few words as possible, explained her position, and simply asked for the gift of a penny.
To Lizzie's utter astonishment, the lady turned on her a hard, searching glance. Then looking up at her husband she said, while her lip was curled contemptuously, "Do you believe this absurd story?"
The gentleman did not answer, but Lizzie often remembered, in after days, the deprecating glance which he cast on his wife, though he seemed afraid to suggest that, after all, the "absurd story" might be true.
His companion did not hesitate long.
"I do not believe a word of your tale," she said in a harsh voice. "It is most unlikely that a person of your dress and appearance should be really in need of a penny. I suspect there is some trick in this application. Go away. I shall give you nothing."
After another searching look, first at Lizzie, then at her husband, which seemed to ask if there were any acquaintance between them, she turned away, the hard expression still on her face. Lizzie stood for a moment, as if petrified with astonishment, and then, utterly overcome with pain and mortification, she burst into tears, and once more took her seat on the bench where she had rested before.
At this crisis of the story there was a unanimous burst of indignation from mamma's three listeners. Flossie could hardly believe it possible that a woman could be so horrid. Jack wished he could punch the boy at the booking-office, and Madge lifted her sympathetic blue eyes, all moist with tears, and asked "if the story were real, or only make-believe?"
"Absolutely true," replied mamma.
"Were you the girl without a penny?" inquired Jack, who had a way of connecting his mother with all her stories, and who insisted that she was like all the nice heroines.
"No, Jack. I never was placed in such a strait. But I regret to say I must leave Lizzie in it, for I hear your father's step. You must wait till to-morrow for another chapter."
CHAPTER III.
THE young people were careful to have their room in a state of very unusual order on the following afternoon when their mother entered to spend the twilight hour with them and to continue her story. The small cousins were too much occupied with the many treasures of the doll's house to be much in the way.
"Go on as quickly as you can, mother," said Jack. "It seemed horrid to leave poor Lizzie and her parcels at that station last night, and crying, too, for want of a penny. I wish I had been there; I would have carried all her biggest parcels, and given her my new penny that Flossie thought of so little consequence last night."
"If it had not been lost past recovery, through the hole in your pocket, Jack," remarked Madge, the housewife. "But there is this about dear old Jack: his sympathy means something, and he will help as well as talk if there is anything he can do."
"I am sure of that," said mamma.
We will go back twenty years, and to Lizzie Northcote. I think I only told you her Christian name last night. Probably if she had spoken to one of the porters, he would have helped her out of the trifling difficulty; but the girl naturally spoke first to a lady, as the least likely to refuse her request. She was wiping away the tears which the coarse refusal had brought into her eyes, when, on looking up, she noticed a stout, ruddy-faced country gentleman observing her attentively. He had been about the station almost as long as herself, and appeared to be waiting for someone. He was a man in the full vigour of life and health, though his crisp hair was tinged with gray, and in his face there was a fatherly expression that reminded Lizzie of her own dear parent in their Lincolnshire home.
She was about making up her mind to speak to him, when he addressed her. "What is your trouble, dear child?" said he. "Anything I can do for you? You need not be afraid to speak; I have had children of my own, and still have one dear lass about your age. I wish her cheeks were half as rosy as yours."
There was a tinge of sadness about the last words, but there was no mistaking the manly, sympathetic ring of that kindly voice. Lizzie felt that she had found the friend she wanted, and she told her story in a few words, but did not ask her listener for a penny. There was no need to do that. Almost before she had finished, his hand was in his pocket, as he asked the name of the station at which she wished to alight; and, as soon as he knew it, he went to the booking-window, obtained a ticket, and placed it in the girl's hand.
"I don't know how to thank you enough," she said, half-laughing, half-crying. "It seemed so absurd to be kept here for want of a penny—to become a beggar for it, and to be refused, when I had the worth of so much money about me."
"Do not thank me at all, my child," said the gentleman. "But may I ask whether you sought help from the lady to whom you spoke?"
Lizzie's face flushed as she told how rudely she had been repulsed.
"Poor thing!—I don't mean you, child; I mean the fossil in female attire whom you mistook for a woman with a heart in her bosom. Depend on it she never held a little prattling girl of her own in her arms, as I have done. Now, will you take another shilling or two, in case of further emergency?"
"No, thank you; indeed I want nothing more. I should like to send back what you have lent me in stamps, if you will kindly give me your address."
The gentleman laughed merrily at the idea of receiving the trifle back again, and said, "Tell that handsome sister of yours I saw you both long before you saw me; that she must never leave you again with such a narrow margin of cash, especially if there is a refreshment stall close at hand, and a ragged urchin to assist you in eating the buns."
"I was very hungry," said Lizzie, with a good hearty laugh, "and my second bun was the cause of all my trouble."
"Not the boy's share; eh?"
"Certainly not. If I had been contented with one bun, all would have been well."
"Here is your train coming in," said the friend in need. "Let me hand in your parcels."
He saw her comfortably placed, closed the door of the carriage, and lifted his hat by way of farewell.
The train went slowly forward, and Lizzie, as she waved her hand in reply, saw the kindly stranger extend his own to a tall young man who was stepping eagerly towards him just as he turned away from the carriage.
"No doubt," thought she, "he has been waiting all this time for that new-comer who stepped up in such a hurry. A happy thing for me that he did not come sooner, and carry off my kind gentleman before I had time to receive his help. I wish I knew his name; I am sure papa would like to thank him for his goodness to me."
At this moment Lizzie noticed what she at first thought was a letter amongst her parcels. She snatched it hastily, fearing that the unknown had left something of consequence behind him; but she found it was only an empty envelope addressed, "Percival Long, Esq., Elin Crag, Belford Regis." Naturally she did little else but wonder whether this could be the name she wished so much to know. At any rate she resolved to take care of the envelope, and deposited it at the very bottom of her pocket.
The brief railway journey was soon over, and a cab speedily landed Lizzie at her cousin's house, where she received a rapturous welcome from her smaller relatives, who were beginning to think their playmate had forgotten her promise. As a matter of course, she had to obtain money for her cab-fare before she could dismiss the man. Her cousin supplied this at once, saying, "Do not trouble to go into your room to fetch it, Lizzie. But, my dear girl, you should not run your purchases within a shilling or two of your cash."
"I have done worse than that," said Lizzie. "I have not only been within a penny, but without one this afternoon. It is lucky I escaped being taken up for begging at a railway-station."
Without implicating Edith or letting her cousin Ellen know how scanty was the margin over and above her railway-fare which her sister had given her, Lizzie gave a ludicrous account of her recent troubles and of the manner in which she had been relieved.
Helen was horrified, and began to concern herself about Edith's pecuniary resources.
"Edith is all right. She has enough, and, besides, she is with an old friend who would supply her wants. We are thorough country folk, Helen, and we had so enjoyed the shops and the buying all sorts of nice little things, without considering that unlimited expenditure was leading us straight to bankruptcy. I should have done well enough but for my greediness in eating two buns instead of making one do. However, I am quite ready for that delightful meal—a knife and fork tea—which you promised me. I ate the buns 'without prejudice,' as the lawyers say, and beg you will not remember those items when you see me feeding. You alluded to roast fowl, I think, and my nose suggests fried ham. I must not lose another moment."
Gathering up her gloves and other minor belongings, the girl ran up-stairs, and soon returned, bright, fresh, and smiling, in her pretty cool muslin dress. But if anyone had peeped into her room they would have seen that a portion of her time there had been spent on her knees. She had knelt to acknowledge an answered prayer; for, in her brief trouble, she had lifted up her heart to God to ask Him for help, and she now thanked Him as heartily for having sent her just the assistance and the friend she needed.
Lizzie's hostess had no occasion to complain that her young cousin failed to appreciate the tea-table dainties, or the little people that she was a less lively companion than usual. It was only when even they confessed themselves too tired to play any longer that Lizzie at length sat down to enjoy a much-needed rest.
The weary girl had forgotten self in her desire to keep her promise and minister to the pleasure of the children, who little knew what the effort cost her.
Edith returned sooner than was expected. Her cousin was not in the room when she entered, so did not hear the exclamation, "Oh, Lizzie I am most thankful to see you safe at home."
"Where did you expect to see me, Edie?"
"To say the truth I have been quite uncomfortable about you. I had scarcely left the station and you on the platform when I thought how little money I had just given you, and how selfish I had been all the day through, as we had gone about together. You thought of mamma, of me, of everybody but yourself; and I, Lizzie! I feel ashamed when I remember that I considered no person's convenience but my own, and that every purchase I made was a selfish one. I did not even care about getting that shawl for dear mamma!"
"Well, dear, it was got, and Helen was kind enough to make it up in a nice large pasteboard box, and send it off to the parcels office. I hope mamma will receive it to-morrow."
"No thanks to me!" said Edith.
"It went as from both," replied Lizzie. "You may be sure of that, Edie. Now, tell me, have you enjoyed your evening?"
"Nora—Mrs. Martin—was delighted to see me, and I found her husband exceedingly kind and agreeable."
"And his brother, the young groomsman?" asked Lizzie, with an arch smile.
Edith would not appear to understand the insinuation; but only replied that all the Martins were as nice as usual.
"But," she added, "I must tell you, Lizzie, what spoiled the evening for me. We had two other guests who came later than I did, and quite unexpectedly. The gentleman is a distant relative of Mr. Martin's, and is agreeable enough; but his wife is Nora's aversion. She is a dreadful person: so cold, hard, unsympathetic, and besides so fond of saying sharp things without the least regard to the feelings of others that she spoils everybody's comfort. She told a story, and she looked, I thought, only at me whilst she related it, about a well-dressed young lady who had asked her for the gift of a penny at a railway-station. 'And fancy,' she said, 'I had seen the creature gorging herself with sweets in the refreshment room only the moment before. I told her plainly that she was an impostor, though I have no doubt George would have opened his purse to her had he been alone.'"
"I could not get rid of the idea that you were the young lady, Lizzie; and when she named the place and described the girl I felt sure of it. All my selfishness flashed across my mind. I remembered how I had hurried you about your lunch—far less substantial than my own; loaded you with my parcels; and left you with not even money enough to obtain proper refreshment, when you must have been both hungry and weary. I thought, too, that I might grow to be like that hard, cold-hearted woman who seemed so devoid of common feeling, and I could not endure even the fancied picture. I was too unhappy to stay at Mrs. Martin's as long as I intended, and nothing ever rejoiced me more than to find you here safe and sound."
As Edith spoke she threw her arms round her sister's neck and kissed her affectionately.
Lizzie returned the caress with all the warm sisterly love that was part of her sweet feminine character. Further conversation was, however, prevented by the entrance of Cousin Helen, who announced that her lively little ones were at length sleeping peacefully, from the baby upwards. She jestingly alluded to Lizzie's adventure, and was surprised to observe the effect her joke had upon Edith, and to hear the latter frankly acknowledge how much she had been to blame.
Lizzie turned the conversation as quickly as possible, and no more was said about the matter. The cousins passed the last hour before bed-time in talk about mutual friends and relatives, and the expected return of Helen's husband on the morrow.
When the two sisters were in their own room, Edith had something more to say.
"Does it not seem strange that so little a thing should make me feel so differently, both about myself and you, Lizzie? I have always had an idea that you, as younger sister, ought to give up your will to mine, and as though things which mattered for me were of no consequence to you; as though the best was my due always, and that—"
"Don't say another word, Edith. I have always been glad for you to have the best. You set off pretty things far more than I do."
"Ah, Lizzie, darling! It was good in you to give up; but it was not good in me to take the best. I can see to-night, as I never did before, how much I may learn from you, little sister."
"I am certain your feeling in this way towards me is an answer to dear mamma's prayers, Edie. People have always petted and admired you, dear, and I'm sure I do, as much as anybody," said frank Lizzie, looking with genuine admiration into the face of her tall, handsome sister, who had probably never in her life looked so lovely and lovable as she did at that moment. "And so much praise is not quite a help towards keeping us humble. Luckily for me, I am never very much admired, except by old women and little children."
"And that is because your kind heart and willing hands are always devising and doing something for their happiness. You must help me to deserve love; and let us work together."
"As a beginning, let us pray together, Edie, to fit us for our work."
If the mother of those two kneeling girls could have looked into their room that summer night she would have been filled with joy and praise, and would have thanked God for an answered prayer.
From that time a new bond existed between the sisters. They were united by closer ties than that of kindred, being sisters in Christ.
CHAPTER IV.
"I SUPPOSE," said Flossie, when the story was resumed on the third afternoon, "that the two lives influenced through the want of a penny were those of Edith and Lizzie. I did not like Edith in the least when she left her sister in such a way, but I do like her now."
Mamma smiled at her daughter's earnestness, and replied, "Those two lives were lastingly influenced; but there is something more to be told. You must not want to know the end of the story until it comes to you in due course. There is no peeping at the last page or two when you are listening to a tale-teller, as some impatient readers do when they are professing to read a story, just to know how it ends. To continue mine:"
The girls had a few more happy days with their relatives, during which everyone noticed the increased unity between the sisters. Probably the effect produced on Edith would have passed away, but for that closer bond of which I spoke to you. The habit of united prayer and of seeking counsel from God's Word together was not given up by the girls, consequently there was spiritual growth, and each influenced the other for good.
Edith had refined tastes and persevering industry. Lizzie, with all her warm-heartedness and self-devoting disposition, was often too impulsive, besides being far less orderly and methodical than her elder sister. So each benefited the other, and was herself improved by communion of work and interests.
Lizzie showed her sister the envelope which she had found amongst her parcels, and the two after due deliberation decided on addressing a few grateful lines to Percival Long, Esq., nothing doubting that he was the fatherly gentleman who had been so kind. The letter did not come back, and; on the other hand, there was no reply. So the sisters were left in doubt as to whether it had reached the right person or had been received by a stranger, to whom its contents would prove enigmatical.
Two or three days before the girls were to have returned to their country home they received an unexpected summons which caused their immediate departure.
Mrs. Northcote was again laid on a bed of sickness, and needed the presence of her daughters.
Perhaps Edith's filial affection had never before been so severely tested. Her "young groomsman," as Lizzie named Mr. Henry Martin, had accompanied his sister-in-law when she called upon the Northcote girls at "Cousin Helen's." Nothing loth, they had accepted the hearty invitation to stay the evening, and during the remainder of the time that Edith and Lizzie remained in London scarcely a day passed without their seeing each other. Nora, the young wife, had as yet few household cares, and could devote much of her time to the country sisters. She was delighted to have the company of her own school friend, and charmed with her bright, unaffected younger sister. Mr. Henry Martin managed, probably through the sympathetic consideration of his elder brother and partner, to be much less occupied than usual. So pleasant little parties were formed for sight-seeing and little excursions in and about London, which were thoroughly enjoyed by all the individual members thereof.
And in the midst of all this enjoyment came the sorrowful summons to call Edith and Lizzie home. There had been some talk of Lizzie's returning alone before the news arrived telling of Mrs. Northcote's illness. Nora was anxious for both the girls to spend a few days with her at the termination of their visit to Cousin Helen. That Edith wished to accept the invitation there could be no doubt; but Lizzie, while equally anxious for her sister to enjoy a longer stay, had herself decided to return home.
"I do not think we ought both to stay away from mamma," she said; "but if she has one of us, that will suffice for the time, Edie. I will go. You shall stay. The visit to Nora is more to you than it could possibly be to me."
The rising flush on Edith's cheek told that she felt the truth of her sister's words. She made no reply in words; but she bent lovingly towards Lizzie and kissed the bright kind face, the expression of which was one of the most hearty sympathy. The silent caress, the pressure of hands, said more than words. It was in the evening of that day, when Edith had decided, with her mother's consent, to accept Nora's invitation, that the girls received the sorrowful news from home.
There was no doubt that Mr. Henry Martin had been greatly struck with Edith from the time of his brother's marriage, when she officiated as first bridesmaid, and he as groomsman. Her remarkable beauty, her refined manners, her taste, combined with perfect neatness in dress, had all struck him as far beyond what he had ever seen in combination. But while these outside attractions were admirable in their way, he felt they were not all that would be needed to ensure domestic happiness. He feared that Edith prided herself too much on her beauty, and was apt not only to expect homage on account of it, but to undervalue others who did not possess it in the same degree.
"I could not endure a vain, selfish, and self-asserting woman," thought he to himself; "one who would only value a man's honest affection in accordance with the doses of flattery he might administer, or the means which he might place at her disposal for the indulgence of taste in dress or love of display. I want a helpmeet, such as God intended woman to be when He gave her to the man whom He had formed. If only Edith Northcote's inner qualities corresponded to her beautiful person, I would endeavour to win her affections. But, whatever else I have in a partner for life, I must try to choose one who will help and not hinder me on the heavenward road."
Probably few persons knew the depth and earnestness of Henry Martin's character, or guessed that what they did see and admire was only the fruit of lessons learned at the feet of Jesus. In society everyone said of him that he was a finished gentleman; so kind, so unselfish, so modest, thinking for the comfort of all whilst regardless of his own. As a lawyer, the clients who consulted the firm could never speak too highly of the unflinching uprightness of the younger brother, though one plain-spoken old gentleman, with a sad lack of the courtesy which distinguished Henry Martin, told him to his face, "Sir, you are as obstinate as a mule. You are not fit for a lawyer. Your business is to win my case for me by using every weapon the law will allow, whether I am right or wrong, provided I pay the bill."
"Then," replied Henry, "I fear I am not fit to be a lawyer, for I cannot fight feeling that I ought to lose the battle, and that if it were won it would be because your purse is long enough to carry the case from court to court, whilst your antagonist, a poor man, would be ruined at the end of the first stage. I could and did fight on your side once, but then you were in the right."
The irascible old gentleman was won over by these words to reconsider his intended action, and to see its injustice. More than that, his really generous nature was stirred to seek a reconciliation with the opponent, who had once been his friend, and a lasting reunion was the result.
He still told Henry Martin in jest that he was not fit to be a lawyer, but he never failed to throw business in the way of the firm, and in the young man's ear a voice seemed to whisper the sweet words, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God."
"Child of God." Yes, that was the title to which Henry Martin aspired, and the fellow Christian who saw his daily life felt that such fruit could only spring from the good seed which had taken root in an honest and good heart through the influence of the Holy Spirit.
There were poor homes, too, in which Henry was a well-known visitor; whose presence brought sunshine and comfort, both to soul and body. He strove to live, not to himself, but for the good of others, and to the glory of the Master whom he professed to serve. Many wondered that at thirty years of age he was still unmarried, but this peep into his inner life will sufficiently explain the reason. He sought one who would be at least like-minded with himself, and at the same time his habits and tastes were too refined to admit of companionship with a partner who lacked these characteristics, however excellent in other respects.
In Edith Northcote, he found every external charm, and he was now watching closely, to discover if the still more important qualities were also to be found in her. He was also watchful over his own conduct, and, whilst kindness itself towards both the Northcotes, he was most careful to conceal the deeper interest with which Edith had inspired him.
Nora, with feminine quick-sightedness, guessed something of what was in his mind, and joked him about her fair friend.
"You must not be an old bachelor, Henry," she said. "And where would you find a handsomer wife than Edith?"
"If beauty were all," said he, laughing.
"Beauty is not all with Edith," she replied, warming in defence of her friend. "She comes of a good stock; her father has abundant means, if that mattered to you, and the whole family are deservedly respected. And then how tasteful she is! Her appearance would adorn any home, even with a master as fastidious as yourself. She has charming taste, and would be as ornamental as any man could desire, provided his means were sufficiently large to gratify her wishes in the way of dress, and Edith is one of the least extravagant people I know. She combines economy with taste. I only wish I looked half as well-dressed by spending twice the money. Both she and Lizzie are splendid housekeepers, too. They have given me many a hint since they came to London, which I hope to profit by. What else could a man want?"
"There is still one thing needful, Nora, and I hope to find that in the girl I ask to be my wife, or I must be an old bachelor."
"I know what you mean, Henry, and if you had asked me whether Edith possessed it, I should have said, 'She is very dear to me; but I do not think she is all you mean in that respect.' Lately, I have noticed a great difference. Not that her words have told much; but there is a softened manner, an increased thoughtfulness for others. I can hardly express all I mean; but it seems to me that where Edith would once have put herself before others, she now puts others before herself. She used rather to snub Lizzie, too; now she loves to speak of her sister's good qualities, and of all she, 'stately Edith,' owes to her influence and example. Lizzie is a good girl all through; but for all that, Henry, I should love to have Edith in the family."
"Because you like her better; but then you see, to me, it is of consequence that I should like her better."
Henry left his sister-in-law still in the dark about his feelings towards her friend; but he was looking forward to seeing Edith when she should be Nora's guest. The letter from home, however, deranged his plan. He saw the faces of the sisters pale at the news, and heard Lizzie's prompt words, as she rose from her seat:
"I must prepare at once. Would it be possible to travel to-night?"
"We must prepare, dear," said Edith. "I do not think we can go to-night. Indeed, Harold's letter expressly states that there is no danger, and that papa does not wish us to leave London before the 9.15 train, which is express, and will arrive as soon as the one that starts earlier. This is an attack similar to others which have tried mamma so sadly for years, and we must be with her as soon as possible."
"Could I not go, Edie, and leave you to finish your visit to Nora, as we had arranged? If there were the least sign of danger you should be sent for."
"That is like you, Lizzie, to take the watching and anxiety, and wish to leave me the pleasure. Of course, I had reckoned on my visit to Nora; but it must not be thought of now. We must go together, dear; though," she added, "Lizzie is worth twice as much in a sick-room as I am."
The words were simply said, but they touched Henry Martin deeply; and his sister replied to them: "We shall be very sorry to lose you both, and are specially sorry for the cause of your going. But I trust Mrs. Northcote may soon recover her strength, and then we shall look forward to a still longer visit, and from Lizzie as well as yourself, Edith."
Henry himself added, "You are right to go with your sister, Miss Northcote. Now, would you like to send a telegram to your brother?"
"I should indeed."
"Tell me the exact address and the message you wish conveyed, and I will take it myself."
Edith did so, and Henry put it into few words, read it aloud, and then took it to the office.
The girls lost no time in making their preparations, and on the following morning were speeding on their homeward way. Early as it was, Henry Martin was at the Great Northern station to see them start, and to bring another farewell from Nora, and a request for immediate intelligence of their arrival and frequent news of Mrs. Northcote.
It had cost Edith something to give up the visit to Mrs. Martin, on which she had reckoned so much; for old habits, particularly selfish ones, are not to be rooted out all at once. Only a very short time before, she would have hesitated and considered if it were possible for her to send Lizzie home alone, and for herself to follow a little later.
Happily, Lizzie's prompt example and the voice of conscience pointed out the proper course; and the strength to do right for which she had asked on her knees was given her. And now, as the train was carrying her rapidly homeward, Edith felt happy, apart from the anxiety on account of her mother; for conscience spoke approvingly, and the words of one whose approbation she had learned to value, "You are right to go with your sister," still seemed to sound in her ear.
Mamma paused, then added, "I shall finish my story to-morrow, children; but I must leave you now."
"We can guess the ending," interposed Madge; and the others nodded, in a confident fashion, as if they, too, knew all about it.
"And we know what two lives were influenced as regarded their future by that penny."
Mamma only laughed, and saying, "Do not be too sure," retreated without further comment.
CHAPTER V.
WHEN the sisters arrived at home they were doubly thankful that they had lost no time in setting out. They found Mrs. Northcote's illness was of a much more serious character than the letter had led them to anticipate. The filial love and self-devotion of both the girls would be tested to the utmost, and it must be owned that Mr. Northcote and his sons doubted much whether these qualities in Edith's case would stand the strain.
But soon all who were in the house, and none more than the invalid mother, became sensible of the change that had begun in the elder daughter. Perhaps nothing tries the mettle that the young are made of more than sickness in a house. When not actually engaged in attendance on the sufferer, there is the unnatural quiet in the home, the necessity for excluding visitors, abstaining from outdoor social intercourse, and the impossibility of indulging in the usual merry games. The burst of song which springs to the young lips must be hushed, the piano remain closed, for fear of disturbing the invalid. Even the innocent jest, which might provoke a laugh, is suppressed; because laughter has a heartless sound when pain shuts out those we love from sharing in it.
At first Edith found all these things hard to bear with perfect submission. But she loved her mother, and love is all-constraining. Lizzie and she acted in a delightful concert, which none had ever seen to exist between them before, and it astonished all to find how willing the elder was to learn from the younger. When, at length, the crisis had passed, and the minds of the watchers were relieved by the invalid's gradual approach towards convalescence, Edith found how great a blessing to herself had been the needful discipline of those sorrowful weeks. How sweet it was to feel her mother's arm around her neck and to hear her say:
"I can thank God for every day of pain and sickness, my darling; for this illness has shown me that in you I have a treasure of which I never before saw all the value."
"It was not there, dear mamma," was the girl's answer. "I have been dreadfully selfish and careless of other people nearly all my life—even of you—but lately I have been led to see myself in a new light. I do long to be all that you think me, dear mamma; and if I am better, Lizzie has been the instrument, in God's hands, of helping me."
What a precious confession was this! And when the mother knew yet more of her child's inward struggles against evil, and the united daily prayers of the sisters for blessing and strength from above, her cup of happiness was filled to overflowing.
It must not be supposed that the girls had forgotten their promise to keep Nora fully informed of all that passed during their mother's illness. It is hardly needful to say that, through Mrs. Martin, her brother-in-law shared in the correspondence. Generous-hearted Lizzie did not know how to say enough of Edith's devotion to her mother, and Edith let her friend into the secret of the change, and told what her young sister's example had done for herself. The letters between the friends had always been unrestrained, and now the correspondence was not without its influence on the young wife in London, for through it she was led to realise her responsibilities as she had never done before. So true is it that "no man—" that is, no one of the human race—"liveth to himself alone."
Nora often wondered whether, after all, anything would come of the acquaintance between her brother-in-law and Edith; but during all Mrs. Northcote's illness, he made no sign. When the better tidings came, he received them with manifest pleasure, and that same evening he spent an unusual time at his writing table in the library. When he joined Nora, he held a single letter in his hand, and she jokingly told him, if that were the extent of his correspondence, he must have been asleep, or the letter of vast importance.
"It is of vast importance. I have been writing to Edith. A love-letter—my first, Nora, and a very sober one; but I hope it will bring much happiness."
Truly, the letter which, on the morrow, was placed in the hands of Miss Northcote, The Manor House, Haltham, Lincolnshire, was, in one sense, a sober one. Believing that he could do so with the certainty of sympathy, he told Edith of the deep feelings of his heart, his desire to find in the woman he loved one who would share his higher aspirations, and join in his work for God's glory, and the good of those around them. He acknowledged the feeling of admiration which she had from the first inspired, and the reason why he had hesitated to let this be seen. There was much more in the letter than can be related at length.
Enough to say that, as Edith read it, a glad flush spread on her cheeks—paler than usual through much watching—and, as happy tears coursed down them, she murmured, "If I were only good enough to deserve the affection of one like Henry Martin!"
The Northcote family generally were quite satisfied to believe that Edith would now be a treasure to any good man. Henry Martin's character, age, and position were all suitable, and the girl's blushing face told the loving mother that his many excellences had won her daughter's affection and respect. The answer to that "sober letter" was evidently all that its writer desired, for he said to his sister, "Congratulate me, Nora. I hope soon to call Edith my wife."
"And congratulate me," said lively Mrs. Martin, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry, to show her sympathy; "for my brother-in-law is giving me my dearest friend as a sister."
There was, of course, further correspondence between Mr. Northcote and his son-in-law elect, but all of a pleasant character. Henry was to spend Christmas and New Year at the Manor House, for that season was close at hand. Nora and her husband could not join the happy gathering, for on Christmas Eve their first baby opened her blue eyes to the light, and they were rejoicing in their tiny treasure.
No person who looked at Henry and Edith could help saying how well they matched each other. They were naturally almost inseparable during that happy holiday time, for, as Henry said, "their actual love-making was terribly in arrears. In fact, it had all to be done. Did you ever think I cared so much for you when we used to meet last summer, Edith?" he asked.
"You did not show special regard for me, and you were so kind to everybody. Sometimes I thought you liked me better than others, and then, when I felt how little there really was in me for anyone to love, I was just as certain that I was mistaken. Still, seeing you what you were, Henry, made me wish to deserve a higher, better affection than any external attractions could win or keep."
"Ah, dearest, you will find me just as much in need of improvement as you deem yourself! But we will be learners together from the same Divine Teacher. Do you remember the night when you received news of your mother's illness?"
"Can I ever forget it?" said Edith, with deep feeling. "It was a turning-point in my life."
"More than you knew. And in mine also; for, dear Edith, had you then selfishly hesitated, or decided on sending your sister home to undertake alone the work which it was alike your duty and privilege to share, I should never have sought you as my wife. And," he added, "neither should I have sought another; but my sister-in-law's oft-repeated prophecy would have been fulfilled by my remaining a hopeless bachelor."
Time went happily on, and the sisters, accompanied by their mother and brother, were again in London, making preparations for Edith's wedding. By the girl's own wish, the arrangements were to be simple, but tasteful, as all to which she put her hand was sure to be. Still, a great many purchases had to be made; and, above all, a home had to be selected for the young couple within a few miles of London.
House-hunting is a most fatiguing business, and occupies a great deal of time, especially near the great metropolis. Before starting on a tour of inspection, Lizzie was running over the advertisements in the paper.
"Here is one that sounds likely," she said, and she ran through the particulars. "And at Belford Regis, too. How singular! Mamma, do let us go and look at the place."
"Belford Regis," said Henry. "A delightful neighbourhood. Have you been there, Lizzie?"
"No, but I have a particular wish to go." She looked at Edith, and the intelligent glance she received in return showed Mrs. Northcote that there must be some mental association with Belford Regis. Amid a good deal of laughing, the story was told, and as Mrs. Northcote said, she for the first time became aware that one of her daughters had once begged for the gift of a penny at a railway-station.
"Let us go to Belford Regis by all means," echoed Henry and Harold Northcote. "Perhaps we shall have a sequel to Lizzie's adventure, or find out whether Mr. Percival Long was her unknown friend."
The proposition was carried unanimously, and the party set out. Arrived at their journey's end, they first inquired the way to the house they had come to examine. This one of the railway-porters told them, and then Lizzie eagerly asked, "Is there a Mr. Long living in this neighbourhood?"
"Yes, ma'am, and no better-known or better-liked gentleman anywhere," was the reply.
"What age is he, do you suppose? I want to find out if he is an acquaintance of mine."
"About fifty-five, I should think. He has only one child living—a daughter; such a one for age and height as you, miss, I should think, and a sweet young lady. You will pass his place—Elfin Crag, they call it—on your way to the house you have been asking about. You are likely enough to meet him on the way, as he is often out walking with his daughter. You see she has no ma living, and that makes them so much together."
Lizzie popped a gratuity into the hand of her informant, which made the man wonder what he had done to deserve it, and then hurried off at such a speed that her mother was fain to plead her inability to follow within any reasonable distance.
"I beg your pardon, mamma. I felt quite excited. We shall see that dear, kind face, for I am sure this is my Mr. Long."
Harold begged that she would not be in such a hurry to appropriate the elderly widower, and received a hint to be silent in the shape of a little fist shaken threateningly. But, sure enough, they did meet the porter's Mr. Long, who turned out to be also Lizzie's "Percival Long, Esq.," with his daughter hanging on his arm. He opened his eyes very wide as he caught sight of Lizzie, then saying, "Mildred, this is my young friend, Miss Lizzie Northcote, whose acquaintance I made under peculiar circumstances," he extended his hand to Lizzie, and shook hers heartily.
"Can you forgive me, my dear, for not answering your little letter? It came when this child, my Milly, was at death's door, and it got thrown aside somehow, for when, after the danger was past, I sought for it everywhere, it was nowhere to be found."
After this there was a grand introducing, hand-shaking, and laughing. Mr. Long insisted on turning back with the party, and, taking Mrs. Northcote on his arm, went with them to look at the house, which he knew all about, and advised them to take.
They did so, and then they all went to Elin Crag to luncheon, where they were hospitably entertained, Miss Milly presiding, while her father called Lizzie's attention to the fact that his dear child's cheeks were now as rosy as her own.
There is not so very much more to be told, except that Milly officiated as a bridesmaid at Edith's wedding, and that the young couple became the neighbours of Mr. Long, at Belford Regis. Also, that the union proved, as might be expected, a very happy one.
Harold, like a dutiful brother, soon paid a visit to Edith, and did not fail also to pay his respects at Elin Crag, having, he said, "been greatly attracted by the character of Mr. Long." It turned out that there was another attraction under the same roof, for the following spring Lizzie had again to officiate as bridesmaid to Mildred Long, who became the wife of her favourite brother, Harold.
* * * * *
"Well, I declare," shouted Jack, as his mother paused for a moment, "I call this story of yours a sort of swindle. Whoever suspected such a finish? And you have told us all about Lizzie's troubles and Edith's courtship, and crammed Milly and Harold into a few words."
"Well, dear, you could not expect me to give such details twice over in one story. But you shall have a little more."
"About Lizzie. I should like to know whom she married, and all particulars, for she is still my favourite."
"Perhaps I may tell you Lizzie's special story some other time. But I will just say that Mr. Northcote, having other sons, had to spare Harold to his father-in-law, and that when they married, he and Milly took up their abode at Belford Regis, at Elin Crag itself. Also that they lived very happy ever after, that is, to this present time of telling. Also," and here mamma's eyes sparkled with fun, "that I have altered names of persons and places, to make my story a little more mysterious. The truth is, Milly's name was not Milly at all; but Florence, like yours, Flossie, and Harold's was John; and that two of their children are called after them."
Mamma was here interrupted by a perfect shout. "Then you and papa were the Harold and Mildred of the story."
"Yes, darlings; and you can testify to the truth of the statement that they too lived happily ever after. It was most especially of your dear father and myself I was thinking when I spoke of the two lives whose future was influenced by a penny."
And mamma having thus finished her story, vanished by the open door in order to greet her hero, who had just entered, and was rubbing his shoes in the hall, and left her youngsters to digest as best they might her "Tale of a Penny."
BORROWED FEATHERS
CHAPTER I.
"THAT dreadful bell again, and I am almost certain I heard wheels on the gravel! If it should be one of mamma's grandee friends, and only Cinderella to answer the door! I have a great mind to let the individual ring on until he or she is tired. To-morrow I will have all the front blinds down until evening, then no one will think there is anybody at home. And," added the speaker, "as, socially speaking, I am nobody, they will be right."
Annette Clifford was talking to herself. She had two good reasons for doing it, the first being that she had nobody else to talk to at the time. The second, that being a bright lively girl, possessed of great intelligence, overflowing spirits, and a gregarious temperament, she found it difficult to hold her tongue for hours together. During most of the day she was all but alone in a large house, its only other inmate being a make-shift servant, who, in addition to general incapacity, was so deaf as to render any attempt at conversation laborious.
Whilst Annette thus communed with herself, she was also moving swiftly and noiselessly towards a window whence she could command a view of the person who was demanding admittance at the hall door.
There was a vehicle standing opposite to it, but it was a humble cab instead of the dreaded carriage. There was luggage on the top, and the driver was in the act of ringing the door bell a second time.
"Mamma and Laura, come back before their month is over," was Annette's first thought; but the sight of a lady's face which belonged to neither of the relatives named sent the girl flying to the entrance with all possible speed.
Rushing past the cabman, and opening the door of the vehicle, she had her arms round the neck of the solitary passenger in a moment.
"Aunty," exclaimed the girl. "Is it really you? It seems quite too good to be true that you are actually here, and with boxes which indicate a possible stay."
The new arrival smiled at Annette's vehemence, and returned her embrace in the most affectionate manner.
"My stay depends upon yourself, dear child," she replied. "I know you are in sole charge at present, and, from a whisper which reached me, I am inclined to think that your domestic staff is below the average."
"Domestic staff! Why, aunty, I have neither staff nor crutch. Nothing but a broken reed, on which I cannot lean for a single instant. Nevertheless, I am here, and I have a couple of fairly capable hands, the work of which shall be devoted to insuring your comfort, whatever else may be left undone."
Then turning to the cabman, Annette said, "Please get down the boxes and bring them inside the hall."
The man obeyed, and then the girl seized some of the smaller matters which were inside the vehicle, and saying, "Do come in, aunty, and let me carry the rest," she tripped lightly into the house with her burden, and soon returned for what remained.
"I suppose you will not want the larger things up-stairs just yet, shall you?" she asked. "This old man is not strong enough to carry them to your bedroom unassisted, but when the boys come home, the boxes will be whisked up-stairs in a few seconds. Will you rest for a few minutes, or go straight to your room? It is quite ready, though it would be difficult for me to say what possessed me to see that it was kept so, from day to day."
"I shall not want my boxes at present, dear; and I would rather go straight to my room," replied Mrs. Worsley, the lady whom Annette called "aunty," though she was no relation to the girl, only her godmother. "But where is the 'reed' aforesaid? Surely she could carry up my dressing-bag, and the odds and ends with which you are overloading yourself."
"The 'reed,' 'Sarah Jane,' by names—and she insists on being called by both—is at this moment engaged in what she calls 'cleaning herself.' The operation occupies most of each afternoon, and is unsatisfactory as regards results. She goes up-stairs with honest black patches about her face, garments, and person generally. She comes down with an appearance of profuse dinginess, which gives you the idea that the black patches have been diluted by the application of water, and thus diffused over a larger surface. Sarah Jane objects to soap, aunty—on her face, I mean—as calculated to injure her complexion. The 'cleaning' process of which she talks so much is, I think, done in chapters, and ought to be continued."
The girl laughed merrily as she deposited her load in the bedroom. Then she brought hot water, undid straps, and paid the welcome guest all the little attentions which thoughtful love could suggest.
"Thank you, darling," said Mrs. Worsley. "You take care that I shall not be conscious of any lack of servants." And drawing the girl's glowing face to her own, she kissed it again and again.
Annette allowed her head to rest on her friend's breast for a few moments. "It is very sweet to be petted now and then," she said, "but I must not stay long now; that would be too selfish. Shalt we have our afternoon tea in the drawing-room or the den?"
"The den, by all means, dear; I will be down in a quarter of an hour," replied Mrs. Worsley.
After glancing round, to convince herself that she had done all in her power for the guest's comfort, Annette went down-stairs and removed the pretty tea equipage from the state room to the smaller one, which the younger members of the family usually occupied. Knowing that no dependence was to be placed on Sarah Jane, Annette had taken care to have everything ready for afternoon tea, in case of callers, and a very few minutes sufficed to arrange a tempting little meal for the tired traveller. Cake and bread-and-butter were already on the table; to these Annette added two or three daintily-cut sandwiches, a couple of peaches, and some cream.
The tea-table stood within a large bay window, one side or which was open, and let in the sweet summer air, laden with the scent of roses. A few flowers were in tiny vases up and down, just a bloom or two amid a mass of variegated ivy leaves, like jewels in a setting of plain gold. The tea equipage was pretty—a harlequin set made up from a collection of fine old china. The kettle in which the water was boiling over a spirit lamp was of massive silver, exquisitely chased, and everything prepared for the visitor's entertainment suggested refinement and loving thoughtfulness.
Yet the room and its furniture were emphatically shabby. Each article had been good and handsome in its day, but the day was many a year back. Even the fine engravings on the walls were in this room because the frames had become too hopelessly dingy to permit of their remaining in what Annette called the state apartments.
As Mrs. Worsley entered the den, she was first struck with its general air of dilapidation, then charmed with the pretty picture presented by that one little nook which held the tea equipage and Annette.
The girl's face was all aglow with happy anticipation, and she exclaimed, "Come, aunty, dear, the tea is just in perfection, and I hope you feel ready for it. Here are some sandwiches, which will perhaps sustain nature until—I had nearly said dinner-time, but I must own the truth. Having no cook, we have no formal dinners; the boys get a substantial lunch in the middle of the day; I have something here, and at seven we have a sort of mongrel meal, which combines dinner, tea, and supper."
"I could wish nothing better than what you have prepared for me, Nettie," said Mrs. Worsley. "Why, my dear, this is a meal for a princess. How have you arranged and prepared all so quickly?"
"The tea things were in the drawing-room, and the water had boiled once, and only required a renewed blaze to make it boil again. I have to exercise a little diplomacy, seeing that I am at the head of domestic affairs, but with nobody to obey orders."
"Not even the 'reed,' my dear?" asked Mrs. Worsley.
"Not even Sarah Jane, aunty. She hears, sometimes, in spite of her deafness, but never obeys; and when she finds it inconvenient to hear, her natural infirmity increases fourfold. There is always a possibility of callers, in spite of mamma's absence, and I must be prepared to entertain them thus far—" with a wave of the hand to indicate the tea equipage. "Well, Sarah Jane and I are agreed on one subject, namely, that she is unpresentable to any caller of higher degree than the butcher's boy."
"Should there be a ring at the hall door, Sarah Jane's tousled head is pushed in at this, and she says, 'Please, miss, there's that door again, and I'm not fit to be seen.' I assent, for the fact is self-evident, and I answer the door myself, trying the while to look as if I had been accidentally crossing the hall, and recognised a friend in the applicant for admission. During the afternoon matters are easily managed. The tea things are in the drawing-room, the bread-and-butter cut and covered with a second plate, so that it may not get dry, and so placed that I can whisk away the upper plate unperceived; I do it so cleverly, aunty, that the operation is like a conjuring trick. Then I lie in wait, sometimes indoors, at others in the garden, the hall door being kept hospitably open; and if people come, I meet them quite naturally, bring them in for rest and tea, then stroll with them to the entrance if they are driving, to the gate itself if they are pedestrians. I had only to bring the tea things from the other room to this, you see, aunty."
"And to cut the sandwiches, and gather the peaches, for I presume these are not generally found on the tea-table. Well, my dear, you see how thoroughly I appreciate these additions. I never felt more grateful for a meal, or enjoyed one more than I am doing this. Now tell me how it is I find you alone?"
"Mamma and Laura are at Scarborough, and the boys do not reach home until nearly six. They still attend the Grammar School, and they have a long walk home after the work is done."
"True, dear, but the servants—where are they? Your mamma keeps three usually, does she not?"
"Two and a half. We have really only two efficient servants, and a girl who does the most disagreeable items of household work, and waits upon and is scolded by the other two," replied Annette, promptly.
"Where are the efficients?" asked Mrs. Worsley.
"Bolton, the housemaid-waitress, is at Scarborough with mamma and Laura, promoted for a full month to the dignity of ladies' maid."
Mrs. Worsley looked perplexed.
"I do not understand," she said. "I thought you told me in a letter that Mrs. Clifford and your sister were staying at the principal hotel."
"They are. Mamma said that Scarborough lodgings in the only part that she could possibly elect to stay in were extremely expensive, and that, by arranging to remain the whole time at the hotel, she would be able to make favourable terms. That, in fact, the cost of staying there would not be much greater than in private rooms, to say nothing of the isolation of lodgings and housekeeping worries which would be avoided."
"Then is Bolton at the hotel too?"
"Of course, aunty. She would be useless anywhere else," said Nettie.
"But Mrs. Clifford and Laura have no maid when at home! It seems so strange to take one for a month to an expensive hotel, when—"
Mrs. Worsley paused. She was very nearly adding, "when they are always complaining of poverty and the difficulty of making ends meet." She might have further said, "and borrowing without troubling much as to how or when the money will be repaid." But she did not say this. She only stopped, and Annette took up the subject.
"When there is not much money to spare, aunty, you would say. It is quite true. There is none to spare, but mamma is rather fond of appearing en granda dame when she is from home. Here, in spite of narrow means and perpetual pinching, she is a great lady, you know. Was she not Miss Heydon, of Heydon Hill, before she became Mrs. Clifford? Everyone knows that in this neighbourhood, and knows, also, that she was a great heiress before she married a handsome, penniless captain of dragoons, who lived nearly long enough to leave his wife and children in the same condition. Does it sound wicked to say so, aunty? I never saw my father, you know, after I was three years old, and I have been more accustomed to hear him blamed than lamented."
"Unfortunately this has been the case, dear," said Mrs. Worsley, "but I presume you would not say this to any ordinary acquaintance?"
"Certainly not," replied Annette. "You are far better informed of all these particulars than I am, and therefore I did not think my alluding to them would matter in the least. Besides, you are a dear, true friend to us all—best and dearest to me."
"I should like to prove myself one, Nettie," and the speaker laid her hand caressingly on that of the girl. "Now tell me about Bolton. I interrupted you."
"Mamma cannot quite forget what she was accustomed to have as a girl, and she is unwilling to do without it still. When at the seaside, for instance, she likes to see 'Mrs. and Miss Clifford and maid' in the visitors' list. I sometimes wish she did not care so much for keeping up appearances. She pays pretty dearly for that word 'maid,' and it is but an empty sound after all. But I suppose it would be hard for her to change," added Annette meditatively.
"Now you have accounted for the absence of one efficient servant. Where is the cook?"
"Oh! Williams is gone home for her annual holiday."
"Does your mamma give her the whole month?"
"No, aunty, a fortnight. Then Williams will come back, and, with Sarah Jane's assistance, do some cleaning down before mamma's return. Mamma hates an upset house, and thinks it is better to have such work done when she and Laura are absent, so that everything may be in apple-pie order when they come. By letting cook take her holidays now, we have our whole available staff when we settle down in winter quarters. Bolton has no friends she cares to go and see, so her stay at the seaside with mamma, as maid, gives her a double holiday."
"There is still the half—the girl—to be accounted for."
"She was not even half efficient, so as mamma would have parted with her soon in any case, she said she might as well go before she and Laura went away. Sarah Jane was sure she could manage by herself; and mamma said she might try."
The girl gave a weary little sigh, though the expression of her face was humorous enough. In fact, Sarah Jane's eccentricities and incapacity served one good purpose. They kept Annette alive by giving her food for fun. During the day she carefully garnered every experience, and, despite her daily difficulties, met the boys with a bright face, and furnished material for laughter with the evening meal.
"When do you expect Williams?" asked Mrs. Worsley.
"On Friday evening, and on that day the boys' vacation begins. They hope to enjoy it, for Colonel Cracroft has invited them to spend the whole time at Fox Howe, his charming country home in the Lake district. The boys—ours and the two Cracrofts—are to take little walking tours between Mondays and Saturdays, weather permitting, and their own inclinations being in harmony with the plan. But anybody who chooses may stay at home, as it is to be Liberty Hall for the young people. I wish I were going on tramp for days together, aunty. Girls do it now as well as boys, and the Cracrofts are so nice. But the colonel is a widower with no daughters, or else, perhaps, he might have asked me," said Annette.
"Where are you going for your summer outing, dear?"
"Nowhere. When the boys are out of the way, I shall not be at home any longer. The blinds will be down, and 'the family are away' will be the reply, should anyone, undeterred by the desolate appearance of the premises, be rash enough to call."
At this moment there was a knock at the door, and Annette asked to be excused for a few minutes, and left the room.
CHAPTER II.
MRS. WORSLEY was not long alone. Annette soon returned, flushed and panting with exercise.
"Sarah Jane and I carried up your boxes quite easily," she said. "I had forgotten when I spoke of the boys that they are playing in a school cricket match, and as there will be a supper afterwards, they will not be home till late. Your eyes are wandering round the den, aunty. It is so desolate. It did not matter when we were less, but it would be nice to have it made into a really charming room. A few pounds and a good deal of handiwork and contriving would make it lovely. But there are no pounds to spare for what would give lasting home comfort."
There was a shade of bitterness in the girl's tone which told Mrs. Worsley whither her thoughts were tending. If only Mrs. Clifford had been content to do without a maid at Scarborough, her children would have reaped the benefit of her abstinence in years of increased comfort. Fresh prettiness would have taken the place of dingy finery, and much that was good and handsome might have been utilised by renovation.
Mrs. Worsley did not answer directly. She showed her sympathy by drawing Annette to her side, and holding her in an affectionate embrace. At length she said, "It does seem rather hard for you to be left alone in this way, darling."
"I was not thinking of that. Indeed, I have now the most delightful companion," and she lifted her honest face to Mrs. Worsley's for a kiss. "And I mean to make the most of my privileges, before I assume my role of Cinderella during the cleaning down season. Of course it would be impossible for you to stay in the midst of a muddle, aunty."
"Quite, Nettie; I shall stay until Saturday, and when the boys' backs are turned, I must turn mine."
Annette's countenance fell.
"Do you know," she said, "I was just wondering if it would be possible to keep a little nook, a sort of small house in a large house, comfortable enough to induce you to stay another week. Cinderella grieves at the thought of so soon parting with her fairy godmother."
"I am afraid it would be as impossible for me to remain as to exercise the powers of a fairy godmother, Nettie. Now if I could dress you in all sorts of braveries with a mere touch of my wand, and send you out to meet the prince, with the retinue of a princess, I might deserve the name."
"I should not like you to do it if you could. I hate shams of every kind, and I have already had too long an experience of them. Some Cinderellas would ride with a light heart in a carriage that might at any moment turn into a pumpkin again, but not your Cinderella, godmother dear."
The young lips quivered, and Annette, while smiling bravely into Mrs. Worsley's face, had to turn aside to brush away a rebellious tear.
To lead the girl's thoughts to something pleasanter, the visitor suggested a stroll through the grounds. "I thought I had never seen them look so beautiful," she said. "How you must revel amongst fruit and flowers!"
"Shams again, aunty. Not the fruit and flowers; they are provokingly real, but only to be revelled in by two senses—those of sight and smell. The grounds are let out to a gardener and florist, who pays a rent for them. It is true that fruit and vegetables, to a certain weekly market value, are bargained for, and our table is fairly supplied; but each article is sent in by mamma's tenant. We cannot bestow a bouquet on a friend, or give one permission to cull blossom or fruit for herself. The addition to the income is very useful, and supplies more shams, but this state of things is dreadful when one thinks of what used to be. Stay, though, aunty, I stood out for my own garden—the plot I called mine when I was a tiny toddles, and mamma had not the heart to take it from me. In it are some old-fashioned flowers, a wealth of ivy on the wall, and some lovely yellow gooseberries with a flavour better than that of half the grapes grown in the houses."
Towards this favourite corner Mrs. Worsley and Annette strolled arm-in-arm, and the girl's eyes grew brighter as aunty fastened a rose in her dress, and ate of the yellow champagnes with manifest enjoyment.
Bed-time brought the boys—victorious, noisy, and full of delight, as they talked of the approaching holidays and the enjoyable visit to which they were looking forward. They were not, however, wholly self-absorbed. Mingled with these gleeful anticipations were regrets at the thought of leaving their favourite sister behind them and alone.
"If we could only take Nettie, we should have nothing to wish for," said Lionel.
"Oh, Nettie, why were you not a boy?" cried Fred. "You would have been such a jolly boy, and the Cracrofts could have asked the three of us."
"I am by no means sure of this. Two such boys must be quite enough to have at once. Besides, you would not like me half so well if I were a boy. You squabble almost daily about some nonsense or other; how would you get friends again if you had each a second brother to quarrel with, instead of a sister to reconcile your differences? Considering all I do for you, it is very ungrateful to suggest that I could be improved by a change of sex," said Nettie, with a little pout of the lip, which deceived nobody.
"We should never get on without you, as you are, yet for your own sake we cannot help wishing to have you with us. Is it not horrid to think of her being left at home by herself?" said outspoken Lionel, addressing Mrs. Worsley. "Why did not mamma take Nettie to Scarborough instead of Bolton? She does all sorts of things both for her and Laura, when they are at home."
"Hush, Lionel!" said Nettie.
"It is not for you boys to settle what your mother ought to do," said Mrs. Worsley, "though I can well imagine that you would like to have Nettie's enjoyment provided for as well as your own."
"And Laura's," interposed Fred. "It does not seem fair that Laura should always be first and foremost, and Nettie left out in the cold."
"Mamma knows that I care less than Laura does; and besides, she is the eldest of us all."
"Don't tell fibs, Nettie. At least, do not pretend to be better than you are. You may not care about parties and balls, and finery, but never say you do not mind about being left here to see to the turning out of rooms, the shaking of carpets, and with only the society of Williams and Sarah Jane, for a fortnight after next Saturday. Do not tell me that you are not longing for a whiff of the sea breeze, and the sound of the waves as they tumble in. Heydon Hill is very beautiful, with its flowers that we must not pluck, and its fruit that we are forbidden to taste; but just ask us, now, whether we would not rather go scrambling across the fells or boating on the lakes than have Heydon Hill all the year round, even with free run at everything? As to Laura, of course she is the eldest. She likes to claim all the privileges of her present age. But wait a year or two, and she will be only too glad for people to think she is the younger."
Lionel nodded sagaciously as he finished his long speech.
Nettie made no answer until Sarah Jane left the room. Then she remarked, with a little laugh, "I think the 'reed' must be less deaf than usual. I am almost certain she heard you, Lionel, she looked so knowing. Now, dear boys, understand that there are many reasons why I should stay at home. As the maid, Bolton only counts for half in the hotel bill; I might do a maid's duties, but I should cost the same as mamma or Laura. I should have wanted some new gowns had I accompanied them; my old ones are good enough for home use."
"Laura got new ones; so did mamma," said Fred.
"When I go away for a holiday I shall have them too," insisted Nettie.
"When? I should like to know when?" replied Lionel, in a tone of disgust.