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

THE END OF THE JOURNEY.

LEGEND-LED

By AMY LE FEUVRE

AUTHOR OF "PROBABLE SONS," "TEDDY'S BUTTON,"
"ON THE EDGE OF A MOOR," "ODD," ETC.

LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND
65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

BUTLER & TANNER
THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS
FROME, AND LONDON.

Contents

CHAPTER I

AN OLD QUEST

CHAPTER II

TRYING TO FIND

CHAPTER III

ALMOST SUCCESSFUL

CHAPTER IV

A CRIPPLED KNIGHT

CHAPTER V

THE "OGRE'S" ARRIVAL

CHAPTER VI

A GREAT DISAPPOINTMENT

CHAPTER VII

ADVISING THE ENEMY

CHAPTER VIII

NIGHT WANDERERS

CHAPTER IX

A STRANGE AWAKENING

CHAPTER X

CLAIMED

CHAPTER XI

A GLIMMER OF LIGHT

CHAPTER XII

THE REBELLION

CHAPTER XIII

THE "HOLY THING"

THE STORY OF THE HOLY GRAIL.

LEGEND-LED

CHAPTER I

An Old Quest

IT was a very warm afternoon in July. In a front room with a large bay window overlooking the sea and beach at F— were the three little Thurstons; and they were having their tea at a round table, presided over by their governess, Miss Gubbins. The atmosphere was close; the children's faces hot, and—if I may say it—sticky; and Miss Gubbins leant back in her chair fanning herself with a newspaper and watching her charges in lazy wonder, as they ate slice after slice of bread and butter, and emptied a large plate of prawns between them, talking ceaselessly as they did so.

Donald, the eldest, was a bright, handsome little fellow, who thought and acted for himself, and was generally in trouble through his independent spirit. Claud was fair and sturdy, had quite as strong a will as Donald, but was always willing to take advice; and Gypsy, as she was called, and whose proper name was Eleanor, was a quicksilvery, gentle-looking little maiden, with a fragile appearance and a spirit as high as either of her two brothers.

"A reg'lar handful!" pronounced the landlady, who had now had them as her lodgers for some years. "The plagues of the terrace!" pronounced the two quiet maiden ladies next door.

"And the dearest children in the world when they're good," Miss Gubbins would say.

Miss Gubbins took life very easily. She always dressed in grey, was very short-sighted, and had a passionate love for poetry, which love she tried to foster in her young charges. She was not a young woman, but had a simple freshness of mind and heart that always kept her in touch with children. Her rule was not a severe one, and except in the three hours of morning study, her little pupils were left very much to their own devices. Good principles she sought to instil into their minds, and beyond this she did not go.

She sat now, as she often did, listening to the conversation, but taking no part in it unless she was appealed to.

"Old Cole said he'd lend me some red paint, and I'll do it in letters large as life," said Donald, with a little swagger in his tone.

"What will you put on it?" asked Claud thoughtfully, as he sucked a prawn's head and put it on the edge of his plate with a sigh, to think that he could get no more out of it.

"The resident's property."

"What grand words!" And Gypsy opened her blue eyes to their widest extent.

"Trespassers will be prosecuted!" continued Donald.

"What does prosecute mean?" asked Gypsy.

"Burnt at the stake, and cut up in little pieces, and drowned, and arms and legs twisted off, and eyes put out with red hot pokers!" said Claud with cheerful assurance.

"That's persecuted, you booby!"

Donald's tone was contemptuous. He added, "And if that won't keep the visitors off our corner, I'll fight every one of them!"

"You wouldn't beat them. You might the mother's children, but not the nursery ones, nor the schoolroom ones; and there are two sets of schoolroom ones coming to-morrow, the Stevens, and the Burkes who were here last year!"

"I shall get old Cole to help me."

"And I'll help you too, and I'll put on my boots, because the kicks will hurt more!"

This was from Gypsy, whose eyes sparkled in anticipation of a coming contest.

Then Miss Gubbins spoke.

"What are you all talking about? Don't let me hear of you fighting any one!"

"Well, it's our bit of beach, it has got the big rock on it, and the longest breakwater, and we're residents, aren't we, Gubby? And the visitor children aren't going to drive us from it—two boys tried it on this afternoon—and we'll let them know who we are!"

Donald spoke excitedly, and flourished his teacup in his hand like a war club.

"And they were only nursery children, too!" cried Claud with scorn.

"I don't understand what you mean by 'nursery children,'" said Miss Gubbins.

"Oh, Gubby, you know! We told you the other day; they are the ones that live in a nursery, of course. All the children that come here belong to three lots. The schoolroom ones come with their governess or from school; they're the jolliest. Some of the nursery ones aren't bad, but the nurses are horrid, and the mother's children are worst of all! They have company manners and best frocks and kid gloves, and always live in the drawing-room!"

Miss Gubbins smiled.

Donald went on: "And the residents always come first, before the visitors. The beach belongs to us in the winter, and we aren't going to give up our pet corner in the summer for any wretched little visitor!"

"You will not be residents here much longer," said Miss Gubbins, rousing herself; "I am only waiting till you have done tea to tell you about it. I heard from your step-brother this morning."

There were shouts at this. "The Ogre!" "Is he coming to see us?" "What did he say?"

Miss Gubbins would not satisfy any curiosity until the tea things were removed, hands and faces washed, and a tidy little group gathered round her.

The children were always curious when there was any correspondence between Victor Thurston and their governess. He was almost a stranger to them. He had been abroad when his father had married a young wife, and never saw the children till after their mother's death, which occurred when Gypsy was born. Then he came home for a few months, as his father was taken ill, and followed his second wife to the grave within six months of her death. Victor made arrangements for the children to be taken to Miss Gubbins, who was a friend of their mother, and she had come into rooms with them at the seaside, where they had remained ever since. And then Victor had gone abroad again, and, beyond a short visit one summer, during which he inspired the children with the greatest awe, he had not been near them.

"Do tell us, Gubby, quick!" pleaded Claud. "Is he coming here?"

"No, but we are going to him. Now don't scream so, and I will tell you. An uncle of yours has died, and has left your brother an old house in the country. He says it is too large for him to live in alone, and he wants us to go there at once."

"The Ogre's Castle! Hip, hip, hurrah! Are we going to-morrow?"

"The end of next week."

"And is he there?"

"No, he will not come till a month later, he says."

"Then we shall do just as we like, and you'll give us a holiday, like a dear good Gubby, won't you?"

"I shall see."

"Do tell us what it is like, and if there are dungeons, and secret rooms?"

"I know nothing about it. Now, you mustn't worry me with questions, but have patience, for we shall soon be there."

There was much excitement about the coming change; but, when they had quieted down, Miss Gubbins told them she would read to them as usual, as the tide was in, and they could not go out on the beach. This was a custom of hers nearly every evening, and she had been half telling, half reading, Tennyson's thrilling tale of King Arthur and his knights.

To-night she chose the "Holy Grail," and, mystical as it was, the little ones' shining eyes and rapt attention told her how much they had enjoyed it.

They drew long breaths when she finished.

"And Galahad never came back," said Claud, dreamily looking out to the sunset sky across the bay. "It's rather sad, but it's lovely!"

"I shouldn't like to be too good," said Donald meditatively; "that's what people mean when they say some children are too good to live. They're afraid of being caught away like Sir Galahad!"

Gypsy said nothing. She sat with clasped hands on a footstool, her pretty little face unusually grave. In her small heart she was saying to herself, "I wish I could find it. I should like to start to-morrow!"

"It's only a story, you know, children; but every one in this world is seeking for something, and it is only to some that special blessing is given. We all ought to try for it."

"Try for what?" asked Donald.

"Well," said Miss Gubbins vaguely, "try to be very, very good, like Galahad. He went through the world looking for heavenly glory, and he found it."

"I think I'd rather be like Lancelot," said Donald. "He wasn't quite so very good as Galahad. Gubby, do you think there will be a big hall and a round table in the Ogre's Castle?"

The conversation drifted away from the old legends to the near future, and little Gypsy was the only one of the three who went to bed that night with her brain full of stormy seas, golden light, and boats of fire riding on the waves.

When Miss Gubbins bent over her the last thing at night, she caught the murmured words, "I see the boat; it's coming for me!"

The next day found the children on the beach—not quite so keen upon having the sole monopoly of their favourite corner, now that they knew they were going away. They soon made their little companions aware of the fact, and talked rather grandly about the "castle" they were going to live in. They were busily employed with others in laying out gardens in the sand, with seaweed lawns, pebble paths, and miniature lakes, when Gypsy felt herself pulled by the hand. Turning round, she met the earnest gaze of a little girl about her own age, evidently a new-comer.

"May I play with you?" was the shy request.

Then Gypsy proceeded with the usual catechism to which all new-comers were subjected.

"What's your name?"

"Rene Gordon."

"Have you got a governess?"

"No."

"A mother?"

"Mother is in London with father."

"Have you got a nurse?"

"Yes; she's over there with my little baby brother."

"You can come and get some crabs to put in the lake with me."

And Gypsy led her off in a grandmotherly fashion.

Irene was a pale, uninteresting-looking child, but Gypsy's frank conversation soon put her at ease, and she gave her her full confidence.

"I came here the day before yesterday. I saw you playing, and wanted to come so much, but I didn't like to. You make much better castles and gardens than any one else!"

"That's because we're—we're residers," said Gypsy, struggling with the long word.

"I never have any one to play with at home," continued Irene with a sigh; "and I'm always being punished, and no one loves me."

"You must be a wicked girl, then!" And Gypsy stopped in her operation of turning over stones to find some crabs, and regarded her new friend with doubtful eyes.

"Nurse says I am. I don't like nurse, and she doesn't like me."

"Nurses are very nasty, I think. We haven't a nurse, only Gubby, and she's very nice. But we haven't a father and mother, like you. Don't they like you?"

Irene did not answer for a minute, then she said slowly,—

"I'm a kind of mistake, you know. I don't know how I came, but I was born wrong. I ought to have been a boy, and mother doesn't like girls. Father said, when Percy was born, that he was worth a dozen girls, for he was the heir. I don't quite understand what a heir is. I know he will have our house when he grows up, and I shan't have nothing! No one wants me at home. If I only knew some one who did, I would run away to them; but then, that's rather a frightening thing to do!"

"It would be lovely," said Gypsy, with sparkling eyes. "You could have all kinds of adventures if you ran away. You could sleep in the woods—climb up a tree when night came, because of the wolves, and eat berries and rabbits, and boil a kettle, and—and join a circus, and be dressed in gold and silver, and jump through hoops, and have all the people clapping you, and then you'd grow up a rich lady, and marry a prince, and live in a castle ever after!"

Irene listened to this burst of eloquence much impressed.

"But where should I find a circus?"

"Oh, they're always just outside the wood in storybooks. Or you could be like Galahad, and go riding after the 'Holy Thing.'"

"Who was she?"

"It was a man, not a she. He was very, very good. And a lot of knights rode away one day to find it."

"Find what?"

"The Holy Thing."

"What's that?"

"Well, it was a kind of glory light, something like a cup all in red and yellow and silver. It came from heaven to only very good people, and they all went to find it, and Galahad did. He went across the sea on bridges, and there was an awful storm, and he wouldn't stop for nobody or nothing, and at last a little boat took him right into the sky, and he never came back again."

"And what did he see in the sky?"

Gypsy considered; then in a solemn tone she replied, "God."

"I don't think I'll be like that," said Irene gravely. "That would be a frightening journey."

"Well, I'm going to go one day. I shall set out and find it, and then I shall never come back."

"Hi! Gypsy, hurry up! Where are the crabs?"

It was Donald, who was waxing impatient; and the little girls dropped their conversation for the present.

CHAPTER II

Trying to Find

"LITTLE girl, would you like to come and have some singing with us?"

It was a young lady who spoke to Gypsy the next afternoon, as she was walking disconsolately along the beach, wishing it was not Sunday, that she might have a good romp with her brothers. They were lying down under a bathing machine, busy with some books with which Miss Gubbins had provided them. Gypsy could not read well, and she had looked at pictures till she was tired, so she glanced up brightly when spoken to.

"Yes, I'll come. I like to sing."

She followed her guide to a quiet little corner under the cliffs, where about a dozen boys and girls were assembled. And in a few minutes some bright hymns were started, and then the young lady began to talk to them.

A great deal was unintelligible to Gypsy, but the subject was the "Pearl of greatest price," and Miss Pringle, who was talking, gave them the story of a pearl from the time it was first formed in an oyster-shell to the time it was sold to merchants, and cleaned and set in rings and jewelry of all sorts. Then she told them of the one pearl that was really worth finding, and she concluded by making them each repeat after her the little verse,—

   "I love them that love Me; and those that seek Me early shall find Me."

When it was all over, and Gypsy was moving away, she put her hand on her shoulder.

"Are you going to seek for the pearl of greatest price, little one?"

Gypsy knit her brows in thought.

"What is it?" she asked. "Is it the Holy G'ail?"

"It is Jesus Christ Himself. He loves you, and asks you to come to Him. Make up your mind to seek Him, dear, and you will find Him!"

She turned to some others, and Gypsy crept away, her little mind strangely confused between a pearl, a cup in the midst of golden light, and the Lord Himself; but one thing she was determined on, and that was that she would search until she found.

"I've been to a kind of Sunday-school," she announced to her brothers, a short time after.

"Where?"

"Round the corner over there. A nice lady told us a story of a man who was looking about everywhere for pearls. At last he found a lovely big one, only it cost a dreadful lot of money. Then he thought he must have it, so he went home and sold all his things, and came back with the money and bought it."

"And what did he do with it?"

"He never let it go. He kept it. He was like Galahad looking for the Holy Thing. He found it after a long, long time, but it cost a lot of money."

"Galahad found the Holy Grail without paying for it."

"Yes, I'd rather see that than a pearl," said Gypsy wistfully. "I'm going to be very, very good when we go away from here, and perhaps I shall find it in the old house we're going to."

"I think," said Donald, regarding his sister curiously, "that you can't be good more than two days. That's the longest I can. But what I mean to try is to be good all the week till the last day, and then I'll just be as wicked as ever I can, to keep me from bursting."

This resolve rather staggered Claud and Gypsy.

"And what will be your wicked day?" asked Claud.

Donald considered.

"Saturday, I think, because I can begin quite fresh on Sunday."

"But I expect Sunday will be quite a busy day with punishing you," said Claud gravely; "and if the Ogre is with us, he'll punish you worse than Gubby!"

"It's very wicked to mean to be wicked," said Gypsy, with serious, solemn eyes.

"Don't be a little prig, and you needn't preach, because you're always in mischief, and you'll never find the Holy Thing, if you live to be a thousand years old!"

"I shall," said Gypsy tearfully. "You're a horrid boy, and I shan't tell you nothing about it when I do find it."

She left the boys, and went to find Miss Gubbins, who read aloud to her for a little; but though Gypsy told her about the Sunday class, her own resolve was kept locked up in her little heart, and Miss Gubbins had no idea of the effect of the poem upon the impressionable child.

Irene Gordon was the recipient of Gypsy's confidences. She followed her about the beach like a little shadow, and the two became great friends. The boys liked the little stranger because "she didn't give herself airs." In other words, she would fetch and carry for them without a murmur, and when Gypsy urged her to rebel against their autocratic rule, she looked quite astonished.

"Boys always must be waited on, mustn't they? Girls are nobodies!"

When the last day came, and the little Thurstons ran here and there on the beach saying good-bye to all their little friends and acquaintances, Irene came up to Gypsy and sobbed aloud:

"I wish you weren't going away; I shall never see you again. Couldn't you take me with you? I'm so dull at home!"

"I'm 'fraid we might be took up by the police if we stole you," said Gypsy, putting her little arms round Irene's neck and giving her an affectionate hug. "But I think you had really better run away, if no one wants you at home, and perhaps I may meet you on a high hill one day, and we'll both be looking for—for what I told you about!"

"I should be so frightened," murmured Irene.

"Oh no, you wouldn't! I'm never frightened when I'm taking a walk. And if you get into a storm, ask God to take care of you. I always do."

They parted, and Irene was only half comforted; but she went back to her nurse and baby brother, and Gypsy and her brothers took their last farewell of their beloved beach, and were soon in the train with Miss Gubbins, having closed the first chapter in their life.

Poor Miss Gubbins was thankful when the journey was ended. The children's high spirits at first were difficult to contend with; then they grew tired and cross, and quarrelling commenced, so she had to assert her authority to preserve peace. They reached a quiet little country station at last about six o'clock in the evening; and when they got out on the platform they found they were the only passengers that alighted there.

The station-master came bustling up to them, and informed them that the carriage was waiting outside. And they found a comfortable, though rather shabby brougham, with two very fat, sleek horses, and an old coachman, who looked quite aghast at the luggage.

He got off the box, and shook his head remonstratingly. "Now, now, this is too much to expec' my horses to drag eight miles! Should say, if my 'pinion was axed, that a box each, size according to size, would a been all that was desired, and here's three monsters, and a hamper, and three little 'uns, not to speak of a few band-boxes, and such like as females have a likin' to! I never would have in the missus's time more than I thought fit to carry, and 'tisn't to be expected—"

"My good man," said Miss Gubbins a little shortly, "take what luggage you can, and leave the rest. It must either be sent up from the station, or you must come down again for it. Don't let us waste time talking about it!"

The old man looked at her in astonishment, but something in Miss Gubbins' manner made him alter his behaviour. Grumblingly he turned to the luggage, and with the help of the porters got some of it stowed away on the carriage, the station-master promising to send the rest up in a cart that could be lent for that purpose. And then the children bundled in, and with a tired sigh Miss Gubbins resigned herself to the long drive.

"Where's the sea?" asked Claud, after he had got tired of looking out at the narrow green lanes through which they were passing.

"I don't think there will be any sea here," said Miss Gubbins. "I told you I thought there would be none."

"But there's some kind of water somewhere," said Donald.

"I don't know; sit still, and wait to see."

The drive was over at last. They came to a lodge gate, which was opened by a pleasant-looking woman—the old coachman's wife—and as he drove in, he called out: "Oh yes, they've come safe and sound, and a deal more of them than is wanted in this part!"

"What a rude old man!" said Donald. "I'll fight him, if he talks like that to me!"

"Hush, Donald. I think I had better tell you that your brother wrote to me saying there were some very old servants here, who had quite managed the house when your uncle got very old. We must all be polite to them, and not take any notice of their remarks till your brother comes. And I wish," Miss Gubbins added, with a little sigh, "that he were here now."

When the house was reached, the children looked at it with delight and awe. It was an old Elizabethan building in red brick, with projecting gables and casement windows. When they got inside, they found themselves in a large entrance hall wainscoted in old oak, a broad wooden staircase leading up to a gallery above from the centre of the hall.

"I am sure," whispered Claud, in awe to his brother, "that this was where King Arthur and his knights lived."

"Yes," responded Donald delightedly. "Look at their armour and swords hanging up on the walls!"

A very important-looking old lady in a black silk dress received them, and the children thought the house belonged to her until Miss Gubbins told them she was the housekeeper, and her name was Mrs. Peck. She had a nice tea prepared for them in the large dining-room.

"I'm sure I don't know what rooms to give you," she said to Miss Gubbins, "but I've done my best. There's a set of rooms upstairs which will suit you, I think. One is the old nursery—at least it was fifty year ago—and it's a nice sunny room, and there's a bedroom leading into it that I thought would do for you and the little girl, and another room on the same landing for the two little boys. We haven't had children in this house for forty years, and most of the rooms are shut up. When Mr. Thurston comes back, he will say what he wishes. But these three rooms will be quite enough for you till he comes, I should think."

"Certainly," said Miss Gubbins brightly. "We will go and look at them after tea."

"But we shall use all the rooms in the house if we like," said Donald, looking at Mrs. Peck defiantly. "We had three rooms where we came from, and we aren't babies, to be put in a nursery!"

"Hush, Donald! That is not the way to speak. Go on with your tea."

Mrs. Peck said nothing, but her gaze encountered Donald's, and from that time it was war to the knife between them.

After tea they all went up the old staircase, along the gallery, until they came to a side wing of the house, and here were the rooms prepared for them. The nursery was a large room, with a deep window-seat, and two cupboards in the recesses on each side of the fireplace. A table in the middle of the room, a horsehair sofa, one arm-chair, and six old-fashioned wooden ones with rush seats, formed the furniture of it. There were no pictures on the walls, and the carpet was threadbare and shabby, as were also some faded crimson curtains to the window.

"Quite suitable for children," said Mrs. Peck, as she noticed Miss Gubbins' downcast face.

"We will soon make it bright and comfortable," said Miss Gubbins.

"It smells nasty," said Gypsy critically, "but it will be a lovely room to play in."

"The table isn't round," said Donald, inspecting it.

"That's dreadful," said Claud. "We can't be Arthur's knights here."

Then they went into the bedrooms, but the children did not take much interest in them, and soon came back to the old nursery.

"I love the window," said Gypsy, climbing upon the window-seat, and trying to open the casement. "Look how high up we are! We can see for miles and miles, and there's no sea anywhere."

"What are these horrid bars outside the window?" said Claud, with a disgusted face, as he tried to lean out of it.

"I tell you what it is," said Donald, in an eager excited whisper, "the Ogre has told Mrs. Peck to put us in here, and then he's going to lock us in, and we shall be in prison. Castles always have prisons upstairs as well as dungeons."

"How shall we get anything to eat?" enquired Gypsy, looking as if she rather liked the prospect.

"Oh, the food will come up in baskets outside the window, and we shall pull it up by a rope."

"What fun!"

"And," continued Claud, who would never be outdone in imagination by his brother, "every day there 'll be a little less to eat, until at last one slice of bread and butter will come up, and we shall have to divide it between us, and it will have to last the whole day!"

"And then what?"

"And then there will be none," said Donald, in a tragic voice.

Their conversation was interrupted here by Miss Gubbins coming in and taking them off to bed; and by this time they were so tired and sleepy, that they were only too glad to obey.

The next morning Gypsy woke up very early. The sun was streaming into the bedroom, and she looked round the room curiously, for Miss Gubbins was still asleep, and she knew she must keep quiet. She noticed the quaint, old-fashioned furniture, and thought it much nicer than the modern kind they were accustomed to in their seaside lodgings, and then she started, as she saw on the wall opposite her, a dingy, faded-looking text in a frame with these words upon it—

   "Those that seek Me early shall find Me."

"Why, that's the text that lady gave me to learn," she said to herself; and then her thoughts rambled in this fashion:

"She said it was Jesus I must look for. I wonder if I shall find Him here. It's much more likely in a great old house like this, than in those old lodgings.

"'Seek Me early.' Then it's early in the morning, like this, when I ought to look for Him. I 'spect it's only to very, very good people He shows Himself. And He'll be in a beautiful golden light. Oh, I should like to see Him for a little tiny minute, and then I would know He was pleased with me. I wish I could find Him, and wouldn't the boys be 'stonished when I told them! I wonder if I've been good enough.

"I've been trying hard to be like Galahad. I didn't hit Claud when he pinched me in the train, and I only called him a 'silly' once, I didn't call him a 'beast,' and I'm sure he was one! And then I kissed that horrid cook when we came away, and I didn't say 'No' like the boys when she asked me to. I s'pose it will be very hard and difficult to find Jesus, but Galahad saw the Holy Thing in front of him all the way. If I could only once see a little bit of it, I should be so glad—I will try! I will get up now, because it's early, and it's very quiet like Sunday, and I'll creep along these big old passages, and peep into all the rooms.

"'Those that seek Me early shall find Me.' Jesus said that, so it must be true, and p'r'aps I shall find Him this very morning!"

She lay still pondering over the text with big eyes, and at last stole quietly out of the bedroom in her dressing gown and little slippers.

Along the gallery she crept, trying the handle of every door as she did so; but most of them were locked. A few rooms were open, and from the threshold she regarded the large fourpost bedsteads, with heavy hangings, the shrouded furniture, and the darkened windows with a doubtful awe. There seemed a great many passages, and at last disappointment crept into her little heart.

"I'd better go back, I don't like these dark rooms. I shall never find Jesus here!"

She was just turning back, when she saw at the end of the narrow passage in which she was, a door just ajar, and light streaming out. This looked more promising, but when she crept up, and pushed the heavy door open, she caught her breath in delight and astonishment. Had she come after all to the right place?

CHAPTER III

Almost Successful

IT was not a bedroom she was in now. A room with dark panelled walls and ceiling, with rows upon rows of books stretching from floor to roof, a table in the centre of the room, with great carved corners and legs; and as Gypsy looked, she thought she saw hideous creeping creatures crawling over it, and making faces at her; some heavy chairs, and smaller tables in deep recesses. But this was not what entranced her eye. Opposite her, taking up the whole of one side of the room, was a stained glass window, and Gypsy felt at once this must be a kind of church.

She looked up in expectation, and then the thought came into her mind: "I'd better say my prayers, and then I can ask God to help me find Jesus."

She knelt down, a little figure with tumbled golden curls, and a wistful, dreamy little face; and as she knelt she prayed:

   "O God—I thank Thee for taking care of me all night, and please take care of me to-day. Make me a good girl, and forgive me for being naughty, and bless Gubby, and Donald, and Claud, and take us all to heaven when we die—"

Thus far she got very easily, for it was her usual morning prayer, but she wanted something more to-day, and after a long pause she added, in an awed whisper:

   "And please, God, help me to find Jesus now. I'd like to find Him here, because I've got up early, as He told me. For Jesus Christ's sake—Amen."

She knelt on in silence for a minute with tightly closed eyes, and then she opened them, and the morning sun having just found its way in at the window, streamed through the coloured glass in rays of red, blue, and yellow, upon the very spot of floor in front of her.

The child looked up in delighted wonder and content. Yes, the lovely light was coming down to her just like it did to Galahad, and God was answering her prayer already. She had found the "Holy Thing" at last. She gazed and gazed, hoping to see something more; she put out her little hands, and let the coloured sunbeams play over them, she moved on her knees a step forward, and shook out her white woollen dressing gown in the golden light, and with a smile of perfect content she looked up to the roof and said aloud:

   "Thank you very much, God, it's lovely, it's just what I thought Galahad saw, but please let me see Jesus Himself just a minute. I know He must be here."

But she saw nothing more, and after a time she got up from her knees, for the sun had gone behind a cloud, and the beautiful rays had vanished; and with a little child's sublime faith she trotted away, saying to herself:

"God did hear me, and I'll come another day and find Jesus. Perhaps He has gone somewhere else to-day, but I know I'll find Him here, because of the beautiful light."

When outside in the dark passages, she felt quite bewildered, and after vainly trying to find her way back to the bedroom, she sat down and relieved her over-wrought little brain by a burst of tears.

"And now I'm lost, or perhaps, as I've seen the holy light, I'm not to go back to Gubby and the boys, and they'll never find me again—like Galahad! But, oh, I do want to get back to bed—and—and I'm very hungry!"

She was sobbing away, when a maid appeared, and stared at her as if she had been a small ghost.

"Sakes alive! How you scared me! However did you come a wanderin' over here? There, bless your little heart, don't cry! I'm Jane as brought you your bath-water last night. Don't you remember me? Let me carry you back to your guv'ness. What's she thinkin' of, to let you wander out o' your bed in this fashion? But there, I never did hold with guv'nesses; little mites like you ought to have a nurse, and not be havin' your brains stuffed to burstin' with jography and sums, and such outlandish things!"

Muttering which, Jane picked her up like a baby, and astonished poor sleepy Miss Gubbins by depositing her on her bed.

Gypsy was too excited and tired to explain where she had been, and Miss Gubbins could only conjecture that she had walked in her sleep, so she tucked her up in her own little bed again, and Gypsy went soundly to sleep, and never woke till Miss Gubbins was up and dressed, and waiting to begin her toilet. Gypsy was rather quiet over the nursery breakfast. The boys were in the highest spirits, and were longing to tear all over the house, but Miss Gubbins gave them a little lecture before they left her wing.

"I shall be very busy this morning unpacking, and I want you all to be very good. Remember the old servants here have never been accustomed to children, and I think they do not like the idea of our coming at all. Show them that you can be polite and gentle, and don't let them think I have brought you up like little savages."

"As long as old Peck doesn't come near us we shall do," said Donald.

And then, after promising they would not get into mischief, away they went.

"It's lovely to have such a large house to live in," said Claud; "what splendid fun we shall have when we play hide and seek!"

"Yes, but it's a shame all the rooms are locked up! Let us come downstairs into the garden."

They found their way out, and for the next couple of hours were enjoying themselves thoroughly, in running along an old flower garden, laid out in terraces; then down on the velvet lawns, and through the shrubberies; and finally finding their way to the walled kitchen garden, with glass houses of grapes, and melons, and fruit and vegetables in abundance.

"It's like a fairy palace," said Gypsy, as after coaxing and wheedling the old gardener in charge to give them some fruit, they threw themselves down under a shady beech on the lawn, and proceeded to enjoy some fallen apples, six ripe plums, and a rhubarb leaf full of raspberries.

"Yes," said Donald contentedly; "it isn't much like an ogre's castle, is it?"

"Does 'Agony' live here?" asked Gypsy.

Donald nodded his head and looked very wise.

"She was talking to me this morning; she's getting angry, and we shall have to do something to please her to-day, or to-night she'll be awful. You see that lot of bushes over there? We shall have to crawl through them on our hands and knees directly after dinner to-day!"

Gypsy's face lengthened, and Claud said, dismally, "One of those bushes is made of holly; we shall bleed to death!"

"Well, we must do it, and I'm always the first one to go through!"

To explain this conversation, I must tell you that "Agony" was a mysterious game that the children invented, and that was always being played. Gypsy more than half believed it was true. "Agony" was supposed to be a very hard and cruel spirit who lived with them always, and was constantly requiring them to do dreadful things to appease her wrath. Donald was chief inventor, and held the game in his own hands, for he was the priest, and dictated "Agony's" wishes to his younger brother and sister. "Agony" appeared in the shape of smoke or steam—if a steamer or train passed the children at the seaside, their one idea was to look at the smoke. If it came puffing out in great white wreaths, "Agony" was in a good temper, but if the smoke was black, she was angry, and some painful exploit must be attempted at once to soothe her anger. Sometimes Claud and Gypsy would wax rebellious, and refuse to do what Donald ordained, then at night they knew what to expect. A figure in a white sheet would creep out at them from behind some dark corner on the stairs, or crawl out from under their beds, and Gypsy would invariably succumb at once.

"Don't come near me, Agony, oh please don't! I will be good, I will, I promise you!"

And if Claud squared his shoulders and with clenched fists prepared for combat, he was quite certain to get the worst of it, so they both learnt that rebellion was useless.

Now Gypsy asked curiously:

"Where shall we see Agony, Don? There are no trains or steamers here. P'raps she won't be here at all, and we shall get rid of her for ever."

"Oh," said Donald, who was never at a loss, "you'll see her fast enough. She will come out of the chimneys here."

Gypsy looked disappointed.

"And," pursued Donald, with a sudden inspiration, "if she isn't pleased after we've crawled through those bushes this afternoon, we shall have to crawl down the staircase from top to bottom on our hands six times!"

"This is a lovely staircase for that," said Claud, adding with guile, "Don't you think Agony would like us to slide down on the banisters? We couldn't do it at the lodging, because they had so many corners, but we could here."

And then Gypsy said very slowly:

"I shan't do it if it's naughty, because I'm going to be very, very good always. I saw something this morning that you haven't seen."

"What?"

"I saw—" Gypsy paused, and shook her head from side to side with great solemnity—"saw the Holy Thing!"

"You're a wicked story-teller!"

"I'm not. I did see it. I got up very early to look for it, and I went along the passages, and opened some doors, and after a long, long time I saw a door a little bit open, and I went in, and there was a lovely church window, and it was a dark room with hundreds and thousands of books—the walls were made of books—and I knelt down on the carpet, and after I had said my prayers I opened my eyes, and—and there it was."

"What was it like?" asked Donald sceptically, whilst Claud gazed at his little sister with open mouth and eyes.

"It was a lovely glory light, red, and yellow, and blue, and it came right down upon me, and made me all red and blue and yellow too, and it stayed a few minutes, and then it went away."

"Show us the room, and we will believe you," said Donald, still unbelieving, but the sweet seriousness of Gypsy's face almost making him waver.

"Why didn't you tell us before?" asked Claud.

"Because I was waiting to tell it when you weren't too busy."

And then Gypsy trotted into the house, and the boys followed her. Such a search they had, up and down stairs and along every passage; but though they opened the doors of many rooms, the particular one could not be found.

"We knew you were telling stories," said Donald triumphantly.

And Gypsy with tears in her eyes protested again and again that she was speaking the truth.

"Well, if the room was here before breakfast it is here now," said Donald sternly, "and if you can't find it, it will be all a make up. I knew you weren't good enough to find the Holy Thing!"

"I lost my way coming back," sobbed Gypsy, "and Jane found me and carried me back to bed; you ask her if she didn't. I did see the Holy Thing. I don't care what you say. I did, I did!"

"Hulloo, let's come down this staircase," exclaimed Claud, opening a door that looked like a cupboard, "here are a lot more rooms here, and here's one with the door unlocked."

He bounced in, and then stopped in consternation; it was Mrs. Peck's private sitting-room, and she was having a slight lunch, consisting of a glass of wine and some cake which looked very tempting.

She stood up when she saw them, and bristled all over with anger and annoyance.

"Now, once for all, I'll have you children to understand that you'll keep to your own rooms, and not be prying and peeping into rooms that don't belong to you—such impertinence! Without a knock, or if you please—bursting into my private room, which the old master himself never would presume to enter!"

"You've got the comfortablest room in the house," said Donald, standing at the door and looking round with cool unconcern.

"I say, Mrs. Peck, tell us, is there a room like a church in this house? Gypsy says there is, and we know she's humbugging."

"I'm not, I'm speaking true; there is a beautiful window in it, isn't there, Mrs. Peck?"

Poor Gypsy eagerly waited for Mrs. Peck's answer. If she could only get some one to tell the boys that she was right!

But Mrs. Peck swept them all out of the room. "I don't know what your guv'ness is for, if she can't keep you from tearing all over the house in this fashion. A room like a church! Thank goodness we've none of that sort here. A popish chapel maybe you're expecting? There, go along, and never let me see you in my part of the house again!"

"There!" cried the boys in triumph to the discomfited Gypsy. "Of course we knew you were telling stories; come on, old Peck is a horrid old thing; we'll go and find Gubby and see what she is doing."

Away they tore, but Gypsy followed more slowly. Was it possible it had been all a dream, she wondered? Her little mind was sorely perplexed, and she wandered off again by herself down the passages to see if she could find the room. It was all in vain, and she came to her early dinner with a sad and downcast little face.

The boys had no mercy on her.

"Fancy, Gubby, Gypsy has been trying to make us believe she saw the Holy Thing. She vowed she went into a room and saw it before breakfast. And when we asked her to show us the room, she says she can't find it. The room has disappeared! Very wonderful, isn't it?"

"Ha, ha!" laughed Claud. "You aren't quite so good as you thought you were, Miss Gypsy,—you wanted to make out that you had seen it, though we hadn't."

"Hush, boys, I daresay she thought she had seen it." And turning to the little girl Miss Gubbins added, "You mustn't think too much about the things I read to you, or I shall have to stop. You were dreaming last night so much that I suppose you fancied it was real, and that was what made you leave your bed this morning, I expect."

Gypsy said no more, for her feelings were deeply wounded. She was a very truthful child, and to have her word doubted was a great trial. She had been so happy after her morning experience, so sure that the boys would believe her, and so delighted to be able to tell them of it, that it was a bitter disappointment to her to bear their scoffs and ridicule.

The disappearance of the room was a great puzzle to her, and for the next few days she spent many hours in fruitless efforts to find it. She never mentioned the subject again, though the boys often teased her about it.

But one afternoon Miss Gubbins came into the nursery, or schoolroom, as it was now called, and found the little maiden at the window talking in low, vehement tones to her doll. Gypsy's doll was never in her arms unless she was in trouble of some sort. When she quarrelled with the boys, or was punished for some naughtiness, "Helen Mary" was her comforter. And Miss Gubbins now wondered what had disturbed her mind. These were the words she heard.

"God will make them believe me on the judgment day. Gubby told us everything will be put right then. And He will tell them that I spoke the truth, the straight real truth, and that He sent me the Holy Thing Himself. Yes, He will, Helen Mary, and the boys will be all wrong, and I shall be quite, quite right!"

CHAPTER IV

A Crippled Knight

MISS GUBBINS had a difficult time for those first few weeks in the old house, and she longed for the advent of the master. Mrs. Peck ruled the household with a rod of iron. The old butler, Smythe by name, was her abject slave. He was a kind old man, and took a great fancy to the children, but his kindness was shown only in Mrs. Peck's absence. He would call them into his pantry, and give them all kinds of dainties such as children love, but let but the silk dress of Mrs. Peck rustle by, and he would drive them out in surly fright, muttering as he did so: "Away with you, ye young plagues, a-comin' and a-worryin' round and a-drivin' a body nearly crazy!"

Mrs. Peck did not like children, and made no secret of her dislike to them. Perhaps, if they had been more docile and respectful to her, she would not have been so hard on them. As it was, there was perpetual contention between them, and Miss Gubbins could not keep the peace. Miss Gubbins herself was preoccupied and absorbed. The old house appealed to her poetic feelings, and she would wander through the empty rooms saying to herself:

"We have gone back a century here. No reminders of the prosaic age in which we live, except the post and newspapers."

And with her poetry books in hand she dreamed away her days, only subject to rude awakenings by the incivility and neglect of the housekeeper, and the mischief and scrapes of her pupils.

Donald and Claud were enjoying themselves as they had never done before, and their imaginations were busy from morning to night planning tournaments and games of all kinds. There were as many resources indoors as out of doors, and most of the servants enjoyed hearing the merry shouts and laughter echoing through the house.

The old coachman, Mills, declared sourly that they had "destroyed his peace of mind for evermore"; but there was cause for such a speech after he was fetched out by the young groom to see each of the boys mounted on one of the fat old carriage-horses, with long poles in their hands, and tearing up the smooth gravel drive in front of the house by charging one another in the orthodox knightly fashion.

"We're King Arthur's knights, Mills; stand out of the way, or we'll ride you down!"

And it was some time before Mills could rescue his beloved horses from the hands of such fiery young warriors.

One afternoon Miss Gubbins was lying down with a bad headache, and the children had the schoolroom to themselves. Donald and Gypsy were perched on the top of the large square table, and Claud was seated on the old window-seat, making a boat out of a piece of wood, and watching the other two furtively, and rather disconsolately.

The table was a desert island, Donald was Robinson Crusoe, and Gypsy his man Friday; the carpet had turned into a raging sea, chairs and stools were crocodiles and fish of all sorts, and with a hooked walking-stick Donald was hoisting various articles on to the island.

"I'll be a cannibal king, and come across to you in a boat," suggested Claud presently.

"We don't want you; there's no room on the table for three," said Donald. "You wouldn't be Friday, and Gypsy makes a much better Friday, because she does what she is told."

"I don't want to get on your old island," said Claud crossly. Then after a minute, very persuasively:

"I could make a lovely earthquake under the table; you could be swaying and falling and clinging hold of the rocks—"

"We don't want an earthquake. Now, Friday, my gun; lie down; let me put my foot on you to take aim. I see a bear on a crocodile's back."

Claud hacked away at his piece of wood with a clouded brow. At last he jumped up.

"This is a stupid old house!" he announced. "I wish we were back at the sea; we always had heaps of children to play with there, and I shall go out and see if there aren't any about here. I shall find some one to play with."

He took up his straw hat and marched off; the other two were so engrossed in their game that they did not notice his disappearance.

When tea-time came, and Miss Gubbins came out of her room, refreshed by her rest, no Claud was to be found. She was not alarmed, and it was not till it was nearly the children's bedtime that she began to make inquiries.

"He's run away," suggested Gypsy cheerfully. "He said he liked the seaside best; p'raps he's gone back there."

"Have you been quarrelling again?"

"No; but we didn't want him, and he went away to play by himself."

Miss Gubbins went downstairs out into the garden and round the stables with a worried face. When she asked Mills if he had seen him, the old man gave an indignant snort.

"Seed him! 'Tis the only blessed time in my life when I don't see any of 'em; but such times is rare indeed! 'Afore five o'clock in the mornin' they're always shoutin' and a tearin' round, and just where you last expec's to see 'em, there they'll sure to be. And if my 'pinion is axed, he's most likely took up by the perleece for robbin' orchards, or climbin' over gen'lemen's garden-walls, to pick whatever he can lay his hands on, and sauce and mock his elders and betters, if they do but say a rummonstratin' word!"

Then Miss Gubbins went through the grounds and out into the high road down to the little village, about a mile distant, Donald and Gypsy following her, and making anything but reassuring suggestions.

"He had a boat he was making. He's found the sea somewhere, and tumbled in and got drowned!"

"He's climbed a tree to get a rook's nest, and fallen down and broken both his legs!"

"He's lost his way in a wood, and got caught in a trap!"

And so on, till Miss Gubbins hushed them rather sharply. Only one person in the village seemed to have seen him, and that was the baker's wife.

"The little fair-haired chap? Yes; I seed him a trottin' through the street this afternoon, and he were a talkin' to hisself like mad. He went straight along the road, and he hasn't come back to my knowledge."

"That's Claud!" exclaimed Donald. "He always talks to himself when he isn't pleased. Come on, Gubby, we shall find him."

It was getting dark now, and Miss Gubbins was most uneasy. Not one of the servants had offered to search for her missing pupil, and she felt helpless and hopeless. At length, coming towards them along the dusty road, they spied a cart, and as it came nearer, a little form in it jumped up, and throwing up his arms shouted out:

"Hulloo, Gubby! Here I am! And I've had such fun."

It was Claud. The good-natured baker, coming back very late from his round, had overtaken a little tired, dusty figure plodding along, and recognising who it was, had lifted him into his cart and brought him back.

When Miss Gubbins found him safe and well she almost cried, the relief was so great, and Donald and Gypsy danced round him in the greatest excitement.

"Where have you been? What have you seen? Did you lose yourself? Mrs. Peck said she hoped you had, to give you a lesson. Tell us what you've been doing!"

But Claud, revelling in his importance now, pursed up his mouth and refused to say a word till he had got home and had had a good supper. Then his tongue was unloosed.

"I went out for a walk to find some children," he said, "and I peeped into three gardens on the road, and I asked a gardener about them, and he said no gentlefolk's children—that's what he called them—lived nearer than a white house high up on a hill that he showed me, and he said there were two there, only they were away from home; and then I left him, and I saw a farm across some fields, and I thought I'd like to go and see the inside of it. And when I got up, one side of the house was all a dirty yard, with pigs and fowls and cows, and the other side was a jolly garden with a lot of grass and apple trees at the bottom, and there was a window opening right out on the grass, and when I got up, I saw—guess!"

"A lovely tea-table with cakes and buns, and a nice little girl in the middle of it," suggested Gypsy.

"Two cross old ladies with a cat and a dog," guessed Donald.

"You're both wrong. It was a man, and he was on a sofa, and over his legs was a lovely wolf-skin, with a wolf's head, and tongue, and teeth showing, and long claws to his feet, and no one else was in the room except the man, and he was drawing a picture, an awfully funny one. And when he saw me, he said,—

"'Halloo, youngster, have you dropped from the moon?'

"And so then I pretended I had, and then he laughed out, and told me to come in, for he said he was longing for some one to talk to. And I told him I was wanting some one to play with, and he said he knew some lovely games, and he taught me one on paper, about a fox and a goose. I'll show you to-morrow."

Claud stopped for breath, and Donald eagerly demanded, "Did he give you anything to eat?"

"Yes; a huge slice of cake out of a cupboard. He said he had an old aunt who loved him so much, and spoilt him so much, and talked, and wrapped him up so much, that he was obliged to run away from her every summer, because if he didn't, he would turn into a stuffed old image that could only nod and smile, with nothing to think about but kittens' illnesses, and flannel petticoats for old women! He was very funny, and I liked him."

"And what else?" asked Gypsy. "Did he shoot the wolf that was over his legs? And what was he lying on a sofa for?"

"He's got something the matter with his legs, and he can't walk. He got lost on a mountain in the rain, and he was very ill, and he's a cripple, he says. He didn't seem to mind; he is staying there because his nurse lives there. I asked him if he was a nursery boy when he was little, and he said yes, and fancy! He had a father and mother and four brothers and sisters, and now they're all dead!"

"Who killed them?" asked Gypsy quickly.

"God did, I suppose," was Claud's reply. Then after a pause he went on, "I told him I would come and see him again. He can tell lovely stories, and I think he likes some one to listen to them. He has a chair on wheels, and he wheels himself out on the grass, and he says he feels like an old cow sometimes, because he has nothing to do but to munch his food, look up at the blue sky, and move round and round inside a small field, and to-day is always the same as yesterday, and to-morrow will be like to-day. I told him our days were never the same, and then he listened, and I talked, and when I was tired it was nearly dark, and so I came away."

"And now you are going to bed," said Miss Gubbins, "and you must never run away again without telling me where you're going."

Claud went off to bed obediently, but when Donald was half asleep, an hour later, he was awakened by his brother's call—

"Donald, look here; a man without legs can never be a knight, can he? Not a knight like King Arthur's?"

Donald rubbed his eyes.

"Don't bother!"

"Well, but just say. Would Arthur have had a cripple man, however brave he was?"

"Of course he wouldn't."

"Then my friend can't play that with us. I wish he could."

"Gubby said one of them got tired, and turned monk,"' murmured Donald. "Don't you remember?"

"Yes, I know; it was the one who told the story of Galahad. What was his name? Oh, I know, Sir Perceval. And that's what I shall call my friend. He wouldn't tell me his name—at least, he said was 'Bob Bogus.' That's what he puts at the bottom of his pictures—the funny ones I told you about. He sends them to 'Punch.' But that isn't his real name, and Sir Perceval is much nicer."

A grunt was Donald's only response, and Claud turned over on his pillow, seeing further conversation was useless. But as he, too, drifted into dreamland, he murmured, "A legless knight could be brave, I am sure."

It was not long before Claud visited his friend again. He slipped away quietly from the others at play, and confided in Miss Gubbins alone where he was going.

"You see, Gubby, I don't want them to come with me. He's my friend, not theirs, and Donald doesn't think much of him because his legs are all wrong."

"I don't know whether you ought to visit strangers so," said Miss Gubbins, hesitating. "Still, your brother will be here soon, and he can settle questions of that kind. Only don't come home late. You must be in time for tea."

Away trotted Claud. It was not very far, now he knew the way. He crept round to the front of the house facing the apple orchard, and there he saw, to his delight, the wheeled chair under the shade of an apple-tree.

Claud marched up with a radiant face.

"Good afternoon, Sir Perceval," he said, holding out his hand.

His friend started, and glanced up surprised at his new title. He was quite a young man, and rather a handsome one. His was a face that knew how to suffer and be strong, and perhaps the weary, sad look about his blue eyes was the only indication that he had known trouble. There was no sadness in tone or look as he exclaimed—

"Since when have I been knighted, may I ask?"

"Oh, I've knighted you myself. Gubby read us and told us about Sir Perceval, who left King Arthur and went into a monk's house to be quiet and good; at least the others were just as good, I'm sure, only I thought you'd do to be him, because you can't ride in tournaments."

"Thanks. I will answer to my name. May I prove worthy of it! When does the next tournament come off? Tell me some news of King Arthur's Court. I have been so long away from it that I've forgotten the manners and customs of it."

"We've been looking busily for the Holy Thing," said Claud, settling himself down on the grass and gazing up at the newly-made knight with shining eyes. "You saw it, didn't you, as well as Galahad? Only you weren't quite good enough to be caught away like he was."

The young man looked at the little speaker rather thoughtfully.

"Oh—ah, the Holy Grail, I remember; though it is years since I read it. Yes, you're right, though you don't know how near I was to being caught away a year or so ago. As you say, I 'wasn't quite good enough!'"

Then Claud relapsed into everyday talk.

"Yes, and there's Gypsy actually, who is always in mischief quite as bad as Donald and me, she pretends and sticks to it that she really did—honour bright—see the Holy Thing in a strange kind of church room in our house very early in the morning! And she says the room has disappeared. As girl would be good enough to see it!"

"I think a girl was the first one to see it. Wasn't it Sir Perceval's sister, the nun?"

"Oh, well, she was a grown-up person. Not a creature like Gypsy!"

"And what is this despised Gypsy like? A nutbrown maid?"

"No, she isn't brown; her hair is like mine, and always untidy, and she has only just given up wearing socks, and she's never still a minute."

"Poor little maiden! Do you think you are more to catch sight of it than she is?"

"I'm not very good myself," said Claud reflectively. "I don't think any of us are. Don and I try to be knights whenever we get a chance, and now we're in a proper kind of castle we feel much more like them. Then you see the Ogre will be coming back soon, and all kinds of things will happen. He is our grown-up brother—we call him the Ogre because he has a great moustache, which he pulls when he is angry, and he is a big, tall man, and I think he means to be very cruel to us when he comes back. At least we pretend he is going to be. It's more fun, you see!"

"We'll hope he won't disappoint you."

They chatted on, and when Claud left his friend an hour after, he said by way of farewell:

"I dare say I'll come and see you pretty often. I suppose you can't ever come and see us? Gubby would ask you to tea, if you could get up the stairs."