Three Bright Girls: A Story of Chance and Mischance

CHAPTER XVI.

TRYING TO MAKE BOTH ENDS MEET.

Things go on quietly enough for some time, but as each day comes round it is pretty sure to bring with it some little trial and vexation; trifling in itself perhaps, but none the less wearying to the three girls, who with hopeful hearts are striving laboriously to cut and contrive in order to get the utmost out of every halfpenny.

Honor has shown from the first an almost dogged determination to have nothing brought into the house that cannot be paid for at once.

"We know to a farthing what our income is," she says quietly and firmly; "and what we cannot afford to have we must learn to do without."

Nevertheless it goes to the girl's heart when, having had to draw perhaps from the little sum set aside for the week's living for some other incidental expense, she has to say, "No meat to-day, girls and boys; we must make our dinners from potatoes and bread and butter."

"And very good fare too," some will say perhaps; but for girls and boys who have been brought up in the lap of luxury, and who in their sudden transition from affluence to well-nigh poverty have retained their usual healthy appetites, it is a little trying it must surely be allowed. To Doris and Honor the fact of having to deny themselves meat, and sometimes other things which are almost necessaries, is no great trial so long as they can somehow or other make both ends meet; but it does pain them to see that Molly's and Dick's faces are no longer so round and plump as formerly, and that little Daisy pushes away her plate of untempting food from before her sometimes, plaintively saying she is "not hungry to-day." The novelty of the situation having worn off also to a great extent, the spirits of Doris and Molly especially flag visibly at times; and while Doris sighs over her work with a generally listless air, Molly grows despondent, and even a little cross, as she goes about her daily duties. Poor Honor makes brave and determined efforts to preserve both her cheerfulness and her temper for the sake of all, but there are two little upright lines between her straight brows which tell of constant care and anxious thought; and many a quiet tear is shed when, tired in body and anxious in mind, the girl finds herself alone in her room with no one to witness her giving way to her overwrought feelings.

Still, there are gleams of brightness in the new life, and many an act of kindness is shown to the girls by the neighbouring families; on all of whom the Merivales have been most thoroughly impressed by the brothers Talboys. The first to call are the clergyman and his wife, and they prove to be affable, kindly-disposed people. Then most of the families round about call on Mrs. Merivale also, and do their best to cheer the girls with accounts of what goes on during the summer months, saying kindly that they hope they will look forward to plenty of games of tennis with their own daughters.

But although every one promises to remember their wishes to obtain teaching, and to do his or her best in the matter, no pupils come for Molly; and although Honor takes up her painting again with renewed ardour, nobody seems to require lessons in that either.

The brothers Talboys hold many a serious conversation over the trials and difficulties of their young friends, as they call them; but beyond sending them some game from time to time, or something from their own poultry-yard, dairy, or garden, they do not see their way to helping them much without running the risk of hurting their feelings.

One morning the old gentlemen are leaning over a gate looking admiringly at their sleek Alderneys grazing in the distance, when suddenly down the lane behind them come Daisy and Bobby hand in hand. During the short time that the family has been settled at the Rookery, these two children, and especially Daisy, have taken a firm hold on the warm hearts of the two old brothers. Their blind devotion to the latter would bid fair, indeed, to turn the head of any less good and demure little maiden than Daisy, for she can hardly express a wish in their hearing which is not gratified; and when the children go to tea at the Rosery—which event occurs once a week, if not oftener—the recklessness of their two frolicsome hosts in the matter of cakes, jam, cream, &c., defies description.

The brothers no sooner now see the children approaching than they pounce upon them instantly, and after duly inquiring after every one at home, Mr. Ned unfastens the gate, and taking Daisy by the hand leads her away into the field.

"I know you would like to come and speak to White-star," he says; "they are both going to be milked in a few minutes, and if you like you shall stay and see them, and have a drink of nice new milk too. What are we to do for a tumbler though, eh?"

"I'll run and fetch one, sir," pipes up little Bobby, who is perfectly at home in all the arrangements of the Rosery, both in and out of the house, "or shall I run to the dairy and ask Susan to bring something?"

"Yes, yes, my boy, that would be better, for you might fall down and cut yourself. Here, wait a minute, Master Bob, a piece of cake would not come amiss with the milk, I take it, eh? Go and ask Mrs. Edwards to put some cake, several large slices, into a little basket for you; and then we will all have lunch out here together."

"And give White-star some," cries Daisy excitedly.

"Oh, certainly, give White-star some," repeats Mr. Ned approvingly; "it would be a poor return after giving us her milk not to offer her any refreshment herself. I am not certain, however, that she would not prefer some nice fresh grass even to plum-cake if you were to pluck it and offer it to her. Ah! I thought so!" as the little girl goes fearlessly up to the placid-looking animal, her hands full of sweet-smelling grass. White-star stoops her head, gravely inspecting Daisy at first, then she puts her soft velvety nose into the child's hands and gently gathers up the contents into her mouth.

"It seems to me," says Mr. Ben, folding his hands over his stick and looking at the gentle pair—"it seems to me that White-star has a great deal to say to this little maid. What say you, Brother Ned? Now I shouldn't be the least surprised if she is thinking how much she would like you to have a lot of her good milk every day to fatten up your cheeks a little, don't you think so, Brother Ned?"

"I was thinking the very same thing myself," answers Mr. Ned, nodding approval of his brother's idea. "Oh! here comes Susan with the pail and the glasses, and here is Master Bob also heavily laden with the cake and the milking-stool. Now then, the first drink for the lady of course."

"And so it is your birthday to-morrow," suddenly remarks Mr. Ned after a longish pause, during which undivided attention is given to the milk and cake.

"Yes," says Daisy gravely nodding; "who told you?"

"Master Bob there. And he told me, moreover, what present he is going to give you, and I can assure you it will be—well, to use the young gentleman's own words—a regular stunner."

"Oh!" cries Daisy, "do tell me, Mr. Talboys."

"Oh, I couldn't think of such a thing. And why, bless my soul, it is getting quite late, Brother Ben; if we are to see these little folks home I think we had better be starting."

And so after a time the quartette appears at the Rookery, and the children are handed over to Honor, who has seen them coming through the gate. It is an everyday occurrence now this finding of the children with the two Mr. Talboys. If they are missing for any length of time, someone says, "Oh, they are up at the Rosery, of course;" and after a time sure enough they arrive either in charge of Priscilla, the parlour-maid, or with the old gentlemen themselves.

CHAPTER XVII.

DAISY'S BIRTHDAY.

The next morning every one is on the qui vive for the postman, for is it not Daisy's birthday! and will there not be mysterious packets, from the Horton's alone, enough to fill his bag!

The excitement of receiving the presents from her own family has now subsided; and Daisy, having seen Bobby's offering, consisting of a pair of black and white rabbits, duty installed in a separate hutch improvised for the occasion, and on which is scrawled, in somewhat doubtful caligraphy, Daisy's own name as proprietress, that young lady betakes herself to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Merivale is installed (feeling a trifle stronger to-day), in honour of her little daughter's birthday. At last the postman appears, and there is a general rush to the door.

A packet from Mrs. Horton, one from each of the boys, one from Aunt Sophia, and another from Miss Denison. There is also a letter for Honor from the last named, and one for Jane. With these two Bobby is despatched to the kitchen regions, where Honor and Doris are—the former making a cake—and where Jane is also. Doris seizes on the letter, and Honor's hands being floury, opens it and reads it to her, Jane having retired into the scullery with her missive.

Miss Denison's letter is like herself—kindness throughout. Not one little incident with which they have acquainted her is forgotten, and the whole letter conveys with it such an air of her affectionate manner that it almost seems to the girls as if she were standing there and speaking to them in person. She sends good news about the recovery of her fiancé; and in order that she may accompany him in his prescribed sojourn to the south of France, they are about to be married almost immediately. Doris and Honor are still chatting over the contents of the letter, when Jane, deluged in tears, rushes into the kitchen and startles them both with the announcement that she must leave at once.

"Oh, if you please, Miss Honor, mother's been taken ill so sudden, and my sister Sarah says I sha'n't never see her alive again very like if I don't hurry off at once."

"Of course you shall go, Jane," says Honor, suspending the operation of egg-beating and rubbing her hands upon a cloth. "Of course mother will let you go by the first train there is. Poor girl!" she adds kindly, putting her hand on her shoulder, for Jane with her apron to her eyes has subsided into a chair,—"poor girl! it is indeed sudden; but doesn't your sister give any hope, Jane? Perhaps your mother may get over this attack; while there is life there is always hope, you know."

"I don't know, I'm sure, miss," returns the girl with alternate sobs and sniffs. "There's the letter, Miss Honor; perhaps you'd like to read it."

Honor does so, and finding the case more serious than she had thought it might be—being in fact the doctor's own report—she hands the letter without speaking to Doris, and making her a sign to follow, quietly leaves the kitchen.

A fearful thought has just struck Honor, and as Doris comes out to her in the passage she stares at her blankly, saying:

"What in the world shall we do for her wages, Doris? She must have them before she goes."

"I have got the ten shillings aunt gave me when I left," says poor Doris dolefully. "I must give that towards them, of course. And I think mother has a little money by her. We must try and make it up among us, Honor, and we must borrow again from the house-keeping money, and dine off puddings and potatoes and such things a little more often."

Here Molly comes bounding out into the passage.

"Why, what is the matter with you two?" she asks. "You look as if you had discovered a dynamite plot or something."

Whereupon Honor tells her of the difficulty, and Molly, diving into the recesses of her pocket, draws forth a jubilee half-crown, which she has been hoarding up for future emergencies.

"Take it, Honor," she says, "it will have to go some time or other, so it may as well go now!"

And with a sigh of resignation she is turning away again, but Honor stops her.

"No, dear," she says, kissing her young sister, "it is like your generosity to give up all you possess; but with a little management, and perhaps a little help from mother, we shall be able to arrange, I am sure; and Doris shall not give up hers either."

"Well, but you are giving up every farthing of your own little private income for the good of everybody," exclaims Doris. "And I'm sure it is only fair that Molly and I should do the little we can do."

"Well, you know, Doris, I am only thankful that I have that little income to devote to us all. It would not give me the very slightest pleasure to keep it to myself; and, after all, girls, it benefits me as much as it does anyone. It's share and share alike with us all now, I think, isn't it?"

"You're a good old soul, and that's a fact!" cries Molly impulsively, "and the most unselfish creature that ever breathed."

"What nonsense, Molly!" says Honor, blushing at this burst of praise.

"She is quite right, of course," says Doris, "and I only wish I was half as good."

"And now," remarks Molly, "after this digression, as the books say, I suppose you mean to come and consult mother about Jane and all the rest of it, don't you?"

"Of course. You run and get the time-table, Molly, and we will look out a train."

It is with great difficulty that Jane can be persuaded to take all the money that is due to her.

"I'm sure, Miss Honor, I never thought about such a thing as wages," says the girl with her apron to her eyes. "I would readily have stayed with you young ladies and the mistress without thinking of money, miss, except when you pleased to give me a little now and again. And if you will just give me enough for my journey, Miss Honor, and so as I have a shilling or two in my pocket when I gets home, I would rather not take any more, if you please, miss."

But Honor and Doris together gently overrule the girl's generous impulses, and insist on her taking what is due to her, Mrs. Merivale adding a trifling present as a little return for the kindness of heart which Jane has shown to them all in their days of adversity.

In little more than an hour's time Jane has departed with all her belongings, and the girls and Dick are still standing at the door watching her, as with handkerchief to her eyes she goes down the road, when their attention is drawn to a novel kind of procession, consisting of the Mr. Talboys' stable-boy, Joe, bearing something resembling a pail, with elaborate care, the under-gardener with a wheel-barrow containing some large and odd-looking packages, and lastly Priscilla, holding in her arms with as much solicitude as if it were a baby, a long, mysterious-looking parcel. The party enters the gate with much gravity and makes for the side entrance.

"From the Mr. Talboys, Miss Merivale," says Priscilla, the man and boy bashfully hanging back. "Put the pail inside the door, Joe," she adds, and then she takes the packages from the barrow, and turning to Honor says: "Shall I step inside with them, ma'am? The masters told me I was to be sure and deliver them myself. Oh, and there's a letter for Miss Daisy as well. And I was to give the masters' compliments, and ask how Mrs. Merivale finds herself this morning."

Up to this point the girls have done nothing but stare with mute astonishment at the oddly-laden trio. But at length, when the parcels are actually laid down, and the maid stands waiting for her answer, Honor finds her tongue:

"Tell your masters, please," she says, "that mother is feeling a little stronger this morning."

And before Honor can say another word the maid is out of the house and through the gate, where the man and the boy—both grinning from ear to ear—are awaiting her.

"What can it mean?" cries Doris, beginning to feel the parcels, while Timothy, the cat, walks gravely up to the pail and commences a deliberate inspection of the outside. "This is knobby!" Doris goes on; "and this soft—O, my gracious! what's that?" as a sound like a rather squeaky voice is heard to issue from the long parcel.

"Let us read the letter," says prompt Molly; "then we shall understand it all. No, let Daisy open it—it's her letter. I quite expect they are birthday presents from the old gentlemen. Now, let us see!"

And they all crowd round the child while she carefully opens the envelope and unfolds the letter.

"To Miss Margaret Merivale.

"My dear Miss Daisy,

"Brother Ben and I are sending some little presents for your birthday, with our best love. The young lady herself is from Brother Ben, whilst her carriage and luggage (including her bed) are from myself. I believe the young lady is rather particular about her sleeping arrangements, and has therefore thought it better to take her own bed with her. White-star is most anxious that we should deliver a very important message from her. She sends her love, and hopes you will accept for a birthday present the can of new milk she is sending you, and that you will let her send you some every day for the future. White-star thinks it will fatten up your cheeks, and she would far rather you had her milk than that the pig should.

"Wishing you many happy returns of the day,
            "We are, dear little Miss Daisy,
                        "Your affectionate friends,
                                        "EDWARD TALBOYS.
                                        "BENJAMIN TALBOYS."

"There, didn't I say so!" exclaims Molly. "What dear old boys they are, and how fond of Daisy! Come along, child, and let us undo the parcels."

"O, what a lovely doll!"

Daisy stands perfectly entranced, and, truth to tell, a little in awe of the fashionable young lady which emerges from the many wrappings of soft white paper in which she has been carefully enshrouded. A young person of most eccentric character she proves to be, for on a certain spring being touched she walks along for some yards with her head in the air in a truly martial manner; and when (on her showing deliberate intention of walking into the coal-scuttle) Honor snatches her up from the ground, she gives vent to loud cries of "Papa! Mamma!" which astonish her hearers not a little. Finally, on being placed in a reclining position in her new owner's arms, she shows symptoms of faintness, and closing her eyes in a melodramatic manner lies back quite motionless. Daisy looks anxious at this catastrophe, but is reassured on finding that the young lady opens her handsome brown orbs again the moment she is made to sit up.

Honor and Doris presently suggest that all the presents shall be taken into the room where Mrs. Merivale is sitting, and a good hour or more is spent by Doris and the others in unpacking the handsome perambulator which has arrived with her ladyship, and also her beautiful bed. This last is completely fitted up, even to a little eider-down quilt. But the unpacking of the wardrobe—that is the thing! and Doris, at heart as great a baby over dolls and their belongings as Daisy herself, sits on the floor surrounded with walking costumes, dinner dresses, ball dresses, &c., and enjoys herself with her little sister to her heart's content.

CHAPTER XVIII.

DR. JOHN SINCLAIR.

That same afternoon Honor puts on her hat and walks into the village in search of a girl to take Jane's place, if such an individual can be found, which she privately doubts. She first goes to old Mrs. Evans, the charwoman, and makes a few inquiries about the girls in the village. This lady, however, probably with an eye to "No. 1," discourages the idea of "keepin' a gal permanent." With regard to herself she is "willin' to oblige, and don't mind how often she goes up to the 'ouse, pervided she gets one day in the week to do her own bit o' washin'." This not being at all Honor's idea, and the old woman appearing to have no other by which she may benefit, she takes her departure.

She next goes to the little grocer's shop and makes inquiries there, learning that they believe they know of a likely young woman. She has been living at the butcher's over the way, partly as nurse, they think, and having left about a week ago is likely to be looking out for a new place. Flora Smart is the name by which this young person is known. So Honor thinks she may as well go "over the way" as anywhere else to pursue her inquiries.

Mrs. Masters, the butcher's wife, is a brisk and chatty little woman, who enters into the discussion of possible and impossible girls with a keen and lively interest. She thinks Mrs. Phips possesses a granddaughter who, though not calculated to set the Thames on fire with her cleverness, is a good girl enough as far as honesty, truthfulness, and cleanliness go. She is greatly desirous of "bettering herself," whatever that may be; and Mrs. Masters thinks that if Miss Merivale don't mind the trouble of training her, she may turn out a handy kind of girl.

"I have just been recommended a girl called Flora Smart," remarks Honor presently. "I believe she was with you for a time, Mrs. Masters."

"Yes, miss; for a very short time though, I'm thankful to say. I had her to help with the children, and to give a hand when it was needed to my own servant that I've had with me for years. She was an idle hussy though, and didn't care to do anything but take the children out. Ah, and they nearly met their death, or might have done, with her wicked carelessness!" she adds with an involuntary shudder.

"How was that?" asks Honor, impressed with Mrs. Masters' manner.

"Well, miss, she had taken the two youngest out in the perambulator; and from what I heard after I suppose that, when she got half-way down Meadow Lane, there she saw some acquaintance of hers—a young man it was; and as she thought the perambulator might be seen if she took it with her, she just left it in the middle of the lane and ran back round the corner, quite out of sight of the children. Well, miss, it was market-day; and presently there came along the usual drove of cattle, the drovers far behind. Fortunately the doctor was coming along that way too, and recognizing them and seeing their danger at once, he just took and wheeled them home to me, saying as he brought them up to the door, 'I think your little ones will be safer with you, Mrs. Masters, than in the middle of Meadow Lane by themselves on market-day.' Dear! it did give me such a turn, to be sure, miss; for he told me after that he quite thinks the perambulator would have been overturned, some of the cattle were so wild and unruly. Ah, a kind-hearted gentleman is Dr. Sinclair! He would do anyone a good turn, from the highest to the lowest."

"Dr. Sinclair!" repeats Honor. "Is that the name of the doctor here, Mrs. Masters? I really didn't know there was a doctor here at all; though I suppose there always is, even in a little village like this."

"Dear me, now, Miss Merivale, to think that you don't know him even by sight, and he often rides up your way too!"

"I am generally too busy to notice many passers-by," says Honor smiling; "but now I think of it, I believe I have heard the Mr. Talboys mention him."

"Ah, to be sure you would, miss; if 'twas only on his father's account; though I'm not sure if the old gentlemen don't like the son just as well, if not better. But you see, miss, it was the old doctor that attended Mr. Benjamin with his broken ankle; I think they were all boys at school together—so I've heard my husband say. Yes, it was quite a blow to the old gentlemen when the old doctor died. There! talk of the angel—why, that's the young doctor himself coming up the road yonder. Now you can see him for yourself, miss.

Honor lifts her eyes as a rider comes slowly up the remainder of the steep hill which leads into the village. She sees a well-made, broad-shouldered man, who cannot be much under six feet in height, bestriding a handsome glossy chestnut, which in the matter of muscular strength and powerfulness of build is as noticeable as his master.

Dr. John Sinclair appears to be deep in thought, for his eyes are raised no higher than his horse's head as he sits flicking its ears softly with the end of his riding-whip, a performance which the creature apparently rather enjoys than otherwise, judging by the tossing of its head, accompanied by little whinnyings of approval. As he rides past the butcher's shop, though, the doctor raises his head, and catching sight of Mrs. Masters smiles brightly and courteously. As he lifts his hat, his eyes rest upon Honor with a little inquiring expression.

"Aye, that's just like him," says the woman with a gratified look as she acknowledges the young man's salutation with a pleased little bow, "he would lift his hat to a poor beggar woman just as quickly as to a duchess; and that's what makes every one about here worship him so. There's no thoughts of class or the like with Dr. John Sinclair, miss; and one to him is as good as another, where there's help and kindness needed. But there now, I am wasting your time, Miss Merivale, as well as my own. My husband always tells me mine is a terrible tongue to go, especially when any talk of the young doctor comes up, for then I always feel as if I could never say enough for him. Besides everything else he has done, he pulled my youngest boy through with croup, when every one else had given him up; and I have never forgotten that—no, nor ever shall. Well, miss, I think you will do well to go to Mrs. Phips. I know her grand-daughter is a decent sort of girl, though she ain't very bright. But I do think it would be worth trying her, perhaps. Oh, no thanks needed, I'm sure, miss," as Honor expresses gratitude for the information. "Good-day to you, miss; and I hope the girl may suit."

CHAPTER XIX.

A VISIT FROM AUNT SOPHIA AND THE HORTON BOYS.

After a tolerably satisfactory interview with Mrs. Phips and her granddaughter Becky, Honor at length returns home, where she finds unusual excitement reigning, all sorts of unexpected things having happened in her absence.

The moment her hand touches the latch of the gate Molly comes flying down the garden to meet her, her eyes sparkling, her hair blown about, her apron all awry.

"Such news!" she cries breathlessly. "That nice clergyman has been here, and he wants his little girl to have music lessons; so now I've got a real live pupil, Honor! Isn't that splendid? To be sure they can't give very good pay," she adds, a little ruefully, "but it will all help, won't it?"

"Of course it will, dear!" says Honor, kissing her. "I am so glad—"

Molly cuts her short:

"But that isn't all," she says. "Aunt's here, sitting with her bonnet on as usual, though we've all had a try to make her take it off. And mother seems quite cheered up. Well, then Hugh and Regy arrived by the same train, Hugh nearly bursting with most important news. Come along in; you can go and talk to them all while Doris and I finish getting the tea. Oh, and give me the key of the store-cupboard; I want to get out some of that lovely jam the Mr. Talboys sent Daisy. The boys wanted to come and help in the kitchen, but I shut them out and locked the door. I do hope Doris hasn't let them in in my absence!"

And being tormented with doubt on this score Molly retires in haste, and Honor enters the drawing-room, where she finds Daisy, with the assistance of Miss Celestine Ermyntrude Talboys—as she has persisted in naming her doll,—gravely doing the honours to Hugh and Regy, while her mother and aunt are seated close together in earnest confidential conversation.

In due course tea is announced, and as Mrs. Merivale expresses her intention of joining them to-day, there is quite a large party when Dick and Bobby also arrive home from a long ramble they have been having in the woods.

Lady Woodhouse, it appears, has come down with the intention of having a good long chat with them all, and to see how things are going generally.

Hugh's important piece of news is that he, having "worked like a nigger" for the last few months with a "coach," has sent in his papers, and is awaiting the result anxiously, but hopefully too, his "coach" having spoken in the highest praise of his ability when once he had put his shoulder to the wheel.

They have a very merry tea, and when it is over and the visitors have returned to the drawing-room, Doris and Honor remain behind to clear away and wash up the tea-things, while Molly goes to look after the poultry. She is engrossed in trying to prevent Mr. Pincher and one or two of the greediest hens from snapping up the entire supply of maize and other luxuries, which she is scattering amongst them, before their more modest companions can get a chance, when she hears a clear tenor voice not far off ringing out the words—

"O, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
    All lonely waiting here for you,
While stars above are brightly shining
    Because they've nothing else to do!"

Molly listens a moment, and then turning the basket upside down, and shaking out the last grains, she wheels about and faces Hugh as he comes round the corner and stands before her.

"It's a pity you have nothing to do but to go about singing such nonsense," she observes. "It may be all very well for the stars, perhaps—I don't know their ways and habits—but I should think you might easily find something else to do."

"Well, so I can, and do in fact, at least I have done lately," returns poor Hugh confusedly. "Come now, Molly," he pleads, "don't be hard on a fellow! I thought you would be so pleased with the news I brought down to-day."

"Well, so I am, of course; but," rather unkindly adds Molly, "you hav'n't passed yet, you know!"

Hugh looks a trifle hurt for a moment; but then he says quietly enough:

"No; you are right there, Molly. But if I fail this time I do think it will be my misfortune rather than my fault; for ever since you lectured me so on the subject of my work I have worked with a vengeance, and chiefly, I believe, for your sake."

"Why, what nonsense, Hugh! Why in the world for my sake?"

"Well, it's hardly likely I would want you to think that all your words were thrown away on me—pearls before swine, you know, and all that sort of thing. No; but seriously, Molly, I have done my level best to deserve the little bit—the very little bit, I'm afraid,—of good opinion you have of me. Though I don't mean to say that I hav'n't worked for my own sake too, and for mother's. But, upon my honour, I don't believe I ever saw the matter in a proper light until you put it so plainly before me, Molly. My mother has often said a few words to me on the subject, of course, but no one but you ever had the courage to tell me out to my face that I was fast drifting into an idle, useless vagabond; and—"

"I never said such a thing!" exclaims Molly, firing up indignantly. "How dare you say I said what I didn't!"

"Well, really, you know, you implied something of the sort. Now, didn't you? But you won't let a fellow finish what he is saying. I was going to add that no one had ever tried to show me what I might have drifted into but you; and I shall always feel that I owe you a debt of gratitude for it, whatever you may say to the contrary. And I tell you what, Molly dear, I have felt happier during these few months of hard work than I have for a long time past. It has roused me, and given me a taste for work, and made me feel that there is something worth living for beyond the little everyday pleasures of life. Ah! I shall often think of my little mentor and the d-u-s-t she wrote on my books, when I am miles and miles away; that is if I go," he adds hastily, anticipating any incredulous remark which Molly may be about to make.

"Of course you will go away, if it depends on your passing your exam," says the girl quietly, as they go slowly back together by the laurel hedge, she pulling off a dead leaf here and there. "I always said that, if you remember; I mean that it rested with yourself, as it were. You see, too, what your 'coach' told you."

"Oh, hang the 'coach!'" exclaims Hugh disrespectfully. "I care a hundred times more for your opinion than for old Dobson's; though he's not a bad sort of fellow, and a perfect rattler at cramming."

"Of course," says Molly demurely, "I know my opinion is of exceeding great value; but, you see, I haven't been in the habit of cramming a lot of young men for a good many years past, and therefore his experience may possibly be wider than mine. Now, come in, and talk to mother and aunt; your train will be going before long."

"Stop a minute," cries Hugh, catching her hand and detaining her before she opens the door; "will you write to me if I do go away, Molly?"

"Oh, yes," she replies graciously; "I'll write. And, look here, Hugh, if you should go very far away, say to China, or New Zealand, or—or—Kamtchatka—I'll work you a pair of slippers—there!" And with a grave, emphatic nod, she pushes open the door and runs into the house.

In the meantime Lady Woodhouse has been hearing all the news from Doris and Honor, the former of whom is seated on a footstool at her aunt's feet, her chin resting in her hands, and with a generally doleful sort of air about her.

"No, it's no use, aunt," she is saying. "I hate domesticating, and that's all about it. I've tried my hand at everything pretty nearly, and I think each has failed in an equally successful manner. A beef-steak pudding is a thing to be spoken of with bated breath in this house, ever since I made one, not long after we settled here. I believe the whole family suffered from violent indigestion for a week and more; and now if it is proposed to have a pudding for dinner, someone—generally Dick or Molly—inquires in a most pointed manner, 'Who's going to make it?' I tried a treacle pudding one day, when they had well recovered from the other; but I was so flurried with thinking how in the world I should prevent the treacle from running out at the ends that I forgot the lard altogether; so no one suffered from the richness of the paste that day, because it was simply flour and water. It doesn't seem to matter what it is," poor Doris goes on after a pause; "I even failed in boiling some potatoes the other day, for the water all boiled away (I suppose I didn't put enough), and I found the potatoes all stuck to the bottom of the pot, and burnt horribly! And it's just the same in other things. If I feed the chickens in the evening one of them is sure to be found either dead or dying the next morning. The very milk goes sour if I by chance put it away!"

"Hum—that's because you don't put it in the right place, I suspect," remarks Aunt Sophia grimly.

"Very likely; but that doesn't alter the fact that it does go sour, and that everything I have to do with is bound to go wrong in some way or other. Now, aunt, do take off your bonnet!"

"I tell you I'm not going to, child," says Lady Woodhouse, holding on to it with both hands. "You know very well that until my trunk is unpacked I cannot get a cap, and sit bareheaded I will not. But if you are so very anxious upon the subject you can take my keys and go and find one."

Molly, who has just entered, volunteers to do this, and after this little interruption Lady Woodhouse says abruptly:

"Well then, Miss Doris, I take it that you are not of very much use in this establishment, eh?"

"No, I am afraid not," answers Doris, looking rather crestfallen. "The only thing I can do decently is needlework, and I am of use in that sometimes. Am I not, Honor?"

"You are lots of use in all sorts of ways, Doris; only you allow yourself to be so easily discouraged. But she does do plain needlework beautifully, aunt; and, oh, there has been such a lot of mending and darning to do in the house linen since we came here. We only brought what was very old. The best was all included in the sale."

"I don't believe it need have been," grumbles Doris in an undertone; "but you know, aunt, Honor became quite aggressively conscientious by the time we were actually leaving. I declare I wonder she allowed us to keep our own hair!"

"Doris!" exclaims Honor, in the midst of a general laugh.

"Very well, then," resumes Aunt Sophia, quite regardless of the interruption, "you would not, I suppose, be missed from home so much as one of the others. Now, how do you think you would like to go abroad with your uncle and me for a time? Mind you," she adds quickly, "it would not be a short time probably; our travels might possibly extend over a year, or even more. Now, the question is, can your mother and sisters and these boys spare you—and can you spare them?"

Doris gasps. Poor girl! to travel is always what she has so greatly longed to do. And her father had promised her that "he would think about it one fine day." And now to have the chance after all, when she had fancied it had gone for ever! No wonder Doris gasps with delight as she looks eagerly round to read in the others' faces their ideas on the subject.

"I don't know yet when we shall be going," continues Lady Woodhouse, without waiting for anyone to speak. "Your uncle has some law business on hand, and he can't leave till that is settled; and goodness knows when that will be. However, you'll want a little time to get ready, won't you? And I think you might decrease your mourning now, Honor, or certainly in another month. People don't now wear the heavy crêpe that they used, even for a parent. Oh, my cap? Thank you, Molly."

"I hope it is the right one, aunt," says the girl as she stands waiting for the bonnet.

"It can't very well be the wrong one, child, since I only brought one with me. Did you think I would bring a dozen for a visit of two days?"

So at length, after a good deal of argument for and against, it is settled that Doris is to hold herself in readiness to accompany her uncle and aunt whenever they feel disposed to summon her.

Honor does not disguise the fact that she will miss her sister not a little.

"Of course it is all nonsense Doris saying she is of no use," she remarks, stroking Vic's soft drooping ears. "She has for one thing taken Daisy and Bobby regularly to their lessons lately, and even Dick has joined them sometimes, but somehow he and Doris don't pull very well together on the subject of study, and I'm afraid just lately it has been dropped altogether. Of course, when Doris goes this will fall to me or Molly, but Molly would be as sorry as I should to let poor Doris miss such an opportunity; and for aunt's sake too we shall be glad for her to go. It is the least we can do after all her goodness to us."

"Tut, child," says Lady Woodhouse, "that is nothing; you are all good girls, and I am glad to do anything I can for you. But it seems to me that Doris is the best, taking her altogether, to come with us to see something of the world; and then, of course, she is the eldest."

"Yes!" cries Doris, jumping up and clapping her hands; "and, who knows, I may marry a duke yet!"

"Marry a fiddlestick!" snaps Lady Woodhouse; and there the subject drops for the present.

CHAPTER XX.

BECKY.

Just as Lady Woodhouse is about to take her departure two days later, the new domestic, Becky Phips, arrives, accompanied by her "gra'm'ther," who assists in carrying her small box and a mysterious brown paper bag on which much care is lavished by Becky, and which afterwards turns out to contain nothing more nor less than that young person's "best 'at."

Aunt Sophia, who is standing on the steps peering up and down the road in search of the fly, now due, which is to convey her to the station, catches sight of the girl as she goes round to the back entrance, and raising her hands and eyes at the same time turns to Honor, exclaiming—

"Good gracious, child! Where did you pick up such an eccentric-looking piece of goods as that? Did anyone ever see such a remarkable head! My dear Honor, mark my words: that girl will either turn out extraordinarily clever or surprisingly stupid. She could be nothing between the two with a head like that, you know. Let me know, child, which she proves to be. I shall quite look forward to hearing whether she is an unsurpassable treasure, or whether she drives you all to despair and madness by her outrageous stupidity. Ah, here's the fly! That's right. Now, Honor, don't forget. All right, driver." And away goes Aunt Sophia, nodding her head out of the window until a bend in the road hides the fly from view, and the girls go indoors again to interview Becky. Certainly she is a remarkable-looking young person; and many a grave discussion is held as to the phrenological meaning of the enormous bumps on either side of her head. To Becky herself they chiefly mean that not all the bonnet-pins and hair-pins in the world will keep her cap straight; if it is not leaning over too much on one side, it is sure to be on the other. This imparts a rakish sort of air to the girl, which is trying in the extreme to Mrs. Merivale.

At last Dick settles the matter off-hand one day, by announcing once for all that they are the bumps of hunger—the girl proving to have an insatiable appetite, and the consumption of bread, potatoes, and anything in the nature of pudding being truly astonishing—not to say alarming—since her arrival at the Rookery. It does not take Honor long to make up her mind as to what will be the report to her aunt regarding the girl's possible cleverness or stupidity, for she presently developes such an apparently inexhaustible fund of the latter commodity as often to reduce the entire family to the verge of frenzy. There are only two things which Becky appears capable of doing with any regularity or determination, and these are "swilling" the back-yard and letting the kitchen fire go out. Thus little scenes are constantly taking place as follows: Mrs. Merivale expresses a wish to have a cup of tea somewhat earlier than usual. Honor goes into the kitchen. Kettle ostentatiously placed over what was once a fire, but is now a depressing collection of black cold cinders.

Honor—"I thought I told you, Becky, always to have the kettle boiling by three o'clock. Just look at it."

Becky (with cap awry)—"Ain't it boiling, miss? Why, I put it on nigh two hours ago. I'm sure I did!"

Honor (desperately)—"What is the use, Becky, of putting the kettle over a fire that has gone out. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I don't believe I shall ever be able to teach you anything; I really don't!"

Becky (resignedly)—"No, miss."

Then perhaps Doris, in an unusually domestic frame of mind, will come rushing into the sitting-room one morning, her arms full of the little light muslin draperies with which, at small cost, she and her sisters have so smartened up the scantily furnished bedrooms.

"Now, girls," she cries, "anything in this line that you want washed? Mother has actually trusted me with her lawn collars and cuffs. She remarked (in a not very complimentary manner, I think), 'that at least I could hardly do them worse than old Mrs. What's-her-name does them.' Yes, do you know, I really think I shall develop a talent for washing and ironing—so long as it is something light and pretty—laces or muslins, or something. I feel that it is in me somehow. Now, don't laugh! I'm going to dare Becky to let the fire out, on pain of death or instant dismissal."

All goes well and merrily for some time. The fire burns brightly, the kettle sings, the boiler hisses; and Doris, also singing, and attired in a big coarse white apron, stands over a small tub, her pretty arms plunged up to the elbows in soap-suds.

In the afternoon, however, loud and wrathful lamentations rend the air when Doris, having enjoyed a well-merited lounge in the only comfortable chair in the sitting-room, goes into the kitchen to commence her ironing, and finds—a plentiful supply of irons indeed, but carefully arranged before a fire which has been out a good hour or more! Doris does not take these little contre-temps so quietly as Honor, so there ensues a stormy torrent of scolding on her side, and mild protestations and feeble efforts at self-justification on Becky's, until the latter finally retires in floods of tears into the scullery, and Doris, being remonstrated with by Honor, rushes up to their bed-room in a fit of the sulks and locks herself in.

On the first Sunday that comes round, however, the whole family is electrified by an unexpected talent, not to say genius, for boot-cleaning, which Becky suddenly proves herself to possess.

It has been noticed that from the neighbourhood of the wood-cellar where she keeps all the paraphernalia of brushes and blacking, sounds of one of Moody and Sankey's hymns have been issuing, pitched in an unusually high key, and when, a little later, Becky places all the boots in a row at the foot of the stairs, saying with pride, "There, miss; I think I've made them look proper!" the girls feel that the joyful sounds are accounted for.

Indeed, as Honor, Molly, Dick, Daisy, and Bobby are all seated afterwards in the little village church, on a conspicuous bench without any front, and right under the reading-desk, the eyes of the eldest girl travel proudly down the row of neat-looking boots and shoes, till they reach Bobby's little high-lows, when her pride receives a sudden shock, for right across the left one she notices for the first time an ugly-looking crack, which will of a surety develop into a split in a day or two. It is to be feared that poor Honor's attention wanders from the sermon more than once that morning, her mind being harassed and distracted with the constantly recurring thought, that unless Bobby is to go almost barefoot he will certainly have to be re-shod before that week is out.

CHAPTER XXI.

A DISASTROUS VISIT TO A FROG POND.

But before that day is out Honor finds that there are likely to be more troubles before her than the want of new boots. For Daisy, who has been trusted to the care of Dick and Bobby for a long walk in the fields, comes home with flushed little cheeks, cold feet and hot hands, and while declining in her quiet, determined way to touch a morsel of anything to eat, begs, almost with tears in her eyes, for cup after cup of tea.

"The child looks really ill," says Mrs. Merivale anxiously. "I can't think what can have made her feverish so suddenly."

"What have you been doing with her?" demands Molly of her two brothers as she cuts bread with an energy almost terrible to behold.

Bobby mutters something unintelligible about "frogs," his mouth being full of bread-and-butter at the moment. But at length, after a cross-examination of both boys, it turns out that Daisy, who is a lover of anything in the way of an animal from caterpillars upwards, has been standing for a good half hour and more on the wet, marshy banks of a large pond, admiring the frogs with which it abounds.

"I suppose the time passed quicker than we thought," Says Dick apologetically. "It was such fun, you know; for some of them came quite close to us. I had a job to keep Daisy from going right into the shallow water after one old fellow, who was sitting up on a kind of plank."

"He was washing his face," explains Daisy in a husky little voice.

"He wasn't," says Bobby; "he was scratching his ear!"

"I don't believe they've got any ears to scratch," remarks Dick placidly. "You'd better pile it on, young Bob, and say he was wiping his eyes with a fine cambric handkerchief."

"You should have been more careful, Dick," puts in Mrs. Merivale. "You know how susceptible Daisy is to cold; and I'm sure we thought you might be trusted with her."

The poor boy looks terribly taken down at this mild reproof, for his devotion to his little sister is great, and there is nothing he would not do for her sake. He almost gulps, therefore, as he explains further that he had tried in vain to make the child leave the spot when once he had remembered how imprudent it was for her to be standing there in the damp.

At this point there is an unexpected diversion, caused by Daisy demanding to be put to bed—a most unprecedented request, it being, as a rule, her one aim and object to keep out of bed as long as possible.

She is taken off, therefore, by Doris and Honor, having first kissed Dick, and stroked his cheek with her feverish little hand, saying:

"It wasn't Dick's fault, you know. I wouldn't come away from the frogs when he wanted me to; so you mustn't scold him, mother, dear."

As the evening wears on the child seems to grow so much worse that Honor consults her mother as to the advisability of sending for the doctor; and in a short time Dick is despatched with a little note begging him to look in as soon as possible. He soon returns, with the information that the doctor is expected in soon, and that the note would be given to him at once. The boy has hardly hung up his cap in the hall when a firm, brisk step is heard on the gravel path outside, and in another minute (the front door being open) Honor, who is crossing the hall, finds herself shaking hands with the young doctor in as friendly a manner as if she had known him all her life.

"I was out at rather an important case," he says, making for the staircase as a matter of course, "when your brother left the note; but I believe I caught sight of him just as he was leaving my place. I was only half-way up that dreadful hill, and not near enough to call to him, or I might have ridden on at once. My horse was tired though, and when I found there was no immediate hurry I thought I had better walk up and see the little patient. Is she in bed, Miss Merivale?"

"Oh, yes," Honor replies, leading the way upstairs; "and as soon as we got her into bed she became very feverish. And she is dreadfully restless, poor child. I hope," stopping abruptly on the landing and facing the doctor, "I do hope, Dr. Sinclair, there is no scarlet fever about here. She is so dreadfully flushed, and so thirsty that Doris—Doris is my eldest sister—and I have been getting quite nervous."

"Do not alarm yourself on that score," says the doctor reassuringly. "I can honestly tell you that there has not been a case of scarlet fever in this healthy village for years. No; your little sister has always looked to me a delicate child, and to tell you the truth I have noticed lately that she has certainly become more fragile than she seemed to be when you first came here. We doctors notice these things where others would not, perhaps. Now for my little patient," and he walks into the room, closely followed by Honor, never noticing the painful flush which his words have called to the poor girl's face.

"She has certainly become more fragile since you came here!"

Yes; these words fall on Honor's heart like lead, and cause it to feel as heavy; for has it not been her constant and painful reflection that ever since they left the old life poor little delicate Daisy, with the exception of White-star's milk, has had very little of the nourishing, strengthening food to which she has been accustomed ever since her birth.

After a brief introduction to Doris, Dr. Sinclair makes a grave and careful inspection of little Daisy. Presently, with his cool firm hand resting on the child's forehead, he turns to the girls, and speaking in a slightly lowered voice he says:

"There is no danger of its being infectious fever of any kind. She is suffering from a severe form of low fever; a thing that with so delicate a child is even more difficult to treat sometimes. Her constitution has completely run down, and she has no strength to speak of at all. Has she had no appetite? What have you been giving her to eat?"

Honor flushes again painfully as she answers in a low voice:

"She has had a good deal of milk lately, Dr. Sinclair; and sometimes a little fowl—and—eggs, of course. And Daisy is fond of milk-puddings; and—and in fact she has a great many puddings of all kinds—" and here the poor girl breaks off suddenly, feeling in her heart that it is not a very extensive list of dainties she has enumerated.

"But meat," says the doctor, turning smilingly towards Honor; "what meat has she had? She wants good steaks and chops and strong beef-tea, jellies and a little good port, and that sort of thing. Hasn't she cared for meat lately?"

The tears fill Honor's eyes and a lump rises in her throat, but she swallows it down bravely; and turning a little away from the keen eyes of the doctor, says sadly:

"My little sister used to have all these things in my father's lifetime, doctor, but since he—since he died we have not been so well off, and," with a pitiful little smile, "we have not been able to afford all these nourishing things which we know dear little Daisy ought to have."

Honor's face is almost as white now as it was flushed before, for the effort to speak thus has been great. She turns towards the window, but before she can reach it the doctor is at her side with outstretched hands.

"Forgive me," he says simply; "I had forgotten all your trouble. Please forgive my careless, and what must have seemed to you, my heartless words."

"Indeed," replies Honor gently, and accepting his proffered hand, "there is no need of forgiveness. You only spoke the truth, though it sounded a little cruel at the moment; but it was my fault in being so silly as to feel it," and she hastily wipes away two obstreperous tears which have forced their way from beneath her lowered eyelids.

"It was my unfortunately straight way of speaking," resumes the doctor moving towards the bed again; "speaking right out what I think without considering the consequences."

"Unfortunate," repeats Honor, raising her eyebrows; "I should call it a very good way of speaking. I think it must be dreadful to lack the courage to say what one really thinks."

"Oh, yes, of course," the doctor agrees; "but there are always two ways of saying a thing, Miss Merivale; and I assure you I often get myself into hot-water with my bluntness of speech, especially with touchy old gentlemen whose ideas as to their ailments, either real or imaginary, do not always agree with mine. Now then, I will tell your mother what to do for the little patient if you will take me to her, and I will send round a draught directly I get home."

"Mother will be very pleased to see you, Dr. Sinclair, but please give me all the necessary directions about Daisy. Doris and I will have to nurse her, so it will be better."

"Certainly. But is your mother ill, then?"

"No, not ill exactly," replies Honor truthfully; "but she is very delicate and extremely nervous, and we, my sisters and I, always save her all the trouble and anxiety that we can. Indeed," she adds hastily, seeing a slightly incredulous expression pass across the young man's face, "she would not be strong enough to do anything in the way of nursing."

"Hum!" mutters the doctor grimly, and following Honor walks down to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Merivale, with smelling-bottle close at hand, is reclining on the sofa. It does not take the clear-sighted doctor long to sum up this lady's character.

"Full of fads and fancies," he thinks to himself as he stands, hat in hand, answering the questions she puts to him concerning the state of her little daughter.

So, preferring to make Honor responsible in all matters connected with the sick-room, he takes his departure as speedily as politeness will let him, saying as he shakes hands with her that he will look round early in the morning. By that time poor little Daisy is considerably worse, the fever having increased greatly during the night. Dr. Sinclair looks grave, and thinking it better to be open with his "sensible little friend," as he calls Honor to himself, tells her plainly that the child will in all probability be seriously ill.

"Do not alarm yourself unnecessarily as yet," he says kindly to her and Molly, who with widely opened eyes is scanning his face anxiously, "she is very young, of course, and although her strength is at a very low ebb she will very likely pull through it quite nicely. It is wonderful what children do go through. So we must all cheer up and hope for the best."

CHAPTER XXII.

DAISY'S ILLNESS.

About an hour after the doctor has gone that morning the garden gate is rather hastily opened, and there is a ring at the door-bell. The Mr. Talboys, in the last stage of anxiety, have arrived to inquire about their little favourite.

"Now, my dear Miss Honor," they both cry, each seizing one of her hands, "is there nothing we can do—either for the poor child or for yourselves, you know? I am quite sure there must be something, if we can only think of it. Calves-foot jelly now, for instance. Mrs. Edwards makes most delicious calves-foot jelly. She shall make some this very day—eh, Brother Ben? Yes, we'll call at the butcher's on our way home and see if they have any calves' feet, and if not, why, they must kill a calf, that's all."

Then the two old gentlemen explain that they had met Dr. Sinclair in the village, and he had told them about poor little Daisy—the first they had heard of it; and so they had come right off to inquire without delay.

"And now," says Mr. Benjamin, taking the initiative for once, "you must remember your promise, Miss Honor, my dear, to let my brother and myself know at once if you can think of anything—no matter what—that we can do for you. Now Priscilla, for instance. Don't you think she would be a help if we sent her over to you for a few hours every day? I don't mean actually for the nursing, but to give assistance in a general sort of way in the house, you know. She is a good-natured, warm-hearted girl, is Priscilla, and I am sure would be glad to turn her hand to anything—eh, Brother Ned?"

"Just so, just so," agrees Mr. Edward, planting his stick firmly on the floor; "a very excellent idea, Brother Ben; but of course it is to be exactly as Miss Honor thinks herself. And now we must not waste her time any more. You will give Daisy the flowers, with our love, and—oh, yes, I remember—the boy will be round by and by with a few little things that we thought might be useful. Good-bye, good-bye!"

And before Honor has a chance of saying a word of thanks off the brothers trot together, waving their hands smilingly to her as they look back from the gate.

It is a long, long time, however, before poor little Daisy can touch any of the tempting and strengthening things which the kind old gentlemen are constantly sending up to the house, for she soon becomes so much worse that a little of White-star's milk, with soda-water, is almost all she lives upon for some time. It is, indeed, an anxious fortnight for all while Daisy—the pet and darling of the household—lies so weak and helpless, and, in the intervals between the attacks of fever, so patiently on her bed of sickness. Her little frame is so wasted, and her weakness so great, that to those watching around her it sometimes seems as if each breath drawn might free the spirit from the little frail body.

Through all this period of sadness and trouble Dr. Sinclair proves himself a most kind and untiring friend. Indeed, before many days are over the good-hearted young fellow is on perfectly familiar terms with the whole family, and besides attending to his patient he looks after each one individually, from Mrs. Merivale, whom he gets gradually to like and pity, down to young Bobby, whom he finds on his arrival one day prostrated with a violent bilious attack, an almost inevitable consequence of his having taken both dinner and tea with the Mr. Talboys on the previous day. At length there comes a day when the doctor looks even graver than usual as he stands by the bed of his little patient, who has become in those weary days of watching almost as dear to him as a little sister might have been. And his affection is warmly returned by Daisy, who looks forward with feverish excitement to his every visit, lying with her great blue eyes—now seeming so much larger in the thin, pale, little face—turning ever towards the door, and gleaming with brightness the moment the step of her "dear old doctor," as she calls him, is heard outside. Once in the room his presence has a singularly soothing influence upon the child; and more than once has the sleepless, weary little body succumbed to the almost magnetic touch of his large, cool hand, when, resting it firmly but gently upon her forehead, he has stood and watched the heavy eyelids droop and droop, until, if only for a few minutes, his little patient sleeps.

Dr. Sinclair says very little as he makes his examination on this particular morning. But as Honor follows him downstairs he turns into the empty sitting-room, and taking up his hat and stick from the table suddenly faces her.

"Can you bear to hear the truth?" he asks abruptly.

Honor feels her heart tighten at these ominous words, but she meets the doctor's keen inquiring gaze unflinchingly, and answers bravely:

"I would far rather know the worst than be kept in suspense."

Then the young man gently and pityingly tells her that the next four-and-twenty hours will decide whether little Daisy will live or die, and that almost everything will depend on the care and attention she receives during that time.

"Do not be afraid for me," she says a little brokenly. "I am not one to give way, you know; and I am quite strong, and perfectly able to sit up for many more nights yet. When will you send the draught?"

"I shall not send it at all," he answers briefly. "I would far rather that this exhaustion should end, as I still hope it may, in a healthy and natural sleep. But sleep the child must have somehow; so I shall look in about five, and, with your permission, Miss Honor, I shall remain during the night to help watch my little patient."

"Oh, how good of you!" exclaims the girl. "It will be such a relief to feel that I am not responsible, as it were; not that I am afraid—please, don't think that."

Having thus arranged, the young man hurries off to get in all the work he can before returning to the Rookery. He has not got far on his road, however, when suddenly turning a corner he runs straight against the brothers Talboys, who are hurrying from the opposite direction. Before the doctor can open his mouth to speak, one has seized the lapel of his coat and the other his arm, and simultaneously they pant out the same question:

"How is she? How have you left her? My dear Dr. John, we have been so anxious, and we have been watching for you this hour or more; we felt we couldn't trouble the family by calling to inquire this morning." And Mr. Ned, who, it is needless to say, has quickly out-distanced his brother in speaking, shakes the doctor's arm roughly in his anxiety.

"I left the poor child in a very critical state, sir," he replies, trying to conceal his impatience at being detained thus unexpectedly; "but I am returning there at the end of the afternoon, and should there be any change, either for better or worse, I will try and send you up a message."

"Not for the worse, Dr. John?" repeats Mr. Ben, while both the kind old faces express much emotion. "You don't look for a change for the worse, do you?"

"No, no, my dear sirs; God forbid that I should look for it. But as yet I cannot tell, though to-night must decide the case one way or the other. We will pull her through yet, Mr. Talboys, if it be God's will; and if not—"

A lump rises in the young man's throat which prevents his finishing his sentence, and shaking off Mr. Ben's detaining hand as gently as he can, he tries to make his escape. But Mr. Ned hurries after him, and once more seizing his hand cries, with tears in his eyes:

"Save her, Dr. John! only save the child, and my Brother Ben and I shall owe you a debt of gratitude that we can never sufficiently repay."