"GYPSY, WHERE ARE WE?"
"And my jacket has gone, and so has your cape!"
"How did we get out of the cart? We must have left our boots behind us!"
Irene staggered to her feet, and looked around her. The sun was shining brightly, but it was still very early. They were seated on the doorstep of a long low white house on the outskirts of a small country village. The house had green shutters to the windows, and a brass plate on the door which shone like burnished gold. All was quiet inside, and Irene said, a little hesitatingly—
"Shall I ring the bell, Gypsy? Some one inside might be sorry for us, and give us our breakfast."
Gypsy stared up at the house, and then looked away over to some hills behind which the sun was rising in a bed of golden glory.
The experience of the past night with all its misery rushed upon her, and she turned to her little companion with passionate protest in her tone:
"I've tried as hard as ever I could to find the Holy Thing. I've got up early, and now we've stayed up all night, and lost our boots, and don't know where we are! and it hasn't come to us, and it never will! And I don't believe there's any Holy Thing in the world at all! And I believe Galahad only saw the sun!" She buried her curly head in her arms, and burst into tears.
Irene could not comprehend the depths of woe that had overtaken her; she only felt they were cold, miserable, and hungry, and stretching up her little hand she rang the bell with such vehemence that it roused the inmates from their slumbers. A window was opened overhead.
"The doctor is away! Who is there?"
"Oh, do let us in," was Irene's wailing cry, "we're lost, and we want to get home."
A few minutes after the door opened, and an elderly maid-servant only partly dressed drew them gently in.
"You poor little dears! Wherever have you come from? Hush, hush, then, don't cry, we'll look after you, and see you home again. Why, your clothes are quite damp. You must have been out all night. Come this way, Jane will have just lighted her fire, and we'll soon get you warm and dry."
They were led into a bright cheerful kitchen, and before long, rolled up in blankets, were seated in two big chairs enjoying basins of hot bread and milk. Gypsy then tried to tell her story, but it was not surprising that it should sound absolutely unintelligible to the two maids, who came to the conclusion that she must be delirious from fright and exposure.
"I live with Gubby, and the boys, and the Ogre. It's the Ogre's house. I don't know what it's called. It's full of armour like King Arthur's knights had. We wouldn't do what Agony told us, because it was too difficult, and we ran away to find the Holy Thing, and it got dark, and we thought we saw the Holy Light once, only it ran away from us, and then we got into a cart, but we didn't get out of it, and then we found ourselves here."
This story was repeated an hour later to two ladies who came into the kitchen, and who looked upon the little girls with consternation and amazement.
One was in a widow's dress, and the elder of the two, but she seemed more youthful in looks and manner than her younger sister, who regarded them with soft, pitying eyes.
"You're quite sure they're not village children, Mary," said the widow, Mrs. Webster by name; "they might be anybody's in those blankets, but they look clean, and one of them is decidedly pretty. Make them talk, Mary, and we shall soon see by their accent what class they belong to!"
Mary turned to Gypsy. "Tell the ladies where you come from, dear, and all about yourselves."
Gypsy repeated her story, and Mrs. Webster listened, then turned to her sister excitedly.
"Isn't she a pretty little thing, Helen? She talks as if she has come out of a fairy tale. Who is the Ogre, and Agony, and Gubby? And what is the Holy Thing? They will enliven our dulness. Are they lost children? For I vote we keep them here for a time, and say nothing about it. I always dote on children—if they are pretty!"
Helen shook her head at her sister, as she might to a naughty child, then she bent over the children.
"They look flushed and feverish, Mary," she said gravely: "I think you had better put them in the large spare-room bed, and let them have a good sleep. They evidently want it, and after that we will talk about what we will do with them."
"Yes, miss, you are right. They're both worn out, and a sound sleep will do them all the good in the world."
So to bed Gypsy and Irene went, and for some days after, Gypsy's mind was sadly confused. The wetting and exposure brought on a great deal of fever, and she narrowly escaped an attack of rheumatic fever. Irene was very little the worse, and amused Mrs. Webster downstairs by her old-fashioned talk, whilst Helen nursed the little invalid.
"I don't care for sick nursing," Mrs. Webster said plaintively, "I always get so over-anxious and depressed. You ought to be a stoic to be a successful nurse, and that I could never be."
The sisters had only lately come to the neighbourhood, to make their home with their bachelor brother Doctor Scott. He was away for a day or two when the children made their appearance, but returned in time to doctor Gypsy, and was as much mystified as his sisters as to their whereabouts.
It was impossible to gain any information from Gypsy, and Irene either wilfully or stupidly would not help them. Truth to tell, for the first time in her small life, she was enjoying the importance of her position. Mrs. Webster petted and flattered her, and drew her out to talk for her amusement. And Irene had visions of her governess's wrath upon her return home; and the dreary loveless life she lived seemed much less desirable than her present one. She did not want to leave Gypsy, she did not want to be sent home; and with wonderful astuteness for so small a child, she parried all their questions, even going so far as to omit her surname and give her two baptismal ones instead.
"My name is Irene Stuart; I live ever so far the other side of Gypsy's home. I don't know where it is now, for we came such a long way in the cart, and it was dark. Father and mother are in London, they won't miss me, and Miss Carr is horrid. She makes me do lessons all day. Do keep me here till Gypsy is better; I will be very good, I promise I will."
"What is the name of your house?"
It was the doctor who spoke. He was standing opposite Irene, leaning against the drawing-room mantelpiece, and the little girl was seated close to Mrs. Webster, looking at an old-fashioned photograph album.
"She looked up a little puzzled: I don't think it is called anything," she said slowly.
"But you must know where you live? Are you in a town, or village, or where?"
"We live quite by ourselves," was the prompt reply, "and there are fields and trees, and woods all round us; we don't live in a town, and our door doesn't open into the road like yours does."
"Don't tease her, poor mite, with so many questions," said Mrs. Webster, quite as unwilling as the child herself for her home to be known; "Irene is very happy with us, and I have a great idea of adopting her as my child. She says she was 'born all wrong,' Frank, think of that! And girls aren't wanted in her family!"
"I shall write to the police at once, and advertise," said Dr. Scott, a little sternly; "it seems an extraordinary thing that two children should be lost about here, and we unable to trace their belongings. Their friends must be in a terrible state about them."
Irene looked terrified at the name of "police," and slipped her little hand in Mrs. Webster's.
"We aren't going to be put in prison for running away, are we?" she whispered. "We didn't mean to be naughty. Gypsy said it was a good thing to do—to find the Holy Light!"
"Hear her!" said Mrs. Webster, with a rippling laugh. "Oh, how delicious children are! Do you know what this quest is, Frank? Have you heard of a Holy Thing or a Holy Light that all good people run after?"
"Perhaps they mean the Holy Grail," said Dr. Scott gravely.
Irene clasped her hands delightfully.
"That's the other name for it," she said; "I remember now. Do you know the way to it?"
She was looking at the doctor rather shyly under her long dark lashes, and he gave a short little laugh.
"I wonder you didn't try to get to the moon," he said; "it would have been just as easy!"
Irene flushed at his mocking tone, and said no more until he had left the room; then she turned to Mr. Webster.
"It's a good thing we didn't go on, if it's as difficult as that, Gypsy said it was no good, for she'd tried as hard as ever she could, and it wouldn't be found. I don't think I shall ever run away to look for it again."
CHAPTER X
Claimed
POOR little Gypsy lay for many days in partial unconsciousness and in great pain. Her delirium was trying to witness: "Oh, save me! Save me! Agony is coming. I didn't mean to disobey her. Run, quick, quick! It's going away from us. I will be good, if only I can see it. Oh, keep me, it's so dark, so hot!"
Helen Scott never left her, and then, one afternoon, very weak and very exhausted, Gypsy came back to the full consciousness of her surroundings. She gazed round the room with languid interest; there was a bright fire burning in the grate; flowers and grapes on a small table close to her, and looking down upon her with a sweet smile, a tall slight girl in navy blue serge, with a wealth of brown hair coiled round a proud and shapely head.
Helen Scott was beautiful. She had not the sparkling vivacity and brilliant colouring of her sister, but there was an earnestness and fire in her grey eyes, softness and determination in her sensitive lips, and a sweet gravity in her tone and manner which contrasted favourably with the flippancy and careless levity of the young widow.
"Your face and tone are a silent protest against my love of fun," Mrs. Webster would often say, and perhaps it was so. Yet Helen could cast aside her stateliness when alone with those she really loved, and when her face lightened, and her laugh rang out, she was irresistible.
"WHERE AM I?"
"Well, darling, you feel better, don't you? Do you know where you are?"
"I'm very comfortable," said Gypsy, with a little sigh. "Where's Gubby?"
"Do you want her? She came to see you the other day, and would have stayed altogether, only one of your brothers sprained his ankle, and she left me to take care of you."
Then Gypsy looked puzzled, and pushed her hair off her forehead with a hot little hand.
"I don't remember. Where am I?"
Helen sat down by her side and took hold of her hand.
"Don't talk, darling; but listen. You and Irene lost your way, and came to our house. We took you in, and put you to bed, and you have been very ill. We could not find out where you lived at first, so we advertised in the newspaper, and the same day your brother, Mr. Thurston, rode over to inquire about you. He took Irene back to her home, but you were too ill to be moved, and so you have stayed on with us. Your brother comes over to see you very often, and you must make haste and get well, because they want you home again."
Gypsy pondered over this explanation. Feeling it was satisfactory, she turned over on her side and went fast asleep.
When she awoke, Victor was standing by her bedside.
"Well, little one, do you know who I am?"
"The Ogre," said Gypsy with a smile, and holding out her hand, which looked very small and white.
"That is my character," said Victor rather grimly, looking straight at Helen standing by.
She smiled.
"The puzzle is solved. We wondered for a long time who the Ogre could be. You have been much in her thoughts."
"When will you be ready to come home?" Victor asked, looking at his little sister very gravely. "The boys are clamouring for you, and Miss Gubbins is quite lost without you. Shall I take you home to-night?"
Gypsy looked from one to the other in doubt, but Helen spoke:
"Not to-night, Gypsy. We must get a little more flesh upon your bones before we send you back. The boys will think we have been starving you."
Another voice now made itself heard.
"May I come in and see the little resurrection? Oh, Mr. Thurston, I did not know you were here. Good-evening; have you swooped down upon us to carry our treasure off? I owe you a grudge for tearing from my arms the little dark-haired 'mistake,' as I called her. How is she? Why are some people so indifferent to their offspring, I wonder? Did they give you as much as a 'Thank you' for bringing her back to them? You must know I adore children, and feel very aggrieved at Helen's selfish monopolisation of this little pet."
Helen's brow contracted, but she made room for her sister to come to Gypsy's side, and Mrs. Webster bent down and kissed and fondled Gypsy with great effusion.
"You poor dear little tiny atom of a creature, all eyes and mouth! What a time you have gone through! Tell your brother you will not leave us yet. Tell him we want to mother you, and hear your ringing laugh about the house. He shall not come and steal you away, like the wicked Ogre he is!"
She glanced up laughingly into Victor's impenetrably grave face, and made a pretty picture with her golden head touching the tiny one on the pillow, and her arms encircling the sick child.
Gypsy regarded her with great composure, but with a little curiosity.
"I don't know you," she said. "I don't think I've seen you before."
"Oh, you darling! How naïve children are! You haven't known any one around you whilst you have been so ill. I have often stolen in to have a look at you when the dragon who guarded you so closely was off her watch. Must you be going, Mr. Thurston? Now I insist upon your coming into the drawing-room and having a cup of tea before you leave. Don't say no. It is all ready; it is the least we can offer you."
She rustled out of the room, and Victor, stooping to kiss his little sister, followed her.
Helen came back to the bedside again.
"Tired, darling, are you not? I am going to give you some nice chicken jelly, and you mustn't talk. We shall have plenty of time for that by-and-by!"
Day by day Gypsy gained strength, and soon was quite convalescent. Miss Gubbins came over several times to see her; but her time was much occupied at home, and Claud's accident had taken up a great deal of her attention. Helen assured her that she loved nursing Gypsy, and was determined not to let her go till she was obliged.
And Gypsy, though anxious to be with her brothers again, was quite content with her surroundings. One afternoon, when she was sitting up in a large easy chair, she said, with a little sigh to Helen:
"Do you think it's no good for me to look for the Holy Thing any more?"
It was the first time she had touched upon the subject; but Helen knew all about it, and replied gently:
"Do you want very much to find it, darling? What good will it do you?"
Gypsy pondered for a minute.
"It will show me God is pleased with me, won't it? Besides, I have learnt the text that says, 'Seek Me early, and ye shall find Me.' We must find, the Bible says so."
"What do you think the Holy Thing is, Gypsy?"
"I think," the child said, in an awed whisper, "that it is a light that leads us straight to Jesus, and I want to see Him. Gubby says she thinks Galahad saw a bit of heaven, and went straight into it. I don't want to go to heaven, but I want to see Jesus down here. And if I could find the Holy Thing, I believe it would show me Him. He did show Himself in the Bible to people, didn't He? Oh! Don't you think if I try again I might one day see Him?"
"Do you love Jesus, Gypsy?"
"Yes, everybody does, don't they? I try hard to be good."
"And are you one of His little children?"
Gypsy was silent; then she said, "Has Jesus any naughty children? I'm not always good, you know, and sometimes I'm afraid of being shut outside the gold gates; that's why I want to find Jesus. I mean to ask Him something."
"What is it?"
Gypsy's tone was very earnest. "I mean to ask Him to promise me faithful that He will let me come inside heaven on the Judgment Day."
"What do you know about that?"
"Gubby has a very old picture Bible, and the boys and me like the Judgment pictures, but they're very frightening, and there are some children hiding under some stones, and a lot of people tearing their hair, and there's fire and smoke, and great cracks and holes in the earth. I dream about it ever so often, and I wake up just as I'm trying to creep under a stone. It's dreadful."
"But, Gypsy, darling, you need not wait till you see Jesus to ask Him to save you from that. You can ask Him now in this room. He is here, though you can't see Him."
"But I want to see Him," persisted the child rather querulously, for her weakness made her fretful, "and I'm sure the Holy Thing will let me find Him!"
Helen, seeing the rising flush on her cheek, forbore to say any more; and Gypsy did not allude to the subject again.
Only when Victor came to see her, a few days after, and asked her if he could do anything for her, she replied promptly:
"Yes, read me about the Holy Thing."
He laughed when Helen, without a word, handed him Tennyson's poem. But he sat down, and in a soft and mellow voice read the Holy Grail from beginning to end.
Gypsy listened with knitted brows.
"It's dreadful difficult how you read it," she remarked severely: "Gubby always makes it easy to us, and leaves out the long words."
"Gubby is a miracle! I cannot hope to be as clever as she. Well, you little oddity, hasn't it satisfied you?"
"Have you ever tried to find it?"
The question was asked rather breathlessly.
"No, nor do I want to. The world is too wicked, Gypsy; that sign has been taken away from us! We don't live in King Arthur's days. We see no visions now!"
"Sometimes I think the older days were best," said Helen gravely. "We are so easily and readily satisfied with all that goes on around us. We have no pilgrimages to teach us self-denial, no quests except for earthly treasures and ambitions. It is those who think least of themselves that strive to reach a high goal. And I suppose the sin of our age is self-assertion and self-satisfaction."
"You are a philosopher, Miss Scott," said Victor, smiling at her earnest tone and kindling eyes.
Gypsy struck in rather irrelevantly:
"Will Sir Perceval teach me lessons, now I've had a birthday?"
Her brother shook his head.
"Miss Gubbins will teach you for a good time yet, you mustn't want to leave her. She is very fond of you."
"Yes, I like Gubby, but I like Miss Helen too. Will she come and see us when I get home?"
"Perhaps she will if you ask her nicely."
Conversation was interrupted here by the entrance of Mrs. Webster. She generally found her way to Gypsy's room when she had visitors, and somehow or other if Victor was there, he soon followed her to the drawing-room. He certainly paid his little sister wonderful attention, for he was over to inquire after her two or three times every week; and before long he was almost looked upon as one of the family. He did not urge Gypsy's removal, he seemed quite content that she should remain with her new friends, and Miss Gubbins had at last to remonstrate very seriously with him.
"Gypsy is quite well enough to be moved by this time, it is trespassing on their kindness in having her."
"They are two idle women," he returned, with an easy shrug of his shoulders; "and both tell me Gypsy is a source of great amusement and interest to them. Why should we deprive them of her just yet?"
"I do not like the child to be nursed by strangers," said Miss Gubbins, rather stiffly; "she is my charge, and if you will not have her moved home yet, I shall leave you and the boys, and go to her."
"That is an awful threat! You know you have me in your power. I would not be left in this house two days with those imps of mischief without your protection. When do you want her back? Next week?"
"To-morrow," replied Miss Gubbins firmly; "you are going over there this afternoon, so you can tell them I will come in the close carriage for her, at any time that suits them best."
Miss Gubbins had her way, and the next day Gypsy took leave of her friends with much regret.
Helen received a very tight hug, and was made to promise that she would come and see the boys very soon.
"And may I not come too?" asked Mrs. Webster, bending over Gypsy with one of her radiant smiles.
Then Gypsy made a very blunt reply:
"You can come and see the Ogre if you like. Miss Helen belongs to me, the boys will like her, I know."
"Don't you like Mrs. Webster?" asked Miss Gubbins, as she was driving away in great satisfaction at having the little girl once again under her wing.
"No," said Gypsy, nestling against the kind arms round her; "I like Miss Helen, she's always the same, but sometimes Mrs. Webster doesn't take any notice of me at all, and she's cross to Trixy—he's such a dear little dog, Gubby—she kicked him yesterday! I don't like her at all."
THEY TALKED AS ONLY CHILDREN CAN.
CHAPTER XI
A Glimmer of Light
THE boys were delighted to have their little sister back again. After tea they all sat round the nursery fire on the hearthrug, and talked as only children can. Claud's foot was nearly well, but he made the most of his accident, and was most anxious that Gypsy should hear all about it.
"You see it has been a beastly job, and it was really all through you, Gypsy, that I did it. Of course, when you were lost, Don and I meant to find you. And when we came home late on your birthday, and Gubby cried, and all the servants turned out, and the Ogre looked as black as thunder and ordered his horse, Don and I thought we would get horses too, and that old Ogre actually collared us in the stable, and marched us into the house and locked us in up here, just think of that!
"Serve him right that he was out all night, and never found you!" exclaimed Donald, wrathful at the remembrance of this indignity.
"And just fancy his packing us off to lessons the next morning, as if nothing had happened! We tore away to Sir Perceval, and he was in a fume! He said he only wished he could get out of his chair, and look for you, and he said he thought you might have gone after the Holy Grail. He said there was a look in your eyes that made him think you would, when the chance came, and you did, didn't you?"
"Yes, I really did," nodded Gypsy, with a grave importance.
"Well, he's an awfully good chap, you know, so he raced us over our lessons, and then let us go, and we weren't going home—we went out in the farm-yard and got two of the cart horses, and Don said we were now knights in earnest, riding out to rescue a stolen damsel. We rode on ever so far, and then we had to ford a river, that's what the Ogre calls it, and Don got across all right, but my stupid beast, I think he twisted round and turned head over heels, anyhow I came over his head, and he kicked me, and I lay in the water nearly drowned to death, and in exasperating pain!"
"Yes," put in Donald, with a little chuckle, "he looked like a fat shark, bellowing on his chest, and the water not covering him. I had to get off my horse and drag him out, and he was yelling all the time; a fine knight he made!"
"And what did you do then?" asked Gypsy with much interest. "Did you get on your horse again and carry him home?"
"He couldn't get on his horse, it was too big for him, we had climbed on them at the farm from a gate," said Claud. "He ran down the road and fetched a man out of a cottage, and he carried me home, and the doctor was sent for, and Gubby made no end of a fuss. I was awfully hurt, I can tell you, and I'm not well yet!" Claud clasped both his arms round his ankle as he spoke, and Gypsy expressed great pity for him.
"We never saw the Ogre in such a stew before," said Donald; "he marched up and down the hall, and gave orders in a regular bellow to the grooms and people looking for you! And when three days passed, and you hadn't been heard of, Claud and I made up our minds you weren't coming. And Claud marched up to the Ogre and told him not to fuss himself any more about you, for you had gone like Galahad after the Holy Grail, and if you had really found it, you wouldn't come back!"
Gypsy opened her eyes widely at this.
"Well, you know, we did follow a light. Perhaps if we'd been a little quicker, we shouldn't have lost it as we did. Oh, I wish I had found it, I wish I had!"
And then she began to give them her adventures in detail, the boys listening with wonderful patience. Somehow or other Gypsy's escapade had raised her in their respect. They admired her for her pluck in going off on such a pilgrimage when darkness was surrounding her. And when they went to their lessons the next morning, they were full of what had befallen her.
Sir Perceval listened, and his eyes twinkled as they invariably did at any of the boys' recitals.
"We very nearly lost the little elf," he said; "and I fancy she has been very close on Galahad's track!"
"Do you think she really was? How?"
"I think she was very nearly through the river, from what I hear."
"Do you mean she nearly died? Gubby told us that, but Galahad didn't die, he just disappeared!"
"Ah, well, so they say; but what is death but just disappearance?"
"I shouldn't like to die," said Claud thoughtfully, "I'm afraid I'm not good enough. Would you like to die, Sir Perceval?"
Sir Perceval heaved a sigh, then gave a short laugh.
"I think I should have liked to die when I was Gypsy's age. Come, youngsters, where are your books? Remember you are here to learn, not to talk!"
It was not long before Helen Scott came over, but she was accompanied by Mrs. Webster, and Victor happened to be at home, so he, and not the children, entertained them. Gypsy was still far from strong, and the cold weather setting in, was kept much in the schoolroom. Helen came to her there for a short time, and promised to come again before long. This she did, but she never came alone, and the two ladies were so much in and out, that the children soon began to hear some unwise gossip amongst the servants.
Donald marched into the schoolroom one afternoon as tea was just commencing with his head in the air; a sure sign that he had something important to communicate.
"What do you think cook was saying to Jane just now?" he said, slipping into his chair, and addressing Miss Gubbins with great solemnity. "She said there would be a new missis here before long, and she hoped it would be the dark one, not the golden head, but it was difficult to tell!"
"The Ogre won't have any housekeeper while Gubby is here," said Claud confidently.
"Who is dark, and who has a golden head?" asked Gypsy.
Then Miss Gubbins spoke.
"Hush, children. Donald, what were you doing in the kitchen? You know how much I dislike your listening to the servants' talk."
"I wasn't in the kitchen, I was in the yard feeding the puppy, and cook was talking at the door. What a stupid you are, Gypsy! Of course it was your Miss Helen and her sister they meant. The Ogre is going to marry them!"
"Both?" gasped Gypsy.
"Yes," went on Donald delightedly, "he's going to have two wives—Ogres always do. He'll keep Miss Helen for a kind of best Sunday wife, and Mrs. Webster will do all the work in the week."
"Who is going to do all the work?" asked a voice suddenly, and Victor stood in the doorway.
He was a very frequent visitor in the schoolroom about this time. He liked to come in and have a cup of tea and a little chat with Miss Gubbins, and even the boys were beginning to find that he was not always so formidable as they loved to consider him.
Gypsy on the impulse of the moment made a rush at him, and in a tearful voice sobbed out, "Oh, say you aren't going to do it! You won't marry both, will you? Let Mrs. Webster go away, and never come back again! Don't let her live here!"
Poor Miss Gubbins flushed a deep crimson; she tried to call Gypsy to the table, but Victor frowned ominously, roughly detached Gypsy's clinging little hands from his own, and with the words: "I wish to goodness, Miss Gubbins, you would stop such impertinent talk!" He quitted the room instantly, slamming the door vigorously behind him.
"There's a fury!" exclaimed Donald.
"You are very naughty children to talk about such things," said Miss Gubbins, trying to recover herself, "and I shall be very angry if you mention it ever again to anybody."
But the mischief was done. Victor was gloomy and preoccupied for the next few days, and was away from the house when the ladies called. Then their visits ceased, and Gypsy began to wonder if her new friend had deserted her altogether.
When she was quite well again, she was allowed to go over and spend a long day with Irene, who welcomed her with much warmth and affection. Her governess, a tall, grave-looking person, kept a close watch over their actions, for after such an escapade, she received Gypsy with great distrust.
"Were you very glad to get home again, Irene?" asked Gypsy, as the little girls were sitting in a corner of the schoolroom playing with some toys.
"No, I wasn't. But I wasn't punished. I was only scolded."
"And what did your father and mother say?"
"I don't think they properly knew about it; Miss Carr told them a little. They were in London, you know. I wish I hadn't been found. Do you remember at the seaside long ago you told me to run away, Gypsy? Well we did it, didn't we?"
"Yes; I wonder if those people in the cart were gypsies. They stole our boots, Gubby says. She says she thinks I've been punished pretty hard for running away, for do you know, Irene, I've lost all three of my birthday presents. My gold sovereign, and my bow and arrow, and my lantern. And I've been ill too."
"Being ill isn't a punishment, it's very nice. I wish I could be ill," said Irene; "people make a fuss over you. Baby was ill over his teething, and mother sat up with him all night. She didn't go to bed at all, and she took him in her lap, and she had on her best black satin dress, and father ran all the way in the rain for the doctor himself. I've never sat in mother's lap all my life, even if she has on dresses that don't matter tumbling. I wonder if I was ill whether she would nurse me?"
"Of course she would."
"I wished I could live with that nice lady at the doctor's—Mrs. Webster—she was so kind to me, but I think she got tired of me the last day, when your brother came to see you. She pushed me away from her, and said I had made her so untidy, and she hardly said good-bye to me when the time came."
"I like Miss Helen best," said Gypsy thoughtfully.
"Gypsy, do you mean what you said, that it's no good ever looking for your Holy Thing again? Is it all a make up?"
"Oh no," said Gypsy, a little hesitatingly, "I'm only rather afraid people don't see it now. Miss Helen has talked a lot with me about it, and now I'm seven years old, I'm going to read the Bible by myself every morning before breakfast. She says that will show me what Galahad looked for more than any light out of doors. I don't know what she means. But she says the Bible leads people to Jesus."
Irene said no more, but presently took her little friend to the nursery, and Gypsy was enchanted by the bonnie boy that sat on his nurse's knee, and crowed and laughed with delight when he saw his sister.
"I should love him ever so!" she said afterwards when they were again alone.
"So I do. I like him better than I did. But he makes me naughty. The other day he put out both his hands and pulled my hair dreadfully. I screamed, he hurt so, and I slapped his cheeks to make him leave go, and then he screamed, and nurse hit me, and Miss Carr sent me to bed for the rest of the day. And when mother kisses and loves him, it makes me feel as if I'm more and more a mistake. I know I am. I'm no good at all. I don't know what will happen to me when I grow up, for no one wants me!"
Irene was in one of her dismal moods, but Gypsy soon dispelled it, and they parted firmer friends than ever.
Gypsy spent another pleasant day away from home, and this was at Sir Perceval's. He sent a formal invitation to her to come to lunch one half-holiday, and with a radiant face she was taken there by Miss Gubbins. Next to Miss Helen "Sir Perceval" held a warm place in the little maiden's heart.
The boys were on their best behaviour; the meal was a sumptuous one; and after it was over, Sir Perceval turned the boys out into an empty barn to have half an hour's romp.
"You must have some exit for your spirits, which have been bottled up so successfully for nearly an hour, and my room has not the capabilities you require. No, I am not going to let the little elf go with you. She looks as if the wind is waiting to blow her away from us, and I want to talk to her and show her some of Bob Bogus' pictures."
So, quite content, Gypsy remained with him, and her merry laugh rang out at all the comicalities she was shown. But presently Sir Perceval showed her a very different kind of picture, and Gypsy's face got soft and grave as she looked at it.
It was a sketch in black and white, of the shepherds finding their way to Bethlehem. The dark night, the bright star, and the poverty-stricken manger, all were faithfully depicted, and the Holy Child in His mother's arms was receiving their humble homage.
"Do you like it, wise eyes? You have seen many pictures like it. I am doing it for a magazine. Christmas is close at hand, you know."
Gypsy gazed and gazed, and then a brightness came into her eyes.
"They were out in the dark, like Galahad and me; they were looking for something, too, weren't they? And the star led them instead of the Holy Light."
"Yes; but they knew what they were looking for, which is more than most of us do."
There was a little bitterness in the young man's tone.
Gypsy looked up at him wonderingly.
"Are you looking for anything, Sir Perceval? Are you looking for the Holy Thing, like me?"
"I've been chasing shadows most of my life, I believe."
"Oh, but that is great fun. We do that in the schoolroom when the fire blazes, and when it is dark. You never can catch them; that's the worst of it!"
"No. One ought to have learnt that lesson by this time."
There was silence, which Gypsy broke by saying, "It's very hard and difficult to understand. Miss Helen told me the Bible was the Holy Light. But God sent the wise men a star; it says so; and it led them all right. And Galahad didn't have the Bible."
"Oh, you children!" said Sir Perceval, resting his chin in his hands, and looking steadily into Gypsy's expressive little face. "With such a jumble of facts and fictions in your busy brains, it must be hard indeed to understand."
"I'm trying to do it," said Gypsy, looking up at him earnestly. "Miss Helen told me a text about the Holy Light. She said, 'Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.' And she said that meant the Bible. Are you looking for a light, Sir Perceval?"
"I've been in the dark for many a long year, I'm beginning to find, and I've never yet been successful in my search."
Then in a lighter tone he said,—
"Never mind, little elf. You have set out on your search more earnestly than I have. Perhaps Miss Helen may be wiser than both of us. You have been unsuccessful so far and so have I. We might do worse than try her remedy. How is the Ogre?"
The subject was turned, and the boys soon came back, and then there was no more gravity amongst them.
CHAPTER XII
The Rebellion
"HI! Gypsy! Claud! Where are you?"
Donald rushed into the schoolroom one afternoon with a hot, flushed face. He had been down in the stable-yard looking after the wants of some young puppies, and now found Claud and Gypsy lying flat on their backs on the floor with smiling, expressionless countenances.
"What are you making such asses of yourselves for?" exclaimed Donald impatiently. "Do get up and listen to me."
"We're living in Topsy-turvy Land," responded Gypsy dreamily; "and I'm planning my dining-room. I should always have whitewashed floors, and a nice little wall to climb over when you go out at the door. You lie down flat, Don, and see how nice it is to pretend you can run about on the ceiling. We're living on the ceiling, Claud and I, and it's much nicer to be that way up than the way we are."
This novel and interesting occupation was brought to an end by a few sturdy kicks, and Claud and Gypsy scrambled up at last, and stood awaiting the communication from their brother.
"Look here, I'm not going to stand it!"
"Stand what?"
"The Ogre and his tricks. He's had a lock—a new key and lock—put on that old loft door where the apples are kept!"
Claud pulled a very long face.
"Why, old Barton told us there were plenty of apples there whenever we wanted to get them. He didn't mind us going there."
"No; we aren't thieves, to be treated so! And look here, the Ogre has given orders for four of the puppies to be drowned, and only the black and white one left!"
"He's a murderer!" exclaimed Claud.
"And more than this, the Ogre has told the new groom that we're not to be allowed inside the stables! He actually had the cheek to tell me I wasn't to look at Viper; said he'd be sent away if he didn't mind master's orders. Now just tell me if we're to stand this kind of thing!"
"Gypsy looks like a stuck pig!" said Claud.
Gypsy took her little finger out of her mouth, and spoke:
"The Ogre isn't nasty always."
"He's a bloodthirsty tyrant, he's a slave-driver, he's a monster, a brute, a beast, and we've got to mutiny, that's what we have to do!"
Donald began his sentence in fierce shrieks; he finished it in a solemn whisper.
"What's a mutiny?" inquired Gypsy uneasily. "I thought it was something belonging to the sea?"
"So it is," struck in Claud boldly; "but it belongs to the soldiers too. It's a—a—scrimmage, when the soldiers and sailors get the best of the captain. And we're neither."
"Well, we'll call it a rebellion," said Donald undaunted. "We've got to rebel and rout him out of his castle. We shall have to get him into one of the wine cellars—Smythe says they used to be dungeons,—and we'll keep him there till he surrenders, and then we'll make proper terms with him!"
This sounded very grand. Claud's eyes sparkled, but Gypsy stood her ground.
"How many does it take to make a rebellion?" she asked.
The boys looked at her, and something in her sturdy demeanour puzzled them.
"It takes three in this house," said Donald sternly; "there are no traitors allowed!"
"Then I'm afraid you'll have to get Gubby," said Gypsy, walking to the door. "I like the Ogre, and I'm on his side."
This was too much for the boys; they made a rush at her, and helter-skelter down the stairs they tore. Gypsy was fleet of foot, and she fled as if for her life through the big hall, out into the avenue, and down to the lodge gates without a hat or wrap, though dusk was already setting in, and the evening was cold and damp. The gates were wide open; on she fled, but her breath was getting shorter, and her steps were faltering. When she paused at last, and looked round, no boys were to be seen.
"There now, and I've been running away from nobody!" she exclaimed, in tones of relief. "I did think I should be caught. And I expect if I don't become a rebel, the boys won't play with me. It's dreadful difficult to know what to do. I shall have to go back and be a rebel after all, I think."
She was leaning against a wall as she spoke, trying to get back her breath, but she suddenly became aware that Victor was walking towards her, talking earnestly with a lady, who proved on close approach to be Miss Helen.
Gypsy was conscious at once that she had no business to be upon the high road bare-headed. She slipped behind a tree as they passed, and she heard Victor say:
"Darling, don't look for difficulties; there are none. I appreciate Miss Gubbins' value too much to dispense with her services, but I know she would be delighted to hand over the housekeeping and go back to her schoolroom, where she could give more time and attention to Gypsy and the boys. As it is, even since the young imps have been packed off to a tutor's, they always seem all over the place, in every piece of mischief that their busy brains can concoct. I never did understand children, and I never shall; I have no patience with them."
Miss Helen said something that Gypsy could not catch. She watched them go towards the lodge gate, and then, giving them time to get back to the house, she followed slowly in their steps.
But when she crept up to the iron gate a little time afterwards, she found Victor shouting furiously, and Miss Helen, half puzzled, half amused, standing by his side offering some advice. The iron gates were shut and locked, and Victor could not gain an entrance. A page of an old copy-book was pinned to one of the iron bars, and in straggling, uneven letters the following words were written on it—
"No surrender to the enemy!"
Victor was shouting to Mrs. Finch, the old woman at the lodge, but he did not seem able to make her hear; and Gypsy, in the excitement of the moment, presented herself at once before her brother.
"They've locked you out; and I'm on your side—I shall have to be now."
Victor turned upon her sharply.
"What are you doing on the high road by yourself? Where are your brothers?"
"They'll be shutting and locking all the doors in the house, I expect," said Gypsy cheerfully, feeling rather thankful that she was with the "enemy," now she heard his tone. "You see, it's a rebellion. They've only just begun it, but we shan't be able to get in, and where shall we sleep?"
Miss Helen began to laugh, but Victor evidently was seriously vexed. Again he called to Mrs. Finch, and this time she responded from her bedroom window, which she was opening with great difficulty.
"Ay, sir, I be mortal sorry and ashamed! I've been a-tryin' to open this 'ere window, but it do stick terrible. Those plaguey boys have a-locked of me in while I were a-tidyin' of myself up a bit, and there be nobody in but the cat, and they've run off with the gate keys, and I can't stir hand nor foot!"
Victor looked at Miss Helen with a comical look of dismay.
"It is a mile round to the other gate; can you walk it? These are the 'dear little manly fellows' you admire so!"
Miss Helen smiled.
"It is the originality I admire, and, well—perhaps the audacity. But I am afraid I must not stay; I really must not. I told you I could only just give you half an hour, for I am to meet my sister at the vicarage at five, and it is nearly that now. Look at this poor child shivering with cold. What are you going to do with her? Here, Gypsy, put my fur round your neck; that will warm you."
"I will walk back to the vicarage with you," said Victor quickly.
"No, indeed you must not. You would not leave this poor mite alone? She will have to trudge that mile all by herself."
"She ought not to be here at all," said Victor sternly.
Gypsy felt aggrieved, and in her open way said so.
"It's because I wouldn't be a rebel. I didn't want to have to starve you in a dungeon; that's where you're going to be put. And now—I'm a traitor for telling you; I know the boys will say so. I don't know which is worst, a rebel or a traitor."
Miss Helen stooped to kiss her.
"You carry your games too far, Gypsy. Tell the boys from me that they don't deserve such a brother as they have. Now, Victor, I will see you to-morrow."
There was a soft pink colour in Miss Helen's cheeks as she turned to the young man, who looked first at his little sister, and then at her, with perplexity and vexation.
For an instant he wavered, then he said with a sigh,—
"You have reminded me of my duty, and I will not neglect it. Of course you will see me to-morrow, and we will postpone the introduction to a more propitious time. I trust I shall not be over harsh with these scamps when I catch them. Come along, Gypsy, we will go round to the back avenue."
There were a few words aside between Victor and Miss Helen, and then he took his little sister by the hand, and set off with great swinging strides, and a frown upon his brow.
Gypsy trotted on, and presently tried to comfort him.
"I 'spect we shall get in at one door, shan't we? There are such a lot of doors and windows, but they may point a gun at us!"
"Pointing a gun" was Gypsy's secret terror. She had experienced it more than once from the boys, who would take down one of the old muskets in the hall when they got a chance. Miss Gubbins' awful stories of boys who shot a little sister dead by mistake when pretending to do so, did not impress the culprits half as much as it did their victim.
"And you know," continued the child, "you've only to give in to their terms, and they will let you in. Don said so. He shut me up in a cupboard the other day till I would do what 'Agony' wanted me to. And when I said 'Yes,' he let me out."
"Who is Agony?" asked Victor absently.
"She's a kind of secret person that can't be seen. Don said she came to tea with us last night. We had to sit very still, and talk in whispers. Gubby didn't know she was there, and talked just the same, but we didn't, for of course we knew her. Don says what grown-up people do and say doesn't matter to her, she only knows children."
Victor asked more about this "secret person." He always found his little sister extremely entertaining when he had her alone, and Gypsy was fast taking him into her confidence.
When they reached the other gate they found it open, but when they approached the house they discovered that every door was carefully barred. The boys had worked hard, and, from their point of view, successfully.
Miss Gubbins had been locked in her bedroom, and did not know it, for she was reading poetry. The servants were all gathered in the servants' hall at their tea, and the key had been noiselessly turned upon them, so noiselessly, that they were now gossiping away, in utter ignorance of their position. Smythe was locked in his pantry, and he alone was struggling to free himself, but being some distance from the servants' hall, his efforts were unheard.
Victor strode up to the front entrance door, and seized hold of the massive knocker with no gentle hand. Gypsy looked up at the house with awe.
"The rebellion is begun," she said, "and it's only you and me against them."
For a few minutes there was dead silence, then tumult from the servants' hall, and then a window was opened from above, and a white handkerchief tied to a walking-stick was flourished wildly in the air.
"This is a truce," piped Claud's small treble voice. "Are you willing to make terms?"
"You can't get in anywhere,"' shouted Donald excitedly. "We have taken captive all your servants, even old Barton, and the new groom and Ned are locked up in the harness-room, and we've taken the castle from you, and we're masters, and we've got the keys. You'll be starved to death and frozen with cold, but it will be no good. We shall never let you in! Three cheers for the rebels! Hip! hip! hooray!"
"Hip! hip! hooray!" echoed Claud, but his voice was shaky, and he looked a little scared.
The Ogre had got the best of it once with him and he could not forget it.
Then Victor spoke, and he appeared perfectly indifferent to these audacious speeches, for his voice was quiet and even.
"Now look here, boys. I dare say you're enjoying your game, but it must come to an end. I give you five minutes to think it over. If you choose to come down and unlock this door at the end of that time, and apologise for your behaviour, I will say no more about it. If you still refuse, you have only severe punishment in store for you. Take your choice. I shall say no more."
Victor then sat down very coolly on the low stone balustrade, and taking Gypsy on his knee drew out his watch. This high-handed proceeding rather disconcerted the "rebels." They drew in their heads and consulted together in low whispers.
"What do you think he'll do?"
"Do? Why, nothing much. Lock us in, I s'pose. That isn't wrong, of course; it's only wrong when we lock him out." And Donald gave a sniff of contempt. Then, leaning out of the window, after a little further talk, he shouted defiantly,—
"It isn't the proper thing for you to make terms. It's us who do that, and we're not going to let you in till you promise us three things. Would you like to hear them? Call them out, Claud!"
Claud thrust his fair head out immediately.
"You must promise us first that we shall not be locked out of the stables, or kept away from any place where we want to go. That's number one. You must promise us that no puppies or kittens shall ever be killed in this house again. That's number two. And you must promise us that you'll leave Sir Perceval and Gubby to look after us, and not meddle with us in the future. That's number three."
Victor made no response, only looked down at his watch, and gazed at the minute hand flying round, as if he had not heard.
Gypsy began to feel nervous.
"You won't be very angry with the boys, will you?" she whispered. "It's only a kind of game!"
There was no reply, and then putting her down, Victor stood up.
"The five minutes are up, boys!"
Another five minutes went by, and then, hearing no sound of the culprits, Victor made a quick spring on to one of the dining-room window-ledges, and in a moment had pushed the window open and was inside. The boys had not remembered to make all the window-fastenings secure.
Poor little Gypsy began to cry. She was cold and frightened, and did not like being left out alone in the dark; but in a very few minutes the door was opened, and Miss Gubbins drew her in amidst a group of very irate servants.
"Come upstairs at once, dear, to the fire."
And it was not till Gypsy was seated comfortably before the schoolroom fire that she ventured to ask:
"Where are the boys, and—and the Ogre?"
"In the library together," said Miss Gubbins, a little nervously. Then she added, "I'm afraid you are all much naughtier than you used to be. I never had any real trouble with you. They have never had a hand laid upon them, and I—I fear for the consequences!"
"What is a hand laid on them?—a whipping?"
"Yes."
Gypsy's eyes grew big as she gazed into the fire.
It was very quiet in the house now, but presently steps were heard along the passage, and the boys' bedroom door opened and shut.
"Gubby, may I go and see?"
"No, dear; stay with me."
And then the door opened, and Victor entered.
He came up and stood with his back to the fire, warming his coat-tails, and looked across at Miss Gubbins with a little shrug of his shoulders.
"It's over," he said, a queer smile coming to his lips. "Your pet lambs have been in the hands of the tyrant, Miss Gubbins, but I think it will be for the first and last time. I assuredly hope so. Boys require a man to deal with them occasionally, and they have found their master!"
"What did you do to them?" gasped Gypsy, looking at him in horror.
"I gave them a sharp caning, and I think they deserved it. But," he added, again smiling, "we shook hands after it, and forgave each other. And I don't think my stick will be required again."
Gypsy drew close to Miss Gubbins, and said no more. Her little heart was sorely troubled on account of her brothers. She was not allowed to see them again that evening, and when they came to breakfast the next morning, they so loftily ignored all the events of the preceding day, that she was afraid to show any pity.
Strangely enough, from that time a better understanding existed between Victor and his little brothers. The boys had learnt to respect him at last, and the manner in which he had dealt such summary punishment to them, without losing his temper, could not but impress them favourably.
The Ogre was never locked out of his house again. And when they heard that Miss Helen was one day coming to live with them, they shouted out with real fervour:
"Three cheers for the Ogre and his wife!"
CHAPTER XIII
The "Holy Thing"
IT was Sunday afternoon, and only a few days before Christmas. Gypsy was lying on the hearthrug, looking at Miss Gubbins' old picture Bible.
The boys, after a long whispered consultation in a corner of the room, had disappeared, and Gypsy, with her thoughts full of the "Star of Bethlehem," was thinking busily as she slowly turned the pages, and looked at the pictures of the shepherds and the wise men. Suddenly she started, and spelled out breathlessly the following words:—
"That Holy Thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God."
Then she stood on her feet with flushed cheeks.
"There, I knew it! I knew it! And here the Bible says so. The boys said the Holy Thing wasn't a text, and it is, and it does mean Jesus Christ Himself!"
At this moment the door opened, and in burst the boys. Donald had got two pillows strapped across his back, an old felt hat of Victor's slouched over his eyes, and a stout stick in his hand. Claud was ambling after him covered with a bearskin, and when Gypsy saw them she looked quite shocked.
"You're dressing up, and it's Sunday!"
"It's all right," Donald assured her, marching round the table with a great deal of noise. "It's a proper Sunday game, and it's out of the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' Claud is going to be one of the chained lions, and I want you to be the other. I'll tie you up with just room for me to walk between you, and you must try to grab me, and you won't be able to!"
Gypsy did not look as if she found this very enticing. She was too full of her own theme to have much interest in the boys.
"Listen!" she cried. "You told me long ago the Holy Thing wasn't a text. And it is. I have just found it in the Bible!"
The boys paused.
"We don't believe it!"
Gypsy read out her verse in triumph, and the boys listened, and had not a word to say. Gypsy went on:—
"I believe Galahad was like the wise men, and he was looking for Jesus, and the Holy Light was the star!"
"Oh, all right!" said Donald, a little impatiently. "I'm 'Christian' now, and he's a kind of Sunday Galahad. Come on and be the lion Gypsy! The Ogre isn't here to catch us, and Gubby is lying down, as she always is on Sunday."
"If we're lions, we're sure to wake her up," objected Gypsy.
"Well, look here, we'll come into the Ogre's library, that's away from everybody."
They left the schoolroom; and then ensued such a romp, and such howls and shrieks, that at last two maids and Smythe appeared and dragged the hot combatants apart.
"Ain't you ashamed of yourselves?" said Smythe severely, as he collared Donald and gave him a little shake. "Is this keepin' Sunday? And there's a lady downstairs a-waitin' to see Miss Gypsy, and she lookin' as if she's just come out of a pigsty!"
"I have followed you up," said a pleasant voice, and Miss Helen came in at the door.
There was an instant hush. The boys looked ashamed of themselves, and Gypsy began to cry.
"It's a proper Sunday game," said Donald, a little sulkily.
"It isn't," sobbed Gypsy. "I've torn my best frock, and the string you tied me up with hurt awful!"
Miss Helen drew her towards her, and soothed her ruffled feelings.
"I have just run in to wish you a happy Christmas, and to leave you a parcel, for I am going away to-morrow, and it will be my last chance of seeing you. Won't you put yourselves tidy, boys, and come to us in the schoolroom? Gypsy and I are going there now."
A little later the three children were seated quietly talking to their visitor. Miss Helen certainly had a wonderful charm for all children, and finding them in want of occupation, she settled down to interest and keep them quiet for a short time.
"Tell you a story," she said, answering the usual clamour; "what about, I wonder?"
"Oh, some adventures to travellers, that's what we like."
"Miss Helen," interrupted Gypsy, "I've found the Holy Thing in the Bible, and it means Jesus—it says the 'Son of God,' and He was the Son of God, wasn't He?"
Miss Helen looked at the verse the eager little maiden was pointing at, and then she said, after a silence:
"It's the same old story, children, only differently told. Galahad and others went to seek for the Holy Grail; Christian left his home and friends and travelled, seeking the Beautiful City; the wise men and shepherds sought the Saviour. We should travel through life, not seeking treasures on earth, but treasures in heaven. And if we find what the wise men did, we shall find everything. You are all little pilgrims. You have got enemies to fight every day, but you will never really advance towards heaven until you have found Jesus to be your own Saviour and best Friend. Have you done this?
"You will have plenty of adventures on your journey, many temptations, and troubles, and slips by the way; but if Jesus is with you He will take care of you, and take your hands in His. The Holy Grail that you are all so fond of, is a parable. It shows us that though Arthur's knights had plenty of honour and glory, though they were in the midst of earthly pomp and show, and could have been satisfied with their brave deeds, and all their surroundings, yet the best of them sought higher things. They looked for heavenly light and glory, and Galahad found what he sought, and was called into the King's presence. Live for heaven, boys, and you'll be following Galahad's footsteps.
"Be knights for Jesus Christ. That is a much more glorious thing than being King Arthur's knights. And a much more real thing, for boys and girls are wanted to fight the Lord's battles, to be always standing out as champions of the right, and putting down the evil."
Miss Helen paused. She had spoken with great fervour, and the boys were much impressed.
"I will belong to Jesus," said Gypsy, fervently looking up at Miss Helen with glowing eyes, "only I don't know how to start. And I don't understand the text, 'Those that seek Me shall find Me.' Can't I never, never really see Jesus? Is looking for the Holy Thing no good at all?"
"This is Christmas time, so we will think of the Christmas story," said Miss Helen. "Why did the wise men want to find Jesus? Wasn't it to own Him as their King, and present to Him gifts? Didn't the shepherds praise and thank God for letting them see their Saviour? If you children want to find Jesus, kneel down like the wise men before Him. He is with us always. Give Him the best gift you have—your little hearts, and thank Him for coming down to be your Saviour. Then live for Him, and let Him lead you on the road to heaven."
A hush had fallen on the little group; then Donald said, with much emphasis:
"I'll make myself a knight for Jesus Christ on Christmas Day."
"Ask Him to make you one, Donald. No one can make themselves into knights. They must be knighted by the king or queen."
They had a little more talk, and then Miss Helen went away, leaving behind her a parcel which was not to be opened till Christmas Day.
Miss Gubbins wondered at the quiet that reigned in the schoolroom, when she came in shortly afterwards; but though she was told of the visitor, she was not told of the substance of her talk; and she did not know that on that Sunday afternoon, whilst she was asleep, some seed had been dropped into good ground, that would eventually spring up and bear fruit a hundredfold.
Christmas was a delightful time to the children. Victor was going to be away himself, but he asked Miss Gubbins to make it as bright as possible to every one. The boys helped the old gardener to cut down evergreen, and bring it in to decorate the house; and now that the sense of their brother's absence took away all restraint from their actions, the place echoed and re-echoed with their glee. Christmas Eve came, and in the afternoon, tired out with play, the boys threw themselves down by the great log fire in the hall. Gypsy joined them; and presently she said:
"Poor Sir Perceval, he'll be spending his Christmas all alone! I wish we had some nice presents to send him!"
"Yes," assented Claud; "he ought to have something. Let's make him up a parcel, like Gubby is doing for the old villagers, and we'll take it to him before tea."
"What shall we put in?" asked Donald considering: then starting to his feet he said, "Come on, well make a collection, it will be great fun."
They borrowed a covered basket from Smythe, abstracted a wine bottle from the pantry, coaxed a cake out of cook, and then made their way to the store cupboard, where Miss Gubbins was doing up her parcels.
She, thinking they were wanting to have a little feast, gave them some candied peel, almonds, and raisins, and a few oranges. These were stuffed loosely into the basket, and they were followed by a velvet smoking-cap with a red silk tassel found in Victor's bedroom, a new Christmas number of the "Graphic," and lastly a puppy was produced from the stable and put in on the top. Then each taking a handle of the basket the boys sallied out, and Gypsy followed as closely as she could, dragging after her a large branch of holly, a special offering from herself.