Title: Prosperity's Child
Author: Stooke, Eleanora H.
Language: English
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Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: IN HER PLAIN, BLUE SERGE SKIRT AND WHITE BLOUSE,
SHE MADE A VERY ATTRACTIVE PICTURE.]


PROSPERITY'S CHILD

By
ELEANORA H. STOOKE

Author of

"The Bottom of the Bread Pan," "Little Maid Marigold,"
"Angel's Brother," etc.



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BY
J. MACFARLANE



LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.4



CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE WYNDHAM FAMILY

II. THEIR FATHER'S FRIEND

III. DR. REED AT HOME

IV. DR. REED'S OFFER

V. TRAVELLING COMPANIONS

VI. NEWS FROM VIOLET

VII. A MORNING WALK

VIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

IX. ONLY A SERVANT

X. CONCERNING LOTTIE MEDLAND

XI. A CALL ON DR. ELIZABETH

XII. A SOLICITED INVITATION

XIII. THE TORTOISE-SHELL PURSE

XIV. THE EASTER HOLIDAYS

XV. THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SUMMER TERM

XVI. NOT WORTH BOTHERING ABOUT

XVII. EXPLANATIONS

XVIII. AGNES HOSKING APOLOGISES

XIX. ANN'S PROMISE

XX. VIOLET AT HOME AGAIN

XXI. AT TEYMOUTH

XXII. AT STREATHAM

XXIII. UNHAPPY LOTTIE

XXIV. WHAT VIOLET SAW IN A SHOP WINDOW

XXV. LOTTIE'S CONFESSION

XXVI. "NO SENSE OF HONOUR WHATEVER"

XXVII. AGNES HOSKING IN TROUBLE

XXVIII. CONCLUSION



PROSPERITY'S CHILD

CHAPTER I

THE WYNDHAM FAMILY

THE November day, which had been dull and chilly, was closing in, and
a thick mist was settling over the metropolis, making the traffic in
the streets slow and difficult, and causing those whose business lay
in the city no small anxiety as to how they would reach their various
suburban homes that night; for, as was patent to everybody, in a very
short while all London would be enveloped in a dense fog.

In the sitting-room of a certain small villa at Streatham, a family
group was assembled around the fire, talking and laughing. It
comprised, Mrs. Wyndham and her five children—Ruth and Violet,
aged fifteen and fourteen respectively; Madge, who was twelve; and
Frank and Billy, who were twins of not quite ten years old. The gas
had not been lit, but the fire fitfully illuminated the room, which
was certainly anything but neat or well kept, for the furniture was
dull if not actually dusty, the lace curtains on either side of the
window were soiled and limp, and the tea-cloth on the table was
crumpled and not over clean. Even in the kindly firelight the room
looked poor and neglected, and yet it was evident that its general
appearance might have been improved at very little cost.

"I hope your father will come home soon for it's getting very foggy,
I see," Mrs. Wyndham remarked by-and-by when there was a pause in the
children's chatter. Her voice was soft and musical, with a plaintive
note in it. "He coughed continually during the night, he quite alarmed
me," she added, with a deep-drawn sigh.

"I heard him," the eldest girl said, turning a pair of serious, dark
eyes from the fire to her mother's face; "I spoke to him about it
after breakfast, and he said he would get some cough mixture from a
chemist: I hope he won't forget."

"I hope not," Mrs. Wyndham replied. "I am sure it is no wonder that
he ails so often," she proceeded, "always rushing here, there, and
everywhere as he does, getting his meals so irregularly, and wearing
clothes which do not properly protect him from the cold and damp. He
ought to have both a new overcoat and a new waterproof this winter,
but how he is to get either I really do not know. Dear me, it's nearly
five o'clock. I hope Barbara has the kettle on the boil: I wish one of
you would go and see—not you, Billy, you're always quarrelling with
Barbara, you tease her and make her cross. Let Madge go. And Violet,
you light the gas and pull down the blind."

Madge left the room to do her mother's bidding, whilst Violet, before
lighting the gas, went to the window and peered out into the mist,
remarking that it was so thick that she could hardly see the street
lamps. Ruth kept her seat by the fire; she was listening for her
father's footsteps—or his cough, which had haunted her ears all day.

The Wyndhams were all nice-looking children, tall for their ages and
well-grown; they greatly resembled their mother in appearance.
Mrs. Wyndham was a pretty woman, having a clear complexion, small
regular features, and brown eyes and hair. At the time of her marriage
she had been a lovely girl; but now she was somewhat faded and
careworn, and she always seemed weighed down with domestic worries.

Mr. Wyndham held a post on a popular daily paper; but, unfortunately,
his wife was no manager, and he was generally exercised in mind how
to make his income cover his expenses, which he was not always
successful in doing. If his wife was not the helpmeet to him he had
hoped she would be, he never admitted the fact; and if his home was
not as comfortable as those of other men who earned less than he did,
he never complained but made the best of things, telling himself that
he had much to be thankful for in that his family was both a happy and
a healthy one.

He was deeply attached to his children, and they were very fond of
him; but Ruth, without doubt, was more to him than the others. Young
as she was, she was in his confidence; she was interested in his work
as work, not only as a means of providing the necessaries of life, and
he realised, as her mother did not, that he loved his profession and
was ambitious to succeed in it. In short, she understood him; and her
love for him was so deep and unselfish that she would have been
capable of making any sacrifice for his sake.

By-and-by Ruth rose from her seat by the fire, and slipped quietly
out of the room. There was no light in the passage, so she lit the
gas there, and, as soon as she had done so, the front door opened
and her father entered. She sprang to meet him, and, after having
given him a hearty kiss, proceeded to assist him in taking off his
overcoat. Mr. Wyndham was a tall, thin man with stooping shoulders
and near-sighted dark eyes. As a rule his expression was thoughtful
and pre-occupied; but to-night, as his daughter observed at once,
he looked particularly alert.

"Well, Ruthie," he began, "is tea ready? I'm longing for 'the cup
which cheers,' for the fog is enough to choke one. I'm glad to be
at home and to know that I shall not have to go out again to-night."

He followed Ruth into the sitting-room as he spoke, and glanced around
with smiling eyes. His wife's face brightened as she saw his look,
and she greeted him with an answering smile, whilst Madge and the boys
began to question him about the fog. Was it much worse in the City
than at Streatham? Did he think it would last long? Had he any
difficulty in finding his way from the station?

"I should think it is worse in the City," was the reply; "everything
will be at a standstill soon if the fog continues, and it does not
appear likely to lift yet. I had to stop every now and again as I came
from the station to make sure I was in the right road, and that
delayed me. Ah, here's tea! That's good."

Violet now entered the room followed by Barbara, the maid-of-all-work,
who was a rather untidy-looking specimen of her class. She had been
with the Wyndhams for more than two years, and had fallen into the
ways of the family; she was always a little late with everything,
always "in a rush" as she expressed it, but she suited her employers
and was good-natured to a fault. Before the advent of Barbara the
Wyndhams had never been able to keep a servant for long; but Barbara
had settled down comfortably at once, and seemed likely to remain
a fixture. She was a little body, with a freckled countenance and the
roundest of green eyes, and her cap was generally askew on her sandy
hair; but there was a vast amount of energy and strength in her slight
frame, and she worked with a will.

Having placed the tea on the table, Barbara retired, and the meal
commenced. The children had most of the conversation at first, and
gave their father various items of information about their doings
during the day. The twins attended a preparatory school for boys, not
five minutes walk from their own home, and the girls had not much
farther to go. Ruth was not to return to the same school as her
sisters after Christmas; for it was only a school for young girls,
kept by a lady named Minter, and Ruth was the eldest pupil.

Mr. Wyndham talked of sending her to a boarding-school for a couple
of years, but how that was to be managed he did not quite know, and it
was Ruth's private opinion that her education, as far as schooling
went, would be finished when she left Miss Minter's. That she would
not mind, she told herself, if only she could have lessons in drawing
and painting—she was devoted to the pencil and the brush, and she
would have time to help her mother and Barbara and to try to get
things in better order; for, of late, the general untidiness of her
home had vaguely troubled her.

By-and-by Mr. Wyndham coughed, and his wife asked him if he had
remembered his promise to Ruth and procured some cough mixture.

"Yes," he replied, "the bottle's in the pocket of my overcoat.
My cough has not been so troublesome to-day as it was during the
night, but I remembered I had said I would get something for it, so I
went into a chemist's in the city, and there I met some one whom I had
not seen for more than twenty years; you have heard me mention
him—Andrew Reed."

"Andrew Reed?" echoed Mrs. Wyndham. "Oh yes, I have often heard you
mention him. You went to school with him, and afterwards you saw a
good bit of him when he was a medical student. Quite a poor lad, was
he not?"

"Yes. He was always one of the best fellows in the world, though, and
the straightest. He was of humble birth; his father was only a small
renting farmer in Devonshire, who had saved a few hundreds and had the
sense to see that by educating his son and letting him follow his
natural bent he was doing the best for him that he could. Reed's
practising as a doctor in Yorkshire now, and his is the first practice
in the place—I heard that some time ago. He has prospered in life and
made money."

"Did he recognise you, father?" Ruth asked eagerly.

"Yes. He was in the chemist's shop having a prescription made up when
my voice attracted his attention, and he spoke to me. I knew him the
minute our eyes met. He seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him,
and we went and had lunch together and a long talk about old times."

"What is he doing in London?" Mrs. Wyndham inquired.

"He is merely stopping here a few days, with relations of his wife's,
on his way home from Devonshire. His mother still lives, and he has
been to see her. I did not know he had a wife until to-day, but it
appears he has been married sixteen years and has an only child,
a girl, of whom he spoke very affectionately. I told him that, in one
way, I am richer than he," Mr. Wyndham concluded with a smile.

"In what way, Clement?" asked his wife wonderingly.

"I have three daughters and two sons, my dear, and he has only that
one girl."

The children laughed, whilst their mother smiled and looked pleased.

"Not but that he seemed very satisfied with his single chick,"
Mr. Wyndham proceeded; "one could tell that she is as the apple of his
eye. You cannot imagine what a pleasure it was to me to renew my
acquaintance with my old friend; he regrets, as I do, that we failed
to keep in touch with each other after he left town, and he expressed
a desire to see you, my dear Mary—" Mr. Wyndham smiled at his wife—
"and our little flock."

"You did not suggest his coming here, I suppose?" Mrs. Wyndham said
quickly.

"Yes, I did," Mr. Wyndham admitted; "I invited him to spend Sunday
with us. It won't matter, will it? You needn't make any difference
for Andrew Reed."

"But, Clement, we always have cold dinners on Sundays, and I expect
your friend is accustomed to have everything very nice," expostulated
Mrs. Wyndham, glancing expressively around the room.

"I daresay he is, nowadays," Mr. Wyndham answered, "but you must
remember he was not born with the proverbial silver spoon in his
mouth. He is a thorough man of the world, in the best sense of the
term, and I should like you all to know him. I couldn't well ask such
an old friend as he is to dine with me at an hotel or a restaurant
when I've a home in London to invite him to."

"No, no," Mrs. Wyndham agreed, "only I thought, as he has got on
in the world—but, there, he must just take us as he finds us!"

"Tell us some more about him, father," said Madge; "how old is his
little girl?"

"Nearly fifteen, so she must be quite a big girl, my dear." And Mr.
Wyndham, who was in excellent spirits, continued to talk of his old
school friend at length, whilst his wife and children evinced great
interest in listening to him.

"And he was only a poor, common boy once," Violet remarked wonderingly
by-and-by; "and now I suppose he has become very rich, father?"

"I don't know that he is very rich, Vi," Mr. Wyndham answered gravely;
"but he is certainly a prosperous man. Yes, he used to be poor, but
never common. A common man could never have made the position in life
which my old friend has done. I should say he is decidedly uncommon."

Violet flushed and hung her head, for there was reproof in her
father's voice.

"He was always a true gentleman at heart," Mr. Wyndham proceeded;
"he deserves success, and I am glad it has come to him. I am sure you
will all like him, for he is one of the most kindly and genial
of men."

"I am glad you met him, Clement, since you are so pleased at having
done so," Mrs. Wyndham said, speaking more cordially; "we will
certainly make him welcome when he comes."

Having finished tea, Mr. Wyndham went to his study, a small apartment
intended for a breakfast room, simply furnished with a writing-desk
and a few chairs; and the children prepared their lessons for the
following day. Ruth found some difficulty in concentrating her
thoughts; for her mind was full of her father's friend, and occupied
with one of the puzzles of life—why success should be given to some
and denied to others. No man could work harder or more conscientiously
than her own father; and yet, so far, success had not come to him.
Why did God keep it from him? she wondered. It was very difficult
to believe that He knew best.



CHAPTER II

THEIR FATHER'S FRIEND

"I AM glad the fog is clearing," remarked Ruth to Barbara, on the
following afternoon —it was Saturday— as she was assisting in putting
away the dinner things in the kitchen, "because father would be
disappointed if it prevented Dr. Reed's coming to-morrow."

"I am sure it would be a great pity if the gentleman did not come
after all the trouble you've taken on his account, Miss Ruth," Barbara
replied, smiling good-naturedly; "you've been hard at work all day
making the house look as nice as possible."

"I've given the study the most thorough turn out and clean it's had
for months," said Ruth; "for father is certain to take Dr. Reed in
there to talk with him; and I've cobbled together several tears in the
sitting-room curtains, and nailed down the canvas in the passage where
it's worn out—Billy caught his foot in it last night and had a nasty
fall. But, dear me, Barbara, I don't know where the work in a house
comes from, there seems to be no end to it."

"Things will wear out," Barbara observed sagely; "and when they do and
are not replaced—"

"Ah, that's it!" Ruth interposed, "we so seldom have anything new.
We ought to have a new carpet in the sitting-room, it's really
dreadfully shabby, and will look more so when the sunny spring days
come, but it's no good thinking about it. I hope Dr. Reed won't notice
it, but mother says doctors are very observant people as a rule, so I
suppose he will."

"I wouldn't begin to worry about that if I were you, miss," advised
Barbara; "the gentleman isn't coming to take stock of the furniture,
you may depend. What time does master expect him?"

"About one o'clock, I think—after church, he told father. He is going
home on Monday; he has an assistant who looks after his practice
in his absence."

Ruth was wiping the plates and dishes which Barbara had washed.
She often gave her assistance in this way in the kitchen on Saturday
afternoons, thus enabling Barbara to get over her work earlier than
she otherwise would have done. Madge and the boys were out; but Mrs.
Wyndham and Violet were in the sitting-room, mending stockings, and,
as soon as Ruth had put away the dinner things, she joined them there.

"Oh, here you are!" exclaimed Violet, as her sister entered the room.
"How tired you look, Ruthie!"

"No wonder, poor child," said Mrs. Wyndham; "she has had a very
fatiguing day. I am glad the study has been turned out, howler, for I
know it wanted cleaning badly; but your father does not like Barbara
to do it for fear that she might misplace his papers, and I really
have had no time to see to it myself. I peeped into the room just now,
and thought it looking very fresh and nice."

"Still it hardly seems fair that Ruth should have had to work so hard
on her holiday," Violet remarked; "we ought to keep two servants—cook
and house-maid—"

"Oh, Vi, you know we couldn't afford two servants!" Ruth broke in
protestingly, whilst her mother shook her head.

"I suppose not," Violet admitted. "It is too bad that we should be so
wretchedly poor," she proceeded irritably; "we are wretchedly poor,
 although no doubt we ought to be thankful we have a home, and food
to eat when so many people have neither. But it seems to me that we
are poorer than most people in our position; I'm sure I don't know why
it is. Father's no better off now than he was on his wedding day;
I heard him tell you so, mother, didn't I?"

"Yes, my dear," assented Mrs. Wyndham; "but that is not his fault,
he has had no opportunity of bettering his position. Besides, when a
man has a wife and five children to provide for he is heavily
handicapped, remember. Perhaps some day your father will get a more
lucrative post; he is very clever, every one says so—"

"Yes, but it's not always the clever people who get on best,"
interposed Violet, who, in some ways, was wise beyond her fourteen
years; "the fathers of several of the girls at school are not in the
least clever, but they're very well off."

"You're not blaming father in any way, are you?" Ruth cried hotly,
her brown eyes flashing with anger. "Perhaps if he had made a fortune
by speculating like Agnes Hosking's father you'd be more satisfied!"

"Don't be disagreeable, Ruth," pouted Violet; "you don't mean that,
and you know I don't blame father. What an idea! See how hard he
works. That's why it seems so unfair that he should not earn more
money. I don't suppose Dr. Reed works any harder than father does."

"I don't think he could," Ruth replied, speaking more quietly. "Let me
help with the stockings." She slipped one over her hand and commenced
to darn it. "I wonder what Dr. Reed's daughter is like," she said,
by way of turning the conversation into a different channel.

"I expect she has everything heart can desire," Violet answered with a
sigh; "lucky girl!"

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Wyndham; "doubtless she has all that your father
and I would give you, Violet, if we could. But you are a poor man's
daughter, and she—well, she is Prosperity's child."

There was a touch of bitterness mingled with reproach in Mrs.
Wyndham's tone, and Violet had the grace to feel ashamed of the
discontent she had shown. Ruth kept silence, for her heart was full of
indignation against her sister, and she feared that if she spoke she
might say something she would repent. Presently Violet said—

"There is one thing I do not envy her, and that is her name."

"What is it?" asked Ruth; "I did not hear father say."

"She is called 'Ann.'"

"Ann," Ruth repeated; "Ann Reed. It is not a pretty name, I suppose,
but I do not know that I dislike it."

"It is an old-fashioned name, of course," said Mrs. Wyndham; "Dr. Reed
told your father that he had called his daughter after his mother.
I do hope nothing will happen to prevent Dr. Reed's coming to-morrow
now we have prepared for him."

By the following day the fog had quite gone, and towards noon the sun
cleared. When the Wyndham children returned from church, after morning
service, they found their father's expected visitor had just arrived,
and they were immediately presented to him. He was a tall,
broad-shouldered man, with a grave, clean-shaven face, and a pair of
steel-grey eyes which looked both keen and kindly. The young folks
took to him at once, and Ruth's heart warmed towards him, when, after
her father had introduced him to her, and they had shaken hands,
he said:—

"Why, you must be about the age of my little maid at home! One of
these days I must persuade your mother to let you pay us a visit; I am
sure you would be friends with Ann. Do you know that your father and I
were chums before we were as old as you?"

"Yes," Ruth answered; "he has told us so."

"Ah, but he hasn't told you how he used to stand by me, at school, and
help fight my battles! No, he wouldn't tell you that!" —And he
straightway launched into an account of his school-days, which they
all— Frank and Billy especially—found very interesting.

Soon the children were quite at their ease with their new
acquaintance. He made himself at home at once, as Mrs. Wyndham
afterwards remarked; and his visit proved a great success. Ruth and
Violet could not help wondering if he noticed the shabbiness of the
house, but he did not appear to do so; and they would have liked to
find out what his own home was like, but he said very little about it,
though he talked a good deal of his wife and daughter. Every one was
sorry when the time came to say good-bye to him; and he left with the
promise to call and see them again the next time he came to town.

"He isn't a bit as I expected he would be," Violet confided to her
sister when they were alone for the night in the room which they
shared; "I pictured him like Agnes Hosking's father, but he doesn't
resemble him in the least."

"I never saw Mr. Hosking."

"Oh, he's a stout, red-faced man with a big curled moustache, who puts
his hands in his pockets, and jingles his money when he's talking
to you. Agnes took me over their new house the other day, and I saw
him then. It's such a grand house, Ruthie, and the furniture is
lovely— almost too handsome to use. The drawing-room chairs are
upholstered in bright pink satin— Agnes says pink is the fashionable
colour for drawing-rooms, now; and there's one mirror so big that it
reaches nearly to the ceiling. Everything is the best that can be had
for money. How I should like to be rich and live in a house
like that!"

"It would be far too grand to suit me," Ruth said, shaking her head.
"What made Agnes take you there? I did not know you were very friendly
with her."

"I am not. I think she wanted to show off her new home, and when she
asked me if I'd like to see it, I said 'yes,' and went. As a rule
she doesn't have much to say to me. I think she is rather inclined
to look down on us, Ruthie, because we're poor, and, do you know, once
I heard her call father 'a newspaper hack'— that was after I'd been to
her house, I wished then I hadn't gone. I wonder if Dr. Reed's
daughter is anything like Agnes Hosking."

"I should think not."

"Oh, I don't know! Being rich often makes people very horrid.
You heard what mother called Ann Reed? Prosperity's child. I expect
she's quite spoilt, and as selfish as she can be."

Violet paused for a minute; but, as her sister made no response,
she continued: "Did you notice that Barbara had a smut on her nose
when she was waiting table at dinner? I told her about it, in a
whisper, and she tried to rub it off, but just smeared it instead.
I wish we could afford to keep a proper parlour-maid, but it's no good
wishing. Ruthie, does it ever strike you that we're a rather untidy
family?"

"Yes," Ruth admitted, with a slight smile; "Miss Minter says there
should be a place for everything and everything should be in its
place, but that's certainly not the case in our house."

"I never think about it unless we've visitors," Violet confessed;
"then I notice it, and wonder what they think."

Long after her sister was asleep that night Ruth lay awake pondering
on many things. She was vexed that Violet's curiosity should have
taken her to Agnes Hosking's home; for Agnes had been neither kind nor
considerate in her treatment of the Wyndham girls, having frequently
allowed them to see that she looked down upon them because they wore
somewhat shabby clothes, and had but little pocket money to spend.
Ruth both disliked and despised Agnes.

By-and-by she dismissed her from her mind, and her thoughts passed
to her father's old friend. She liked him, she told herself, and she
fancied she understood now a remark she had overheard her father make
to her mother, that prosperity had not spoilt Andrew Reed. She
wondered if Dr. Reed had really meant that he must persuade her mother
to let her pay a visit to his home. Yes, she believed he had meant it;
he did not strike her as being the sort of man who would have said it
merely to be pleasant. Perhaps, some day, she would receive an
invitation from Mrs. Reed. How delightful that would be!

Then she reflected how much better her father had looked that day, and
that his cough had been less troublesome. She had been glad to hear
Dr. Reed tell him that he must take care of himself; for he never
considered himself enough, he was the most unselfish of men. Now, as
it always did, her heart softened and thrilled with loving pride as
her mind dwelt on her father; and she remembered how, once, when she
had been regretting the fact that his work was not appreciated as she
had thought it should be, he had put his arm around her and said:—

"Never mind, little daughter, perhaps my day will come, and
if not—well 'The true problem of life is not to "get on" or "get up,"
not to be great or to do great things, but to be just what God meant
us to be,'" and the recollection soothed and comforted her, for she
realised that one who believed that could not be altogether
  dissatisfied with his lot.



CHAPTER III

DR. REED AT HOME

"NOW, father, for a nice, cosy chat. Take your favourite chair close
to the fire, and the little mother shall sit opposite to you, and,
oh, I do hope nobody will disturb us to-night!"

The speaker was Ann Reed, and the scene was the drawing-room of the
Reeds' house, on the night of the doctor's return from London. He had
dined with his wife and daughter, and, having seen his assistant and
ascertained that all had gone well during his absence, he had joined
them in the drawing-room where they had been waiting for him for the
past hour. Sinking into the comfortable chair which Ann had pulled
near the fireplace, he heaved a sigh of perfect contentment, and a
tender smile shone in his grey eyes as he looked from one to the other
of the two faces which, to him, were the dearest in the world.

Mrs. Reed was a little woman with a slight, girlish figure, and a
sweet-tempered rather than a pretty countenance, around which waved
a quantity of soft, fair hair, which made her look younger than her
years. She had been a hospital nurse before her marriage, and had
brought her husband no money, but those who knew her well declared
she was a fortune to him in herself; for she had a shrewd head for
business, and had always kept his books and managed his home most
capably; in short, she had proved a helpmeet to him in the truest
sense of the word. Now, as she met her husband's eyes, she said:—

"I, too, hope we shall not be disturbed to-night. It seems an age
since we three enjoyed a chat together, though in reality you have
been only absent from home a week. The time dragged while you were
away, did it not, Ann?"

"Yes," Ann assented; "you were very good to write every day, father,
and the cream you sent us was delicious, and arrived quite fresh."

She was standing before her father, a slight, tall figure—though
barely fifteen she was half a head taller than her mother—with a
bright flush on her cheeks, and her eyes—very like her father's they
were—shining with happiness. Though she could not be called pretty,
there was something wonderfully attractive in her face, in its frank
expression and lack of self-consciousness.

"It's pleasant to know one has been missed," Dr. Reed said, in a
satisfied tone; "and I'm glad to be at home again. I should have been
back on Saturday if I had not run against my old friend, Clement
Wyndham. He asked me to spend Sunday with him, and I was glad to be
able to accept his invitation and talk over old times. I was grieved,
though, to see how much he has changed; he looks more than his age.
Poor Wyndham!"

Ann seated herself on a stool at her father's feet, and leaned her
head against his knee. "Why do you say 'poor Wyndham,' father?"
she inquired.

"Because I am afraid life has not treated him very kindly, my dear.
He is a journalist, a clever fellow, but somehow he has not managed to
make much headway in his profession, and he has a long family—three
girls and two boys—and, I fear, rather an incapable sort of woman for
a wife. Mrs. Wyndham seems very nice, but I imagine she is a poor
manager; indeed their home at Streatham showed me that fact plainly
enough. I dined there, and made the acquaintance of the whole family—
good-looking, intelligent children all of them. The eldest girl, Ruth,
appeared very helpful; I noticed the servant consulted her about
several matters, and her father told me that she was his right hand.
She is only about your age, Ann; but there is a little worried pucker
between her brows already, as though the cares of life weigh upon her
mind. Next to Ruth in age come Violet and Madge—extremely pretty
children they are; then come the boys who are twins and very fine
little fellows indeed. The children attend day schools at Streatham;
their school bills must take a substantial slice out of their father's
income."

"Yes, indeed," agreed Mrs. Reed. "Mr. Wyndham is a journalist,
you say?"

"Yes. He has a post on a daily paper, he has had it for years in fact,
but it leads to nothing better. Being a married man with a long family
he cannot afford to strike for a larger salary, though he is most
inadequately paid for his work. He told me that he has had to stand
quietly by and see less efficient men pushed into lucrative posts
through interested friends. It must have been very hard lines for
him."

"What a shame to treat him so unfairly!" Ann cried warmly, her eyes
darkening with indignation. "Is he, then, so very poor, father?"

"Well, I'm afraid his income scarcely meets the requirements of his
family, my dear. He did not actually say so, but I gleaned as much."

"I am very sorry for him, poor man," said Mrs. Reed, her voice full
of sympathy, "and for his wife, too."

The doctor looked thoughtfully into the fire, and for a few minutes
there was silence, then Ann asked:—

"Isn't there anything you can do to help Mr. Wyndham, father?"

"That's what I've been wondering, Ann," he replied.

"You couldn't give him money or—if he would not like that—lend it
to him?"

"N-o-o. He did not tell me he was in need of monetary help. But,
perhaps, I—we might help him in some other way."

"We?" Mrs. Reed said interrogatively. "What is in your mind, Andrew?
Let us hear."

"Well, my dear, Wyndham confided to me that he is rather troubled
about Ruth, his eldest girl. She is to leave the school, which she now
attends with her sisters, at Christmas—it is only a school for young
girls it appears—and he would like to send her to a thoroughly good
boarding-school for a couple of years if he could hear of one where
the terms are 'very reasonable' as he expressed it; and I've been
thinking how it would be to have Ruth here—she would be a capital
companion for Ann—and let her complete her education at Helmsford
College. Of course we should undertake to pay her school fees and in
every way provide for her as long as she remains with us."

"Oh, father, how clever of you to think of that!" Ann cried excitedly;
"I call it a splendid plan! We should be sure to become great friends,
as she is about my age. It would be like having a sister almost. Oh,
do you think her mother and father would let her come?"

"I believe they would." The doctor glanced from his daughter to his
wife, who was looking very serious and thoughtful. "What do you think
of my plan, Helen?" he inquired.

"That it requires consideration," she replied gravely; "I daresay
it might answer, but then it might not. Don't let us act hastily
and afterwards regret it. Let us take time to think the matter over."

"You are quite right, my dear," Dr. Reed agreed. "You and I are a
great deal too impulsive, Ann; we need the little mother to keep us
in check."

Ann looked disappointed, but only for a minute, and, meeting Mrs.
Reed's glance, she smiled. She had perfect confidence that her mother
would advise what she considered would be right and for the best.

"I think Ruth is such a pretty name," she said; "and I am sure, from
the little you have told us about her, father, that she is a nice
girl. I have always longed to have a companion of my own age. Do tell
me exactly what she is like in appearance."

"She's about your height and size, and she has regular features, brown
eyes, and brown hair. I am afraid that description is not very
distinctive. What struck me most in connection with her was the way
in which all the others appealed to her about nearly everything;
really, she might have had the management of the household, poor
child! No wonder her father spoke of her as his right hand!"

"What would he do without her, then?" Mrs. Reed inquired. "Do you
think he would be willing to part with her, Andrew?"

"He is the sort of man who would not consider himself in the matter
in the least, he would think only of what would be best for his
child."

"And the mother?" questioned Mrs. Reed.

"I cannot answer for her," Dr. Reed answered dubiously; "she struck me
as an affectionate wife and mother, but I should say she is rather
a weak, undecided kind of person. Wyndham married her when she was
very young, she had but just left school, I believe. She was an only
child, an orphan, and, as she had been left unprovided for in infancy,
she had been brought up and educated by an uncle who was only too glad
to get her off his hands, as he had a family of his own. So you see
she was quite an inexperienced girl at the time she married, with no
knowledge whatever of housekeeping or the worth of money, and I fear
she is not much wiser on either point now."

"Poor soul," said Mrs. Reed pityingly; "I can understand the sort of
woman she is. The circumstances of her life have been against her.
I feel very interested in all you have told us about these Wyndhams,
Andrew, and, like you, I wish we could help them. We'll decide nothing
till Christmas, then we'll see what can be done. You must not think me
unsympathetic, but—"

"Oh, mother, father couldn't think you that!" Ann broke in. "Why,
you're always quite as eager to help people as he is!"

"Yes, indeed," agreed the doctor, "and much wiser about finding out
the best mode to set about doing it. Perhaps my plan will not be
feasible, but we'll think it over at any rate, and, as I've heard
my mother say when she failed to see her way plainly or was doubtful
about the wisdom of any step she contemplated taking, 'We'll just set
the matter before the Lord and ask His guidance.'"

"How like dear old Granny to say that!" exclaimed Ann, a tender smile
lighting up her face. "Oh, father, I wish you could have persuaded her
to pay us a visit!"

"She thinks she has become too old to undertake such a long journey,
my dear, and I believe she is right; besides, she is more contented in
her own home. Elderly people do not care for change like young ones.
She knows how welcome she would be here, but she is never so happy
anywhere as at Teymouth. You and the little mother shall go and see
her in the summer, Ann, if all's well, as usual, but I don't think she
herself will ever leave Devonshire again."

"You do not think her ill, father?" Ann asked anxiously.

"No; but naturally her strength is not what it once was. She said to
me that she thought the next journey she would make would be to her
long home. That will be as God wills; but I saw she did not wish to
leave Teymouth, so of course I refrained from urging her to do so."

Ann's eyes, which she shaded with her hand, were misty with tears,
for she was most devotedly attached to her grandmother, and the
thought that she might be in failing health caused her a pang of deep
grief. Every summer she and her mother went to stay with old Mrs. Reed
in the little cottage at Teymouth, which she had inhabited since her
husband's death. Granny was a true, noble-hearted woman, though in her
young days she had been "only a servant" as some people say—it had not
been considered derogatory for the daughters of small farmers to be
domestic servants then—and had had no education except what life had
taught her.

From her the doctor had inherited many of those qualities which had
gained him the respect and confidence of all classes in the prosperous
Yorkshire town where he had become a successful surgeon and a
well-to-do man; and when, nearly fifteen years previously, with his
wife's cordial approval, he had called his infant daughter "Ann,"
it had been with the earnest hope and prayer that she might grow into
as sweet and good a woman as the one after whom she was named.

"I am so glad you have been able to pay your mother this visit,
Andrew," Mrs. Reed remarked, after a few minutes' silence, "I am sure
she must have been delighted to have you to herself for a few days.
I often wish that we lived nearer to her."

"So do I," her husband replied. "Mother spoke very affectionately
of you, Helen," he proceeded, "and said how much she enjoyed your long
letters, and she told me I was fortunate in my wife. 'She's a real
lady, Andrew,' she said, 'if she wasn't she'd be ashamed of your
old mother, and, instead of that, she treats me as a daughter would
treat a mother, and I love her for it.' And I love her for it, too,"
he concluded in a tone so soft and low that only Ann caught the words.

"Oh, Andrew!" Mrs. Reed exclaimed, her fair face flushing rosy red.
"I shall write to her to-morrow and tell her how well Ann and I
consider you looking, she will be glad to hear that."

"I wish poor Wyndham could have a change for a few days," observed the
doctor meditatively; "he looked as though he needed it badly. He and
his family are on my mind. I shall not rest until I have found some
way of helping them. We must put our heads together, Helen, and see
what can be done."

His wife assented; and Ann's face brightened as she whispered to her
father:—

"Oh, father, I don't think you'll have much difficulty in persuading
the little mother to agree to your plan!"



CHAPTER IV

DR. REED'S OFFER

TWO months had elapsed since the Sunday Dr. Reed had spent with his
old friend at Streatham, and it was now the second week in January.
The Wyndham children were all at home for the holidays, and, as the
weather was wet and stormy, they had to remain indoors nearly every
day, which proved trying, especially for the boys who teased their
sisters, and worried poor Barbara "nearly out of her life," as she
declared to Ruth, to whom she confided her grievances. Mr. Wyndham was
working at the office very late of a night, at this time, and
returning home in the early hours of the morning; his wife tried her
best to keep the house quiet whilst he was taking his rest, but it was
most difficult to do so, and the consequence was that he often failed
in obtaining the sleep he so badly needed.

"I don't think our boys are worse than others," Mrs. Wyndham remarked
to her little daughters, one afternoon, when Barbara had ousted the
twins from the kitchen and they had betaken themselves to their own
room upstairs, where, for the present, they were quiet; "but I must
admit that they are very high-spirited and noisy. Barbara cannot
manage them a bit."

"She cannot get on with her work if they are playing marbles on the
kitchen floor," Violet replied; "and you know, mother, you complained
to her yesterday that she had not changed her gown by tea-time."

"She had the kitchen stove to clean," Ruth said excusingly; "so it was
really not her fault; and Frank upset a pail of water in the scullery,
and that had to be mopped up. Barbara will be glad when the boys go
back to school."

"Well, we shall all be back to school next week," put in Madge, not
altogether regretfully; "all except you, Ruth."

"I wonder if father has given up all thoughts of sending Ruth to
boarding-school, mother?" interrogated Violet. "Girls don't usually
leave school at fifteen, do they?"

"No," Mrs. Wyndham replied, "but Ruth is too old to remain any longer
at Miss Minter's, and I don't know how we can send her anywhere else.
Your father is very short of money, at present."

"I shall stay at home and help you and Barbara, mother," Ruth said
cheerfully, noting the look of distress on her mother's face; "I don't
want to go to boarding-school. Perhaps by-and-by I shall be able to
have lessons in drawing and painting at home—I don't show talent for
anything but drawing and painting, Miss Minter says; I'm not like
Violet, who's clever all the way round."

They all laughed at that, and Violet looked pleased. She really was
a clever little girl, and industrious, too.

"I do not know what I should do without you at home, Ruth," said Mrs.
Wyndham very seriously; "and you don't mind doing housework, do you,
dear?"

"No," Ruth answered truthfully.

"Your father was saying to me only yesterday that he thought you would
make a clever little housekeeper one of these days," Mrs. Wyndham
continued, smiling at her eldest daughter; "he was so pleased with the
way in which you cooked that steak for his supper the night Barbara
was out. I could not have done it so well myself."

"I rather like cooking," responded Ruth, colouring with gratification.

"I should hate it," Violet confessed; "in fact, I dislike housework
of any kind. I should like to be able to keep servants to do
everything of that sort."

At that point in the conversation, the boys, having found nothing to
interest them upstairs, appeared upon the scene and asked permission
to make toffee over the sitting-room fire, as Barbara would not have,
them in the kitchen. At first Mrs. Wyndham opposed the idea, but, as
Madge joined her entreaties to her brothers', she gave in, and Ruth
was prevailed upon to fetch the necessary ingredients and a saucepan.

Half an hour afterwards when Mr. Wyndham opened the front door and
entered the house, he was greeted by the sound of high voices in the
sitting-room and the smell of burnt toffee. With a weary sigh he
turned into his study, and shut the door; but, ten minutes
subsequently, he came out with an open letter in his hand and made his
way to the sitting-room, where the burnt toffee had been emptied into
a buttered dish, and the young folks were impatiently waiting for it
to cool.

"It's all Madge's fault it is burnt," Billy was saying aggrievedly, as
his father appeared, "she said she'd keep it stirred; but perhaps it
won't taste so very bad—oh, here's father!"

Mr. Wyndham beckoned to his wife, who followed him from the room,
closing the door behind her. The children exchanged significant
glances.

"Something's happened," remarked Frank; and the others agreed
with him.

"I expect it's to do with a bill," said Violet; "the butcher called
this morning to know when it would be convenient for father to settle
his account. Mother said she had no idea we owed him so much money
as he said we did, and that she would speak to father about it;
or, perhaps—"

"Oh, I don't fancy it's to do with anything disagreeable!" Ruth
interposed; "I thought father looked quite pleased."

"So did I," agreed Madge; "perhaps something good has happened."

"I hope so, I'm sure," Ruth replied; and she fell to wondering if her
father had been offered a better post at last.

By-and-by Mrs. Wyndham reappeared, looking flushed and excited, and
bade Ruth go to her father in the study. As soon as she had gone
Mrs. Wyndham explained to the others that her husband had received
a letter, from Dr. Reed, offering to make a home for their sister and
educate her with his own daughter for the next two years.

"It is a most kind, most generous offer," she said; "and your father
and I are much touched by it—only what I shall do without Ruth I do
not know! I shall miss her terribly!"

At first the young folks were too surprised at their mother's news
to say much, but very soon they began to ask questions, and it was not
long before they were in full possession of all the details of Dr.
Reed's plan for their sister's benefit, so that by the time Ruth
returned to the sitting-room they knew as much as she did herself.
She appeared pleased, but her manner was very subdued.

"What a lucky girl you are, Ruth!" exclaimed Violet, half enviously.
"Isn't Dr. Reed wonderfully thoughtful and kind? Oh, how I wish I were
you!"

"Do you?" Ruth asked. "Yes, you would like to go to Helmsford College,
I know. Father says it is a splendid school, one of the best
in England; and I am to live with the Reeds—"

"Then it is decided already that you are to go?" Madge broke in
eagerly. "Oh, Ruthie," the little girl proceeded, as she received
a nod for an answer, "I hope you won't go away and get very proud and
grand! Don't get to love Ann Reed better than you do us."

"As though I ever should!" Ruth exclaimed, half indignant, half amused
at the idea. Her voice sounded slightly tremulous, and she was
evidently agitated. "Dr. Reed says in his letter that he hopes Ann and
I will be great friends," she continued, "but I don't know about that,
and I shall miss you all so much—"

"And we shall miss you, darling," her mother assured her; "I have been
saying that I do not know what I shall do without you. Your father,
too, will be quite at a loss when you are gone, it's for you he looks
the minute he comes home."

"I could be much better spared than Ruthie, couldn't I, mother?"
Violet said. "How I should like to be in her shoes!"

"Would you?" Ruth asked quickly.

"Indeed yes! But you mustn't think me envious of you, Ruthie; I hope
I'm not that. Mother says that Dr. Reed promises you shall be treated
exactly as his own daughter, and no outsider will know that he is
providing for you. Only think how nice it will be for you to live in a
house where there's plenty of everything, servants to wait upon you,
and—oh, dear me, you are a fortunate girl!"

"I am sure I am," Ruth answered earnestly; "but I shall be continually
thinking of you all at home, and if I thought father would miss me
very much—" She paused and looked wistfully at her mother, then
continued— "Mother, tell me truly, if you had to choose between Violet
and me, which of us would you keep at home? Oh, yes, I know I'm the
one Dr. Reed wrote about—he thought of me because I am the eldest of
the family, and I remember father told him I was leaving Miss Minter's
at Christmas—but do, please, answer my question."

But this Mrs. Wyndham was not inclined to do. She shook her head;
then, as Ruth was persistent in demanding a reply, she said
evasively:—

"I shall miss you more than I should miss Violet because you do not
mind putting your hand to housework, my dear; but I am very glad
you should have such a splendid opportunity offered you for completing
your education, and —and perhaps, when you are gone, Violet will try
to fill your place at home."

Violet did not say that she would. She was regarding her sister
curiously.

Ruth did not appear so exultant at the sudden change in her prospects
as might have been expected, and there was a tender gravity in her
glance as it rested on her mother that Violet failed to comprehend,
for she was sure that if she was in Ruth's place her delight would
know no bounds.

Violet never sought to disguise the truth that she was discontented
with her home—perhaps it was natural she should be that—but she was
ashamed of it, too, of its poverty, and the fact that her father was,
as she considered, an unsuccessful man. Success to Violet meant a
handsomely furnished house, servants, fashionable clothes, and plenty
of money, all of which she hankered after, and she would have given a
great deal to change places with the sister who now had the
opportunity of turning her back, for two years at least, on the
shabby, ill-managed home which Violet secretly despised, though it had
always been rich in love.

Ruth's good fortune formed the chief topic of conversation during the
remainder of the day. Ruth herself listened to the comments of the
various members of the household with mingled feelings. Though
everyone was pleased, for her sake, there was evidently a general
impression that it would have been better for the family had Violet
been the one selected to leave home.

Mr. Wyndham had determined not to answer Dr. Reed's letter till the
following day, but he had not the least idea of refusing his friend's
generous offer, which had arrived so opportunely, as he thought;
therefore, he was considerably amazed when, that evening, shortly
before it was time for him to start for the city, Ruth came to him
in his study and informed him that, all things considered, she would
rather not go to be educated at Helmsford College with Ann Reed.

"I want you to ask Dr. Reed to take Violet instead of me," she said
falteringly; "please tell him I'm not ungrateful, but, if he does not
mind, I would so much rather remain at home. Yes, father, I mean it.
I thought, at first, that I should like to go, but Violet will do
better at Helmsford College than I should; for she is clever and I am
not, and I am wanted at home. Violet is only a year younger than I am,
so she is quite old enough to go to a big school."

"But, my dear child, no mention has been made of Violet at all,"
Mr. Wyndham reminded her.

"No, but I am sure Dr. Reed would take her instead of me if you
suggested it, father. Do ask him, and see what he says."

"But, child, it is not fair to set you aside. I greatly wished to send
you to boarding-school, but I could not afford to do so, and—oh, no,
you mustn't tempt me to keep you at home, though what we shall do
without you, Ruthie, I really do not know."

"That is what mother and every one—even Barbara—says," Ruth told him
eagerly. "Oh, father, I do really think it would be better if it could
be managed for Violet to go instead of me. I do not think Dr. Reed and
his wife will mind which of us they help, and—oh, it is good and kind
of them to wish to help us at all! I am not nearly so quick to learn
as Violet, I am sure she would do wonders at a good school. Please do
write to Dr. Reed and ask him if he would mind having Violet instead
of me."

Mr. Wyndham looked searchingly at his daughter; but he could read
nothing in her face to tell him that it had been a hard matter for her
to come to him with this request, and that she had put aside her own
feelings for the sake of those dear to her, so he answered:—

"I am surprised you do not wish to go, Ruth. I don't know what to say.
I will have a talk with your mother, however, and discuss the matter
with her again. If you remain at home and Violet goes I shall be able
to afford you drawing and painting lessons, and—well, we'll see!"

Mrs. Wyndham, when consulted, brightened perceptibly at the prospect
of keeping her eldest daughter with her, and, finally, it was decided
that, all things taken into consideration, it would be better
for everybody if Violet went to live with the Reeds instead of Ruth.
Mr. Wyndham wrote and intimated this to Dr. Reed, and, in due course,
received an answer to the effect that Violet would be made as welcome
as her sister would have been, and that she would be expected one day
of the following week, as Helmsford College reopened in another
fortnight's time. Violet, it is almost needless to tell, was
immeasurably delighted at the turn matters had taken, and preparations
were immediately commenced for her departure. She was going to a new
life which would suit her better than the old, she told herself
exultingly, and she was confident that Ruth did not mind remaining
at home.



CHAPTER V

TRAVELLING COMPANIONS

IT was a cold January day, with snow on the ground and the promise
of more to come, on which Violet Wyndham travelled from London
to Yorkshire. The previous evening her high spirits had failed her,
and she had burst into a flood of tears on saying good-night to her
mother, and sobbed forth that she wished she was going to remain at
home, for that she never, never could be happy away from every one she
loved; but now, this morning, as she drove off in a cab with her
father to the railway station, she bravely choked down her sobs and
wiped the tears from her eyes, reminding herself of all she had
to gain in the new life which was opening before her.

"That's right, Violet," Mr. Wyndham said approvingly; "don't cry any
more, there's a good girl." He spoke in a cheerful tone, though his
heart was sorer than he would have liked to admit at the thought of
separation from his little daughter. "If you're not happy with the
Reeds you know you can come home," he proceeded to tell her; "but I
believe you will be happy, I shall be greatly surprised and
disappointed if you are not. And you'll be a good girl, won't you,
and make the most of the advantages you will have? You'll obey
Dr. Reed and his wife implicitly, remembering how generously they are
treating you, and try to please them, won't you?"

"Oh, yes," Violet assented; "I promise I will."

"It will be a great change for you, child, a very great change,"
Mr. Wyndham said impressively, "for you are going from a comparatively
poor home to one of affluence. But you won't forget the old home, eh?"

"No, indeed, father," was the earnest response; "and I shall write
very often, at least once a week."

"Do so, my dear; we shall look forward to your letters with much
pleasure."

When the station was reached Mr. Wyndham found the train for the north
was nearly due to start. He saw Violet's luggage labelled and obtained
her ticket, then found her a corner seat in a second-class
compartment, opposite to an elderly lady, who, warmly clad, with her
knees covered with a thick rug, was evidently prepared for a long
journey.

"Is the little girl going far?" inquired the lady, looking with kindly
interest from Violet to her father.

"To Barford," Mr. Wyndham answered, adding that his daughter had never
taken a journey alone before, a piece of information which Violet
considered he need not have given.

"Then we shall be fellow-travellers," observed the lady cordially,
"for Barford is my destination, too." She spoke in a clear, decisive
voice.

"I am glad to hear that," said Mr. Wyndham, with a smile, as he shut
the carriage door.

The train was on the point of starting, and Violet leaned out of the
window and put her arms around her father's neck and kissed him. It
seemed to her that until that moment of parting she had never known
how very dear he was to her. "God bless and keep you, Violet,"
he whispered tenderly; "Good-bye, my darling."

"Good-bye, father—dear, dear father," she replied huskily as she was
obliged to unclasp her arms and take her seat.

The train moved slowly out of the station, and Violet sank back in her
corner. For a few minutes she saw nothing, for her eyes were blind
with tears; but, when her sight cleared, she glanced at her companions
and was much relieved to find that they were taking no notice of her.
The lady opposite had opened a newspaper which she was already
reading, and the other two occupants of the compartment were seated
one on either side of the far window, out of which they were gazing.

By-and-by Violet began to carefully study the figure opposite to her.
The lady was plainly dressed in a blue serge gown underneath a heavy
blue cloak which was somewhat the worse for wear, and the rug across
her knees was decidedly shabby though it looked as if it might be warm
and comfortable. She wore an old-fashioned bonnet, and her white hair
was brushed back smoothly from her face—a plain face it was, with a
large nose, and a large mouth, and heavily marked eyebrows. Violet had
a very good opportunity for making her observations, for the lady
continued reading for fully an hour, never glancing at her once;
at length, however, she laid aside her paper and spoke.

"I am sure he is a very good father," she remarked, as though
pursuing a train of thought; "he seemed very sorry to part with his
little girl. I suppose you are going to school, child?"
she questioned.

"No—yes—not exactly," Violet replied, flushing sell-consciously
beneath the intent gaze of a pair of very bright, dark eyes. "I am
going to be educated at Helmsford College," she explained, with a
little air of importance, "but I am not going to be a boarder there,
I am to live with friends."

"That will be pleasant for you. You have never been away from home
before, I conclude?"

"No, never; and—and I can't help feeling a bit lonely, you know."

"You are not an only child?"

"Oh, no! There are five of us; I am the eldest but one. Do you know
Barford very well?" Violet inquired, thinking it was her turn to put
a question.

"Very well. I have always lived there, and I hope to end my life
there. I am much attached to the town."

"Is it a very pretty place?" Violet asked, naturally interested in the
town which, for the next year or so at any rate, was likely to be her
home.

"Pretty? No. It is a large manufacturing town full of factories and
workshops. I am attached to the place because I was born there, and I
have worked there all my working days."

Violet wondered what her companion's work could be, but she did not
like to inquire. The lady was extremely kind to her during the
journey, made her share her rug, and pointed out various places
of interest which they passed. At one of the stations at which the
train stopped a porter handed in a luncheon basket containing a dainty
repast for the lady, who insisted that Violet should take lunch with
her. So they had a most enjoyable meal together, Violet contributing,
as her share, the packet of sandwiches Barbara had cut for her. It was
a delightful experience altogether, and one Violet never forgot; and
it was no wonder that she grew confidential with this new friend,
for she was not reserved by nature, or that, long before the journey
came to an end, she had told the story of her short, uneventful life,
and touched on the bright hopes she cherished for the future.

"I have only seen Dr. Reed once," she said; "but I liked him then,
and father and he were great friends years ago. We none of us know
what his wife is like, but I think she must be very kind, for she
wrote so nicely about me. Poor mother! She cried when she read the
letter, but she was pleased; she said it made her happy and satisfied
to let me go."

"Would it surprise you to hear that I know the Reeds?" asked the lady,
with a bright smile which made her plain face look positively handsome
Violet thought, and almost young.

"Oh!" gasped Violet, for such a possibility had never entered her
mind. "Do you really know them?" she questioned excitedly.

"I do; and I can answer for it that they will be kind to you. I think,
my dear, that you and I will most certainly meet another day, and I
hope you will be a little glad to see me."

"I shall be very glad," Violet responded earnestly. "I have had such a
pleasant journey," she continued; "and all through you. The time has
passed so quickly."

"We are nearly at our journey's end," said the lady, peering out
of the window; "and it is snowing fast, I see."

Violet made no response. She was beginning to feel rather nervous, and
she was wondering who she would find at the station to meet her.
Dr. Reed had intimated to her father that, if possible, he would be
there himself; she hoped that he would manage to come. Her companion
now began to collect her belongings, and, that done, she glanced at
Violet, and apparently read something of what was passing through
her mind, for she said:—

"I will not leave you until I have seen you in safe keeping. Either
Dr. Reed or his wife will no doubt meet you at the station, and
perhaps Ann will be there, too. You will be sure to find a friend
in Ann Reed."

"I hope so," Violet replied, speaking in rather a dolorous tone.

"Poor child, I can understand you feel low-spirited, for you have left
all those you love in London. But you will find love awaiting you in
your new home, of that I am certain, and you know you have one Friend
always with you, my dear."

"I don't understand," said Violet, really mystified.

"I mean the Friend to whom your father confided you when he said
good-bye. I heard him say, 'God bless and keep you,' did I not?"

At that moment the train, which had been slackening speed, slowed into
Barford station and stopped. Immediately a porter opened the carriage
door, and the lady and Violet were assisted on to the platform.
Looking eagerly around, Violet, much to her relief and joy, at once
caught sight of Dr. Reed, who came up to her and welcomed her
heartily.

"It's snowing fast," he informed her; "so I advised Ann not to come,
though she had looked forward to being here to meet you, and did not
wish to remain at home—I promised to explain that she has a slight
cold, otherwise she would certainly have been here. Have you had a
comfortable journey? Yes. That's right. Why—" his quick glance passing
from her to her travelling-companion who had stood back but now came
forward and shook hands with him— "where have you come from? Not from
London, too?"

"Yes," the lady assented; "we—" and she indicated Violet with a
smiling nod— "have made the journey together, and have become quite
friendly I assure you."

"That's capital!" exclaimed the doctor, looking both surprised and
pleased. "Can I help you about your luggage?" he inquired courteously.

"No, thank you," the lady answered, "I have asked a porter to see
to it. Good-bye." And with a smile of farewell she turned away, and
disappeared in the crowd which thronged the platform.

Violet now pointed out her trunk, which had been taken from the
luggage van, and Dr. Reed gave orders for it to be conveyed to his
house by a town porter. Then he led the little girl to his brougham,
which was waiting outside the station.

Never had Violet ridden in such a luxurious carriage before; and,
seated comfortably by the doctor's side, with a fur rug over her
knees, a sense of unreality began to creep over her, and she felt as
though, presently, she must wake up to find she had been dreaming.
But when she turned her head and looked at the kind face of her
father's friend, she drew a sigh of contentment, for he, at any rate,
seemed very real. No, she was not in the least tired, she declared,
and not very cold. Dr. Reed saw that she was very tired, however, only
she was too excited to be conscious of the fact.

"We shall soon be at home," he said, by-and-by. "Ann has been on the
tip-toe of impatience all day because the time has passed so slowly.
She has been preparing a room for you next to her own, furnishing it
to her own taste. Ah, you cannot think how she is longing to have a
companion of her own age with whom she can be confidential, and you
are only a year her junior, you know. How did you leave your people
at home?"

"Quite well, thank you," Violet answered. "Father has lost his cough,
and mother says she is sure he is better than he was before
Christmas."

"That's right! I am indeed glad to hear it."

"I hope you don't mind my coming instead of Ruth?" Violet said,
hesitatingly.

"I don't mind in the least," he assured her with a smile. "I trust you
will be happy with us, my dear," he proceeded earnestly, "and that you
and Ann will take to each other—no doubt you will. By the way, I am
glad you found such a good travelling-companion."

"I was so surprised when she told me she knew you!" Violet exclaimed.
"She asked me my name and I told it her, but I did not like to ask
hers. Please tell me who she is, Dr. Reed."

"She is Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway," he answered. Then, seeing her
amazement, he added: "She is a lady doctor, and has practised in
Barford longer than I have."

As Dr. Reed ceased speaking the carriage drew up before a handsome
house in a square, the windows of which were all lit up, and Violet
realised she had arrived, at last, at her new home.



CHAPTER VI

NEWS FROM VIOLET

PERHAPS Violet's first impressions in connection with her new home and
its inmates will be best told in the long letter she wrote to her
mother on the afternoon after her arrival at Barford, of which the
following is a copy:—

"No. 8 LAURESTON SQUARE,"
"BARFORD, January 18th, 190—"

"My DEAR MOTHER,"
"I know Dr. Reed sent you a telegram last night to tell you I had
arrived safely, but you will be expecting to receive a letter from me
to-morrow; and, as I promised, I am taking the first opportunity
I have of writing. I had such a nice journey—after the first hour
I really enjoyed it. Please tell father the lady who sat opposite to
me was very kind and made me share her luncheon, which was handed in
at one of the stations in a basket. I had some of her chicken and ham,
and she had some of my sandwiches, which she said were very good and
cut just as she liked them—please tell Barbara that. I did not think
the lady was a person of any importance, because she was very plainly
dressed and seemed quite ordinary in every way, but she turns out to
be a very clever lady doctor, called Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway, and
Dr. Reed knows her well and often meets her in consultation, and I
find she is very friendly with Mrs. Reed and Ann."

"Dr. Reed met me at the station. I was glad to see him. I drove home
with him in his brougham—it was snowing—and he inquired for you all
and was so glad to hear that father's cough was gone; and Mrs. Reed
came out on the doorstep, though it was so cold, and she kissed me in
a way that reminded me of you, dear mother, and that made me feel all
chokey and unable to say anything. And then, in the hall, I met Ann,
who kissed me, too, but I really have no idea what she said, for
everything was so strange that I felt quite bewildered. They led me
upstairs to the room which is to be mine, where they took off my hat
and jacket, and Ann unbuttoned my boots and lent me a pair of warm
slippers; and then they made me sit down in an easy chair by the fire
(fancy me having a fire in my bedroom!) and take a basinful of soup,
after which I was heaps better—I had been feeling rather queer and
shakey before, and would have given anything to be at home, which was
silly of me, of course."

"So I sat there and rested, and got beautifully warm, and by-and-by
my trunk arrived, and Mrs. Reed unpacked it for me—I expected she
would look surprised when she saw how few clothes I have, but she
didn't, nor did Ann. My supper was brought upstairs to me; and then I
went to bed and slept until ever so late this morning, and now I am
only a little tired."

"We have had a great deal of snow during the night, so there will be
no going out-of-doors to-day. This is a nice big house and very
comfortable, but not at all grand. It is on the south side of the
square, and the front door opens into the road. There is no garden—
there are stables behind—but there is a large piece of ground in the
middle of the square with a croquet lawn, and shrubs, and flower-beds,
and the people who live in the square all pay towards keeping this
ground in nice condition, so that they all have a share in it and the
right to go there whenever they please. Arm says she spends a good bit
of time there in the summer, so I expect I shall, too."

"I must not forget to tell you what Ann Reed is like. She is just a
little taller than I am. I know because Dr. Reed made us stand back to
back this morning that he might see which was the taller, and he said
she was by about half an inch—and she has grey eyes like her father's.
I don't call her pretty. I don't call Mrs. Reed pretty exactly,
either, but she is very nice-looking, and she seems so young to be
Ann's mother—of course, I know she can't be young really."

"I find there are three servants in the house—I asked Ann, a cook,
a house-maid, and a tweeny-maid who answers the door and is a sort of
parlour-maid and puts her hand to anything; you see, this, being a
doctor's house, people are always coming and going, so Ann says.
There is a waiting-room for patients and a consulting-room close
to the front door, and a surgery beyond the consulting-room.
The dining-room looks out into the square, like the drawing-room,
which is upstairs—it is not nearly such a grand drawing-room as the
one in Agnes Hosking's new house, but it is much more homely-looking
and comfortable, and I think you, dear mother, would like it."

"I have been talking to Ann most of the morning. She has asked me such
a lot of questions about you all, and about Ruth in particular; now
she has left me so that I shall not be disturbed in my writing."

"By the way, I find we dine at seven o'clock. Won't it be strange for
me to have dinner in the evening? I will write again very soon and
tell you how I am getting on. I am longing to see what Barford
is like, so I hope the weather will clear up soon."

"My bedroom is next to Ann's. It is such a nice room, rather small,
but so cosy; it has been re-done up for me. The wallpaper is very
pretty, just what I would have chosen, with little bunches of pink
rosebuds on a white ground, and the furniture is enamelled white.
Ann says her mother expects her to keep her bedroom very tidy, so I
must bear that in mind and keep mine tidy too."

"Oh, dear mother, though everyone is so kind, you cannot think how
much I miss you, and last night, after I was in bed, I couldn't help
having a little weep when I thought of Ruthie; I expect she missed me,
too. Please give her my dear, dear love, and the same to Madge and the
boys, and to father and yourself. I hope you will write to me very
soon and tell me everything that goes on at home.—I am, dearest
mother, Your loving daughter,"

"VIOLET."

"P.S.—Please remember me to Barbara. Ann says she is glad we are not
going to school for a few days, and so am I. Tell Ruthie she must not
think Ann will ever take her place with me; she isn't quite what I
expected to find her, though. Good-bye."

This letter was read aloud by Mrs. Wyndham to her husband and children
on the afternoon of its arrival. On the whole it was considered very
satisfactory.

"But what does she mean by saying that Ann is not quite what she
expected to find her?" said Mr. Wyndham. "She had formed a mental
picture of her, I suppose, and the reality has disappointed her,"
he added with an amused smile.

"If so her letter does not read as though she is disagreeably
disappointed," his wife commented, glancing back over the epistle;
"evidently the dear child has been most kindly received. Fancy that
lady she travelled with being a friend of the Reeds! What a strange
coincidence! Let me see, what is her name? Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway.
You liked her appearance, did you not, Clement?"

"Yes," Mr. Wyndham replied, "I felt quite easy in my mind about Violet
when I heard her opposite neighbour was going all the way to Barford,
for she had a sensible, reliable face, and I thought she seemed a
kindly soul. Events have shown that I read her aright. Violet writes
a very good letter for a girl of her age, I consider."

"Ah, she takes after her father in possessing the pen of a ready
writer," said Mrs. Wyndham, with a smile; "and she is very sharp and
observant. Miss Minter says she shows great ability for acquiring
general information. I am sure she will do well at Helmsford College."

"I know what she means about Ann Reed's not being quite what she
expected to find her," announced Madge; "I mean I know what she
thought Ann would be like—proud, and stuck-up, and selfish."

"What made her think that?" questioned Mr. Wyndham, in amazement.

"She thought so because Ann is an only child, father, like Agnes
Hosking," Ruth explained; "and Agnes Hosking is one of the most
disagreeable girls at Miss Minter's school; her father is very rich,
you know, and once mother in speaking of Ann Reed, called her
Prosperity's child, and—"

"I remember I did," Mrs. Wyndham broke in; "but I did not mean
to disparage her in any way, I am sure."

"Prosperity's child," Mr. Wyndham said thoughtfully; "yes, she is
certainly that, she can know nothing, by experience, of the struggles
and privations life brings to so many; but she wouldn't be much like
her father if she was proud or selfish, and somehow I don't fancy
Andrew Reed's daughter could be either. Dear me, what extraordinary
notions children do get into their heads!" he concluded with a laugh.

"I wonder if Violet will be home-sick," said Frank, "I told her she
would be, but she wouldn't believe it. You see she admits that she had
a 'little weep' when she thought of Ruthie. I say, Ruthie, did you cry
when you went to bed by yourself and thought of Violet?" he asked
inquisitively.

"I believe she did," declared Billy, staring accusingly at his eldest
sister, who appeared embarrassed. "What a couple of cry-babies you and
Vi must be!"

"We all cried the morning Violet left," Madge reminded him, "you, too,
Billy. I saw you wiping your eyes when you thought no one was
looking."

"I am sure it was only natural that we should have all been upset,"
remarked Mrs. Wyndham, who looked as though it would not take much
to reduce her to tears at the present moment; "I cannot bear to think
of Violet separated from you others; but, at the same time, I know it
is for her benefit, and I have a feeling that she will be happy with
the Reeds. We shall be able to glean more from her next letter."

In the course of a few days Violet wrote again. She had been rather
home-sick, she confessed, and she missed them all dreadfully; but
everybody was most kind and considerate to her.

"Mrs. Reed is much more particular in many ways than you are, mother,"
she wrote; "and she is rather strict with the servants, I fancy,
though they appear to like her. This house is kept as clean as a new
pin. Mrs. Reed says she learnt the great virtues of cleanliness and
order when she was a hospital nurse. Did you know she had worked for
her living? She was at a hospital in London for several years. In some
ways she is very particular. She won't allow the least waste, and she
is as careful as though Dr. Reed was quite poor. Isn't that odd
of her? I call it so. And yet, she's not in the least mean, for Polly—
she's the tweeny-maid—told me yesterday that she's been so good to the
cook's mother, who has been ill, giving her food-dainties such as sick
people like—and money, too."

Violet then went on to say that, as the weather had continued cold and
snowy, she had only left the house once since her arrival, which
occasion had been on Sunday when, with Mrs. Reed and Ann, she had
attended the nearest church, situated only about five minutes' walk
from Laureston Square.

"But the weather is clearing at last," she wrote; "it is thawing fast
as I am writing, and the sun is beginning to shine, so I hope soon
I shall really see something of Barford. Mrs. Reed said this morning
that she must try to get out to do some shopping, and that Ann and I
might accompany her. I understand there are some fine shops not far
from here, for Laureston Square is in what is considered the best part
of the town, and many of the people living hereabouts are very rich.
I do not see much of Dr. Reed, for he is generally busy all day till
evening, although, as you know, he keeps an assistant—Mr. Luscombe.
Mr. Luscombe has lodgings not far from here, Ann tells me; he is a
little man who wears spectacles, and he is getting bald though he is
quite young—young for a doctor, I mean; Ann says she thinks he is
about twenty-seven.

"I like Ann. She is very good-natured, and wants to treat me just like
a sister; she says she has always wished so much to have a sister.
She loves to hear about Ruthie and Madge. I haven't told her what a
little house ours is at Streatham, perhaps I shall when I know her
better—Dr. Reed may have told her, that I don't know. I wonder what
she would think of Barbara. I am certain Mrs. Reed wouldn't keep a
servant who is always 'in a rush,' but I don't suppose she knows what
one has to put up with if one can only afford a general servant."
The letter concluded with many protestations of affection for all the
dear ones at home, and requested a speedy answer from Mrs. Wyndham
or Ruth.

"She is settling down comfortably and happily," said Mr. Wyndham, when
his wife asked him what he thought of this last communication from the
absent one, "do you not think so?"

"Yes," she agreed, "but it must be a very great change for her."
She glanced meaningly around the sitting-room, as she spoke, and
sighed. "I hope she will learn to be orderly," she said, "but I fear
she will find it not a little hard."



CHAPTER VII

A MORNING WALK

IT was a beautifully fine January morning on which Violet Wyndham,
in company with Mrs. Reed and Ann, had her first glimpse of the town
of Barford. The snow had been cleared from the roads, and the sun was
shining, whilst a keen, north-east wind—exhilarating to strong,
healthy people—was quickly drying up the pavements.

"I shall not be surprised if we have a spell of frost now," remarked
Mrs. Reed, as they left Laureston Square and turned into a wide street
with large, handsome shops on either side; "I am very fond of frosty
weather, myself; but, for the sake of the poor, I hope we shall not
get much of it."

"Are there many poor people in Barford?" asked Violet. The street was
thronged with well-clad, prosperous-looking folks, she observed.

"Oh, yes, indeed there are!" Ann hastened to reply. "This is the new
part of the town, Violet; but in the old part—oh, there it is far
different from this!"

"We will take a walk through the old part as soon as I have finished
my shopping, then Violet will understand better what Barford is
like," said Mrs. Reed; "this is really only a suburb of the place,
just as Streatham is a suburb of London."

"I don't know much about London," Violet admitted, "hardly anything,
indeed. Once father took Ruth and me to St Paul's, and another time
we went to the National Gallery, and he said he would take us to see
the shops before Christmas, but he was very busy just then, and—and it
costs money to go about, you know."

"Of course it does."

Mrs. Reed spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, and Violet, who had
expected that she would evince great astonishment at her ignorance
of London, was agreeably disappointed. By-and-by, Mrs. Reed having
executed all her errands, at a whisper from Ann turned down a side
street, which brought them to a large, red brick building, standing
in its own grounds, which were entered from the road by a big,
iron gate.

"There, Violet!" cried Ann. Violet looked at her inquiringly. "This is
Helmsford College," Ann explained; "we day-scholars go in by that
gate, it is locked now because Miss Orchardson, the principal, has not
returned from her holidays yet, and the servants use a back entrance.
What do you think of the place from the outside?"

"It is very big," Violet answered, somewhat awed by the size of the
building; "are there a great many pupils?"

"Nearly two hundred—that is, counting both boarders and day-scholars."

"So many as that!" exclaimed Violet. "I do hope I shall be put in your
class, Ann," she continued eagerly, "but I am afraid that is not very
probable."

"Why not?" inquired Ann. "Oh, you think because I am a year older than
you that I know more than you do. I'm not at all forward for my age,
am I, mother?"

Mrs. Reed shook her head smilingly. She had already discovered that
Violet was, in many ways, a precocious girl, and thought it very
likely she was as advanced in general knowledge as her daughter.

Turning away from Helmsford College, they now left the fashionable
suburb behind them, and soon Violet found the streets, through which
they passed, narrower, the houses dingier, and the air less fresh and
clear. Tall buildings with small windows and high chimneys appeared in
sight, and the only pedestrians they met were those of the working
classes, most of whom looked insufficiently clad and pinched with
cold. Violet wondered how Mrs. Reed had learnt to know her way about
in such a labyrinth of streets. By-and-by, on turning a corner, they
came upon a figure clad in a blue serge gown with an old-fashioned
cloak and bonnet, and they were accosted by the clear, decided voice
of Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway.

"Mrs. Reed, you Ann too! And here is my little travelling-companion!
How do you do, all of you?"

"We are quite well, thank you," Mrs. Reed answered, as they shook
hands, in turn, with the lady doctor. "Ann and I are showing
Violet—no need to introduce you, I know—something of Barford, and I
have a call to make in this district."

"I see. I am going to visit a patient in that house opposite, a sad
case."

"Indeed?" Mrs. Reed said questioningly.

"Yes. My patient is a widow, the mother of four children, the eldest—
a girl—no older than this child—" nodding at Violet; "the poor woman
has had a severe attack of pneumonia, but, with God's help,
I'm pulling her round. During her illness the eldest girl has been the
main support of the family."

"How?" asked Ann, her eyes kindling with eager interest.

"By charing, my dear. It's a fact. Fancy a charwoman of only fourteen
years old! There's a heroine for you!" And with a nod and a smile the
lady doctor crossed the road, opened the door of the house she had
indicated, and disappeared within.

"This is a district where she has always a great many patients,"
Mrs. Reed explained to Violet, as they proceeded on their way, "they
are mostly poor people who work in the factories."

"But can people like that pay her?" Violet asked, looking at Mrs. Reed
in surprise, and then turning her brown eyes to Ann, who answered
quickly:—

"Oh, very little!"

"They pay her what they can," said Mrs. Reed; "she knows what they can
afford, and charges accordingly; but, frequently, I have no doubt she
gets no remuneration for her services. She was born and brought up in
Barford. Her father was a factory owner who made a large fortune, and
she chose to become a doctor for various reasons. In those days people
looked rather askance at lady doctors, so that when, having taken her
diploma in Edinburgh, she returned to her native town and commenced
to practise, the medical men hereabouts were not very well pleased;
but they soon began to recognise her ability, and, as her patients
for some years were mostly confined to those whom other doctors were
in no wise eager to attend, and she never gave advice free to anyone
who could make payment, they soon treated her with more cordiality.
She leads a most unselfish life—a life devoted to her fellow
creatures, and I do not believe there is a woman more hard worked
in the town than 'Dr. Elizabeth,' as she is generally called, and
certainly there is not one more respected or beloved by all classes."

"But if her father made a large fortune, if she was not poor, why did
she become a doctor to work so hard?" inquired Violet, really puzzled.

"Oh, Violet, don't you understand?" exclaimed Ann. "Why, it was
because she saw that by becoming a doctor she could do such a lot of
good in the world. Doctors often go to see people that clergymen and
ministers know nothing about. It seemed to her that God had been so
bountiful to her in giving her so many talents, money, and health, and
brains—she told me this herself—that she was sure He meant her to use
them in the service of those not so well off as herself."

"In short, she works for Christ's sake," Mrs. Reed said softly, "for
the least of His brethren. Now, Violet, you understand?"

"Y-e-s," Violet answered, rather doubtfully.

"I suppose we are going to see Malvina Medland, mother?" questioned
Ann.

"Yes, my dear," was the response.

"Who is that?" Violet asked. "Malvina! What an uncommon name!"

"Isn't it?" said Ann, smiling. "Malvina is a poor, deformed girl,
she has something amiss with her spine and she suffers terribly in her
back sometimes, but she is the most cheerful body in the world,
I should think. She lives with her mother and sister—Lottie,
the sister is called—who both work in a factory. Malvina stays at home
all day long and earns a living by doing plain sewing, and 'minding
babies' as she calls it."

"Minding babies!" exclaimed Violet, opening her eyes very wide in her
astonishment.

"Yes. She takes in the babies of women who are obliged to leave their
homes by day, and looks after them—'minds them' as she would say.
Why, there she is!"

Looking ahead Violet saw a girl apparently of about sixteen years
of age, with a baby in her arms, standing in a doorway. At the first
glance she noted the fact that the poor girl was deformed. Her face,
though quite colourless, was very beautiful, with large, limpid, blue
eyes, and regular features; it lit up with a bright, welcoming smile
as she caught sight of the approaching trio.

"Well, Malvina, how are you to-day, my dear?" Mrs. Reed asked kindly.

"Better than usual, ma'am, thank you," was the response, spoken in a
brisk tone. "I hope you and Miss Ann are well?"

"Yes, thank you." Then, as Malvina's eyes glanced with interest
at Violet, Mrs. Reed continued: "This is a friend of ours, from
London, who is going to make her home with us for the time. Are you
wise, Malvina, to stand out here without a hat?"

"I rarely catch cold, ma'am," smiled Malvina; "and the baby is well
wrapped up—this is the only one I have to mind to-day."

"Business is rather slack then?" Mrs. Reed inquired.

"Yes, ma'am. Lots of women are out of work, I'm sorry to say, and
that's hard for them and me, too. Please to come inside."

Malvina led the way into a kitchen, which appeared very dark,
at first, for the window was small and high in the wall, and
consequently gave very little light; but, when Violet could see
better, she noticed that the room was tidy and clean, the tins on the
mantelpiece shone like silver, the deal table was as white as
scrubbing could make it, and there was not a speck of dust visible
anywhere. Suspended before the window was a fern in a pot, which,
Violet subsequently learnt, Ann had brought home to Malvina from
Devonshire the preceding summer, and was now the hunchback's most
cherished possession.

"Please to sit down," said Malvina, and her visitors accordingly
did so, whilst she stood by the fireplace—in which was no fire—rocking
the baby in her arms.

"I am sorry to hear there are so many women out of work," Mrs. Reed
remarked, regretfully; "but your mother and sister are not amongst the
number?"

"No, ma'am, I'm thankful to say they are not, though their wages have
been cut; but 'half a loaf is better than no bread,' and we must be
glad of that. Things will be better as the spring comes on; folks will
find they want new clothing, and orders will come in faster then.
My mother and sister work at a factory where they make clothing,
miss," she explained to Violet, who was listening to her with
interest, "coats, and skirts, and blouses, and everything that people
buy ready-made."

"I see," said Violet. "Do your mother and sister get good wages
generally?"

"No, miss. They earn just enough, as a rule, to keep a roof over our
heads, and provide food—sometimes not much of that. 'Tis a shame they
should not be better paid, 'tis most unfair, but there's no helping
it."

"I want three dozen yards of crochet edging like the last you worked
for me, Malvina," said Mrs. Reed; "here is the money for the cotton,
and perhaps you will be able to walk as far as Laureston Square with
the work when you have finished it? If it is fine the walk will do you
good—that is, if you are pretty well; but, remember you are not to do
the return journey without a rest, you must not hurry away as you did
the last time."

"Try to come on a Saturday," said Ann, "then you will be more likely
to find me at home. My friend and I are going to school next week,
but Saturdays are always whole holidays, you know."

"You are so kind," murmured Malvina, a faint colour creeping into her
pale cheeks, "no one else is so kind except Dr. Elizabeth. I am so
very glad to get this order for crochet, because I have a good bit
of time on my hands now there are so few babies to mind."

"Have you seen Dr. Elizabeth lately?" inquired Mrs. Reed.

"About a fortnight ago, ma'am. My back had been very bad, paining me
worse than usual, and mother asked Dr. Elizabeth to give me something
to ease the pain, and she did. She came to see me and talked to me,
and I think what she said and the heartening way of her did me almost
as much good as her medicine. She's that cheerful!"

"You have no fire," observed Mrs. Reed, glancing at the cold hearth.

"No, ma'am. I shan't light it till just before mother and Lottie come
home; one doesn't miss a fire much when the sun shines. 'Twas quite
pleasant on the doorstep."

After a little further conversation the visitors rose to depart.
Malvina followed them to the street door, where they said good-bye
to her, and Violet noticed that Ann lingered a moment to slip
something into her hand, whispering, as she did so, a few words,
one of which was "coal."

"Is Barford anything like what you had pictured it, my dear?" Mrs.
Reed inquired of Violet by-and-by, as they turned their backs on the
narrow streets of the town for a wider thoroughfare.

"No," Violet replied frankly, "I did not think there were so many poor
people living here. That hunchback girl is very poor, isn't she?"

"She is, indeed; sometimes she and her mother and sister have lacked
the necessaries of life, and theirs is only one case amongst many."
Mrs. Reed looked with kindly scrutiny at Violet as she proceeded:
"There is, unfortunately, so little one can do to help people like
that, but that little one ought to do by living carefully and giving
away all one can. You know, my dear, as a rule, it is only those who
save off themselves who have anything to give; if people live up to
their incomes they cannot do much towards helping other people."

Violet looked meditative, and made no answer. At that minute they came
to a florist's shop, in the window of which were exhibited several
pots of beautiful hyacinths nearly in full bloom. Ann had declared her
intention of purchasing one of these pots on her way home; but she
would have passed by now, without even glancing at the flowers, had
not her mother said:—

"How about the hyacinths, Ann? I thought you proposed to make yourself
a present?"

"I am not going to do so, after all, mother," Ann replied calmly,
though she coloured as she walked straight on.

And then Violet realised, with swift comprehension, that Ann had given
to Malvina the money with which she had intended to purchase the
flowers, and she expected Mrs. Reed would buy the sweet-scented blooms
for her daughter. Mrs. Reed, however, did nothing of the kind, but
merely said:—

"Oh, very well, Ann."

[Illustration: "I CANNOT HELP FEELING NERVOUS ABOUT TO-MORROW."]


CHAPTER VIII

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

"I CANNOT help feeling rather nervous about to-morrow," said Violet,
on the afternoon prior to the day on which Helmsford College was to
reopen. She and Ann were sitting by the drawing-room fire, and the
conversation had been growing very confidential.

"You need not," Ann returned encouragingly, "for I assure you you will
not have to go through a very trying ordeal. Miss Orchardson will say
a few words to you, then she will hand you over to a governess and you
will be examined on various subjects, after which you will be classed.
I am very hopeful that you will be in my class. It will be nice to be
doing the same work, won't it?"

"Very. Have you an especial friend at school, Ann?"

"No. I am not quick at making friends. Father says I require a lot of
knowing before anyone understands me."

"I think you do," Violet allowed; "I have known you a week, but I
don't think I quite understand you, yet."

Ann laughed, and coloured as she replied:—

"I daresay not; and I don't think I quite understand you, Violet.
You are rather reserved."

"Reserved!" echoed Violet, in astonishment. "Oh, I am not that!
At home they always called me outspoken. In what way do you consider
me reserved?"

"You don't tell me all I should like to know about your home. Perhaps
that sounds inquisitive, you look as if you think so, but I should be
so interested to hear more about your sisters and brothers. They must
miss you dreadfully."

"They do," Violet admitted, a tender smile creeping over her pretty
face, "especially Ruth." Her hand moved towards her pocket as she
spoke, and she produced therefrom a letter which she opened.
"I received this from Ruth this morning," she said, "I will read it
to you, if you like, but I expect it will surprise you. Would you like
to hear it?"

"I should, indeed. But are you sure you wish to read it to me?"

"Oh, yes! I don't mind—I mean, you may as well hear what Ruth has
to say, for you're sure to find out all about them at home sooner
or later. You know my home is not like yours. Oh, it's not unhappy,
no indeed! But there's no one to manage things; mother tries, but—oh,
I can't explain! Listen to this, then perhaps you'll understand what I
mean." And Violet proceeded to read aloud:—

"MY DEAREST VI,"

"Mother intended writing to you this evening, but she has one of her
bad headaches and has gone to bed early to try to sleep it off;
she sends her fond love to you and says I am to tell you with what
pleasure we look forward to your letters. The Reeds must be very kind,
good people, and I like what you have told us of Ann; she must indeed
be very different from Agnes Hosking—by the way, Madge tells me that
Agnes Hosking has not returned to Miss Minter's this term."

"I don't think there is much news—much good news that is. We have had
a most trying day. Barbara fell down the kitchen stairs this morning
with a tray of breakfast things, and, though she wasn't much hurt,
which is a great blessing, the china was all smashed. It wasn't her
fault that she fell, she wasn't careless; Frank had left a ball on the
stairs, and she unfortunately slipped her foot on it. Poor father did
not come home from the office till four o'clock this morning, and the
noise of Barbara's fall disturbed him—he got up after that and went
out without having any breakfast, and mother cried and spoke crossly
to Barbara, who said she'd leave, but she didn't mean it."

"It seems to me everything has gone wrong to-day, I think it's often
the way when the morning begins badly. We had a nice leg of mutton
for dinner, at least it ought to have been nice, but it was so
dreadfully underdone, and father could not wait to have it put back
in the oven, as he had an engagement to keep; so we had to eat it as
it was or leave it, and we left it. Father didn't say much about it;
but I have quite made up my mind, Violet, that I will help Barbara
with the cooking, I have told mother so and she agrees."

"In the middle of the afternoon the Vicar called, and Barbara showed
him right into the sitting-room without any warning—she ought to have
remembered that we were airing the clothes, which had just come back
from the wash, but she forgot. The Vicar was very nice, as he always
is, but I am sure he must have noticed that mother had been crying;
however, she cheered up, and talked about you and explained how kindly
and generously the Reeds are treating you. He wouldn't hear of my
getting him any tea—I was relieved at that for I was afraid Barbara
might not have thought of getting boiling water in readiness."

"One thing I think you will be very glad to hear, and that is that it
is quite decided I am to have drawing and painting lessons. I am so
pleased about it myself. I mean to work my hardest, and then perhaps
some day I shall be able to earn money and help father; meanwhile,
I'm going to try to get things in less of a muddle at home. I am
afraid that will be very difficult."

"We are all pretty well, and father's cough has not returned. Oh, Vi,
I do miss you so much, especially when bed-time comes. The last few
nights Madge has slept with me, and I expect she will continue to do
so. Mind you tell me how you get on at Helmsford College; it will be
very strange for you, at first, to be in such a large school. Write
soon, dear Vi, to your ever loving sister,"

"Ruth."

"There!" cried Violet, as she returned the letter to her pocket and
glanced quickly at Ann to see the impression it had made upon her.

"What do you think of it?" she asked.

"I think I wish I had a sister like Ruth to write to me,"
Ann answered, smiling; "I am sure you two must be very fond of each
other."

"Oh, indeed we are! Ruth is such a dear girl."

"I am certain she is, and unselfish, isn't she? Yes, I thought so.
What a good thing your servant wasn't injured when she fell
downstairs, she might have been killed."

"And then it would have been Frank's fault. Boys are so careless and
thoughtless, at least ours are. I suppose other people's boys would be
made to pick up their toys, but Frank and Billy leave theirs about
everywhere. Barbara must have been very cross to say she would leave;
I am glad she is not going, for I do not know how they would manage
at home without her now. She suits us, she does not mind muddling
along—oh, Ann, what you must think of us! But, there, you don't know
what it is to keep only one servant."

"No," admitted Ann, "but mother does. She was one of a long family,
and her father—he was a curate—could only afford one servant, but she
says their home was always very comfortable. Thank you so much for
reading Ruth's letter to me. I suppose she is fond of drawing since
she appears so pleased at the thought of taking drawing and painting
lessons?"

"Yes, that is her forte; but she is not clever in anything else—except
in housework. She helps Barbara in many ways."

Ann nodded comprehendingly. She was looking into the fire with
thoughtful eyes, and Violet wondered what was passing through her
mind.

"Do you know, Ann, that your father is going to allow me the same
amount of pocket money as you get?" Violet asked by-and-by. Then,
as her companion quietly assented, she added: "He says I may spend it
just as I please."

"Of course, Violet. I do, and neither mother nor father ever question
me how I spend it."

"Do you think Dr. Reed would mind if I sometimes send part of it
to Ruth?"

"Certainly not. The money will be your own to do as you like with it,"
Ann responded quickly, her grey eyes deepening and darkening as they
always did when anything pleased her. Her sympathy, ever on the alert,
had gone out to Ruth as Violet had read her letter. "I spend my pocket
money to please myself," she proceeded; "sometimes in one way,
sometimes in another."

"You gave Malvina Medland money to buy coal, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I didn't know you noticed it, you are very sharp, Violet.
Poor Malvina! It is dreadful to have no fuel in cold weather, and I
suspect there was not much in the Medland's house to-day."

"Malvina did not appear to mind."

"She never complains. It is not her way to do that, but I do not
suppose she feels less on that account. Did you notice how clean her
home was? She takes a pleasure in keeping it so. Oh, here's mother!"

Mrs. Reed, who had been paying a round of calls, now entered the room,
and, a few minutes later, afternoon-tea was brought in, and the girls'
confidential chat was at an end.

On the following day Violet was duly installed as a pupil at Helmsford
College, and, much to her gratification, found herself placed in the
same class as Ann; but, what was her astonishment when, on
scrutinising the countenances of her other class-mates, she saw the
familiar face of Agnes Hosking. For a moment she could scarcely
believe the evidence of her own eyes, but they had not deceived her.

Agnes was no less surprised than Violet at this unexpected meeting,
and she seized the first opportunity which presented itself of
speaking to her, explaining that she herself was a boarder at
Helmsford College, and demanding to know how Violet came to be there.

Violet answered her somewhat reservedly, merely saying that she was
living with friends in Barford, for she was most undesirous that Agnes
Hosking should be made acquainted with the circumstances under which
she was an inmate of Dr. Reed's house. Agnes immediately saw that
there was something Violet was wishful to hide; however, she kept that
discovery to herself, and said she was glad to meet an old friend.
After that Violet felt obliged to introduce her to Ann; but she took
care to explain to Ann, subsequently, that she held no very high
opinion of Agnes Hosking.

"I wish she was not here," she said, with a sigh, a worried expression
settling on her face; "she will be sure to tell the other girls all
about me—how poor we are at home, and—and other things."

"What will that matter?" asked Ann, looking surprised. "She cannot say
anything against you. A great many people are poor without being able
to help it."

"But she thinks so much of money, and once she called father
'a newspaper hack,' I was so indignant, and so was Ruth when I told
her."

"I should think so!" Ann exclaimed, with a flash of her grey eyes.
"I know how I should feel if anyone spoke in a disparaging tone of my
father."

"I daresay Agnes will speak of father as 'a newspaper hack' to the
girls," Violet said, "it would be like her to do it."

"Never mind. If she does I shall make it my business to tell them what
a clever man he is;" Ann declared, "and they will believe me. Don't
let the thought of anything she may say trouble you, Violet, for a
girl like that will have very little influence over anyone you would
care to make your friend; besides, she seems inclined to be friendly
with you herself, so why should she wish to disparage you or your
family?"

"The worst of it is one cannot trust her. She is very spiteful, and if
I annoyed her in any way she would do her best to pay me out for it."

"Well, then, beware of her," advised Ann, "but don't be afraid of her
all the same."

Violet laughed, and said she would not; nevertheless she was anything
but easy in her mind about Agnes Hosking, and determined to keep on
good terms with her, if possible. She thought a great deal of the
opinion people held of her, and she had hoped to figure at Helmsford
College as the companion and friend of the prosperous doctor's
daughter, not as the child of a struggling journalist, and she feared
she would be disappointed. The presence of Agnes Hosking had
overshadowed what would otherwise have been a very happy and promising
day.



CHAPTER IX

ONLY A SERVANT

FOR the first week or so after her arrival at Barford Violet was most
careful in keeping her bedroom in good order, for she was delighted
with the pretty little room, which was a picture of daintiness and
freshness; but it was not long before she began to grow careless about
it, and there came a day when, on her return from school in the
afternoon, Mrs. Reed followed her upstairs and told her in a tone,
which, though kind, betrayed displeasure, that she really must learn
to be more tidy and not leave her bedroom in such a litter again.

"I—I am very sorry," stammered Violet, crimsoning with mortification,
as she cast one hurried look around and saw that Mrs. Reed had not
spoken without reason, "I—I was in a hurry, and I had no time to put
things straight before I left for school."

"I don't think that is an adequate excuse, my dear," Mrs. Reed said
gravely, "for it would have taken you no longer to have put that wet
towel on the towel-horse than to have flung it on the bed. Then look
at your boots and shoes strewn about the floor as though you had no
cupboard to keep them in, and your desk left open, and your mother's
letter—I see it is hers by the writing on the envelope—on the
dressing-table. I have no reason to think that there is anyone in the
house who is sufficiently prying and dishonourable to read another
person's letters, but it is always unwise to leave correspondence
about."

"Yes, I know it is," Violet admitted, taking her mother's letter from
the dressing-table and slipping it into her pocket, whilst she
remembered there was a great deal in it she would not care for a
servant to see. She then proceeded to close and lock her desk; after
which she collected her boots and shoes and put them in the cupboard;
hung up in its proper place in the wardrobe a skirt which she had
thrown over the back of a chair; took the damp towel off the bed; and
otherwise tidied the room.

"That's better," Mrs. Reed said approvingly, "you must be more careful
in future. I cannot endure disorder, and there is really no excuse for
it in this case, for there is a place for everything."

"I won't leave my room so untidy again," promised Violet, "but I—I
really was in a great hurry, and I didn't think what I was doing.
I just did as I should have done at home and left my things all
higgledy-piggledy."

Mrs. Reed could not refrain from smiling at this frank admission.

"It is a very great pity to get into the habit of doing that, Violet,"
she said; "and really it is quite as easy to be tidy as untidy.
You shared a bedroom with your elder sister, at home, did you not?"

"Yes. I am afraid our room was always in more or less of a muddle.
Sometimes Ruth used to have what I called 'a tidy fit,' but it never
lasted very long; for I was always forgetting, and she would be
disheartened."

"Poor Ruth!" said Mrs. Reed, sympathetically.

"I am afraid it was hard lines on her," Violet admitted. "I expect
if you saw what our home at Streatham is like you would be quite
shocked," she continued, shaking her head and sighing, "but you don't
know how difficult it is to be orderly in a little house with a lot of
people in it."

"Oh, yes, indeed I do," Mrs. Reed answered, smiling; "I was brought up
in a little house myself, and there were so many of us young folks
that my father used to say we reminded him of birds packed in a nest.
Tidiness is a mere matter of habit, my dear; the home where it is
practised is generally a comfortable one, be it a palace or a cottage.
Here's Ann coming to hear what I am lecturing you about. Come down to
tea now, both of you."

So saying Mrs. Reed left the room, whilst Ann stood on the threshold
regarding Violet inquiringly.

"Oh, Ann, I am ashamed of myself!" cried Violet, and her face showed
that she spoke the truth. "I left my room in such a muddle," she went
on to explain, "and your mother has been speaking to me about it—very
kindly, but I know she is vexed with me, and no wonder. I ought not
to be disorderly, for, as Mrs. Reed says, there's a place for
everything; it's not as it was at home where Ruth and I had no
wardrobe, only pegs behind the door to hang our things on."

"You'll be more careful another time," Ann said, consolingly; "mother
wasn't angry, you know, Violet," she added, as she saw her companion's
brown eyes were a trifle misty.

"Oh, I know she was not! Well, I must try not to give her cause
to complain of me in that way again."

Violet did try, but often she relapsed into her disorderly habits,
thereby bringing rebuke upon herself. She was always so genuinely
sorry and repentant afterwards that Mrs. Reed refrained from speaking
to her as sharply as she would otherwise have done, remembering, too,
the manner in which the girl had been brought up in her own home.

Truth to tell Violet's new home was very unlike what she had expected.
She had anticipated the house of a successful man, as she knew
Dr. Reed to be, would be far different from what it actually was.
She had imagined it managed regardless of expense, and she soon found,
to her secret astonishment, that it was not, and that the strictest
economy was practised by its mistress. There was enough of everything,
but there was nothing superfluous. Mrs. Reed was one of the most
careful of housewives, and, unlike poor Mrs. Wyndham, she knew to a
farthing the amount of her expenditure.

Dr. Reed and his wife noted with satisfaction that Violet was becoming
very friendly with Ann. Since Violet had read Ruth's letter to Ann
she had been more open with her, and was no longer averse to talking
of her home. The two girls now prepared their lessons together of an
evening, the younger proving herself quite the equal of the elder
in most subjects, for she was forward for her age, and, being very
quick to learn, she bade fair to make good use of the advantages which
had so unexpectedly fallen to her share, and for which she felt really
very deeply grateful.

The first week Violet received her pocket money she founds there were
so many little things she required for her own use that she put aside
the idea of sending Ruth a part of it on that occasion, as she had
fully intended doing, and spent it entirely on herself. Next week
it was the same, and so the week after, until she began to tell
herself that Ruth, not being at school, did not need money so much
as she did.

"She would only spend it on pencils and paints," she reflected,
"and she does not know what pocket money I get or anything about it."

Her conscience told her she was acting selfishly, but she did not
listen to it, and she took care not to tell Ann that she had not
fulfilled her intention of sending money to Ruth, so that Ann
concluded she had done so.

In a very short while Violet had won the good opinions of those
teachers with whom she came in contact at Helmsford College, for she
was always attentive and eager to learn. She grew popular, too, with
her class-mates, and, though they soon found that she was cleverer
than most of them, that indisputable fact did not evoke jealousy as it
might have done if she had not been unfailingly good-tempered and
obliging. It was supposed by those who thought upon the matter at all
that Dr. Reed was Violet's guardian, as, of course he was, only no one
guessed that he was paying for her education out of his own pocket and
giving her a home besides.

Finding Violet made herself popular at school, Agnes Hosking thought
it worth her while to cultivate her acquaintance, and made much of the
fact that they had been school-fellows previously; and she refrained
from telling anyone of the shabby little home at Streatham where
Violet had lived all her life till now, or that Mr. Wyndham was a not
very successful journalist.

"It must be very pleasant for you living with the Reeds," she remarked
to Violet on one occasion; "much pleasanter than being a boarder here.
I suppose the Reeds are very old friends of yours?"

"Dr. Reed is a very old friend of my father's," Violet replied;
"he came to see us at Streatham last November, but I never saw
Mrs. Reed or Ann before I came to Barford."

"And you like them?" questioned Agnes curiously.

"Oh, yes! Ann and I have become great friends already, and Mrs. Reed
is exceedingly kind to me. Of course I missed all my own people
dreadfully at first, but now I'm very happy with the Reeds."

"It must be a great change for you," Agnes observed meaningly.
Then, as her companion coloured with annoyance, she continued: "I hear
Dr. Reed has the best paying practices in the place, he attends all
the rich families, and yet they say he was a mere nobody to commence
with—I mean, he has made his position himself."

"Yes," assented Violet, curtly.

"I heard one of the girls say that his relations—they live in
Devonshire, I believe—are all working people, and that his mother
was only a servant."

"Nonsense!" cried Violet, sceptical about the latter statement.
"I know his father was a farmer in Devonshire, and his mother is still
living—I have seen her likeness. She looks a dear old soul;
she couldn't have been a servant."

"Well, of course you would know as the Reeds are such friends
of yours," said Agnes, "but I was certainly told it as a fact."

"I don't think it can be true, but I'll ask Ann," Violet replied,
eager to be in the position to contradict what she considered an idle
report.

And ask Ann Violet did that same day, after they had prepared their
lessons in the evening, in the upstairs room which had formerly been
Ann's nursery. They were gathering together their books when Violet,
with some hesitation, commenced:—

"Oh, Ann, I want to ask you something; but, before I tell you what
it is, you must promise you will not be offended with me."

"I promise," Ann replied, smiling; "what is it?"

"Well, I was talking to Agnes Hosking to-day—she is a very inquisitive
sort of girl, you know—and she said that someone had told her that—
that your grandmother, your father's mother—"

"Yes?" Ann said interrogatively, as her companion appeared embarrassed
and hesitated; "what had someone told her about Granny?"

"That she was a servant," Violet answered; "of course I didn't
believe it, but I said I'd ask you," she added hastily.

"Agnes Hosking is quite right," Ann said, and her voice sounded cold
and proud to Violet's ears, whilst her grey eyes glowed brightly,
"Granny was a servant in her young days. What of that?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Violet replied, much taken aback; "only I did
not know, and—and—"

"I never thought of mentioning the fact to you—"

"No, no," Violet interposed, "of course not. I would not have spoken
of it if I had thought it was true, but I never, for a moment,
believed that it was."

"Do you think I mind your mentioning it?" Ann asked, with a touch
of irritation in her tone, and an unwonted expression of displeasure
on her face. "You surely cannot imagine that I am ashamed for it to be
known that my grandmother was 'only a servant' as people say? Why, I
am as fond and proud of Granny as though she was a duchess, aye,
prouder, and no duchess could be a better or a sweeter woman—I have
often heard mother say that."

She paused for a minute, and her voice softened as she proceeded:—

"My father says he is proud of his ancestry; his people were working
folks, it is true, folks of the class Jesus chose His disciples from,
but they were honest and always did their duty in life; and father
says to serve others is the highest privilege, we all ought to be
servants in one way or another in this world; don't you remember that
our Lord told His disciples that the greatest amongst them must be
servant of all? You can tell Agnes Hosking her statement that my
grandmother was a servant is quite correct. Never think I wish to keep
that a secret."

"I hope you are not angry with me," Violet said, looking, as she felt,
deeply distressed, "you promised you would not be offended. Oh, Ann!
I have not said anything to distress you, have? You must not be
annoyed because I am surprised—"

"Oh, I am not!" Ann broke in. "Of course it is natural that you should
be surprised, I realise that. But I thought you spoke as though
I might be ashamed of Granny's having been a servant."

This had actually been the case, and Violet looked abashed. She knew
if her grandmother had been a servant she would not have people aware
of it for the world; nevertheless she could not but admire Ann
for being above what she recognised to be a despicable feeling.

"I am so very sorry if I have hurt you in any way," she murmured;
"but—but I didn't understand. I have no grandmother myself, and I
didn't know you loved yours so much."

The next day Violet informed Agnes Hosking that she had been right,
and that Dr. Reed's mother had been a servant.

"How sly of Ann Reed not to have told you before!" exclaimed Agnes,
secretly delighted that she had been the one to enlighten Violet.
There was a malicious gleam in her eyes as she spoke.

"Not at all," Violet returned; "she did not think of telling me, and
you are mistaken if you imagine she wishes to keep it a secret.
She loves her grandmother dearly." And with that she brought the
conversation to an abrupt close.



CHAPTER X

CONCERNING LOTTIE MEDLAND

"SPRING is really coming now," announced Ann Reed, as she stood at the
dining-room window one Saturday afternoon towards the end of February;
"I believe I see some crocuses in the garden. By the way, Violet, you
have not been there yet."

"No," replied Violet, folding up the letter she had been engaged, for
the last half hour, in writing to her people at home; "but there's not
much to be seen in a garden in the winter, is there? I've finished my
letter, so I'm ready to do anything you like, now. Are you thinking
of going out?"

"I thought it would be nice to have a stroll round the garden."

Violet agreed, and, five minutes later, the two girls left the house
together. Having posted Violet's letter at the pillar-box, at one
corner of the square, they entered the garden, which they had entirely
to themselves, and spent a half hour in pacing the winding paths which
led through little shrubberies, and by rockeries and flower-beds,
promising, in the course of a few weeks, to be gay with spring flowers
where as yet only a few hardy snowdrops and yellow crocuses had
ventured to bloom.

"This is an almond tree," said Ann, pausing to indicate a leafless
tree under which there was a seat, "the scent of the flowers
is delicious; it will be in blossom in another month if we do not get
very cold weather again. I often sit here in the summer, I choose this
seat if I can get it because I can see our door and watch who comes
and goes. There's someone there now. Why, I do believe it's Malvina
Medland! Oh, Violet, let us go back, for mother's not at home and,
Malvina's so shy that for certain she'll refuse to go in if she
doesn't see one of us, and she ought to have a really good rest.
I expect she's brought the crochet edging."

The two girls hastened back to the house, which they reached at the
moment Malvina was turning from it. The expressive face of the poor
girl changed from disappointment to keenest pleasure as she caught
sight of them, and a glad light shone in her blue eyes.

"Oh, Malvina, how naughty of you to think of going away without
a rest!" cried Ann, reproachfully. "You must come in and have a cup
of tea. Mother's not at home, but I expect she will be back presently;
you must wait and see her—without, of course, you are really in a
hurry?"

"I am not in a hurry, miss," Malvina answered; "but the servant said
Mrs. Reed was out, and so I left the work with her. It is such a
beautiful afternoon that I thought I would bring the crochet myself,
though Lottie said she'd find time in the evening to run round with it
if I liked."

Ann led the way into the house, and into the dining-room where she
placed her visitor in an easy chair near the fireplace and removed her
cloak; then she flitted away to order tea, leaving Malvina to be
entertained by Violet. For a few minutes Violet was at a loss how to
commence a conversation, but, at last, she remarked:—

"I suppose you do not take many walks in the winter?"

"No, miss, because you see I can't walk fast enough, if the weather's
very cold, to keep myself warm; and I never leave home if mother and
Lottie are away at work. The factories shut early on Saturdays."

"Why did not Lottie come with you?" inquired Ann, as she re-entered
the room, followed by the tweeny-maid with the tea-tray.

Malvina appeared slightly embarrassed at this question, and she
answered with some hesitation:—

"I—I hardly know, Miss Ann. I did ask her to come, but—but she has her
own friends and she likes to spend her spare time with them, and—and
she walks much quicker than I do."

"I daresay she does," Ann responded. "Polly, I wish you would get cook
to cut us a few tongue-sandwiches," she said, turning to the servant,
"I am sure Malvina could eat some after her walk, and I think I could,
couldn't you, Violet?"

"Yes," nodded Violet, seeing that she was expected to assent. It had
not occurred to her before that she and Ann would have tea with
Malvina, and she could not help wondering what their school-fellows
would think of such an arrangement; several of them had already
confided to her that they considered Ann Reed very odd because she
habitually went her own way, and acted as she liked without troubling
her head about the opinions of others.

Seated by the fire, Malvina, who had looked cold and weary, soon grew
warm and comfortable. The tea refreshed her, and she did full justice
to the tongue-sandwiches—the truth being that she had had but a scanty
dinner; whilst a little flush, born of excitement at the novelty of
the situation, crept into her pale cheeks. The conversation was mostly
between her and Ann. Violet was surprised to see how the latter,
by her ready tact and sympathy, won the other's confidence, so that it
was not long before Malvina was pouring out a tale of woe.

"It's Lottie mother and I are worrying about, Miss Ann," she said, her
voice tremulous, her eyes misty with tears; "and—and it's owing to her
I came this afternoon. I ought not to have pretended it was the
beautiful weather which had enticed me out, for it wasn't that
altogether. I came because we couldn't trust Lottie—it's dreadful
to say it of my own sister!—and—and we want the money so badly."

"Then I am glad we stopped you from going without it," Ann replied;
"you must wait till mother comes and she will pay you."

"Thank you, miss. We ought not to be so short up to-day, but—" and
there was mingled shame and indignation in the girl's voice— "Lottie's
not brought home her money this week, not a penny of it, and we have
the rent to pay, and—oh, it's cruel of Lottie, that it is, when mother
works so hard, and, for that matter, so she does herself!"

"And you work hard, too, Malvina," Ann said gently. "What has Lottie
done with her money? Spent it on a new hat or something of that kind,
I suppose?"

"No, Miss Ann, I only wish she had," was the mournful response,
"it would have been thoughtless and selfish of her, but mother and I
wouldn't have minded that so much. She has spent it in betting."

"In betting!" echoed Ann, looking astounded. "But, Malvina, I never
knew—why, surely girls don't bet?" she asked incredulously.

"Oh, yes, indeed they do," Malvina declared, with a sob; "you wouldn't
know it, but they do. A lot of betting goes on amongst the factory
women and girls, and the bookmakers have their agents everywhere—even
in the workshops, and lately poor Lottie's been led away by them. She
thinks she's going to make her fortune, I believe."

"Oh, Malvina, how dreadful!" cried Ann in a shocked voice, exchanging
a look of concern with Violet who was no less astonished and dismayed
than herself. "I've heard father say that this is a terrible place for
betting," she continued, "but I never imagined that girls would go in
for it. Lottie must be out of her mind."

"If Lottie is out of her mind there are many others like her," Malvina
asserted, shaking her head sadly. "You can understand what a great
trouble this is to mother and me, Miss Ann, can't you?"

"Oh, indeed, yes! I am so sorry for you!"

"You see, Lottie won't listen to reason. Mother's told her that she'll
end by bringing us to ruin, but she doesn't believe it. The first bet
she made she won, and that made her go on; but she loses much more
than she wins now, and the last three weeks she hasn't put a penny
towards the housekeeping, and she's grown so ill-tempered, so unlike
herself, and the most extraordinary thing is that, though she's bound
to see the misery betting brings to others, it doesn't teach her a
lesson. There's a family living in the same house as we do, they have
the third storey, and sometimes the children haven't food to eat
though their father's in regular employment; it's because his earnings
mostly go in betting. I could tell you of a great many cases as bad,
but I don't think I ought to. I see I've shocked you, Miss Ann, and
you, too, miss," she concluded, glancing at Violet, who had been
listening to all she had said with the keenest interest.

As a matter-of-fact Violet was even more shocked than Ann, for she
knew nothing about the vices of big towns and cities; she had been
shielded in her home from the knowledge of a great deal which had
never been hidden from Ann, who was fully aware that intemperance and
gambling were at the root of much of the poverty and misery which
overshadowed the wage-earning classes in Barford. But Ann had not
realised before to-day that even young girls were in the habit of
betting, and, though she did her best to console Malvina by saying
she trusted Lottie would soon see the error she was committing, her
heart was filled with dismay, for she had frequently heard her father
say that the mania for betting grew, and she foresaw continued trouble
for Malvina and her widowed mother.

By-and-by Mrs. Reed appeared upon the scene, much to the relief of
mind of her daughter, and, having examined Malvina's work and
expressed her satisfaction with it, she promptly paid the money due
for it and gave an order for some more. Then, cheered and refreshed
by the good meal she had had, Malvina took her departure, saying she
would now be able to reach home before dark.

As soon as Malvina had gone, Ann informed her mother of the tale she
and Violet had heard about Lottie. Needless to say Mrs. Reed was much
concerned, though she was far less surprised than the girls had been.
She felt very grieved for poor Mrs. Medland and Malvina; but she shook
her head when Ann asked her if she could not interfere in the matter;
she could not see her way to do so.

That night, after dinner, when the doctor came into the drawing-room
for the quiet hour he always so greatly enjoyed, Ann immediately spoke
to him of Malvina's visit and the trouble in connection with Malvina's
sister, and, though he did not know the deformed girl except by name
as a protégé of his wife's, he showed no lack of interest in all his
daughter told him.

"Isn't it sad, father?" she said earnestly, after she had given him
all the details of the situation, "sad for poor Mrs. Medland and
Malvina, I mean?"

"Yes, and sadder still for the misguided girl—Lottie, do you call her?
What sort of girl is she?" he asked, glancing at his wife.

"Very good-looking, and not at all loud in her manners like so many
of the factory hands," Mrs. Reed replied; "but she is very unlike
Malvina, who is about a year her senior, I believe. Lottie has not
been earning her own living long. I had hoped the family would have
been in more comfortable circumstances now, but of course if Lottie
squanders her wages the others have no chance of getting on. She will
drag them down."

"I call Lottie a wicked, selfish girl," said Ann, with unusual
severity in her tone, "she's very fond of dress and pleasure—very
different from Malvina."

"My dear Ann, isn't it natural that a healthy girl should be fonder
of dress and pleasure than a poor hunchback?" questioned her father
gravely. "Did it never occur to you that by reason of her affliction
your deformed friend is set apart from many temptations? Don't let
your sympathy for one sister make you too hard on the other."

"But, Dr. Reed, it is very selfish of Lottie to spend her money
in betting!" exclaimed Violet, her brown eyes sparkling with
indignation. "And surely it must be wrong to bet?"

"Surely it is," agreed the doctor; "for, look at it in what light you
may, it cannot be argued that any good can come of it, whilst we see
its evil results on every side. I have little doubt that this Lottie
is a foolish, ignorant girl—a selfish one, too, as you say—led away
by the hope of making money without working for it. We must try not to
be too hard upon her, however, but remember her temptations. Poor
girl, she is greatly to be pitied. I wish something could be done
to prevent the factory women betting, but it is a difficult problem
to tackle. By the way, I think you remarked that these Medlands are
patients of Dr. Elizabeth's? Would a word of warning from Dr.
Elizabeth have any influence with this girl, Lottie, I wonder?"

"I don't know, perhaps so," Ann replied; "mother does not think she
can interfere, and, when one comes to think about it, if she did
Lottie would know that Malvina had been talking to us about her,
and she might be resentful to her sister."

"I really know very little of Lottie," Mrs. Reed remarked, "I never
knew any of the family till Dr. Elizabeth asked me if I could give
Malvina an order for some crochet. No, I don't think I can interfere
in this case."

"No," agreed her husband, "but Dr. Elizabeth might. She feels very
strongly on this betting question, and I believe, if it was suggested
to her, she would make it her business to see if anything can be done
to keep this poor girl from ruin—it means ruin if she persists in the
course she has begun."

"Oh, let me go and see Dr. Elizabeth on Monday!" Ann cried eagerly.
"Will you go with me, Violet?"

"Yes," assented Violet; "she lives a good way from here, does she
not?"

"A good way—about a mile. We shall not be able to go till late in the
afternoon, after school hours; but we shall be more likely to find her
at home then than earlier in the day. We will tell her about Lottie
Medland, and she will know if anything can be done to help her."

After that the conversation passed into another channel. Seeing his
daughter was very troubled about the Medland family, Dr. Reed sought
to distract her thoughts by talking to Violet of her relatives, and
soon Ann was laughing at an account of some of the mischievous pranks
the twins were in the habit of playing on their much enduring sisters
and Barbara.

"You know they don't mean to be naughty, but they're high-spirited
like all boys," explained Violet, who, now she was separated from her
little brothers, thought of them very tenderly indeed; "it really used
to be very funny to hear them teasing Barbara, and she's very fond
of them both, though she pretends she's not. Billy used to mimic her,
and it was impossible not to laugh, and then she would run after him
and chase him out of the kitchen, and Ruth would have to go down and
make peace."

"So Ruth is the peacemaker?" Dr. Reed questioned, with a smile.

"Yes," assented Violet. She always talked unreservedly to the doctor
now, and he considered her a very bright, frank girl, as indeed she
was with people she trusted, and she had learnt to trust Dr. and Mrs.
Reed, and Ann. "I don't know what they would have done at home if you
had said you wouldn't take me instead of Ruth," she proceeded
candidly; "mother said in her last letter that Ruth is more than ever
her right hand in the house."

"How does she get on with her drawing?" asked the doctor.

"Oh, capitally! She tells me she puts all her spare time to it;
she means to be a great artist some day, I wonder if she will."

"Time will show," Mrs. Reed said, smiling, "I hope so. If she really
has a talent for drawing and painting and works hard, no doubt she
will get on. She is evidently ambitious."

"She wants to be able to make money so as to be able to help father,"
Violet explained.

"That is a worthy ambition," Dr. Reed declared heartily, "and an
unselfish one, too. She is fond of her father—like another person
I could mention," he added, with a quick glance at Ann.

Violet saw the look, and a sharp pang shot through her heart, whilst
the home-sickness against which she had secretly fought—she had been
successful in hiding it from the Reeds—and conquered altogether,
as she had considered, returned as strong as it had ever been. At that
minute she would have given anything for a glimpse of the shabby
little Streatham home, and the faces of those who had never appeared
so dear to her, when she had seen them every day, as they did now.
For a few minutes Violet's brown eyes were dim with unshed tears.



CHAPTER XI

A CALL ON DR. ELIZABETH

Dr. ELIZABETH RIDGEWAY'S home was in the old part of Barford, a house
in a street which was an important thoroughfare and where a great deal
of business was done, for it was situated in the very heart of the
town. She had occupied the same abode for more than thirty years, and
she was attached to it. She loved the various sounds, to which many
would have objected, caused by the constant traffic and the noise from
the factories which were like so many human hives, the doors of which
opened at certain hours to pour forth their hundreds of working bees.

She lived a simple, hard-working life herself; and, when, one evening
about six o'clock, she was informed that Mrs. Reed and two young
ladies wished to see her, she had just finished her tea, after a busy
day, and was hoping to have an hour's rest before going out again
to visit a patient who was in a critical condition.

"Show them in here," she said; and a minute later she was shaking
hands with her visitors. Then she ascertained they had had tea, and,
when they were seated, she told them that she was very glad to see
them, adding that she was a little tired, and nothing did her so much
good as a chat with friends.

"Violet and Ann are very desirous to solicit your help for someone
in whom they are greatly interested," Mrs. Reed explained almost
immediately, "and as, of course, I do not care for them to be out
alone after dark, I came with them. We thought we should be more
likely to find you at leisure at this hour than earlier in the day."

"Quite right. I have had a very full day, for, as you are doubtless
aware, there is much sickness about; but I have an hour to spare now,
and I am at your service. If I can do anything for anyone in want
of my assistance I will most gladly. How well my little
travelling-companion looks!" Dr. Elizabeth concluded her sentence
with a smiling glance at Violet, who, with her usual quick
observation, had already made mental notes of everything in the simply
furnished room.

"I think she does," agreed Mrs. Reed; "my husband was saying only
yesterday that Yorkshire air evidently suits her."

"The change is doing her good;" said Dr. Elizabeth, decidedly. "Ann is
looking well, too. I do not think they overwork you at Helmsford
College," she remarked, looking from one to the other of the girls.

"We are not worked too hard, but quite hard enough," Ann replied;
at which the others laughed. "That is what I think," she proceeded,
"but then I'm not a book-worm and not so fond of learning as
Violet—she loves books, and she remembers everything she reads,
and everything she is told, too."

"Ah, a certain little bird informed me that Violet bids fair to be
a clever woman some day, and that she is considered a most promising
pupil at school," observed Dr. Elizabeth.

"I cannot guess who told you that," Violet said, her pretty face
colouring, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, "but I am trying to get
on. I should so much like to be a clever woman," she admitted.

"Should you? Why?" asked Dr. Elizabeth.

"Why?" repeated Violet, somewhat astonished at the question. "Oh
because I want to get on in the world," she answered; "I am going
in for all sorts of examinations later on, and I mean to work hard and
pass them and become a highly educated woman like Miss Orchardson."

Dr. Elizabeth exchanged a quick glance with Mrs. Reed, then she looked
earnestly at the eager countenance of the sanguine speaker, and said:—
"Well, perhaps if you work hard you will one day gain your ambition—
perhaps, for it will be as God wills, and often He withholds from us
what we most desire."

"Yes," agreed Violet, thinking of the many years during which her
father had laboured—in vain, it seemed to her—in the hope of bettering
his position, whilst men less gifted had passed him by in the race
for success, "I have often wondered at that! But I shall try my
hardest to get on."

"Quite right," nodded Dr. Elizabeth, "do your best and leave the
result to God. I wonder if you know this verse:—"

"'Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever,
   Do noble things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life, Death, and that vast "For-ever"
   One grand, sweet song.'"

"But it's possible to be good and clever as well, Dr. Elizabeth,"
said Ann. "It seems to me I know many clever people who are good,
don't you, mother?"

"Certainly, I do," Mrs. Reed answered, "but everyone cannot be clever,
and everyone, who wills, may be good."

"That's what I mean," said Dr. Elizabeth, her eyes still on Violet
who was looking thoughtful. "And now tell me whom do you want me
to help and what can I do?" she proceeded to inquire, turning her
attention to Ann.

"We want you to help Lottie Medland by speaking to her about the way
she is going on," commenced Ann eagerly; "you know Lottie, the sister
of poor Malvina Medland?" As Dr. Elizabeth assented, she continued,
speaking fast— "Lottie has taken to betting—oh, isn't it dreadful?
It is so sad for Malvina and her mother, for you know they are really
most respectable people. Malvina came to our house on Saturday with
some work she had done for mother, and she seemed unhappy—as a rule
she is cheerful and bright—and by-and-by she told Violet and me what
was troubling her. Lottie spends nearly all her money in betting now.
Of course poor Mrs. Medland and Malvina are terribly worried, for it
makes things very short at home, and, apart from that, they are
frightened to think what will become of Lottie. Oh, Dr. Elizabeth,
don't you think you might speak to her and point out to her how wrong
it is to bet? Father thought you might be able to find an opportunity
to do so."

Dr. Elizabeth's face had been very grave as she had listened, and,
for a few minutes after Ann had ceased speaking, she sat in silence,
her brows puckered in a frown.

"I will certainly make an opportunity of speaking to Lottie," she
said, at length, "but whether I shall be able to do any good or not
remains to be seen. Poor, misguided girl! I am deeply grieved to hear
this of her. Every day of my life I am brought in contact with untold
misery caused by betting and gambling."

"My husband's experience is the same," said Mrs. Reed sadly, "it is
very dreadful, and one can do so little to fight against the evil—"

"Except speak a fearless word against it on every possible occasion,"
interposed Dr. Elizabeth; "I never scruple to do that, and very sour
looks I get turned upon me sometimes, I do assure you. But I have
never held my tongue yet when I have considered it my duty to speak
out, though I believe I'm often dubbed a busy-body for my pains."

"It's a good thing for the world in general that there are some
busy-bodies in it," remarked Mrs. Reed. "But, to return to Lottie
Medland. I am sure she will be more likely to listen to you than to
anyone else; you are such a friend to the factory women and girls."

"I try to be," Dr. Elizabeth rejoined, simply; "but there's little
enough I can do for them, poor things. Yes, I'll certainly speak
to Lottie."

"Thank you," said Ann, "I felt sure you would; and, oh, I do hope she
will give up betting for her mother's sake and Malvina's, if not for
her own!"

"Dr. Elizabeth," said Violet, a recollection suddenly crossing her
mind, "how is the mother of that little girl who goes out charing?"

"She is quite convalescent now, and the brave little charwoman
is consequently in high spirits and feels, I verily believe, that she
has not a trouble in the world; I came across her a few mornings ago
whitening the doorstep of a house where she is often employed, and she
was singing light-heartedly."

"What sort of people employ such a child?" asked Mrs. Reed.

"Oh, all sorts of people. She has one engagement to scrub out a
greengrocer's shop daily before breakfast, but that is her only
standing engagement, I believe."

At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a servant,
who brought the information that there had been an accident in the
next street and medical assistance was required, therefore a messenger
had been sent to summon Dr. Elizabeth. On hearing this the visitors
immediately took their departure.

A few weeks later Malvina again visited Laureston Square. Mrs. Reed
was not at home, and the two girls were at school; so she left her
work, and the next day, after school, Ann, accompanied by Violet, took
the money she had earned to her.

Malvina was alone when her visitors arrived, for her mother had gone
to do her weekly marketing, and Lottie was out with a friend. This
Malvina explained; then, when she had received her money and been
assured, in answer to her anxious inquiry, that Mrs. Reed was pleased
with her work, she said confidentially, the sensitive colour spreading
over her face:—

"I feel I must tell you about Lottie, for I spoke to you, the other
day, of the way she'd been going on. I know you'll be glad to hear
that she's handed over every penny she's earned this last fortnight
to mother. I do believe she's turned over a new leaf and given up
betting."

"Oh, this is good news!" cried Ann, delightedly, exchanging a meaning
glance with Violet. "What has made her give it up, do you imagine?"
she inquired.

"I can't tell miss; I only know that God has heard our prayers
for her—mother's and mine—and answered them. I hope she won't give way
to temptation again."

"Oh, I trust she will not," said Ann earnestly; and after that the
subject dropped.

But, on the way home, Violet, who had been unusually silent and
thoughtful, reverted to it by remarking abruptly:—

"I cannot see that Malvina's prayers can have had anything to do with
Lottie's giving up betting. It seemed so odd to hear Malvina say what
she did and to know that it was really Dr. Elizabeth's doing. There's
no doubt in my mind that Dr. Elizabeth has seen Lottie, and given her
a good talking to. Don't you think so, Ann?"

"Oh, yes! But Malvina was right in what she said."

"I can't see how you make out that. We asked Dr. Elizabeth to
interfere—or rather, you did, Ann. God had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, Violet, don't you think He may have used us to do His work?
I like to think He did, that—in a little way—we were able to serve
Him."

"What a funny girl you are, Ann!" exclaimed Violet.

"Why?" Ann asked, in astonishment.

"You are always seeing God's hand in everything."

"I try to; one is so much happier if one does. It's such a comfort
to know there's Someone who manages things right if you trust Him.
Father says that was the most valuable lesson Granny taught him when
he was a little boy, to do his best and leave the result to God—
by the way, Dr. Elizabeth gave us that advice the other day. I wish
you knew my grandmother, Violet."

"Does she never come to stay with you?" questioned Violet, who had
often wondered if she did, but had never liked to inquire.

"She has not visited us for a long while now; you know she is an old
woman, and the journey has become too much for her to undertake.
We shall go to see her in the summer holidays, in August, if all's
well. I wish you could be there too, Violet; but, of course, you would
rather be with your people at home. Oh, look! There's Lottie Medland!
She is the middle one of those three girls opposite."

Violet glanced across the street, and perceived three girls strolling
along arm in arm, talking and laughing loudly. They were all showily
dressed, she noticed, in tawdry finery; but the one in the centre,
who looked only a little older than herself, had a more refined
countenance than the others. Though not the possessor of a beautiful
face like her sister, Lottie Medland was a decidedly nice-looking
girl, and, at the present moment, she appeared full of animation.
Suddenly she caught sight of Ann and Violet, and, evidently
recognising the former, she drew back from her companions on the
pretence of being attracted by something in a shop window.

"I wonder why she did that," said Ann, as she and Violet passed on;
"I nodded to her, but perhaps she did not see me." She spoke half
inquiringly.

"Oh, yes, I am sure she did," Violet returned decidedly, "but she did
not want you to notice her. I believe she was ashamed for some reason
or other."

"Do you think Malvina can have told her that she spoke to us about her
betting?" suggested Ann, dubiously.

"Oh, no! I expect she was ashamed to be seen in company with those
two fast-looking girls."

"Perhaps that was it."

"Most likely, I think. At any rate, I would not distress myself
about it," Violet advised, smiling, for she was more than a little
amused because the other took the matter so seriously and appeared so
concerned; "one would really think, Ann, judging from the expression
of your face, that you had been 'cut' by a friend."



CHAPTER XII

A SOLICITED INVITATION

AS the school term progressed and Agnes Hosking continued to evince
a friendly spirit towards Violet, the uneasiness which the latter had
experienced when she had discovered her old school-fellow at Helmsford
College lessened considerably, if it did not altogether leave her; and
she was beginning to tell herself that, perhaps, after all, she had
misjudged Agnes, when she was enlightened as to the reason of the
other girl's overtures of friendship.

It came about in this way. One fine March afternoon Violet was
standing, with several of her school-fellows, watching a game of
hockey, which was being played on the College ground, when Agnes came
up and entered into conversation with her. At first Violet, who was
intent on the game, in which she was greatly interested because Ann
Reed was one of the players, paid but little attention to what Agnes
was saying; but, by-and-by, she became aware that her companion was
bemoaning the fact that she had no friends in Barford to ask her out
to tea on the weekly holiday, and that she was hinting that an
invitation to spend a Saturday afternoon at the Reeds' house would be
very welcome.

"I've spent all my Saturdays here so far—not one of the day-scholars
has asked me to her home," she complained, "it's hard lines on me,
isn't it?"

"Yes," agreed Violet, but without much sympathy in her tone; "you're
in the same box as a great many others, though, and with such a lot of
girls you cannot very well be dull."

"I find it very monotonous, and so would you if you were in my place."

"I daresay." There was indifference in Violet's voice and manner.

"You have the best of it, Violet. Anyone can see you have a very good
time with the Reeds."

"They are such very kind people," Violet replied, heartily.

"I suppose they let you do as you like in every way?" suggested Agnes.

"There you are quite wrong. I am treated just as Ann is, but she can't
do exactly as she likes always."

"At any rate she can ask her friends to tea with her on Saturdays,
if she likes, can't she?"

"Oh, yes! The Garrets came last week."

The Garrets were two girls whose parents were in India. They were
boarders at Helmsford College and spent their holidays with their
grandmother, their father's mother, who lived in a fine, old country
house about three miles from Barford. They were pleasant, unaffected
girls, the younger about the age of Ann herself, the elder a year
her senior.

"I wish you'd get Ann Reed to ask me to tea on Saturday, Violet," said
Agnes, in a coaxing tone, perceiving that she would not acquire her
end by hinting, and, accordingly, speaking out, "I should like to see
what her home is like."

"It's not nearly such a grand home as yours," Violet answered
evasively, finding herself in an awkward position, "you wouldn't think
much of it."

"Nonsense! You say that to put me off!" Agnes exclaimed, an angry
flush rising to her face. "I know the Reeds are well-to-do people,"
she continued; "I see what it is, you want to keep your friends
to yourself, and I call it very mean of you. You know very well that
if you suggested to Ann that she should ask me to tea one Saturday
she would do it; she's very good-natured, and you and I are such old
friends—"

"That's not true!" Violet broke in impetuously, growing very red and
speaking with a want of caution she afterwards regretted. "You know
you were never friendly with me when we were at Miss Minter's, nor
with Ruth. You used to snub us, and I haven't forgotten it. Why should
I pretend to Ann that I wish to ask you to tea when I don't?
You wouldn't want to be Ann Reed's visitor if she lived in a poky
house—"

"Like your home at Streatham," interrupted Agnes, a gleam of malice
in her eyes. She laughed in a sneering fashion. "No, I wouldn't," she
declared, emphatically, adding: "I think you'd better get her to ask
me, though, all the same."

There was a decided threat in the girl's tone, and Violet cast
a suspicious, inquiring glance at her.

"I want to be friendly with Ann Reed," Agnes continued, "I was sent
to Helmsford College that I should make friends with girls whose
parents hold good positions, and, though Ann's grandmother was only
a common servant, I've heard from several of the day-scholars that Dr.
Reed and his wife visit in the best society in Barford, and that the
doctor's practice brings him in a big income. Don't be nasty, Violet;
for if you are I shall make things very disagreeable for you, and you
won't like that."

"I don't understand what you mean," Violet said uneasily. She was
trembling with indignation and apprehension of she knew not what.

"Don't you? Nonsense! You know well enough. Do you imagine that I
haven't found out you're here under false pretences?"

"False pretences!" echoed Violet, her voice shrill with wrath.
"How dare you say that to me? It's not true! You know it's not!"

"Hush, hush!" cried Agnes, glancing quickly around. Violet's late
companions had moved away, however, and, as no one was very near,
Agnes continued: "It is true, so what is the good of your denying it.
You pretend that you are on an equality with the Reeds when it's no
such thing. They have taken you out of charity, and are providing for
you in every way. Oh, it's useless your being angry and looking at me
in that haughty way, for I've found out all about it from friends at
Streatham."

Violet had grown exceedingly white, and she could scarcely speak
for passion. At that moment she felt that she positively hated Agnes
Hosking; but, with a great effort, she succeeded in curbing her rage,
and answered with a calmness which surprised her companion:—

"I have made no pretence about anything, and you have no right
whatever to speak to me in such an insulting fashion. If I am living
on the Reeds' charity, what is that to you?"

"But are you?" asked Agnes, who was by no means sure of what she had
stated.

"You say so," Violet responded haughtily, "but, if you are in the
least doubtful on the point, why not ask Ann? She will no doubt tell
you the truth. By all means ask Ann."

But Agnes had no intention of doing that. She began to see that she
had gone too far and had made a mistake in taunting Violet, so she
commenced to temporise.

"We won't quarrel, for that's foolish," she said; "but, really, it was
your fault that I spoke out as I did. Haven't I tried to be friendly
with you? Wasn't I pleased to meet you here? And yet, when I suggested
that you might get Ann Reed to ask me to her house to tea you began
to put me off immediately. That aggravated me, naturally, and I am
quick-tempered. Come, Violet, get Ann to invite me for next Saturday
afternoon and I will promise not to let you down before the other
girls."

"How could you 'let me down' as you express it?" Violet inquired,
vainly trying to hide the anxiety she was experiencing.

"I could tell them that your father is so poor he couldn't possibly
afford to pay for you to board with the Reeds or for your school fees,
and you wouldn't like everybody to know that, I suppose? I can assure
you that your position here would be very different to what it is if
it were known you were being educated by charity. I will keep all this
to myself, though, if you will only do what I ask you."

Violet was silent. She had entirely lost all interest in the game of
hockey now, and, though she still gazed at the players, it was with
unseeing eyes which noted none of their movements. Her thoughts had
flown to her own home, to her hard-working father who certainly did
his best for his family, to her mother, and sisters, and the boys.
Why should she mind if her companion spoke of the poverty of her home
to her school-fellows? she asked herself. The Reeds saw nothing to be
ashamed of in connection with it, and, though the majority of the
girls at Helmsford College were the children of wealthy parents, and
it would certainly be humiliating to have her private affairs brought
under discussion, she felt most disinclined to give way to Agnes
Hosking.

Ah, but what she did mind was that Agnes would inform everybody that
she was being educated at the expense of Dr. Reed—by charity, as she
had said. There lay the sting. So kind and considerate had the Reeds
been to her that her position in her new home had seemed quite
natural, and the thought of being pointed at as an object for charity
galled her immeasurably. Never before in her life had she experienced
such a sense of keen humiliation, and she felt she should never be
able to hold up her head at Helmsford College again if Agnes carried
out her threat and told the girls that she was being educated by
charity. How much did Agnes know? she wondered. Did she know that
Dr. Reed paid all her expenses and even kept her supplied in
pocket-money? Would she tell the girls that? Oh, it was unendurable
even to contemplate it! She would do anything to prevent it.

"Well?" said Agnes interrogatively, at length. She had been watching
the varying expressions which had flitted across her companion's
telltale countenance with evident curiosity.

"If I get Ann to ask you to tea next Saturday will you promise not
to meddle in my concerns?" asked Violet, rather shame-facedly.

"Oh, yes! I don't want to be nasty in any way," Agnes returned, with a
gleam of triumph in her eyes. It was true, then, she thought, that
Violet was being provided for by Dr. Reed. Her last letter from home
had informed her that such was reported to be the case; now, Violet's
behaviour set the matter beyond a doubt.

"Well, I will do as you wish," Violet told her, after a minute's
hesitation.

"Oh, thank you!"

"You needn't thank me."

"You won't bear malice, Violet?" questioned Agnes, glancing rather
doubtfully at her companion's gloomy countenance.

"You've said to me what I will never forgive," Violet answered
deliberately, "but I'm not going to quarrel with you. I think you are
the meanest girl I ever met, though, and I know I'm foolish to give
in to you like this, but—but—"

She turned away with trembling lips and eyes dim with tears of mingled
anger, shame, and humiliation. She was fully aware that she was acting
foolishly and weakly; but public opinion meant so much to her, and she
feared to jeopardize her position at Helmsford College. Her school
fellows were very friendly to her now, but who could tell what their
treatment of her would be if they became aware that she was being
provided for and educated by charity?

As soon as the game of hockey was over Ann joined Violet, and the two
girls left the College grounds and turned homewards together. For a
while Ann talked of the game and the various players, but by-and-by
she remarked:—

"I saw you and Agnes Hosking together, but I fancied you did not look
very pleased, Violet."

"No," Violet answered laconically, with a deep-drawn sigh. She longed
to take Arm into her confidence, but she realised she could not do
that after the promise she had made to Agnes. Already she was
beginning to wish that promise had never been given. "Agnes tells me
that she has spent all her Saturdays at the College so far," she
continued, after a brief pause, "no one has asked her out to tea,
and—and she put it to me that she would much like to come to tea with
us. I wonder if Mrs. Reed would let us ask her, Ann?"

"Oh, yes," Ann replied readily, though she was decidedly surprised.
"It is very kind of you to wish it, Violet, for I know you are not
very fond of her," she added.

"I am not fond of her at all; but she has no friends in the place,
and—and if you do not mind—" Violet broke off, and looked at her
companion half deprecatingly, half appealingly.

"I do not mind at all," Ann asserted. "Agnes has always been most
friendly to me, but I have kept her rather at a distance on account of
what you told me of the way in which she used to treat you and your
sisters. We'll ask her for next Saturday if mother agrees, shall we?"

"Thank you," said Violet, in a low voice which trembled slightly.

"You really wish it, don't you?" Ann asked, a puzzled expression
crossing her face. Then, as Violet assented, she said: "Is there
anyone else you would like to invite with Agnes, or shall we have her
alone?"

"Oh, have her alone," replied Violet; "that will be the best way."

So it was settled, and the following day, Mrs. Reed's consent having
been obtained, the invitation was given and accepted. In the letter
which Violet wrote home in the evening, she mentioned that Agnes
Hosking was coming to tea on Saturday, a piece of news which was
received with great amazement by her sisters, Ruth openly avowing that
she was sorry to hear it.

"Why should you be sorry, my dear?" asked Mrs. Wyndham, who had read
Violet's letter aloud. It had arrived by the afternoon post, and was
under discussion at the tea-table.

"Because I mistrust Agnes Hosking," Ruth promptly replied; "you cannot
imagine how insufferably insolent she used to be to us at Miss
Minter's, simply because she was a rich man's daughter and had plenty
of money to spend whilst we were poor. I was so annoyed when she took
Violet to her home—or, rather, I was annoyed on hearing about it
afterwards. Violet ought not to have gone, but she was curious to see
what the Hosking's house was like, she realised that Agnes only took
her there to show off."

"Perhaps Agnes has improved," suggested Madge; "you know Violet has
said in several of her letters that she seemed to wish to be
friendly."

Ruth shook her head incredulously, for she had good reason to mistrust
her old school-fellow, and many a slighting remark the arrogant girl
had made to pain and annoy her returned to her memory. She considered
Violet very foolish to have become intimate with Agnes Hosking, as she
argued that she must have done if she was on sufficiently cordial
terms with her to introduce her into the Reeds' home. She would have
been shocked and dismayed had she known the true facts of the case;
and as it was, she blamed Violet openly, and wondered how she could
endure to cultivate the friendship of one who had sneered at her
father—an unpardonable affront in Ruth's sight—and slighted her
sisters and herself.



CHAPTER XIII

THE TORTOISE-SHELL PURSE

WHEN Violet awoke on the morning of the day on which Agnes Hosking was
expected to tea, the rain was descending in torrents, and she hoped
the weather would prove too bad for the visitor to come; but, to her
secret disappointment, towards mid-day the sky began to clear, and by
two o'clock the sun was shining and the rain had gone. At three
o'clock Agnes appeared, accompanied by a junior governess, Miss
Wilcocks, who left her at the doctor's door, according to Miss
Orchardson's instruction.

"As though I was not to be trusted to walk the short distance from
Helmsford College alone," Agnes muttered to herself, as she looked
after Miss Wilcocks' retreating figure.

Ann and Violet met their visitor in the hall, and the former inquired
if she would like to go for a walk before tea or if she would prefer
to spend the time indoors.

"It has cleared up so nicely that we thought perhaps you'd like to be
out in the sunshine," Ann said; "if so, there's a walk we might take
you not fax from here—to Upcott Hill, from which one has a most lovely
view, and—"

"Oh, I've been there on several occasions with Miss Wilcocks and some
of the boarders," Agnes interrupted, "I'd much rather go into the town
and have a good look at the shop windows."

"I'm afraid we cannot do that," Ann returned; "I'm sorry, but mother
doesn't care for us to go into the town on Saturday afternoons without
she is with us, because it is generally thronged with rough sort of
folks, and to-day there is an important football match to be played
here, and that always brings a lot of people to the place, so the
streets will be crowded."

"If we can't go into the town I would as soon stay in the house,"
said Agnes, not attempting to disguise her disappointment. She thought
Mrs. Reed was absurdly particular.

"Then come up to my room and take off your hat and jacket," Ann
replied; "I'm afraid you're disappointed, Agnes, but you don't realise
what the town is like on a Saturday afternoon. Come with us, Violet."

So the three girls went upstairs to Ann's room —a little room very
similar to Violet's, with white enamelled furniture and a pretty,
light wall paper. Agnes glanced around her with curious eyes, and, as
soon as she had taken off her outdoor garments, she requested
permission to look at the pictures and knick-knacks which ornamented
the walls. Ann exhibited her treasured possessions with pleasure; they
were most of them little presents which had been given to her by her
parents at various times.

"This is where my grandmother lives," she said, indicating a framed
photograph of a small, white-washed house, actually a cottage, with
lattice windows and a strip of garden before it; "it faces the sea,
and Granny spends a great part of her time in the summer sitting under
the porch, knitting. She says knitting is her one accomplishment, she
is very clever at it and makes all sorts of things—counterpanes, and
curtains, and, of course, she always keeps father supplied with socks.
She knitted my first socks, too, of fine thread; mother has them now,
they are so pretty—like lace. When I look at that photograph I can
picture Granny most vividly. She has splendid sight for her age, and
can see a great distance; she loves to watch the vessels passing up
and down the channel, and she knows such a lot about ships, and can
tell such wonderful sea-stories—true ones."

Agnes stared at the photograph in silence, rather wondering that Ann
should have pointed it out to her, for the cottage was such a very
unpretentious dwelling. Why did Dr. Reed allow his mother to occupy
such a humble abode? She could not imagine anyone living there from
choice.

"Have you a grandmother, Agnes?" asked Violet, making a shrewd guess
at what was passing through the visitor's mind, and anxious to prevent
her putting her thoughts into words.

"Oh, yes! father's mother. She lives at Bath in a large house—a much
larger house than this one—and she's very rich; my grandfather left
her a lot of money when he died. I am to spend my Easter holidays with
her."

"That will be nice for you," remarked Ann. "Bath is a very pretty
place, I've heard. I suppose you are very fond of your grandmother?"

"Well, no, I cannot say I am," Agnes admitted, with a laugh; "she's an
exceedingly cross old woman who says things—disagreeable things, you
know—on purpose to hurt and annoy people."

Violet with difficulty repressed a smile, for she could not help
thinking that Agnes must rather resemble her grandmother in
disposition; she made no remark, but Ann said gravely:—

"I can never understand how any one can like to do that. What makes
her so unkind?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Agnes answered, shrugging her shoulders,
"it pleases her, I suppose; people put up with her, you know, because
she has plenty of money, and she likes spending it. She gives me lots
of presents. Look at this. She sent it to me on my last birthday."

Agnes produced a purse from her pocket as she spoke, and handed it
to Ann.

It was a very handsome purse, evidently an expensive one, made of
tortoise-shell with rims and clasp of gold.

"How pretty!" exclaimed Ann, and, having looked at the outside of it,
she passed it to Violet who declared it was the most beautiful purse
she had ever seen.

"Open it," said Agnes, "look at the inside."

Violet did so. The purse was lined with red morocco leather and
contained a sovereign, several shillings, and a few coppers.
It suddenly occurred to Violet that it was Agnes' intention to
impress her with the sight of so much money—it seemed a great deal
to Violet—and she shut the purse somewhat hastily and returned it
to its owner, who slipped it into her pocket remarking that it was
real tortoise-shell, and she believed her grandmother had given a good
bit for it.

"I am sure she must have done so," said Ann, "especially if the rims
and clasp are gold."

"Oh, they are," Agnes assured her, "real gold. Grandmother never buys
anything that is not the best that can be had for money."

"Take care you do not get your pocket picked," advised Violet.

"Oh, I'll be careful that does not happen," Agnes returned, "but,
to be on the safe side, I'll carry my purse in my muff on my way home
so that it will be in my hand all the while. I'll not lose it, you may
depend."

After that, Agnes, at her request, was shown Violet's bedroom; and
then they went into the drawing-room, where the visitor met with a
cordial reception from Mrs. Reed, who supposed her to be an especial
friend of Violet's, having been told that she and Violet had attended
the same school at Streatham, and made her take a chair by her side
and talk to her.

Agnes thought Mrs. Reed very agreeable, and, being on her best
behaviour herself, she made a not unfavourable impression upon her
hostess.

For the time present, at any rate, Agnes had laid aside her arrogant
manner, and perhaps the company in which she found herself had a
beneficial influence over her, for she talked without any attempt to
be boastful, and even Violet was obliged to admit to herself that
Agnes could be nice if she liked.

By-and-by tea was brought in and a plentiful supply of sweet cakes
such as school girls love, and, whilst the young people were regaling
themselves on these dainties, Dr. Reed returned home and came upstairs
to the drawing-room. He was introduced to Agnes, who was secretly
delighted to make the acquaintance of the popular doctor; but he did
not stay long, merely remaining to drink a cup of tea and eat a slice
of bread and butter, laughingly waving aside the cakes his daughter
would have pressed upon him.

The afternoon slipped quickly away—too quickly to please Agnes.
Miss Wilcocks would call for her at half past six o'clock, she
explained to her companions, and she must have her outdoor things
on by that time so as not to keep the governess waiting.

"Oh, it's only just six, so you needn't hurry," said Ann, glancing
at the clock on the mantelpiece, "I want you to come downstairs and
look at my birds. I have several canaries, they are so tame that they
will feed from my hand."

Accordingly she led the way downstairs, Violet and Agnes following,
and, after inspecting the birds in their cage on a table before the
dining-room window, Agnes said, with real regret, that she thought now
she really must get ready to go.

"Perhaps you ought," agreed Ann; "you must come again another Saturday
afternoon," she added, hospitably.

"Thank you," Agnes answered, looking very pleased; "I have had a very
enjoyable time."

As they were crossing the hall they met Polly, the tweeny-maid, on her
way to answer the front door-bell, and, expecting Miss Wilcocks had
arrived, they lingered to ascertain if such was the case. It was not
Miss Wilcocks on the doorstep, however, but Lottie Medland, who had
brought a parcel containing some needlework which her sister had been
entrusted to do for Mrs. Reed. Ann hurried forward immediately, and
invited her to come in; but Lottie demurred shyly, and stood
hesitating in the doorway.

"Mother is at home, and I am sure she will like to see you, Lottie,"
Ann said kindly; "besides, you will want to take Malvina the money
for her work, will you not?"

Accordingly Lottie came in and took a seat in the hall, whilst the
servant closed the front door. Agnes and Violet had disappeared,
so Ann, having told Lottie she would not be kept waiting long,
followed them upstairs, pausing at the drawing-room door to inform her
mother of Lottie's arrival. By that time someone else was at the front
door, and, as Ann crossed the landing, she recognised Miss Wilcocks'
voice inquiring if Miss Hosking was ready to leave.

"Miss Wilcocks has come," she said, entering her bedroom where Agnes
had already put on her hat and jacket, and, gloves in hand, was in
conversation with Violet.

"Has she? Then I must go," Agnes declared. She took up her muff from
the bed as she spoke, and left the room with the others.

In the hall they found Mrs. Reed talking to Miss Wilcocks, whilst
Lottie Medland, who had risen from her chair, waited at a little
distance. Agnes made a neat little speech to Mrs. Reed, thanking her
for a pleasant afternoon, then goodbyes were exchanged, and governess
and pupil took their departure.

"Now I am at liberty to have a word with you, Lottie," Mrs. Reed
remarked, with a kind smile, as she opened the parcel which Lottie had
handed to her and looked at its contents. "Yes, this is quite right,"
she proceeded, "and the sewing is excellent, as usual. I am glad to
tell you that I have succeeded in obtaining an order for Malvina, from
a friend of mine, for some plain needlework. I hope to find time
to see her about it next week. Will you tell her so?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Lottie, "she will be glad—oh, very glad!"

She spoke in a flurried tone, and glanced around her nervously.
As soon as she had received the money for the work she had brought
she moved towards the door. Seeing she was evidently ill at ease
neither Mrs. Reed nor Ann attempted to detain her longer, but they
were both surprised at her manner, and the latter wondered if she
suspected them of knowing the trouble she had given her people;
it really looked as though she did.

Meanwhile Miss Wilcocks and Agnes Hosking had returned to Helmsford
College, and, ten minutes subsequently, the latter, looking much
perturbed, sought Miss Orchardson, and, having found her in her
private sitting-room, informed her that she had left her purse at Dr.
Reed's.

"How very careless of you!" exclaimed Miss Orchardson. "Is there much
money in it?"

"One pound, seven shillings, and five pence half-penny," Agnes
responded glibly; "it is a very expensive purse, one my grandmother
gave me," she hastened to add.

"Then you should have taken better care of it," Miss Orchardson
observed, with some severity.

"Yes," Agnes agreed; "please, may I go back and fetch it?"

"Certainly not. Where did you leave it?"

"On Ann Reed's bed," was the unhesitating reply.

"On Ann Reed's bed! How came you to leave it there?"

"I was afraid of having my pocket picked, so I put my purse into my
muff when I went upstairs for my outdoor things, and the muff was on
the bed. When I took up my muff I forgot about my purse, and I suppose
it slipped out."

"You suppose? It may not have done so. You very probably lost it in
the street."

"No," Agnes replied, shaking her head decidedly, "I am quite sure
I did not. If the purse had been in my muff when I put my hands into
it I should have felt it, and I should remember having done so; but I
am positive it was not there, and I never thought of it till I was
putting away my outdoor things just now. Oh, I feel certain that it is
on Ann's bed!"

Agnes had been filled with dismay when she had found that her purse
was not in her possession, for her first idea had been that she had
lost it; but, on second thoughts, she had been confident she had not
done that, and therefore she had come to Miss Orchardson to request
that she might be permitted to return to Laureston Square in search
of it.

"Are you really certain that the purse was not in your muff when you
left the Reed's house?" the head mistress inquired, after a brief
deliberation.

"Yes," Agnes returned positively; "I believe it must be on Ann's bed.
I remember I snatched up my muff hurriedly when I heard Miss Wilcocks
had come for me, and my purse must have slipped out then."

"I will send and make inquiries. But remember, if it is lost it is
entirely your own fault, you should have taken proper care of it.
If the purse is anywhere in the Reeds' house, you will get it again;
if not, I shall conclude that you lost it on your way home."

Thus it was that, between eight and nine o'clock that same evening,
a messenger from Helmsford College arrived at the doctor's house
in Laureston Square, with a note from Miss Orchardson to Mrs. Reed
explaining that Agnes Hosking considered she had left her purse
on Ann's bed, and requesting that, if she had done so, it might be
entrusted to the bearer of the note. But no purse was to be found on
the bed or anywhere else in Ann's room, and a message to that effect
was sent back to Helmsford College.

"She must have lost it," said Violet decidedly, when she was
discussing the matter with Mrs. Reed and Ann, after the departure
of the messenger; "I saw her slip it into her muff before she put
on her hat and jacket. Depend upon it she lost it going home."

"Perhaps to-morrow it may be found on the staircase or in the hall,"
suggested Ann, "we must all keep our eyes open for it, and the
servants must be careful in shaking the mats. I wish she had not
brought the purse with her this afternoon. By the way, Violet, did you
notice what money was in it?"

"Yes," assented Violet, "there was a sovereign, some shillings, and
some coppers. She told me to open the purse or I should not have done
so."

"Of course not!" said Ann quickly, noticing that Violet had flushed
sensitively.

"I am sorry the purse contained so much money," said Mrs. Reed, who
was looking rather troubled, "for, though she apparently believes she
left it here, I fancy she has lost it out-of-doors, in which case it
is most unlikely that she will get it again; and, apart from the
money, I have no doubt that she sets great store on the purse, as it
was, you tell me, a gift from her grandmother."

"I think she values it more because it is very handsome and cost a
good bit," said Ann gravely, exchanging a meaning glance with Violet.
"I hope it will be found," she continued, "but if she had left it on
my bed it would be there still. Who would take it away?"

This was an unanswerable question. It was felt that Agnes had placed
the members of the doctor's household in a very awkward position;
for, if she had actually left her purse on the bed, what could have
become of it? It must have been moved, but by whose hand?



CHAPTER XIV

THE EASTER HOLIDAYS

"WELL?" It was Monday morning. The scene was the day-scholar's
dressing-room at Helmsford College, and the speaker was Agnes Hosking.
She had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of Ann Reed and Violet
Wyndham, for the past half hour, to ascertain if her purse had been
found, and now addressed them in a tone of inquiry.

"Well, we have brought you no news of your purse, Agnes, I'm sorry
to say," Ann replied; "you couldn't have left it in our house, because
we've searched for it everywhere, and it's not to be found. I'm afraid
you lost it in the street."

"That I am sure I did not," Agnes declared, decidedly. She was rather
a nice-looking girl, as a rule; but sometimes her countenance was
marred by an unpleasant expression, and it was now.

"You must have done so," Violet said, a trifle impatiently;
"I remember seeing you put it in your muff—"

"Of course you did, I saw you watching me," Agnes interrupted; "but I
believe the purse dropped out when I took my muff up from the bed."

"I don't 'think it could have done so," said Ann gravely; "and I don't
think you should say so," she added, regarding Agnes with a look of
distinct disapproval in her grey eyes.

"Why not?" queried Agnes.

"Because, if you left the purse in our house, what do you imagine has
become of it?" Ann asked, anxiously. Then, as Agnes made no response,
she continued: "Father is coming to see Miss Orchardson about it
by-and-by, I believe he is going to suggest having some bills printed—
giving a description of the purse and offering a reward for it—and
placarded about the town. He thinks there might be a chance of your
getting it again that way."

"Yes, unless it has been stolen—" Agnes was beginning when the
expression of Ann's face, an expression of intense indignation, caused
her to stop suddenly in some confusion.

"Agnes, you cannot realise what you are saying," Violet said sternly,
"who would steal your purse?"

"Oh, I suppose some people would consider it worth stealing!" Agnes
returned, with a disagreeable laugh and a toss of her head. "But,
there, perhaps after all I've lost it—though I don't believe I have.
It's very vexatious anyway, whether it's lost or stolen."

"Yes, it most certainly is," Violet answered; "but there's no one
to blame, unless it is yourself for not having been more careful
of such a valuable object." There was a scornful intonation
in Violet's voice as she spoke.

Two or three day-scholars, who had been listening to the conversation,
now drew nearer, and began to ask questions. Agnes immediately turned
her attention to them, and told them of her loss, whilst Ann and
Violet took off their hats and jackets and hung them on their
accustomed pegs against the dressing-room wall. There was an unwonted
look of severity on Ann's face, and Violet's brown eyes were sparkling
with anger.

Later in the day Dr. Reed called and had an interview with Miss
Orchardson, as a result of which the next morning the hoardings of the
town were decorated with bills which read as follows:—

"Lost, on Saturday, March 16th, between No. 8 Laureston Square and
Helmsford College, a tortoise-shell purse with gold clasp and rims,
and lined with red morocco leather, containing money—amount known.
Whoever will return the same to Miss Orchardson, Helmsford College,
will be handsomely rewarded."

"If the purse has fallen into honest hands it will be returned," Ann
remarked, as she paused with Violet to read the bill, "if otherwise,
I suppose Agnes will always believe that she left it at our house.
Do you imagine that she thinks one of the servants has it?" she asked
anxiously.

"I don't know, I'm sure," Violet answered; "I'm almost afraid she
does."

"Our servants are such honest, respectable girls, too!" Ann cried,
really distressed. "I cannot think how Agnes can be so persistent in
declaring she did not lose the purse in the street; I consider, to say
the least of it, that it is very inconsiderate of her, for she must
see that she puts us all in a very awkward position."

"She only thinks of herself," said Violet, in a troubled tone; "I wish
we had not asked her to tea. It was my doing, but—"

She broke off and heaved a regretful sigh, whilst Ann said quickly:—

"Never mind; you did it for the best, out of the kindness of your
heart. You felt she had no friends in the place, and you were sorry
for her. Don't blame yourself; you could not possibly foresee that
anything disagreeable would happen."

Violet turned her head aside that her companion might not observe her
guilty flush, and her eyes filled with tears. It was like Ann to think
better of her than she deserved, she told herself, for Ann was quick
to credit others with good intentions. What would Ann say, she
wondered, if she knew what had influenced her really to procure an
invitation for Agnes Hosking to spend an afternoon at No. 8 Laureston
Square? Would she despise her? Violet feared that she would.

Several days passed, and no one returned the purse. Agnes was sorry,
for she was most desirous to regain possession of it, especially as
she was to visit her grandmother at Easter, and would probably be
blamed for having lost it; but, at the same time, she felt rather
triumphant, for if it had been proved that she had dropped the purse
out-of-doors, everyone would have been in the position to say 'I told
you so,' and that would have made her look very small, for she had
been so positive in stating that it had not been in her muff when she
had left No. 8 Laureston Square.

The more she turned the matter over in her mind the more certain she
became that the purse had been stolen from the doctor's house—from
Ann's room; but her suspicion, which she had fixed on someone, did not
rest upon one of the servants, as Ann imagined. For a while she kept
her suspicion to herself, nor daring to put it into words; but there
came a day, towards the end of the term, when she whispered it,
in confidence, to a couple of her class-mates.

The two she had chosen to make her confidantes were not ill-natured
girls; but they proved unable to keep a secret, and repeated what she
had said to them to several others, and very soon it was known by the
majority of the pupils at Helmsford College that Violet Wyndham was
suspected by Agnes Hosking of having stolen the missing tortoise-shell
purse. It was not said openly, however, and the term ended, and the
school broke up for the Easter holidays without either Ann or Violet
guessing the suspicion which had been so unscrupulously attached to
the latter.

Easter was late that year, towards the end of April, and the weather
during the holidays was mild and sunny. Violet now saw something of
the neighbourhood surrounding Barford, for Mrs. Reed took her and Ann
for several trips to various places of interest in the district; and
one day they spent with the Garret girls at old Mrs. Garret's
beautiful home, which was situated in the midst of some of the most
romantic scenery in Yorkshire.

Cicely and Clara Garret were quiet, rather delicate girls, with the
pale complexions and languid ways of Indian-born children. They had
heard the story which had been whispered at school against Violet
Wyndham, but neither of them put the least credence in it; they had
discussed the advisability of speaking to Ann upon the subject, but
had decided not to do so, hoping the matter would blow over by another
term. Both of them liked Violet greatly, perhaps because she was so
different from themselves, so full of life and high spirits, and, from
the fact of knowing the report which had been spread about her, they
made so much of her and treated her so very kindly when she visited
them with Mrs. Reed and Ann that she could not but be flattered
by their behaviour.

Violet's letters to her own people, at this period, were full of
contentment. It did indeed seem to her that her lines had fallen in
pleasant places. Yes, she was very, very happy. And then, there dawned
a day when an unexpected joy come to her, and she sought Mrs. Reed and
Ann and imparted to them the wonderful news that the opportunity for
which her father had been working and waiting so long had come at
last; he had obtained a post with a really good salary as editor of an
important newspaper.

"I've had a letter from father himself," Violet told them,
half crying, half laughing in her excitement; "and mother has written,
too. She is so delighted, and she says I shall hear from Ruth
to-morrow. Oh, Mrs. Reed, oh, Ann, I can hardly believe it is true!
It's the first piece of really good luck that has come our way!"

"Oh, my dear, don't speak like that," expostulated Mrs. Reed, "don't
call it luck; I don't like that word at all; for there's One above who
orders our lives for us, and now He is going to allow your father
to reap the fruit of his years of labour, don't put it down to luck.
I thank God for your father's success, and you will not forget
to thank Him, too, will you, my dear?"

"No," Violet answered, in a low, serious voice, impressed by the
tender gravity of Mrs. Reed's look and tone; "oh, I am thankful,
very thankful!"

"So am I, and I am so very, very glad," Ann said; and she put her arms
around Violet's neck and kissed her, and Violet returned the caress
warmly, feeling herself to be the happiest girl in the world.

The next morning brought a long letter from Ruth, who spoke of her
father with her usual loving pride. She had always been sure that some
day his great abilities would be recognised, she wrote, and already he
was looking younger and brighter than she had ever known him.
"We shall be much better off, now, dear Vi," Violet read, "but, of
course, we shall not be rich people, and there are several debts owing
which it will take father some time to clear off, so we must continue
to live quietly. At first, when father accepted this new appointment,
mother talked of moving into a larger house and keeping a second
servant, but father pointed out to her that that would not be wise,
at any rate at present, because the boys will be growing more
expensive every year, and we ought not to live up to our income
if we can help it—we haven't been able to help it so far. So we are
going to remain on here—I am sure it will be for the best, though
mother is a little disappointed—and father says we ought to be very
comfortable now we shall have more money to make things nice."

"There is a talk of our all going away for a holiday, in August,
whilst the house is being repapered and repainted throughout, that
would be a great treat for us all, wouldn't it? And then you would be
with us, and we would go to some pretty place by the sea where we
could all have a good time together. Oh, I think it's a splendid idea!
And oh, dear Vi, I do indeed think things are going to be easier
for us at home now. I used to feel, sometimes, that God had forgotten
us—that He didn't care how hard father worked or how he tried to
get on. I hope it wasn't very wicked of me, for I know we always had a
lot to be thankful for, but father used to earn so little for all he
did—he'll still have to work very hard, of course, but as he says
'Remuneration sweetens Labour' and he won't be working with the
feeling that he isn't properly paid."

Violet experienced a slight sensation of disappointment on reading her
elder sister's letter, for she had allowed her imagination to run away
with her and had pictured a general exodus from the little Streatham
home to a larger, grander abode. It had seemed to her, because her
father had obtained a really good appointment, that his fortune was
made; but now she began to realise that this was far from being the
case. However, her disappointment did not last long, and by-and-by
it was quite lost in the pleasure the anticipation of joining her
family by the sea-side in the August holidays gave her.

"Agnes Hosking will be sure to hear the good news about father,"
she remarked to Ann, "she won't be able to sneer at him again. Ours is
not such a bad little house at Streatham after all," she allowed,
"I daresay it can be made rather nice; but, you see, we never used to
have any money to spend on it. Things will be different now."

"Oh, yes," acquiesced Ann, "of course they will."

It touched Violet to see how thoroughly the Reeds entered into her
joy, and her sense of gratitude towards them deepened. What good
friends they were to her, and how she had grown to love them—the
kindly doctor with his big generous heart; Mrs. Reed with her sound
common sense and wide sympathies; and Ann—Prosperity's child, as Mrs.
Wyndham had named her—who never forgot those less favoured with this
world's goods than herself, and made allowances for everyone's
shortcomings with that saving grace of charity which thinketh no evil.

Thus, in almost unalloyed happiness, the Easter holidays slipped by
for Violet Wyndham, and in the first week of May she returned, with
Ann Reed, to Helmsford College to take up her school-life again,
utterly unconscious of the cloud of suspicion which already
overshadowed her, and with no presentiment of trouble to come.



CHAPTER XV

THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE SUMMER TERM

IT was the first Saturday afternoon of the summer term, and the
boarders at Helmsford College, with a few of the day-scholars, were
spending it in the College grounds, amusing themselves in various
ways, the majority playing games whilst the less energetic girls sat
talking or reading on the seats which were placed in shady spots
commanding views of the tennis courts and croquet lawn.

Agnes Hosking had been engaged in a set of tennis, but it had come
to an end, and she now sought a seat with the intention of resting
after her exertions. Looking about her she caught sight of Arm Reed
and Clara Garret together, and went to join them. They politely made
room for her between them on the seat on which they were sitting, and
Clara remarked:—

"We've been watching you, Agnes; you play tennis remarkably well.
I suppose you must have had a great deal of practice?"

"Oh, yes," Agnes rejoined, her expression one of gratification,
"I used to belong to a tennis club at Streatham last year, and I've
played a great deal these holidays."

"Did you visit your grandmother at Bath?" inquired Ann.

"Yes, for ten days. The remainder of the holidays I spent at home."

"I wonder if you saw anything of Violet's people?" said Ann; "they
live near you, do they not?"

"Fairly near. I saw Ruth and Madge Wyndham—I met them, in fact, but I
didn't speak to them. They seemed to wish to avoid speaking to me,
which was not surprising—considering all things." And Agnes smiled
enigmatically.

"Considering all things?" echoed Ann; "I don't understand what you
mean. I have heard, though, that you used not to get on well with Ruth
Wyndham," she continued, with a touch of coldness in her tone, "Violet
told me that."

"Did she?" Agnes looked slightly taken aback for a minute, then she
went on: "We were never friends, certainly; we had nothing in common.
The fact is, Ruth Wyndham is one of those reserved, proud sort of
girls who make few friends. And what has she to be proud of, I should
like to know? She is not bad looking, I admit; but she's always
shabbily dressed, and I hear that, now she's left school, they make a
regular drudge of her at home."

"How hard for her!" exclaimed Clara Garret, pityingly. "Are the
Wyndhams so very poor, then, Ann? I did not know that."

"Oh, they are poor enough," Agnes returned quickly, though she was not
the one addressed; "they live in a small villa and only keep one
servant—I saw her cleaning the doorstep one day and she was such an
untidy creature!—and Mrs. Wyndham wears gowns seasons old, and looks
as though she had the cares of the world on her shoulders."

"Somehow I never thought of Violet Wyndham's people as poor," said
Clara, her countenance showing plainly her great surprise.

"She looks flourishing, doesn't she?" said Agnes, with a sarcastic
smile. "Look at her now! Hear her laughing!"

Violet was playing tennis, and, as Agnes spoke, her clear laugh rang
out full of merriment. In her plain blue serge skirt and white blouse,
with her luxuriant brown hair waving over her shoulders, and her face
aglow with enjoyment, she made a very attractive picture, and Clara
exclaimed, with genuine admiration:

"How lovely she is! Yes, really lovely with that bright colour in her
cheeks and her sparkling brown eyes! I coil her one of the prettiest
girls in the school, and she has such a winning way with her, too.
My grandmother was quite charmed with her that day you brought her
to see us, Ann."

"I am glad of that," Ann said, looking very pleased; "most people like
Violet. We are all very fond of her at home."

"By the way, is it true that your father is paying her fees for her
education here?" asked Agnes, bluntly, her gaze fixed with undisguised
curiosity upon Ann.

Ann started and coloured. Her eyes had been following Violet's
movements, but now she turned them upon Agnes, and looked her straight
in the face.

"Had you not better inquire of Miss Orchardson?" she said, her voice
betraying the annoyance she felt; "not that I think Miss Orchardson
would gratify your ill-bred curiosity any more than I intend to do,"
she added scornfully.

"Well, don't be angry at my asking you, I meant no harm," Agnes
faltered; "you are so touchy." She was secretly furious because Ann
had called her question ill-bred, but she was most undesirous of
having a serious fall out with her. "They say at home that your father
is providing for Violet Wyndham and educating her at his own expense,"
she continued, "and, if he is, I call it most kind and generous of
him, for she must cost him a pretty penny. But I much doubt if she's
as grateful as she ought to be. She thinks too much of herself—all the
Wyndhams do. You may call her one of the prettiest girls in the
school, Clara, but 'handsome is as handsome does,' and you know my
opinion of Violet Wyndham!" So saying, she rose, laughed disagreeably
and meaningly, and marched away.

"What does she intend us to understand by that?" asked Ann,
in bewilderment, glancing inquiringly at her companion who was looking
very distressed; "what does she mean?"

"I—I don't know," stammered Clara, the colour flooding her usually
pale cheeks. "Oh, dear me, that's not true," she said, as she met the
direct gaze of the other's honest eyes, "but I hate to tell you about
it. How can Agnes be so horrid and—and ungenerous! She's jealous
of Violet because she's better looking and more popular than herself."

"What are you talking of, Clara?" questioned Ann, her bewilderment
deepening; "what is there to tell me? I must know. Come, do speak
out."

"I wonder you didn't hear it last term!" exclaimed Clara, in agitated
tones. "Cicely and I thought of telling you in the holidays, we
thought you ought to know, but—but—"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about,"
Ann declared, "please do explain. It has something to do with Violet
and Agnes Hosking, I suppose?"

"Yes. Agnes suspects Violet of — oh, you mustn't think that either
Cicely or I believe it—of having taken her purse."

For a few minutes there was dead silence after this. Every vestige
of colour had left Ann's face, and she appeared too shocked to speak.
She sat quite still, staring straight in front of her, seeing nothing;
but, by-and-by, she turned her eyes upon her companion again and said
in a trembling voice:—

"Tell me all you know."

"I will," Clara responded, "though there's really little to tell.
Agnes says that Violet had a better opportunity of taking her purse
than anyone else, for she saw her put it into her muff and she was the
last to leave your bedroom when you three went downstairs after Miss
Wilcocks had arrived. Was that so?"

"Yes," assented Ann, after a brief reflection.

"Well, Agnes thinks that Violet probably saw the purse drop out of her
muff on to the bed and remained behind to secure it—"

"It is cruel and wicked of Agnes to suggest such a thing!" Ann broke
in, passionately. "What good would the purse be to Violet? She could
never use it!"

"No, of course she could not; but there was a sovereign in it, and
several shillings, and—oh, don't look at me so reproachfully! Do you
imagine that I suspect Violet of being a thief, too? No, no, indeed I
do not! Both Cicely and I like her and trust her, let me assure you of
that."

"Do many of the girls believe this story against her, Clara?"

"Well, some do, but a great many do not. I daresay she'll never hear
it herself; I'm sure I hope she won't, for it would make her very
unhappy. Is it really true that her people are so poor?"

"They have been rather badly off, hitherto; but it will be different
for them in future, if all goes well. Mr. Wyndham has lately accepted
a very good appointment as editor of one of the best paying papers in
London."

"Oh, I am glad!" Clara exclaimed heartily; "I suppose Agnes does not
know that?"

"I expect not. Oh, Clara, I am so grieved at what you have told me!
I don't know what I ought to do about it."

"I am afraid there is nothing to be done," returned Clara, with a
grave shake of her head.

"I am really afraid there is not," agreed Ann. "It has often crossed
my mind that Agnes might suspect one of our servants of having taken
her purse, and that was bad enough, but this—oh, this is dreadful!
I call it positively wicked to speak of a suspicion, specially one
based on such slight grounds. I wonder if I had better speak to Agnes
about it?"

"I should not; I should let her go. She does not actually say that
Violet has stolen her purse, only that she suspects her of having done
so, and she says she has a right to think what she likes. My opinion
is that she did not mean this story, which she has trumped up against
Violet, to become so generally known, for she told it as a secret in
the first place; of course it did not remain a secret long, then she
got frightened—I know she did because she tried to hush the matter
up—but she couldn't take back her words. She allowed her temper to get
the better of her discretion when she spoke of Violet as she did just
now."

"Do you think she really suspects Violet of having stolen her purse?"
asked Ann; and the expression of deep concern and anxiety on her face
was intensified as her companion nodded assent.

At that point their conversation was interrupted by Violet herself,
who joined them in the best of spirits. She and her partner had won
the set of tennis they had been playing, and she was pleased and
triumphant on that account. With her customary quickness she noticed
that both Ann and Clara looked embarrassed, and she jumped to the
conclusion that they had been talking about her, and, in consequence,
when she and Ann were walking home together, a half hour later, she
said:—

"I saw Agnes Hosking sitting with you and Clara—she has scarcely
deigned to notice me this term, by the way—and I thought she appeared
to be watching me and discussing me, was she? I always feel uneasy
when her eyes are upon me."

"Why?" asked Ann, quickly, with a keen glance at her companion.

"Well, I hardly know why, but I think it is because she has such a
malicious tongue and I'm rather afraid of it," was the reply.

"I cannot imagine why you should be," Ann said, in a troubled tone,
"but I remember you seemed quite upset the first day of last term when
you found Agnes was at Helmsford College; afterwards, though, you
appeared to get on with her fairly well. Has she been disagreeable to
you in any way lately?"

"No, oh, no! She has taken no notice of me this term, as I told you
just now, but I am always afraid she will set the girls against me,
I know she is quite capable of doing that. In some way or other I must
have put her out, for, though I've spoken to her twice, she hasn't
answered me; but I can't think what I have done to offend her.
I'm sure I've done all I can to please her—even to getting you to ask
her to tea."

"I wish you had not done that!" Ann exclaimed involuntarily.

"So do I," Violet responded, with a sigh.

There was a brief pause during which Ann studied her companion's
countenance with troubled eyes. Why did Violet appear so uneasy?
Oh, surely Agnes' suspicion of her could not be correct. Ann put the
thought away, and blamed herself for having admitted it into her mind
for a moment, but it returned when Violet, speaking in a low,
hesitating voice, went on to say:—

"You don't know what a weak character I am, Ann; if you did you'd
despise me, I'm sure. I can't think of that afternoon Agnes Hosking
came to tea with us without the bitterest regret and humiliation."

"Oh, Violet," faltered Ann, "won't you explain to me what you mean?"

"I can't now, perhaps I may some day," Violet answered; and after that
she changed the conversation.

During the remainder of the day, and for many days subsequently, Ann
was in a most unhappy frame of mind, whilst, for the first time in her
life, she shrank from taking her mother into her confidence.
On hearing from Clara Garret of the tale against Violet, which was
being whispered throughout the school, she had utterly disbelieved
in the possibility of its truth; but Violet, by her words and mariner,
had caused an ugly doubt to enter her mind.

Had Violet been assailed by a sudden temptation and given way to it?
Then, believing she had been sending home part of her pocket-money
to Ruth, Ann began to ask herself where she had procured the money
to purchase the tennis racquet which she had bought on the first day
of the term. Poor Ann was very wretched indeed, for she had grown
to love Violet with a deep, sisterly affection, and it was the keenest
pain to doubt her integrity.

Meanwhile, Violet was becoming conscious that the manner of many
of her school-fellows had changed towards her. The Garrets remained
as friendly as ever; but several of her class-mates treated her with
decided coolness, whilst Agnes Hosking never spoke to her at all.
And then she found out that the circumstances under which she was
living with the Reeds and was being educated at Helmsford College had
become public property, and she put down the difference in the
behaviour of the girls to that fact; no doubt Agnes had informed them
that she was being educated by charity, she thought bitterly. If she
had taken Ann into her confidence at this time much unhappiness might
have been saved, but she did nothing of the kind; and Ann, observing
that something was weighing on Violet's mind, grew more and more
troubled herself. Thus the commencement of the summer term was
overshadowed for the two girls.



CHAPTER XVI

NOT WORTH BOTHERING ABOUT

ONE afternoon, on Ann and Violet's return from school, they found
Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway in the drawing-room with Mrs. Reed, having tea.
Dr. Elizabeth smiled as she observed the expression of astonishment
which flitted across Violet's face at sight of her, and she said with
a twinkle of amusement in her eyes:—

"I suppose it is rather wonderful to find me sipping tea in a
leisurely fashion at this hour; but I'm as fond of my tea as most
women, I think, though I'm generally obliged to forego the luxury of
dawdling over it. Well, my dears, how are you?"

Both girls declared themselves very well. They were pleased to see
Dr. Elizabeth, and their countenances plainly denoted the fact.
Mrs. Reed gave them their tea, and, whilst they were drinking it,
Dr. Elizabeth told Violet that she had heard of her father's
appointment, and mentioned the paper in which she had seen it
announced, adding that Mr. Wyndham's capabilities were spoken of
in most eulogistic terms.

"Oh, how glad I am to hear that!" Violet cried, her face lighting up
with a smile of intense gratification.

"Dr. Elizabeth has saved the paper for you, my dear," said Mrs. Reed;
"she is going to send it to you. You will like to have it, will you
not?"

"Indeed I shall," Violet replied. "Thank you, Dr. Elizabeth."

"I should have brought it with me had I known I was coming here when I
started from home this afternoon," remarked Dr. Elizabeth; "but I did
not anticipate that I should be anywhere in this direction. My first
visit was to poor Malvina Medland who has been in bed for the past
fortnight—"

"Oh, we did not know that," interposed Ann, in accents of much
concern; "excuse my having interrupted you, Dr. Elizabeth,"
she continued hurriedly, "I hope Malvina is not very ill?"

"She is not dangerously ill, but she is in great pain, and much
troubled about her sister, who has been causing her and her mother
a great deal of anxiety again."

"Do you mean that Lottie has been betting?" questioned Violet.

"I do."

"Oh, dear," sighed Ann; "we quite thought she had given up that
altogether. You spoke to her about it, did you not, Dr. Elizabeth?"

"Yes. I had a very serious talk with her and pointed out the misery
her conduct would bring about if she persisted in it; she appeared
to see it all and promised me not to act so foolishly and wickedly
in the future. It seems that she really kept her word for some weeks,
but during the last month or so she has been betting again, with the
result that she has squandered most of her earnings. And now Malvina
is so ill that she is unable to do anything, and consequently they are
dependent upon Mrs. Medland's wages for their daily bread. Poor
Malvina! Her sufferings are very great at times; she is obliged to lie
in bed altogether to rest her back. I feel great sympathy for her,
and for Mrs. Medland too; they are in a sorry plight, and my visit
to Mrs. Reed this afternoon is really to ask her to help them. I want
her to go and see Malvina."

"Of course she will!" Ann exclaimed, with certainty in her tone.

"Yes," Mrs. Reed assented readily, "I am going to-morrow, and cook
shall make some nice, strong beef tea for the poor girl. I have been
wondering why she has not sent back the last lot of needlework I gave
her to do; I had no idea that she was laid up again."

"Do you think she is too ill to see Violet and me?" asked Ann.

"On the contrary, I believe a visit from you young folks would do her
a lot of good," Dr. Elizabeth replied; "she is certainly better than
she was a few days ago, but every attack of illness she has weakens
her so greatly that she never quite regains the amount of strength she
had before."

"We will go to see her on Saturday," Ann declared decidedly; "won't
we, Violet? You will come with me, I know."

"Yes," Violet agreed, somewhat reluctantly, for she shrank from
witnessing suffering, and Dr. Elizabeth had given them to understand
that Malvina was in great pain.

"I think it's shocking about Lottie," said Ann; "whatever will become
of her, Dr. Elizabeth?"

"I cannot say," the lady doctor answered sadly; "the girl's head seems
quite turned by this gambling mania. I fear she is under the influence
of bad companions, judging from all accounts; her occupation brings
her in contact with those who you may depend do their utmost to lead
her astray. Next to drink, betting is the greatest curse in England,
especially in large towns like this where bookmakers have their agents
everywhere. Do, you two young people, go and see Malvina by all means,
you'll find her wonderfully cheerful considering the circumstances of
her lot; there's a brave Christian soul in that misshapen body of
hers, and she bears her cross without complaint."

Thus it came about that the following Saturday morning, about eleven
o'clock, found Ann and Violet standing at the door of the house where
the Medlands lived, waiting for an answer to the former's knock.
Presently the door was opened by a girl, who might have been any age
from twelve to sixteen, clad in a neat print gown and a big apron. She
had a slight, childish figure, and a face which looked prematurely
old; and she held a hat in her hand as though she was about to put it
on to go out.

"We have come to see Malvina Medland, if you please," said Ann, as she
surveyed the trim little body before her, wondering who she could be;
"we know she is ill, but I think she might like to see us."

"Please, miss, are you Dr. Reed's daughter?" questioned the small
person, her shrewd eyes fixed on Ann's face.

"Yes," assented Ann, with the smile of good-will which few people were
able to withstand.

"Then will you please to go straight upstairs. Dr. Elizabeth told me
you'd most likely be here to-day, and Malvina's expecting you.
'Grace,' said she to me, 'I've visitors coming, two young ladies as I
had tea with once.' She'd have been dreadfully disappointed, I can
tell you, if you hadn't come."

"I suppose you are a neighbour?" questioned Ann.

"No, miss. I live in another street—ten minutes' walk from here.
Dr. Elizabeth's engaged me for an hour every morning and every
afternoon to see to Malvina whilst she's ill; I'm not a sick-nurse
by profession, but I can turn my hand anyway, and I'd do almost
anything to oblige Dr. Elizabeth. Well, I must be off, now."

"But do you leave Malvina in bed with the street door unlocked?"
asked Violet, aghast at the idea.

"Dear me, yes, miss. I don't suppose the street door is ever locked,
for that matter; you know there are other families living in the house
besides the Medlands. Bless you, Malvina won't come to any harm, and
there's nothing much for anyone to steal. Go straight upstairs, you'll
find Malvina ready to receive you."

So saying the small person stepped out into the street, and, placing
her hat on her head, marched off. She walked with remarkably long
steps for her size, and she never looked back. Ann and Violet watched
her out of sight, then they exchanged amused glances and laughed, and
the former said:—

"Why, Vi, depend upon it that is the little girl of whom Dr. Elizabeth
spoke so highly, the one who goes out charing, you know."

"I expect so," replied Violet; "what a funny little creature she is!"

Entering the house they closed the street door behind them, then went
up the steep stairs and stopped on the first landing.

"This way, please!" cried a feeble voice, which they recognised as
Malvina's, "I'm in here."

"In here" proved to be a little back room, not much larger than a
good-sized cupboard, with a bed in one corner, on which the sick girl
lay. She received her visitors with a bright, welcoming smile, and
assured them, in answer to their sympathetic inquiries, that she was
really better.

"It's so kind of you to come," she said, gratefully. "Dr. Elizabeth
said she thought you would, and your mother, Miss Ann, told me when
she was here yesterday that you meant to come. I am so very glad to
see you. Please to sit down."

There was but one chair in the room, and that a very ricketty one. Ann
motioned to Violet to take it, whilst she perched herself on the edge
of the bed and presented Malvina with a bunch of roses which she had
brought for her, knowing her love for flowers.

"They came all the way from Devonshire, packed in damp moss," she
explained, as Malvina took the nosegay with a cry of mingled
admiration and delight, "and they grew in my grandmother's garden.
Look at this white rose bud; is it not perfect? Granny will be so
pleased when I write and tell her I gave the roses to you—the first
roses of summer, I think they must be. I'm glad you like them, I can
see that you do. Aren't they wonderfully fresh considering they have
made such a long journey? They arrived by parcel post this morning,
and, though they were a little drooping then, after they had been in
water an hour they had quite revived."

"They are lovely," said Malvina, earnestly, "and their scent—oh, it's
delicious! How good of you to give them to me!"

Whilst Ann continued to talk to Malvina, telling her the names of the
roses and drawing her a word-picture of old Mrs. Reed's sea-side home,
Violet was making good use of her eyes. What a poor room it was!
Excepting the bed and the one chair there was no real furniture.
An upturned box served for a wash-hand stand; there was no
dressing-table, no set of drawers, no looking-glass. A pang of pity
shot through Violet's heart mingled with a sense of shame. How often
had she grumbled at the bedroom at home which she and Ruth had shared,
and yet how comfortable it had been in comparison to this bare room!
She was beginning to realise what it really meant to be poor.

By-and-by Violet turned her attention to her companions again.
Malvina's eyes were still feasting on the roses, and there was a smile
hovering around her lips—yes, actually a happy smile; and yet she had
scarcely slept throughout the night on account of the pain which had
racked her feeble frame.

"There's not a lady in the land better looked after than I am now I'm
ill," she declared; "I've everything I want. Your mother brought me
such nice, strengthening things to eat, Miss Ann; I've just had a cup
of beef tea, which Grace Jones warmed for me. It's done me a lot of
good."

"Is Grace Jones the girl we saw at the door?" inquired Ann.

"Yes, miss. Dr. Elizabeth's paying her for looking after me a bit;
she generally comes for an hour in the morning and an hour in the
afternoon, but she won't be here this afternoon because, as you know,
the factories shut early on Saturdays, and mother will be at home to
bear me company."

"You have been in bed a fortnight, haven't you?" said Violet.

"Yes, miss; but I hope to be about again soon. Dr. Elizabeth says
I must have patience, for if I worry it keeps me from getting better."

"I daresay it does. I expect you have been having a very dull time,
haven't you?"

"No, miss. I daresay this room strikes you as being dull, but I don't
find it so. You see the window faces the east and I get the morning
sun, which is a great blessing; and the sparrows are fine company,
they wake up so early. I do love sparrows. Many a morning this past
fortnight I've lain awake, in pain, listening to them, and you can't
think how happy it's made me, and how it's comforted me to hear them
twittering —I daresay you can guess why?"

"No," Violet answered, shaking her head.

"I think I can," Ann said softly, "they remind you of what our Saviour
said about them, is it not so?"

"Yes," nodded Malvina, "I like to remember how He said, 'Are not five
sparrows sold for two farthings and not one of them is forgotten
before God.' And then I think if God is caring for them He is caring
for me."

"To be sure," agreed Ann. "He cares for all of us, even if we do wrong
and forget Him. Father told me the other day of a grand old soldier
who, before he went into battle, always used to pray, 'Lord, if I
forget Thee, do not Thou forget me.' I like that prayer, don't you?"

"Yes, indeed," rejoined the sick girl. A slight shadow had crossed her
face, and now she said falteringly, "Oh, Miss Ann, I think my poor
sister Lottie is one of those who have forgotten God. She has taken
to betting again."

"Yes, Malvina, we know," Ann answered sadly, "and we are so very, very
grieved."

"She's clean off her head, it seems to me, and I don't know what will
be the end of her—it makes me shudder to think. I thought she had
turned over a new leaf and was going to be a good, steady girl,
she certainly gave up betting for the time; but now she's as bad about
it as she was before. She's growing reckless and takes no notice
of anything mother says—but, hush, here's mother!"

The door opened to admit a pale, weary-looking woman, whose face,
however, brightened with a smile at the sight of her daughter's
visitors. She thanked Ann and Violet most gratefully for having come
to see Malvina, and admired the beautiful, Devonshire roses.

"Malvina's so fond of flowers," she said, "you couldn't have brought
her any present she would like better, Miss Ann."

Not long after that Violet and Ann said good-bye to the invalid, and
followed Mrs. Medland downstairs. They lingered for a few minutes
talking with her in the kitchen, then started for home. Both girls
were silent at first, their minds occupied with their own thoughts,
but by-and-by Ann touched Violet on the arm and whispered:—

"There is Lottie Medland looking into the window of that newspaper
shop."

Violet followed the direction of Ann's gaze and recognised Lottie,
who was standing on tip-toes, endeavouring to look over the shoulders
of a small crowd, comprised of men and women of all ages, congregated
outside the shop in question.

"She is trying to read the telegram posted up against the window,"
said Ann; "oh, Violet, isn't it sad?"

"Sad?" echoed Violet, in astonishment; "why?"

"Because, for certain it's a telegram about some horse race or other."

Violet looked more scrutinisingly at the crowd, some members of which
appeared exultant, others downcast, and then she saw Lottie Medland
turn sharply away, with an expression of disappointment on her
countenance, and join a girl of about her own age with whom she walked
off—not homewards, however, but in the opposite direction. For some
distance the two kept ahead of Violet and Ann, but by-and-by they
disappeared into a dirty-looking shop, in the windows of which
second-hand jewellery and clothing were exhibited for sale.

"It is a pawn shop," said Ann, as she and Violet passed by; "oh, poor
Lottie, has it come to this with her! Oh, poor, poor girl!"

"She must have fallen very low," said Violet, in a tone of great
disgust. "Come, Ann!" she exclaimed, rather impatiently, as her
companion seemed inclined to linger, "you are not thinking of waiting
to speak to her, surely! Let us go home. Such a wicked girl is not
worth bothering about!"

"Oh, Violet, don't say that!"

There was grief and reproach in Ann's voice, and her eyes were full
of tears. Violet had never seen her so moved before, and she gazed
at her in astonishment. Why should she be so upset on account of this
foolish, headstrong girl? Violet had never felt that love for humanity
at large which springs from a love of God, and, though she was sorry
for Mrs. Medland and Malvina in their trouble about Lottie,
she certainly had but little if any sympathy for Lottie herself.

"What have I said that you should look so hurt and speak to me
so reproachfully?" she asked, as they quickened their footsteps.

"You said Lottie was not worth bothering about. Oh, Violet, father was
right when he said that we must not be too hard on her—I know I was
inclined to be hard on her, myself. We don't know what her temptations
have been; perhaps we should do as she does if we were in her place;
we might forget God, too. But He won't forget her, if she has
forgotten Him; He cares for her, and, oh, don't ever say she isn't
worth bothering about again."

"I won't," Violet answered, her cheeks crimsoning at this rebuke,
though it had been gently spoken; "I am ashamed I said it, I am
indeed."



CHAPTER XVII

EXPLANATIONS

IT was a perfect summer evening. The day had been an oppressively hot
one with scarcely a breath of air stirring, but now, as the sun set, a
soft, refreshing breeze began to rise, which was very welcome. Malvina
Medland, on her bed of pain, felt the difference of the atmosphere
with thankfulness; she was certainly better, but her recovery from her
attack of illness was being made very slowly, and Dr. Elizabeth was
anything but satisfied with her progress.

Seated on her favourite seat beneath the almond tree in the garden
of Laureston Square on this particular evening, Ann Reed had been
thinking of Malvina, and wondering how she had endured the heat of the
day. Ann had found it a wearisome, dragging day herself, and she knew
it must have been a trying one for Malvina; but now her thoughts had
turned from the sick girl to Violet, and very troubled thoughts they
were.

"I don't understand her," she mused, "I cannot believe she knows
anything about Agnes Hosking's purse, for when mother mentioned it at
the breakfast-table, this morning, and said how much she regretted
that it had never been found, she did not seem embarrassed in the
least. I was so relieved to see that! And yet she cannot bear to speak
of the afternoon Agnes came to tea with us, she gets red and looks
ashamed, and what can she have to be ashamed of? I wish the girls did
not slight her so at school; I know some of them do, and she must
notice it. It's strange that she never mentions it to me, I am always
expecting her to open up the subject. Can she know what Agnes has been
hinting about her? If so, she evidently does not mean to openly resent
it. Ah, here she comes! Father is right—he said yesterday she was
looking rather pale. I'm afraid she's unhappy."

A minute later Violet had joined Ann on the seat. She seemed tired and
out of spirits; doubtless the heat of the day had tried her, too.

"I've only just finished my lessons," she remarked; "I've been so slow
over them this evening. How nice it is to have it a little cooler!"

"Yes," agreed Ann; "it's very pleasant here, isn't it? So quiet, and
the scent from the flowers is lovely. I wonder why flowers always
smell their sweetest after sunset? How the term is flying, isn't it,
Violet? Here we are in the last week of June; why, in another month
we shall be commencing the holidays."

"I shall be so glad when they come," Violet admitted; "not that I am
not getting on all right with my work, for I am," she hastened
to explain, "but I daresay you've noticed that it has been anything
but agreeable for me at school this term. I have had the cold shoulder
shown me by several of the girls—not that I care!" she added bitterly,
and, certainly untruthfully.

"Oh, Violet!" exclaimed Ann, "I am so sorry, and I am sure you do
care. I can see it is a trouble to you. Do you—do you know why—"

"Do I know why I am being treated so?" Violet asked, as her companion
hesitated to proceed. "Of course I do," she declared vehemently;
"it is Agnes Hosking's doing, not a doubt of it."

"I-I am afraid it is."

"It is very hard lines on me. I cannot help it if—if we've been
poor—I'm sure I've hated being so—and I ought not to mind anything
Agnes may have told the girls about me, I ought to be above minding,
I think you would be, Ann, but— but—" and Violet broke down, with
quivering lips and eyes swimming in tears.

"Oh, don't cry, don't cry," said Ann, in much distress; "you have your
friends at Helmsford College who believe in you—the Garret girls,
for instance. It was Clara who told me what Agnes Hosking had been
saying; she trusts you entirely, indeed she does, and Cicely, too."

"Clara trusts me?" Violet exclaimed, looking puzzled, "I don't
understand. I don't suppose Agnes has said anything that is not true."

"Oh, Violet, you don't mean that, you can't!" cried Ann, in a shocked
voice.

Violet wiped the tears from her eyes, and regarded her agitated
companion with increasing bewilderment. During the last few weeks she
had been conscious of a change in Ann's manner to her. It was not that
Ann had been less kind than she had been before; indeed, if anything,
she had been kinder; but she had certainly showed herself less
inclined to be confidential, and often Violet had caught her watching
her with a dubious, puzzled expression on her face.

"It isn't possible you could have done such a thing," Ann proceeded,
"there's some mistake. Tell me, what is it you think Agnes Hosking
has hinted to the girls about you?"

"I don't think she has hinted anything," Violet returned; "no doubt
she has told plain facts in the most objectionable way possible. She's
said, I expect, that I'm a poor girl whom your father has taken into
his home out of charity, and, therefore, that I'm beneath her in
position and may be slighted and snubbed as she and her friends
please. She's a horrid, mean girl, that's what she is, and I hate her!
I wish I'd defied her from the first instead of—oh, Ann, you'll
despise me I know, but I feel I must tell you all about it, whatever
you may think afterwards!"

"Yes, do," said Ann eagerly, "I fancy we are at cross purposes
somehow. As to father's having taken you into his home out of charity
if Agnes said that, why it's only her ill-bred way of putting it; she
knows nothing about it, and she should mind her own business. But what
is it you're going to tell me?"

Thereupon, with burning cheeks, Violet confessed that she had entered
into a sort of compact with Agnes to obtain an invitation for her to
No. 8 Laureston Square, in return for which she had been given a
promise that Agnes would not make public her private affairs. Ann
listened in silence, naturally greatly astonished, her eyes fixed
gravely on her companion's crimson face.

"Do you utterly despise me?" Violet asked wistfully, when she had
concluded her tale—it had been a difficult one to tell.

"No," Ann responded, "but I don't understand you quite." There was a
look of relief on her face, for it was plain to her now, beyond a
shadow of doubt, that Violet knew nothing of the lost purse. "I never
trouble about what people think of me," she continued, "I am sure it
is a mistake to do so. But, Violet, you are wrong in imagining that
the girls who have snubbed you have done so on account of—of your
position. If you had not induced me to ask Agnes to our house we
should have been spared a lot of unhappiness, for she says—it is best
to tell you the truth, for I foresee you will find it out—that she
suspects you of having taken her purse. Yes, that is what she has been
telling the girls, and I—I have not liked to speak to you about it
for—for—"

"She suspects me of having taken her purse!" Violet cried excitedly.
"Why, how could I have done that? What an absurd thing to suggest!"

"She says you might have taken it up from my bed as you were the last
of us to leave the room that evening—"

"I remember I was," interrupted Violet; "but I never saw her purse
after she put it into her muff. And she suspects me of having taken
it—stolen it! She considers me a thief!"

The girl was trembling with anger, her eyes flashed, and she clenched
her hands in her rage. Suddenly she turned upon Ann, almost fiercely,
with the question:—

"Do you suspect me, too?"

"No, Violet no," Ann replied earnestly; "but I have not known what
to do. I have been so anxious, and—and puzzled. I have not been able
to understand you. You seemed so bitterly to regret having induced me
to ask Agnes to tea—of course I see why that was now—and once or twice
I—I have half doubted you, against my will, I—I could not help it.
Oh, forgive me! I am sure now that you know nothing about the purse!
Oh, I have been so wretched!"

Violet stared at her companion in silence for a minute, then she
covered her face with her hands and burst into a flood of passionate
tears. Ann sat by her, silent and miserable, incapable of offering any
consolation, and when, by-and-by, she ventured to put her arm around
her she was promptly repulsed.

"Let me alone!" Violet cried. "To think that you should have believed
me to be a thief! Oh, it is horrible—horrible!"

"Violet, don't be too hard on me!" Ann said, pleadingly; "you must
remember that it was your own conduct which made me doubt you; and it
was the very faintest doubt, indeed it was, I put it away again and
again, and then something you would say or do would bring it back.
And—and I could not understand where you got the money to pay for your
new tennis racquet, and—"

"Why you know I have the same amount to spend as you have yourself!"
broke in Violet, looking both surprised and reproachful.

"Yes; but I know, too, that you have been sending a part of it to
Ruth, and so—"

"I haven't, I haven't!" Violet interrupted again. "I quite meant to do
so, but I found there were so many things I wanted," she added,
greatly abashed.

"Yes, of course," Ann returned, hurriedly, trying in vain to conceal
her astonishment; "you must not think I wish to pry into your private
affairs, Violet. Your money is your own to do as you like with; but
you must remember that you did tell me you were going to send some
to Ruth, and that misled me."

"Do your mother and father know that Agnes Hosking suspects me
of having stolen her purse?" demanded Violet, in a hard tone.

"No," replied Ann; "I have not told them."

"Then I shall," said Violet proudly; "I wonder if they will believe
that I am a thief! Perhaps they will send me home in disgrace!"

"You know they will not."

"How can I tell? Why should they not believe this tale against me
if others do—if you did?"

"Violet, you are most unjust." There was deep pain in Ann's voice.

In her heart of hearts Violet knew that this was true, for she
recognised that she herself had given her companion sufficient cause
to mistrust her, but she was not going to acknowledge that now.

Dr. and Mrs. Reed had gone to a dinner-party and were not expected
home till late, so she would have no opportunity of speaking to them
that night, but she was determined to inform them of the ugly
suspicion Agnes Hosking entertained of her the first thing in the
morning; she would ask them to let her go home, she thought she could
not endure to return to Helmsford College again to be pointed at as
a thief. Her eyes were quite dry now; her sense of passionate
indignation had overcome every other feeling.

In silence the two girls sat side by side whilst the twilight faded
and the shadows of evening began to gather. At length Violet gave a
shudder, as though she was cold, and, rising, declared her intention
of returning to the house.

"Yes, I think it is time we went indoors," said Ann; "for the dew
is falling. My blouse is damp, I feel, and yours must be, too; we had
better go in and change them. We are friends, are we not, Violet?"

Then, as Violet vouchsafed no response, she continued gently: "At any
rate, I am your friend whatever your feelings may be towards me,
and—and I am so sorry for you, dear. You must not take this matter
too much to heart. Agnes can only influence a few of the girls against
you, after all; she has very little power in the school really. Now we
have had this talk together I know better how to act. I will speak
to Agnes myself—"

"Oh, I will not trouble you to do that," Violet interrupted coldly,
"you had much better not interfere. I—I don't suppose I shall go back
to Helmsford College; I shall ask your father to send me home. I wish
I had not come here!"

"Oh, Violet, don't say that!"

"I do say it, and I mean it."

After that they returned in silence to the house, and went upstairs
to their respective rooms. As soon as Ann had changed her blouse
she crossed the landing to Violet's door, and inquired if she was
coming into the drawing-room, for they had previously arranged
to practise a duet, which they were learning on the piano.

"No," Violet answered curtly, "I am going to bed."

"Going to bed!" echoed Ann. "Oh, please, don't! Are you not well?
Have you taken cold?"

"I don't know and I don't care," was the reckless response; "I only
want to be left in peace. Do go away."

Ann did as she was requested, but by-and-by her kind heart prompted
her to return. This time she opened the door softly, and, entering the
room, crossed to the bed. She could not see Violet very plainly,
for there was no light in the room save that which the stars
gave—Violet had pulled up the blind before getting into bed—but she
guessed that she was not asleep, and, stooping over her, she imprinted
a kiss on her forehead. The next minute Violet's arms were around her
neck and the kiss was warmly returned.



CHAPTER XVIII

AGNES HOSKING APOLOGISES

"VIOLET, it is time to get up."

Violet started up in bed and saw Ann standing by her side, fully
dressed. The bright, morning sunshine had been streaming into the room
for hours, but it had failed to awaken Violet, who, after Ann had left
her on the previous night, had lain awake till nearly daybreak, too
agitated to rest, and then had fallen into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

"Is it very late?" she asked, as she yawned and rubbed her eyes.

"It's nearly breakfast-time. Get up and dress as quickly as you can;
and, Violet, I waited up till mother and father came home last night
and told them all about Agnes Hosking—I mean about her suspicion
of you."

"Well?" questioned Violet, anxiously; "they don't believe that I know
anything about the purse, do they?"

"No, certainly not."

"Did you explain to them how I came to get you to ask Agnes here?"

"Yes."

"Then they know everything?"

"Everything."

Violet asked no more questions, but jumped out of bed, and Ann left
her to dress and went downstairs to the dining-room. Dr. Reed stood
by the window, on the look-out for the postman; he glanced around with
a smile as his daughter entered the room and gave her a hearty kiss
as she joined him and slipped her arm through his.

"You look brighter than you did last night, my darling," he remarked
affectionately; "worries never seem so formidable by daylight,
do they?"

"No," she replied; "but I am still very unhappy about Violet, father.
She declared last night that she would never enter the doors
of Helmsford College again, and I am sure she meant it."

"Doubtless she did; but I believe she will change her mind this
morning. Poor little thing, I am very sorry for her! Here comes the
postman! Run and take the letters from him, my dear."

Ann obeyed. The letters proved all to be for her father, and scarcely
had he finished reading them before Mrs. Reed and Violet entered the
room, and the breakfast was brought in and placed on the table.

During the first part of the meal the conversation was on different
subjects; but by-and-by Dr. Reed turned to Violet, who was hardly
eating anything, and was looking nervous and ill at ease, and said
with a kindliness of tone which brought the tears to her eyes:—

"Ann has been telling me that things have not been going very
pleasantly for you at school this term, Violet; I am sorry to hear
that."

"Oh, Dr. Reed, I cannot go back to Helmsford College now I know what
Agnes Hosking has been saying of me!" Violet responded, almost
tragically; "it is impossible!"

"Why?" inquired the doctor quietly.

"Why? Do you think I can endure to be in the company of those who
consider me a thief?" Violet asked, casting a glance full of reproach
at him, her voice trembling with excessive agitation.

"You cannot?" he questioned. "I should not have thought you were one
to play the coward like that. Of course I cannot insist on your
returning to school against your will, I should not dream of doing
that; but I certainly advise you strongly to go with Ann this morning
in the usual way. An unjust suspicion has been laid upon you, which I
admit is very galling and hard to bear, and some few of your
school-fellows have allowed an ill-natured girl to prejudice them
against you, but I understand that you have your supporters
at Helmsford College, and if I were you I would face this unpleasant
affair and not run away from it. You have nothing to be ashamed
of—that is, as far as the loss of the purse is concerned,"
he concluded, and Violet knew he was thinking of the motive which had
influenced her in obtaining Agnes' invitation to his house.

"What do you imagine would be thought of you at school if you left
suddenly in the middle of the term, Violet?" asked Mrs. Reed; "perhaps
you have not considered that. I am sure, upon reflection, that you
will see my husband is right. To my mind it is always better to face
a trouble than to turn one's back on it. Do you know what I would do
if I were you? I would take no notice of Agnes Hosking's cruel
insinuations, I would show myself above noticing them. Depend upon it,
that is the wisest way for you to act, and time will show that you
have been most unjustly suspected. We, that is my husband, and Ann,
and I, all know that now; and you must not fancy, my dear, that we do
not fully sympathise with you, for indeed we do. We are more grieved
on your account than we can express."

They had done breakfast now, and, as his wife finished speaking,
Dr. Reed pushed back his chair from the table. Violet addressed him
quickly:—

"I hope I don't seem ungrateful," she said, "please believe I am not
that. I—I want to do what is right, and, if you think it will be best,
of course I will go to school as usual."

"I am sure that will be best," Dr. Reed answered, looking pleased;
"I did not think your father's daughter would prove a coward and run
away."

He left the room without saying any more, and, half-an-hour later,
the two girls went to school, both feeling depressed, but on the best
of terms with each other.

Ann knew that it was her mother's intention to call on Miss Orchardson
and inform her what the result of Agnes Hosking's visit to No. 8
Laureston Square had been, but she did not tell Violet that;
therefore, when, in the midst of a French lesson, in the afternoon,
a messenger from Miss Orchardson appeared in the class-room where it
was being given, desiring that Miss Hosking might be sent to her
in her private sitting-room, Ann was the only one in the class who was
able to guess why she was wanted.

Agnes stood in awe of the headmistress, and her expression was one of
decided uneasiness as she left the room. She was not absent very long,
and when she returned, looking pale and rather frightened, Miss
Orchardson was with her.

"I am sorry to interrupt the class, mademoiselle," the headmistress
said, addressing the French governess; "but Agnes Hosking has an
apology to make to Violet Wyndham, which it is my desire should be
made publicly. As you are all aware, Agnes was so unfortunate as to
lose a valuable purse last term, and it appears that she gave out that
she suspected Violet Wyndham of having taken it. She has confessed to
me that she had no actual ground for her suspicion, and she wishes
to apologise for the annoyance and unhappiness she has caused. She has
behaved very badly, but an apology seems to be the only reparation
she can make."

Violet, in her surprise, looked far more confused than Agnes, who now
mumbled a few words of apology and resumed her seat. Then Miss
Orchardson left the room, and the French lesson was resumed. Soon
after that work came to an end for the afternoon, and the day-scholars
went home, whilst the boarders repaired to the playgrounds where
Agnes' apology to Violet Wyndham formed the general topic of
conversation.

Agnes herself had no idea who had made Miss Orchardson acquainted
with her unscrupulous conduct, and she had been considerably alarmed
at the extent of the headmistress' knowledge. She had been obliged
to admit that she had no direct charge to bring against Violet,
and had readily agreed to offer her an apology, glad to think the
matter could be settled so easily.

"I did it to satisfy Miss Orchardson," she said to the girls,
in answer to their curious inquiries, "but I have my own opinion
all the same."

Meanwhile, Violet and Ann were on their homeward way together. There
was a sparkle of triumph in Ann's grey eyes, for she was hopeful now
that Violet's enemy had been completely routed.

"I wonder who can have told Miss Orchardson," said Violet, not a
little puzzled at the turn events had taken; "was it you, Ann?"

"No. It was mother, I expect. She meant to, I know; for she and father
agreed last night that it was not right to allow Agnes to continue to
spread such a wicked story about you. Oh, Violet, I wish I had told
mother what was going on at school weeks ago! She would have put a
stop to it before. This only shows it's always right and best to be
quite open about everything. By the way, have you told your people
at home how unhappy you have been?"

"No; ought I to do so, do you think?"

"I hardly see how you could explain by letter."

"Ruth would blame me for having had anything to do with Agnes, I feel
certain of that. She wrote and said she was greatly surprised when I
told her we'd asked Agnes to tea. Perhaps I shall tell her all about
that some day, and then she'll understand how it came about."

Ann looked thoughtful. She was thinking how strange it was that Violet
should have minded her school-fellows knowing of the straitened
circumstances of her people at home, and what great store she must set
on money and position to have imagined that she had been slighted on
account of her not possessing either the one or the other.

"I wonder if Agnes has heard of father's appointment, yet," Violet
proceeded presently, "I wish she could have seen that paragraph about
him in the newspaper Dr. Elizabeth sent to me, I almost wish I had
kept it to show her, but I forwarded it to Ruth; I should like her
to know that my people are shortly to be in a better position."

"I don't see that it matters whether she knows it or not," Ann
replied, a trifle impatiently.

"No, of course it does not, but—oh, Ann, I don't believe you mind
in the least what people think of you!"

"I mind what those I love think of me, but I don't bother about the
opinions of others. Father says we should do what we believe to be
right, be quite straight in every way, and never trouble about what
people may be thinking."

"I wish I could do that!"

"Well, why can't you?"

"I don't know. I do mind what people think of me. Ruth used to say
it was very weak and foolish of me, and I suppose it is."

"I am sure it is." Ann was silent for a moment, then she went on:
"The first term I was at Helmsford College—I had a governess before
that —the girls put me through a regular list of questions. It seemed
they wanted to find out all about father's family—"

"How rude of them!" broke in Violet; "I hope you didn't gratify their
curiosity? should have told them to mind their own business!"

"Well, I did nothing of the kind," Ann replied with a smile; "I told
them about my grandfather, that he had been a working farmer who had
laboured with his hands, and I told them all about dear old Granny,
and how father had made his own way in the world—I was very proud
to tell them that!"

"And were the girls as nice to you afterwards as they were before?"
asked Violet, struck with amazement.

"Oh yes! I have always got on very well with all the girls; they are
not so narrow-minded as you think them."

"It was very plucky of you to speak out," said Violet, "I'm sure
I could not have done it myself. Oh, Ann, you believe I love father,
don't you?"

"Why, of course I do!"

"And yet I've been so ashamed that people should know he was not
a prosperous man. That's one point on which Ruth and I have been so
different. You're like Ruth. I believe if you knew her you'd like her
much better than you do me."

"I don't believe I should. People who are alike never get on so well
together as those who are not; I have often heard that remarked,
haven't you?"

"Yes; but Ruth is nicer than I am in every way, she's so unselfish
and sweet-tempered."

They were nearly at home now, and, in turning the corner of the street
which led into Laureston Square, they came face to face with
Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway, who stopped to speak to them for a minute.

"I have been to see your father, to make an appointment with him
to meet me to-morrow," she explained to Ann, "I want his opinion of
a patient of mine—that poor girl, Malvina Medland."

"Is she worse?" Ann questioned, in dismay.

Dr. Elizabeth briefly assented; then, being apparently in a hurry,
she said good-bye and went on her way. Violet and Ann exchanged
concerned glances, and the latter said, with a serious shake of
the head:—

"She must be very ill if Dr. Elizabeth wants father to see her.
Oh, Violet, I do hope she is not going to die!"



CHAPTER XIX

ANN'S PROMISE

THE summer term was drawing to a close, and the girls at Helmsford
College were full of plans for the coming holidays. Most of those
who had believed Agnes Hosking's story against Violet Wyndham, and had
snubbed her in consequence, had changed their behaviour during the
last few weeks and made kindly overtures to her; but there were still
a few who stood by Agnes, though, after the apology she had made,
they could not openly say that they did so.

"Never mind," Ann said consolingly, on one occasion, when Violet had
remarked despondently that she feared her character would never be
fully cleared from suspicion; "you must have patience, it will all
come right some day."

"I wish I could think so," Violet responded, with a sigh, "but I fear
that is not likely. I wonder if you would be patient in the
circumstances?" Her tone was sceptical, and she told herself that it
was easier to preach than to practise.

"I hope I should try to be," answered Ann, guessing the thought in the
other's mind; "I know it is very hard for you, Violet."

"Speaking of patience makes one think of poor Malvina Medland,"
said Violet; "I am sure it is marvellous how she bears pain as she
does."

"She is obliged to bear it," sighed Ann, "and she is too unselfish
not to do so as bravely as possible; Dr. Elizabeth says she has the
spirit of a martyr, full of endurance and faith."

Malvina was at present in the Barford hospital, whither she had been
removed a few days subsequent to the one on which Dr. Reed had seen
her. She had become so much worse that she had required constant
attendance, and nursing which she could not possibly have received in
her own home. Ann had been to visit her once with Mrs. Reed since she
had been in the hospital, and had found her uncomplaining as ever
though in much pain. Everyone was most kind and good to her, she had
declared gratefully, and she hoped soon to be ever so much better;
certainly it was a great disappointment that she should have had a
relapse. Dr. Reed had shaken his head gravely when his daughter had
repeated to him what Malvina had said, and she had immediately
realised that he took a very serious view of the poor girl's
condition.

Malvina's bed in the hospital was one of many in a bright, airy ward;
and yet she was home-sick there, and would have given anything to be
back in her small, bare room at home. But she was not unreasonable.
She knew that her mother could not leave her work to nurse her, and
the doctors considered her too ill to be left alone or to the
occasional ministrations of the little charwoman, and therefore the
hospital was the right place for her to be. She missed her mother and
Lottie greatly, though they seized every possible opportunity of
coming to see her on the days visitors were allowed in the wards; and
her heart was very sore on her sister's account, whilst she was
haunted day and night by harrowing thoughts in connection with her.

Mrs. Reed had been to see Malvina several times, and, on the occasion
when Ann had accompanied her, the sick girl had inquired for Violet,
whom she had spoken of as "the pretty young lady with the beautiful
brown eyes." Ann had promised to bring Violet to see her, and
Violet—truth to tell, flattered by Malvina's description of her—
had quite willingly agreed to go.

Thus one hot afternoon in the last week of July found Ann and Violet
visiting Malvina in the hospital. Malvina was in less pain than usual
to-day and able to talk—of late she had been frequently too weak even
for that much exertion. Violet thought she must certainly be better,
for there was a pink flush on her cheeks, and her blue eyes were very
bright. Her visitors were accommodated with chairs one on either side
of her bed, and she looked from one to the other of them and smiled
contentedly as she said:—

"It's so kind of you both to come! I do love having visitors, and I'm
feeling so much easier to-day that it's a pleasure to talk."

"Oh, you will soon be well again, now," Violet declared cheerfully,
"you are looking ever so much better than I expected to see you."

"I'm in much less pain, miss, and that's a great mercy," Malvina
replied, "but I doubt if I'm really better for all that. I asked the
house surgeon the other day if he thought I was improving at all, but
he put me off—wouldn't say, you know. So, yesterday, I asked
Dr. Elizabeth; I was certain she would tell me the truth."

"And what did she say?" asked Ann gently, with a sinking sensation
in her heart and anxiety in her face and voice.

"That I was not better yet, and that mine is one of those puzzling
cases which baffle doctors, and I must have patience a little longer."

"A little longer?" echoed Violet. "Oh, that sounds hopeful, doesn't
it? Are you happy here, Malvina?"

"Happier than I was at first, miss; I felt so lonely for the first
few days. Oh, I don't mean lonely in that way," she continued, as her
companions glanced along the rows of beds with their sick occupants,
"but I felt so strange, and—I daresay it seems absurd—I missed my
sparrows, especially of a morning. Lottie tells me she feeds them with
crumbs every day on the sill of my bedroom window, just as I used to
do. The sweet little creatures! They are so tame—almost as tame as
your canaries, Miss Ann!"

"I suppose you often see Lottie?" questioned Ann.

"Oh, yes, miss. You know she's really a good-hearted girl, and she's
very fond of me; but I'm so unhappy about her. She goes on betting,
and she's a great trouble to mother on account of her flighty ways.
She means no harm, I'm sure, but—" and Malvina broke off and shook her
head whilst an expression of deep sadness settled on her face.

"Poor Lottie," said Ann, softly, "poor girl!"

There was a brief silence after that. Many of the other patients had
visitors, too, and there was a low hum of conversation throughout the
ward.

"The summer holidays commence next week," Ann informed Malvina
by-and-by, "I am going to spend them with my grandmother at Teymouth."

"And I am going home to my own people," said Violet, her pretty face
glowing with happiness.

"We are to travel to London together," explained Ann, "and I am
to break my journey there in order to spend a few days with an
aunt—mother's sister. Mother and father hope to join me in Devonshire,
in September, if all's well. You will have to say good-bye to us
to-day, Malvina, for nearly two months."

"For nearly two months!" echoed Malvina. There was a wistful
expression in her blue eyes. "That is a long, long time to look
forward to," she went on gravely, "and I—perhaps I shall not be here
when you come back to Buford."

"I hope not," said Violet, with a smile, "I hope by then you will be
at home again."

"I did not mean that," Malvina answered in a low tone, "I think,
sometimes, that I shall not get about again; it will be as God wills,
and—and—yes, He knows best. You mustn't be grieved," she proceeded, as
Violet looked at her in consternation and then glanced quickly at Ann,
"I may be quite wrong, only I have felt of late, after suffering a
great deal, that perhaps I shall not get well."

She raised herself on the pillow as she spoke, and fixed her eyes on
Ann with an appealing look in their blue depths.

"Miss Ann," she said earnestly, "you've been a good friend to me ever
since I knew you, and that emboldens me to ask you a great, great
favour. I want you to promise me something. It's asking more than I
ought of you, I daresay, and perhaps you'll think it bold and
presumptuous of me—"

"No, I am sure I shall not think that," Ann interposed hastily.
"Tell me what it is you wish me to promise; anything I can do for you
I most certainly will."

"Thank you, miss. I want you to promise that, if anything happens
to me, you'll be a friend to Lottie if you can. You said 'poor Lottie,
poor girl,' just now in a way that made me think you didn't despise
her quite. Oh, Miss Ann, Lottie isn't a good girl, I know that! She's
made bad companions, and perhaps I'm wrong to ask you this, perhaps
your mother and father would be angry if you had anything to do with
her!"

Ann shook her head, for she knew better than that; but she had had
very little intercourse with Lottie, and she scarcely knew what answer
to make. She did not think it likely she would ever have an
opportunity of being a friend to her.

"Nobody cares for Lottie as I do," the sick girl continued mournfully,
"not even mother—but I'm forgetting, God cares for her. She's one of
His poor wandering sheep. Yes, He cares for her."

"Malvina, if I can be a friend to Lottie I will," Ann promised
earnestly, "you may take my word for that."

A look of radiant happiness lit up the invalid's face. "Thank you,
Miss Ann," she said gratefully, "oh, thank you! I shall be more easy
about Lottie now! She's selfish and flighty, but she's got a heart all
the same, and she loves me—that's why I've been worrying about her so
much, wondering how she will take it if—if I don't go home any more."

At that moment a nurse came up, whispered something to Ann, and moved
away again.

"She says we must not stay any longer," Ann said, in response
to Violet's inquiring glance; "we must go now, Malvina." She rose and
held out her hand, which the invalid took and held tightly.
"I'm afraid we must say good-bye," she added, with a slight break
in her voice.

"I am sorry you must not stay longer now, for I know we shall not meet
again for a long, long while," Malvina whispered, her voice sounding
very feeble and tired, "but we shall meet again, I am sure of that."

"Yes," assented Ann, "I, too, am sure of that."

She bent and kissed Malvina tenderly, as a sister might have done.
"Good-bye," she said, "God bless you."

"He is with me, Miss Ann," Malvina answered; "He will be with me all
the way."

"Good-bye," Ann said again; then she drew her hand gently away from
the sick girl's clinging fingers, and walked swiftly down the ward
towards the door.

It was Violet's turn to say good-bye now. She did so kindly, but
somewhat hurriedly, and joined Ann who was waiting for her at the
door. Glancing back the two girls saw that Malvina had raised herself
on her elbow, and was gazing after them. They smiled and nodded, and
so bright was her smile in return that Violet thought she could not be
so very ill. She made some remark to that effect as soon as she and
her companion had left the hospital and were out in the street, but
received no reply, and, glancing at Ann, she saw that she was
incapable of speech, and that her eyes were almost blinded with tears.

For a few minutes the girls walked on, side by side, in silence; but
Ann soon regained her composure, and then Violet asked in awed tones:—

"Do you think that she is going to die—that she won't get over this?"

"I have a feeling that she is not going to live very long, and I know
father considers her very ill," was the grave response.

"And yet you agreed with her when she said you would meet again!"
cried Violet, considerably surprised.

"Yes, but I did not mean that we should meet in this world, nor,
I think, did she," Ann replied, in a voice which was still tremulous
with emotion.

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Violet, with a faint shudder.

"Dreadful? Why? It would be dreadful if I thought we should not meet
again—if we looked forward no further than this life."

"You are such a strange girl," Violet said wonderingly, "so very
different to what I expected you would be."

"You have several times told me that," Ann said gravely, "you make me
curious to know what you had pictured I should be like."

Violet made no response to this. As their visit to the hospital had
not been of such long duration as they had anticipated it would be,
instead of going straight home the two girls lingered looking in the
shop windows. By-and-by their conversation turned to the approaching
holidays, to which both were naturally looking forward with the
keenest pleasure.

"It will be so nice travelling together," Ann said; "it seemed such
a long journey last year when I took it alone—mother did not join me
at Teymouth till the holidays were half over, seven weeks is too long
a time for her to be away from home."

"Did you stay in London last year?" asked Violet.

"Yes, for nearly a week, at Hampstead with Aunt Louisa."

"Is she nice?" inquired Violet.

"Aunt Louisa? Oh, yes! She's very like mother. Her husband — Uncle
John — is a barrister, you know. They haven't any children."

"I suppose they are fashionable people?"

"I suppose they are," Ann admitted, with an amused laugh; "they have
a beautiful home, and Aunt Louisa goes into society a good deal."

"Wouldn't you rather spend your holidays with them than with your
grandmother?" questioned Violet.

"No, indeed! I'd far rather be at Teymouth with Granny. I've been
thinking how nice it would be if you could persuade your people to go
to Teymouth; you know Ruth wrote and said that they talked of going
away for a change."

"Oh, what a splendid idea!" cried Violet, her face lighting up with
excitement. "But could we get lodgings at Teymouth, I wonder?"

"Yes, I believe so; I can easily find that out for you when I get
there, and I will let you know. It's not a fashionable place, though,
Violet."

"Oh no, I understand that. I think father would like it better on that
account, and mother, too. There's a nice beach, isn't there?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Madge and the boys would be delighted with that, and—oh, I do wish
it could be managed for us to meet you there! I want you to know Ruth,
and I'm sure you'd like mother. You can't think how I'm longing to see
them all, I never seemed to love them so dearly when I was at home."

Ann made no response, for her attention had been attracted by two
factory girls who had brushed by them, one of whom was Lottie Medland,
the girl she had promised to befriend; and, as Ann looked after her
and caught the sound of her light, careless laugh, she sighed, and her
face grew sorrowful again, whilst her thoughts returned to Malvina
grieving about her sister in the midst of her pain.



CHAPTER XX

VIOLET AT HOME AGAIN

"OH, mother, how glad I am to be at home again!" cried Violet Wyndham,
sincerity in her tone, her eyes shining with a joyous light.

The Wyndhams, mother, father, and children, were assembled in the
sitting-room on the evening of Violet's return to her home, after the
evening meal, which had been later than usual on the traveller's
account. The gas was lit, but the blind was up and the window open
wide to admit as much air as possible, for the weather was almost
intolerably hot in London. Close to the window Mrs. Wyndham was
seated, Violet at her side, and her husband opposite to her, whilst
the others hovered around.

"I wonder how many times you've said that within the last hour,
Violet," remarked Mr. Wyndham, smiling. "She doesn't appear the least
tired, does she?" he continued, addressing his wife; "see what a
colour she has! she makes Ruth and Madge look quite pale."

"Oh, I'm not in the least tired," declared Violet, "though it was a
very hot journey and the air seemed to get closer and closer as we
came further south. I am glad you have met Ann, father; what did you
think of her?"

"My dear Violet, I only saw her for a minute or so before her aunt
came up and took her away. I noticed she had her father's eyes,
however."

"Yes," nodded Violet. "I was disappointed that you did not see more
of her, but one cannot say much on a railway-platform, anyway."

"She has gone to stay with a sister of her mother's, has she not?"
questioned Ruth. She sat with her eyes fixed on Violet's face, not
saying much, but listening attentively to all Violet said.

"Yes. Her aunt met her and took her away in a grand carriage with a
pair of horses and servants in livery, whilst father and I got into a
humble cab." Violet laughed gaily, and proceeded: "Oh, dear me, how
that cab crawled along—or so it seemed to me. I was in such a fever
of impatience to get home, wasn't I, father?"

"You were, my dear," Mr. Wyndham replied, "and when at last the cab
pulled up you wouldn't wait for me to open the door but opened it
yourself, jumped out, and simply flew like a whirlwind into the
house."

"Yes," smiled Violet, "and there, in the passage, were mother,
and Ruth, and Madge, and the boys—"

"And she kissed all round beginning with mother and ending with me,"
broke in Billy, "and then she made a rush towards the kitchen stairs
to look for Barbara who was coming up, and they bumped against each
other and Barbara's cap fell off!" He burst into a roar of laughter,
in which his brother joined, at the remembrance of the scene.

"It was a clean cap," said Madge; "Barbara had put it on in honour
of Violet; she has been as excited about your return as any
of us, Vi."

"Yes," said Frank, "and she's been making such preparations for your
arrival, scrubbing and cleaning, and she's been as cross as two
sticks."

"You know, dear, she generally is cross when she's more than usually
busy," Mrs. Wyndham observed; "I think it's because she does not know
what to do first. I make it a rule now to leave her to herself at such
times, that's far the best plan."

"Violet doubtless remembers Barbara's peculiarities," remarked
Mr. Wyndham, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

They all laughed; they were ready to laugh at very little that
evening, for it was so delightful to be all together again, and it
added to the pleasure of the occasion to see how full of contentment
and happiness Violet appeared. Her eyes took in everything about her
as she talked, the fresh curtains in the window, the flowers on the
table, and many other evidences that went to prove that efforts had
been made to make the room look as attractive as possible on her
arrival. She guessed that Ruth had been hard at work all day, and
there was tenderness as well as affection in her glance as it rested
on her elder sister.

"I can hardly realise now that I have been away from you all for more
than six months," she said by-and-by, "and yet, sometimes, at Barford,
I used to feel as though I had been parted from you for years."

"You have been very happy, haven't you, dear?" questioned her mother;
"the Reeds have been unfailingly kind to you, haven't they?"

"They have been kindness itself always. I've been treated like Ann
in every way. At first everything was very strange and I thought
Mrs. Reed very strict and particular, but I don't think that now.
I've grown to understand her, and I love her dearly. Indeed I have met
with a great deal of kindness from everyone, except—except—"

Violet's voice faltered and broke off, whilst the flush in her cheeks
deepened and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"My dear, what is it?" questioned Mrs. Wyndham, in dismay.

"I didn't mean to tell you to-night," said Violet; "but I suppose
I may as well and get it over. I couldn't very well write
and explain."

"Someone has been unkind to you?" asked Ruth; "not Ann, surely?"

"Ann?" cried Violet; "what can you be thinking of, Ruth? Why Ann
wouldn't be unkind to anyone—not to her worst enemy! But I don't
believe she ever had an enemy. It's Agnes Hosking! She's a mean,
wicked, cruel—"

"Hush, hush, Violet," interposed her father; "don't get excited and
use such violent language. Why, your face is crimson with passion!
Try to tell us quietly what Agnes Hosking has done."

Accordingly Violet told the tale of the loss of the tortoise-shell
purse, which was listened to with great interest, but when she came
to speak of the suspicion which had been put upon her, her parents
looked very grave and the indignation of her sisters and brothers
knew no bounds.

Agnes had behaved most shamefully, they declared, and she ought
to have been severely punished in spite of her apology.

"It is a great pity she was invited to the Reeds' house at all."
Ruth observed, when they had all quieted down a little; "I said so
at the time, I remember. How did it come about, Violet?"

"She asked me to get her an invitation and I did," Violet admitted,
"no one had invited her out to tea all the term. I made a mistake
in acting as I did, and I have had to suffer for it. Ann is always
hoping the purse may turn up, but that's most unlikely now; I expect
Agnes dropped it in the street, and whoever picked it up kept it—
you see there was considerably more than a pound in it. Oh, dear,
it has been a most disagreeable affair altogether, and has caused me
more unhappiness than I can express!"

"I have no doubt of that," said Mr. Wyndham; "but we won't let it
overshadow your first evening at home, Violet. You have been badly
treated, but the truth will prevail—it always does sooner or later—and
I believe those girls who have been prejudiced against you will
eventually learn that they have done you an injustice, though they may
not acknowledge it in so many words."

"I am sure your father is right, Violet darling," said Mrs. Wyndham
eagerly, with a brightening countenance; "no one who really knows you
could believe you capable of—of theft." She hesitated over the last
word, and flushed sensitively.

"No, indeed," agreed Madge. "Oh, you poor, dear Violet, how miserably
unhappy you must have been!" The little girl's voice was full of
sympathy.

"And how miserably unhappy we should have been if we had known what
was going on!" cried Ruth.

"I'm glad we didn't know," said Billy ingenuously. "It wouldn't have
done any good if we had," he added quickly, wondering if his candid
remark had sounded a little unkind, he had not meant it to be that.

"Don't you think we might, with advantage, change the subject of our
conversation?" suggested Mr. Wyndham. "You have said enough about your
enemy for to-night, Violet, let us hear about your friends—those two
girls whom you went to see in the Easter holidays, for instance.
Let me see, what was it they were called?"

"Garret," Violet replied, and forthwith launched into a lengthy
description of the Garret girls, whom, next to Ann Reed, she counted
as her best friends, and Agnes Hosking's name did not occur in the
conversation again.

The family party did not break up till late that night, and long after
the rest of the household slept Ruth and Violet talked in their own
room. They had so much to say to each other, and excitement kept them
from feeling sleepy.

"I believe you have grown inches," declared Ruth, as she sat on her
sister's box, whilst Violet, standing before the dressing-table,
brushed her wavy brown hair, "and you are looking remarkably well.
How do you think father is looking?"

"Capital! I noticed the difference in him the instant I caught sight
of him when our train ran into the station; he looks so much younger
and brighter than when I went away, and I'm sure he doesn't stoop so
much. Oh, Ruthie, you can't think how rejoiced I felt when I heard
of his good fortune!"

"I think I can," Ruth replied, smiling happily. "Were you disappointed
when you heard we were going to remain on here?" she inquired.

Violet nodded. "Just a little," she admitted, "but it is a nice little
house really; I thought how comfortable the sitting-room was to-night,
you've improved it."

"Oh, you noticed that!" Ruth exclaimed, much gratified; "I was so
afraid the house would appear very mean and small after the one you
have been accustomed to lately."

"It's home," Violet said softly, "going away has taught me one thing
at any rate, that there's no place so dear as home."

Ruth's face glowed with delight. She had not dared to expect that
Violet would return in this contented frame of mind, and she was
secretly a little puzzled. It was beginning to dawn on her already
that her sister had altered—improved, she thought.

"But, as I said downstairs, I've been very happy at Barford," Violet
proceeded; "except for the unpleasantness in connection with Agnes
Hosking everything has gone well. Oh, Ruthie, I'm so ashamed when I
think of—but there I'll tell you all about it!" And forthwith she
explained the pressure Agnes Hosking had put upon her to obtain the
invitation to Laureston Square, and how she had weakly yielded to it.
She did not look at Ruth the while she was speaking; but, when she had
ceased, she glanced around at her and saw an amazed, shocked
countenance.

"Oh, Violet," gasped Ruth, at length, "what could the Reeds have
thought of you?"

"I don't know what Dr. and Mrs. Reed thought of me, for they never
said. I explained everything to Ann, and she told her parents. Ann was
amazed, she didn't seem able to understand me—"

"I understand you," interposed Ruth, reproach in her voice, "you were
ashamed that your well-to-do school-fellows should know of our poor
circumstances, and yet you were not ashamed to bribe Agnes to hold her
tongue—it was actually that."

"I knew you would be very disgusted with me," sighed Violet, "and I
admit that you have reason to be. Oh, Ruthie, I wish I were more like
you and Ann Reed! I wish I didn't care for outside opinion;
Ann doesn't care in the very least, and I know if she had been in my
place she would have defied Agnes Hosking. That's what I ought to have
done, but I was such a mean-spirited coward. You can't think worse of
me than I think of myself; only, do believe that in the same
circumstances I would act very differently now."

She looked at her sister appealingly as she spoke, and there was a
ring of sincerity in her tone, which the other could not fail to note.
"You do believe it, don't you?" she asked anxiously.

"Yes," Ruth answered. She never could be angry long with Violet, and,
rising, she went to her side and kissed her affectionately.

"Oh, Ruthie, what a dear you are!" cried Violet, as she warmly
returned the caress. There was a little choke in her voice. A moment
later, she exclaimed: "Listen, surely that's the dining-room clock
striking twelve!"

"Yes. We must go to bed and not talk any more to-night."

Accordingly they went to bed, and as soon as Violet laid her head
on the pillow she discovered that she really was tired, so that it was
not long before she was fast asleep. Ruth lay quietly by her side,
listening to her regular breathing, and thinking over all she had
heard that evening. It was nearly daybreak before she fell asleep.


CHAPTER XXI

AT TEYMOUTH

IT was a cloudless August day, oppressively hot in the sunshine but
pleasant in the shade, and there was shade on the beach at Teymouth
beneath the shelter of the high, red cliffs where a happy party,
consisting of Mrs. Wyndham and her five children, was assembled.

The plan which Ann Reed had suggested, that the Wyndhams might take
lodgings at Teymouth for their summer holiday, had actually been
carried out, and now they were in residence at a farm house situated
about half a mile from the village, and thoroughly enjoying the novel
experience of life in the country.

This afternoon the young folks had made a huge fire of drift wood,
over which they were trying to boil a kettle of water preparatory
to making tea, whilst a table-cloth—kept in place by a big stone
at each corner—had been spread on the sand and displayed a tempting
repast of bread and butter, cake, and a big tin of clotted cream.

"I hope they'll come soon," said Violet, who was feeding the fire
with sticks, "for the kettle is beginning to sing; but they are not
in sight yet, and old Mrs. Reed does walk so slowly."

"She'll get along quicker with father to lend her an arm," observed
Ruth; "as soon as the kettle boils I think we had better make the
tea."

They were waiting for Ann and her grandmother, and for Mr. Wyndham
who had gone to offer the old lady his assistance down the somewhat
uneven path which led to the beach. The Wyndhams had been at Teymouth
a fortnight, during which time they had seen Ann and her grandmother
nearly every day. Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham seemed to have cast off all
their cares and to be enjoying their holiday as much as their
children; they felt they might do so with easy minds.

"Here they come at last!" cried Madge, presently. "Does the kettle
boil?"

"Yes," Violet answered. "Ruthie, make the tea. Oh, dear me, I do hope
the water is not smoky!"

Ruth made the tea, and a few minutes later old Mrs. Reed, leaning
on Mr. Wyndham's arm, with Ann on her other side, joined the party,
and was made very comfortable in a deck chair, which had been brought
down to the beach on purpose for her and placed in a sheltered spot.
Though Ann's grandmother was eighty years of age she did not look
so old, for her face was singularly unwrinkled and her brow smooth,
whilst her intellect was as bright as it had ever been, and her sight
and hearing were good. She was a little stiff and slow in her
movements, as the result of rheumatism, from which she occasionally
suffered, but she was a wonderful woman for her years. There was a
strong likeness between her and her son, and consequently between her
and Ann. All three had the same fine grey eyes, and the same open,
kindly expression of countenance.

"You ought not to make so much of me," the old lady said, in a voice
which had more than a touch of west-country dialect in its pleasant
tones, "for think how I shall miss your attentions by-and-by!"

"We won't think of 'by-and-by,'" replied Mrs. Wyndham; "let us live
in the present and enjoy these happy hours as much as we can. Ruth,
will you pour out the tea, my dear? Boys, make yourselves useful and
hand around the plates. We must make tables of our laps."

The meal commenced right merrily. Everyone was in good spirits, and
the tea, though it proved a trifle smoky, was not enough so to be
spoilt, and was drunk and enjoyed; in fact Billy went so far as to
declare that he preferred the flavour of smoky tea. Full justice was
done to the eatables, too, and the plates of bread and butter and cake
were soon emptied, whilst, at the completion of the repast, only about
a teaspoonful of cream remained at the bottom of the tin, which had
been full to the brim.

"I hope everyone has had enough," said Mrs. Wyndham; then, as they all
declared they had made capital teas, she indicated the empty plates
and quoted: "Enough is as good as a feast."

"I call it a feast when one has cream," remarked Madge; at which they
all laughed, and Mrs. Reed promised to send her some cream on her
birthday if she would tell her the date, which she was only too
pleased to do.

As soon as tea was over the boys and their father wandered off around
the cliffs, whilst Mrs. Wyndham and the girls, having packed the tea
things into baskets, settled themselves to enjoy a chat with Mrs.
Reed. The latter was a most entertaining companion; for she owned a
wonderful memory which went back more than seventy years: She talked
to them now of her youth, of the time when she had been her
granddaughter's age.

"I was in my first situation, then," she said; "you must understand
that my father was a hard-working man who farmed a few acres, and I
was the eldest of a long family—we all had to turn out and earn our
own livings as soon as we were old enough."

"Did you like being a servant?" asked Madge curiously.

"Not at first, my dear," Mrs. Reed admitted, with a bright smile at
her little questioner; "I had to work very hard, and I was at the age
when young girls naturally like amusements; but, by-and-by, as I tried
to do my duty, I grew to like it better. 'Tis the working bee that
gets the best sweets from life, after all."

"Do you really think that?" Ruth inquired; then, as Mrs. Reed
emphatically assented, she begged her to tell them some more about her
youthful days.

The old lady willingly complied, and, from speaking of her girlhood,
she went on to her married life and the birth of her son. She told
them how the boy had always evinced an eagerness for knowledge, and
how she and his father had worked and saved so that he might have the
advantages of a good education and a fair start in life.

"My husband was very proud of our boy, but I don't think he ever
guessed he would do as well as he has," she said simply; "my son never
caused me a moment's anxiety in my life," she added with a tender
smile.

"He always loved you too well to do that, Granny," said Ann, her open
face glowing with gratification as she listened to her father's
praise.

It was very pleasant there in the shelter of the cliffs. Presently
a fleet of fishing boats, with unfurled to catch the evening breeze,
appeared in sight, going up the channel, the light from the setting
sun shining full upon them.

"How pretty they look!" cried Ann; "I wish they would come nearer
so that we could have a better view of them."

"They will not do that," said her grandmother; "they are Brixham
trawlers, and will keep well out at sea."

The conversation then turned upon fishing and boating, and,
subsequently, to the expected visit of Dr. and Mrs. Reed, which had
been arranged for the early part of September. Dr. Reed meant to take
a fortnight's holiday and intended to leave his practice to the care
of his partner, Mr. Luscombe, meanwhile.

By-and-by Mr. Wyndham and the boys returned; and then, as the sun had
nearly set, a general move was made, and the party left the beach.
The Wyndhams' way led past Mrs. Reed's cottage, at the gate of which
goodbyes were exchanged and Ann arranged to meet her friends on the
following morning.

Mrs. Reed, who was considerably tired, went straight indoors, but Ann
lingered to watch the Wyndhams out of sight, and when she entered the
cottage she found her grandmother had gone upstairs to remove her
bonnet and cloak. The girl hung her hat on a peg in the passage, and
turned into the comfortable little parlour, where, on the table in the
centre of the room, she immediately caught sight of a letter addressed
to herself; her look was one of surprise as she took it up, for,
though the postmark was that of her native town, the handwriting on
the envelope was unknown to her.

"Whom can it be from?" she murmured, as she went to the window in
order to see better, for the daylight had almost gone. "Why, it's from
Dr. Elizabeth!" she exclaimed, as she opened the letter and glanced at
the signature, "what can she have to say to me?" And she commenced to
read:—

"MY DEAR ANN,"

"I am writing to tell you that poor Malvina Medland
died this morning. She was so much worse all last week
and suffered so greatly that no one could wish her life
to be prolonged. I am thankful to say, however, that
she was spared pain at the end, and passed away
as quietly as if she had been falling asleep. The night
before last I was with her for some time, and she
asked me to remind you of a promise you once made her,
she did not explain what it was; she said, 'Please
tell Miss Ann I rely upon her to keep her promise,'
so I remind you now. No doubt you will understand
what the poor girl meant. You will be glad to hear
that both Mrs. Medland and Lottie were with Malvina
at the time of her death; Mrs. Medland appears
broken-hearted, for Malvina was her favourite child."

The letter dropped from Ann's hand, and she stood gazing with unseeing
eyes out of the window. Malvina was dead. The brave, patient life was
at an end. Never again, with aching back and weary arms, would she
"mind babies" or do plain needlework or crochet; she was beyond all
that in the presence of the Great Physician. Ann knew she had no need
to be sorry for Malvina now, but the tears welled up in her eyes and
ran down her cheeks as she recalled her last interview with the sick
girl, and her tender heart was full of sympathy for the mother and
sister in their desolation.

"I am glad I made Malvina that promise," she thought, "I believe it
made her very happy; but I don't know how I am going to keep it—
perhaps God will show me when I get home."

She picked up Dr. Elizabeth's letter and finished reading it. By that
time her grandmother had come downstairs and she had to account for
her tears; and they talked of Malvina—whom old Mrs. Reed knew well by
repute—till they were interrupted by the servant who brought in the
lamp and the supper things.

The next morning when Ann, according to the arrangement she had made,
joined the three Wyndham girls in a walk through some beautiful woods
which adjoined Teymouth, Violet noticed at once that she was unusually
subdued in her manner, and asked if anything was amiss. In a voice
which faltered, in spite of the effort she made to keep it steady, Ann
told her news.

"Malvina dead!" gasped Violet, with a rush of tears to her brown eyes;
"oh, Ann! When did you hear that?" She looked, as she felt, much
shocked.

"Last night, in a letter from Dr. Elizabeth, which arrived for me
while we were on the beach," Ann rejoined; "she did not suffer at the
last, so Dr. Elizabeth says, I felt so relieved to hear that. Do you
remember, Violet, how she said that day when we went to say good-bye
to her at the hospital 'He will be with me all the way?'"

Violet assented with a nod, she could not trust her voice to speak,
and Madge asked:—

"What did she mean, Ann?"

"That Jesus would be with her. I am sure she was thinking of that
verse in the twenty-third psalm, 'Yea, though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for Thou art with
me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'"

"Poor girl," murmured Ruth, who, like Madge, had heard all about
Malvina from Violet; "did she die in the hospital?" she inquired.

"Yes," assented Ann, "but her mother and sister were with her when she
died. Oh, I do feel so sorry for them!"

"So do I," said Ruth, "more especially for the sister. It must be so
dreadful to know you have given trouble to one you love, and that you
will never be able to make amends."

"The sister is a very naughty girl, isn't she, Ann?" questioned Madge.

"Yes, she is," Ann was obliged to admit. "I suppose Violet has been
telling you about her?"

"Yes," Madge nodded; "and Violet says you promised to be a friend
to her if Malvina died."

"So I did; and I mean, if possible, to keep my word."

"I suppose you have a great many friends," remarked Madge seriously,
"you would, as your father is so well known and—"

"Madge!" interrupted Ruth, in an admonishing tone, fearful of what her
young sister was about to say.

"I haven't said anything out of the way, have I?" inquired Madge,
innocently.

"No, no," Ann assured her. "Father is well known, of course, because
he has lived many years in Barford; we have a lot of friends there.
I suppose you know a good many people at Streatham, don't you?"

"No," rejoined Madge; "we've always been too poor to know people,
but it will be different now, I hope. There are some people I do not
wish to know," she continued, glancing at Violet, who suddenly grew
very red, "Agnes Hosking, for instance—"

"Oh, we will not talk of her!" broke in Ruth; "of course we should
never be on terms of friendship with a girl who has treated Violet
badly. Ann, I wonder if that tortoise-shell purse will ever be found;
do you think it is at all likely it will?"

This was the first occasion on which Ruth had mentioned the matter
of the loss of Agnes' purse to Ann. Ann shook her head dubiously
in answer to Ruth's question; she was beginning to give up hope that
the purse would ever be recovered now.

"It is very hard for Violet," Ruth whispered, as she and Ann fell
behind the other two in the narrow woodland path through which they
were walking, "but she acted most foolishly and wrongly. She has told
me everything. Her behaviour must have surprised and shocked you,
yet you tried to protect her and stood her friend." There was deep
gratitude in Ruth's tone.

"Why, of course I did," responded Ann, "I am sure you would have done
the same."

"Yes, but she is my sister."

"And she is my friend."

Ruth smiled. She was right glad that Violet had such a friend as this
girl to stand by her. Once she had feared that Ann might try to
supplant her in Violet's affections; but then she had not known Ann,
whom to know was to trust.



CHAPTER XXII

AT STREATHAM

ALL too swiftly the early autumn days slipped away for the
holiday-keepers at Teymouth. The evenings were growing much shorter
now, and a golden tinge was here and there noticeable on the woods
which made a background for the little sea-side village; blackberries,
too, were ripening fast, greatly to the satisfaction of the Wyndham
boys, who rambled far and wide in search of them.

It had been arranged for the Wyndhams to return to London on the
twelfth of September, and Mr. Wyndham had looked forward with the
keenest pleasure to the company of Dr. Reed at Teymouth for a week
or so before that date, but a few days before the one on which the
doctor and his wife had planned to arrive Ann received a letter from
home with the information that Mr. Luscombe, who had been away for his
holiday, had returned far from well and was now laid up with
pneumonia, so that it would be quite impossible for her father
to leave his practice at present; therefore, he and her mother had
decided to defer their visit to Devonshire till the following month.
Ann carried the news at once to her friends at the farm, who received
it with many expressions of regret.

"Father says Mr. Luscombe is not seriously ill," she explained, "I am
very glad of that; but it will be several weeks before he will be well
enough to work again. I expect father is very disappointed that he
cannot get away now, and mother, too. Oh, dear, I suppose I shall have
to travel all the way home by myself, and it is such a long journey!
Perhaps, though, Violet could meet me in London, if I remain with
Granny till nearly the beginning of the term."

"Could you not return with us to London?" suggested Mr. Wyndham. "You
might spend a few days at Streatham, and then you and Violet could go
back to Buford together."

"Oh, that would be a capital plan!" cried Violet, "oh, do come, Ann!"

"I should much like to," Ann replied, her face brightening; "but would
it be convenient?" she asked, as she fancied she saw a dubious
expression on Mrs. Wyndham's face.

"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Wyndham assured her hastily; "you would have to share
Madge's room, but you would not mind that, perhaps?" she said
inquiringly.

"Certainly not, if Madge does not—" Ann was commencing when Madge
sprang impetuously to her side, and interrupted her by flinging her
arms around her neck and giving her a friendly hug, exclaiming as she
did so:—

"Oh, what fun it will be! I slept with Ruth for months and months,
but when Violet came home I had to turn out for her. I do love having
someone to talk to. Mine is a very little room, Ann, but you aren't
very particular, are you?"

"No," replied Ann, smiling, "a very small space will do for me."

"I will write to your mother at once," said Mrs. Wyndham, "and we
shall soon hear what she and your father think of our plan."

Dr. and Mrs. Reed thought the plan a most excellent one and
immediately sent a reply to that effect. So it came to pass that when
the Wyndhams left Teymouth they took Ann with them. Ann felt parting
from her grandmother but the old lady, who had the visit of her son
and daughter-in-law to look forward to and was in good spirits on that
account, bade her a cheerful good-bye and spoke hopefully of their
meeting next year.

Nevertheless, Ann could not help feeling a little depressed during the
first part of the journey to London, for a year seemed a long time to
look forward to, and she knew it was most unlikely that she would see
her grandmother again before the expiration of that time. Long before
Bristol was reached, however, which was about half the distance they
had to travel, she was joining in the general conversation, apparently
as merry and happy as her companions, who, rather to their own
surprise, were eager now to get home.

"It was lovely at Teymouth, and it's very nice in a farm house in the
summer," observed Madge, "but it must be very dull in the winter,
I should think, when the weather is bad. I'm looking forward to see
Barbara, and she'll be glad to see us, I know."

"I hope she will have everything comfortable for us," remarked Mrs.
Wyndham, rather anxiously, "I wrote to her to get help to put the
house in order, but poor Barbara has no head for management, and, with
the best intentions in the world, she is a sad muddler."

Mr. Wyndham smiled on hearing this, and a humorous twinkle crept into
his eyes.

"Well, don't begin to worry, my dear," he said kindly, "we all know
what Barbara is, except Ann, and she will make allowances for her,
I've no doubt."

The travellers, being eight in number, had a compartment to
themselves, and the journey was made most comfortably. When Paddington
was reached they all declared they were not in the least tired; but,
by the time they arrived at Streatham they told a different tale.

Ann was secretly very curious to see Violet's home, and she looked
with considerable interest at the plain, freckled face of the girl
who stood on the doorstep broadly smiling a welcome. Barbara, who had
been sent to her home on board wages whilst the Wyndhams had been away
on their holiday, had not been sorry to get to work again; she had
done her best during the few days previous to the family's return
to put the house in good order, with the assistance of a charwoman,
and she was satisfied with the result of her labours.

Mrs. Wyndham was exceedingly pleased when she saw how nice everything
was looking. Several of the rooms had been repapered and repainted,
and, consequently, there was an air of freshness about the place which
was as delightful as it was novel; and Barbara had a substantial high
tea ready in the sitting-room, which the travellers were all ready
to fully appreciate.

Ann spent several days with the Wyndhams. She noticed at once how much
Mrs. Wyndham relied upon her eldest daughter in every way, and what
a busy life Ruth led, at the beck and call of everybody. It was
always, "I want you, Ruth," or "Ruth knows about that," or "You must
ask Ruth to help you," and so on; and Ruth never grumbled that it was
so, or said that she had too much to do, but was always willing and
cheerful.

"Things are much nicer and more comfortable in every way at home than
they used to be," Violet informed Ann confidentially, on one occasion
when they were alone together, "I really think it's all Ruth's doing.
She makes the boys pick up their playthings and won't let them worry
Barbara in the kitchen; she seems to superintend everything, doesn't
she? And then she gives Barbara a hint when her cap goes crooked, and
persuades her to take her time and not get 'in a rush!'" Ann smiled
understandingly, as Violet went on, "Oh, dear me, what a to-do it used
to be when Barbara was 'in a rush' She'd break the crockery in her
hurry to try to get ahead of the work, and she never used to get ahead
of it, she was always behind, and poor mother would cry when things
went wrong and she couldn't set them right. I was surprised when I
came home to find things so different, just as though some good fairy
had been at work. I think our good fairy is Ruth."

Ruth had certainly done her best to make her home more comfortable
and orderly since she had left school, and her efforts, which her
mother had been the first to appreciate and further, had met with more
success than she had dared to hope would be the case; she was full
of bright hopes for the future when her father would be in the
position to allow more money for the household expenses, and there
would not be such anxiety about meeting the bills.

The afternoon before Ann and Violet left Streatham for Buford they
were returning from a walk with Ruth and Madge when Violet drew Ann's
attention to a large, red brick house with bow windows, standing in
its own grounds, and informed her that it was Agnes Hosking's home.

"That's the sort of house Violet admires," Ruth remarked, with a
mischievous laugh, "it's quite ordinary on the outside, isn't it, but
I believe the interior is something extraordinary. Have you told Ann
how it is furnished, Vi?"

"No," returned Violet, colouring, "I have not—it would not interest
her at all; and I've changed my mind about wishing to live in a house
like that, Ruth, I should not care to have furniture that's too fine
to use and a drawing-room that's nothing but a showroom. By the way,
I do hope we shall not run against Agnes; I wonder if she's at home."

The words were scarcely out of Violet's mouth when, looking ahead,
she caught sight of a familiar figure coming towards them, and Madge
exclaimed, with excitement in her voice:—

"Why, here she is! Oh, girls, it's Agnes herself!"

"We cannot avoid meeting her," said Ruth, with a nervous glance
at Violet, whose bright colour had perceptibly lessened.

"Avoid meeting her?" echoed Ann, "why should you wish to do that?
Ah, she recognises us, I see!"

Agnes was close up to them now. She was staring hard at Ann, as though
she could scarcely believe she saw aright; a minute later she had
stopped in front of her, and was holding out her hand.

"Ann! Ann Reed!" she cried, in accents of intense surprise; "is it
really you?"

"Certainly," Ann replied, rather dryly, ignoring the outstretched
hand, whilst her companions moved on a few steps and stood waiting
for her.

"Fancy meeting you here! You must come to my house! Look, that is
where I live!" Agnes appeared excited. "Are you staying with the
Wyndhams?" she inquired in a lower tone.

"Yes; but I am going home to-morrow."

"Is Violet Wyndham to return to Barford with you?"

"Yes."

"Well, if you are leaving Streatham to-morrow you must certainly spare
me a little while this afternoon," Agnes said eagerly. "Do come in,"
she continued, nodding towards her home, "you can bring the Wyndhams
with you if you like, I don't mind."

"No, thank you—" Ann was beginning when Agnes interrupted her
by exclaiming:—

"Oh, you must come! Do come in all of you," she added pressingly,
raising her voice and addressing the three Wyndham girls, who,
however, showed not the least inclination to accept her invitation.

"No, thank you," Ruth said gravely, "we would rather not."

"Nonsense, nonsense!" cried Agnes, intent on gaining her own way.
"I want you to come with me and have some tea—all of you. I haven't
congratulated you yet on your father's new appointment," she went on,
looking pointedly at Violet, "I heard nothing about it till I came
home for the holidays. Let me congratulate you now. I hear it's a
splendid rise for your father; I'm sure I'm very glad, for it must
have been very disagreeable to have been so badly off, and being poor
makes people do things they'd never dream of doing if—"

"What do you mean?" broke in Violet, indignantly. "Are you trying
to insult us—to insult me?"

"No, no," Agnes assured her hastily, "indeed I am not! I was only
going to say that I wish bygones to be bygones, and that if you did
take my purse I forgive you; I am not one to bear malice, so let us be
friends."

"Agnes," said Violet, trying to speak calmly, "I don't understand why
you should wish to be friends with a girl you consider a thief. I see
now you really do believe that I robbed you, although you apologised
to me—and—and—oh how can you believe it? I have never set eyes on your
purse since I saw you put it in your muff the night you lost it."

"Surely you must see Violet is speaking the truth," said Ruth,
her voice trembling with anger, her face set and stern; "how dare you
suspect her of having taken your wretched purse?"

"It was not a wretched purse," Agnes retorted, "it was as handsome a
purse as you ever saw in your life, and it contained one pound, seven
shillings, and fivepence half-penny! But I've got over the loss of it
now—I mean I really don't care now whether Violet took it or not, for
father's given me a new one which I like just as well. Come, if I'm
willing to be friends, why can't you meet me half-way? You won't?
Well, I shan't bother about you any more, you Wyndhams always thought
too much of yourselves even when you were as poor as church mice! And
as for you, Ann Reed," she proceeded, her temper getting the better of
her as she read aright the contemptuous expression of Ann's usually
kind face, "who are you I should like to know—"

"I think you know very well who she is!" interrupted Madge, unable any
longer to keep from joining in the conversation.

"Yes, miss Pert, I do," Agnes replied, in a voice which was shrill
with rage. "I know she's the grand-daughter of an old woman who lives
in a cottage, an old woman who was nothing but a domestic servant
brought up to scrub and clean and do all sorts of menial work.
You cannot deny it, Ann Reed."

"Certainly I cannot, nor do I wish I could," rejoined Ann in a voice
which, though low in tone, was expressive of intense scorn.

"No wonder Dr. Reed keeps his mother down in Devonshire!" sneered
Agnes, "no wonder he's ashamed to have her to live at Barford!
What would his friends think of her—"

"It cannot concern you what my father's friends would think of my
grandmother," Ann interposed, with a light in her grey eyes which
warned Agnes she had said enough, "my grandmother is—but I will not
discuss her with you! I always knew you to be a mean-spirited girl,
but I never realised before to-day that you were so hopelessly vulgar
and—and contemptible. In one breath almost you admitted your belief
that Violet stole your purse and asked her into your house; you think
it may be worth while to keep in with her if her father is going to be
a successful man, and on that account you are ready to overlook an act
which, if she had committed it, would have put her on a par with a
common thief. Shame on you! I am beginning to understand you now, and
I tell you plainly I wish to have nothing to do with you. I consider
you are a girl to be avoided, and I am sure my friends agree with me."

Agnes winced perceptibly beneath the contempt with which Ann uttered
these words, and, as soon as the latter had finished speaking, she
quickly away, whilst the others, all very agitated, walked on for some
distance in complete silence.

"You have made an enemy, Ann, I fear," said Violet at length.

"You fear?" echoed Ann; "why should you fear? I think Agnes Hosking
is very like a nettle, she requires firm handling."

"She was abominably rude to you about your grandmother, Ann!" cried
Ruth wrathfully, "and it is dreadful that she should still believe
Vi stole her purse!"

"She judges Violet by her own standard," rejoined Ann, with a pitying
glance at Violet's quivering face. "Perhaps I ought not to have said
that," she went on, a moment later, "I have no right to suggest that,
in any circumstances, she would be a thief. Don't make a grief of this
unfortunate encounter of ours with Agnes, though, Violet; you must not
be unhappy on your last day at home."

"No, indeed," agreed Ruth, "that will never do. 'Truth will out,'
you know, dear Vi."

"I wish I could think so, Ruthie," Violet responded, with a deep-drawn
sigh. She was looking much upset, but she grew more cheerful before
she reached home, consoled by the heartfelt sympathy of her sisters
and her friend. "Don't tell mother we met Agnes and fell out with
her," she whispered, as they entered the house, "it would only trouble
her if she knew all that was said."

On that point they were all agreed, so Agnes Hosking's name was not
mentioned when they spoke of their walk, and Mrs. Wyndham, not being
very observant, failed to notice that something had gone wrong.



CHAPTER XXIII

UNHAPPY LOTTIE

"AND so you've had a thoroughly enjoyable time?" said Dr. Reed.

It was the night of Ann and Violet's return to Barford, a few hours
after their arrival, between nine and ten o'clock, and Ann and her
father were in the surgery, where the latter had been dispensing some
medicine, a task which usually fell to the lot of his assistant.
He held his daughter at arms' length as he spoke, and looked at her
critically.

"Yes," assented Ann, "I don't know that I ever enjoyed holidays
better. It was so nice having the Wyndhams at Teymouth; I like them
all so much, father, and so does Granny. Dear old Granny! She joined
us in our picnics on the beach, and the Wyndhams took tea with us on
several occasions and were so delighted with her cottage. Mr. Wyndham
used to take the boys fishing, and sometimes we—that is the girls
and I, you know—went with them, and then Mrs. Wyndham would stay with
Granny—they became great friends."

The doctor smiled, well pleased. Ann had joined him in the surgery
to ascertain if he was nearly ready to return with her to the
drawing-room, where she had left Violet entertaining Mrs. Reed with
an account of her holiday experiences.

"You are looking blooming, my darling," he remarked, in a tone of
satisfaction, as, having surveyed his daughter at his leisure, he drew
her towards him and kissed her; "you and Violet have both brought back
some Devonshire roses on your cheeks, I am glad to see. By the way,
was Violet much upset at parting with her people this morning?"

"She certainly felt saying good-bye to them, father, but she told me
afterwards that she was much happier about them all now than she had
been when she came to us last January."

"I can understand that, for she has left them in better circumstances.
I am very glad you like the Wyndhams, Ann."

"They were so friendly and easy to get on with, and think they're
a very affectionate family. I'm afraid the little mother wouldn't
approve of the way things are managed in their house," Ann admitted
with a smile, "but they all seemed very happy and made me feel quite
at home. Mrs. Wyndham is exceedingly good-natured, and she lets the
children—the boys especially—do as they like; but, for all that,
I don't believe they'd willingly do anything to hurt or annoy her for
the world."

"She is too indulgent, I fear," said the doctor, with a grave shake of
his head, "it is to be hoped the young folks will not take advantage
of that fact—"

"Oh, I don't think they will," Ann interposed eagerly, "they love her
too well!"

"And what about Ruth?" asked Dr. Reed, smiling at his daughter's
confident tone.

"Oh, father, she is the most unselfish girl I ever met! And, do you
know, she draws and paints beautifully, she really does, and she can
sketch from nature, too. She has given me a water-colour sketch
of Granny's cottage, which I am sure you will consider very well done;
I will show it to you to-morrow, I haven't unpacked my box yet.
I believe one day Ruth will be a really first-rate artist, she means
to be one if she can. Oh, yes, I like Ruth, we got on together
capitally; she was a little stiff with me at first, but that soon wore
off. I don't think she's in the least reserved really, but she's
quieter and more thoughtful than Violet. She told me how for years
she had grieved and worried because her father had not done better
in his profession and how she had kept on hoping and praying that
success might come to him; so you can guess how happy Mr. Wyndham's
having obtained this really good appointment has made her."

"I can indeed."

"Mr. Wyndham was so disappointed that you could not join us
at Teymouth, father."

"He could not have been more disappointed than I was myself. I wanted
your mother to go without me, but she would not hear of doing that.
However, Luscombe's making a speedy recovery, so I hope our holiday
has only been postponed. Now, I've finished my work here for the
night, so we'll join the others, and hear what they have to say."

As the doctor and his daughter entered the drawing-room a few minutes
later Violet was speaking in a slightly raised voice, and they caught
the words:—

"Ann had the best of it and the last word. Oh, Mrs. Reed, she's a
hateful girl!"

"Of whom are you speaking, Violet?" asked Dr. Reed.

"Of Agnes Hosking," answered Violet; and, forthwith, she told him all
that had occurred during the encounter with Agnes, at Streatham,
on the previous day.

"I consider that she could not possibly have been more insulting
to all of us, and I never will forgive her, never!" she declared
emphatically, in conclusion.

"Never is a long day, my dear," Dr. Reed observed gravely; "Agnes
Hosking has certainly insulted you, but don't say you'll never forgive
her, for I hope you will."

"'Pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you: that ye
may be the children of your Father which is in Heaven,'" quoted Mrs.
Reed, and there was something in her quiet voice which had the effect
of cooling Violet's anger and making her regret having spoken
so strongly.

"Have you seen anything of Mrs. Medland and Lottie lately, mother?"
Ann inquired by-and-by.

"I have seen Mrs. Medland on several occasions since poor Malvina's
death," Mrs. Reed replied, "but not Lottie; I fancy the girl purposely
keeps out of my way, though I know no reason why she should.
Her mother tells me she cannot understand her, for she has scarcely
mentioned Malvina's name since the day of the funeral, and the sisters
always seemed very greatly attached to each other."

"How did Lottie behave at the time of Malvina's death?" asked Violet.
"I suppose she was dreadfully grieved, wasn't she?"

"Her mother says she appeared quite stunned; she never shed a tear."

"You will let me go and see her, won't you, mother?" said Ann eagerly.
"I promised Malvina that if she died I would try to be a friend to
Lottie, didn't I, Violet?"

Violet assented, whilst Mrs. Reed looked thoughtful, and glanced
dubiously at her husband.

"I'm afraid Lottie's not at all a nice sort of girl, not a good girl,
in fact," Mrs. Reed said, with marked hesitation in her tone; "I don't
want to judge her harshly; but, according to Mrs. Medland's telling,
Lottie has been behaving very badly indeed. One would have thought
that her sister's death would have sobered her, but apparently it has
had a contrary effect, for she spends her evenings gadding about the
streets and leaves her poor mother grieving at home. I do not see,
Ann, that you can possibly befriend a girl whose conduct is so
heartless as that!"

"Only let me go and see her," pleaded Ann earnestly; "father, do ask
mother to let me go and see her just once! Perhaps if I went early on
Saturday afternoon I should find her at home, and I want to see poor
Mrs. Medland, too. Violet would go with me, wouldn't you, Vi?"

"Yes," assented Violet, "of course I would." She did not imagine any
good would result from visiting Lottie, but she could not withstand
the look of appeal in her friend's grey eyes.

"What do you think, Andrew? Shall they go or not?" said Mrs. Reed
undecidedly, addressing her husband.

"Let them go," he responded. "I don't care for them to be in the town
on a Saturday afternoon as a rule, but this will be an exceptional
occasion; they are not like young children, and I am sure they are to
be trusted by themselves."

"Oh, yes," agreed Mrs. Reed, "I, too, am sure of that."

When, on the following Saturday afternoon, Ann, accompanied by Violet,
knocked at the Medlands' door it was opened by Mrs. Medland, who
invited them at once to come in. They followed her into the little
kitchen, where Malvina's cherished fern still hung in the window, and
sat down with her, scarcely knowing what to say at first. Both girls
felt intense sympathy for the poor mother, who was looking very
careworn and ill.

"Dr. Elizabeth wrote and told me of your great sorrow, Mrs. Medland,"
Ann said gently, "I was so grieved to hear of it—so grieved for you
and Lottie, you know."

"I knew you would be sorry for us, miss," Mrs. Medland rejoined in
a choked voice, the tears coursing down her pale, thin cheeks. "We've
met with a terrible loss," she proceeded, "least-ways, I have, for
Malvina was a good daughter to me. I can't wish her back again,
though, for she suffered so much that death came as a blessed release
at last, but often and often since the poor dear went I've wished that
my life was ended, too."

"Oh, you mustn't say that," said Ann, "for you know you've Lottie—"

"Lottie!" broke in Mrs. Medland; "yes, I've Lottie, but, oh, Miss Ann,
you don't understand how little Lottie cares for me! If she had a
particle of affection for me, do you think she'd leave me evening
after evening as she does, knowing how lonesome and sad I feel without
Malvina, to go pleasure seeking? Oh, dear, oh dear! And it's so soon
after her poor sister's death too! Oh, I can think of my dead daughter
with far less sorrow than I can think of my living one, for I know
Malvina's safe with Jesus, but Lottie's very far from the Kingdom
of God."

"Those two girls of mine had the same bringing up, and yet how
different they've always been! Lottie was always difficult to manage
and would have her own way. She works hard, 'tis true, but how does
she spend her money? I see very little of it, most of it goes in
betting; and now she's crazy about the hobby-horses, they're here for
a week in the Recreation Ground, and every night she's there watching
them or having rides if she can get the money, with a lot of other
factory hands—flighty young girls like herself, who care for nothing
but amusing themselves. I wish those hobby-horses had never come to
Barford."

"Hobby-horses?" said Violet, looking mystified, for she had never seen
anything of the kind.

"Round-abouts some people call them, they go round and round for a
certain time, worked by steam, and they're lit up at night by electric
lights," explained Mrs. Medland. "This particular round-about comes
here every now and again and carries away a lot of money from the
place; I'm not saying I think there's any real harm in folks riding on
it, but for Lottie whose sister hasn't been in her grave a month—oh,
it does seem heartless of her and no mistake!" And the poor woman,
overcome with grief, wept unrestrainedly.

It certainly did seem heartless, and neither Ann nor Violet could
think of any words suitable for the occasion. Whilst Mrs. Medland was
still in tears, the street door opened, and a minute later Lottie
appeared on the threshold of the room. She paused at the sight of her
mother's visitors, a look of consternation on her face; and then,
without a word, she turned away and ran hurriedly upstairs.

"Is she not going to speak to us?" said Ann, in astonishment. "Why has
she gone?"

"I don't know, miss," Mrs. Medland answered, with a troubled sigh,
"I don't know what's taken to her."

"Perhaps she has only gone to take off her hat and jacket," suggested
Violet; "no doubt she will be down presently."

But Lottie did not appear again. Certainly her behaviour was most
incomprehensible, and seemed very rude.

"I must see her," said Ann, at length; "I have something to say
to her. Will you please tell her so, Mrs. Medland, or may I go
upstairs to her? I should much like to speak to her alone."

"It's very good of you to trouble about her I'm sure," Mrs. Medland
replied, "I can't think why she's keeping away. If you will please go
upstairs, miss, you'll find her in the room which was Malvina's; she
used to sleep with me, but since Malvina died she's had her little
room."

[Illustration: "DON'T PRAY DON'T!" LOTTIE EXCLAIMED DISTRESSFULLY.]

Ann rose and went quietly upstairs. She found the bedroom door shut,
and tapped upon it with her knuckles.

"Are they gone?" asked Lottie from within, evidently imagining it was
her mother who had knocked.

"It is I, Lottie," Ann responded, "I want to speak to you, please."

Immediately the door was opened, and Ann stepped into the room.
Lottie, who was crimson with confusion, mumbled something which
sounded like an apology and stood with her eyes fixed on the floor.
Ann took her hand and pressed it gently as she spoke a few sympathetic
words in reference to Malvina's death.

"Don't, pray don't!" Lottie exclaimed distressfully; "you mean to be
kind, I daresay, but I can't bear it! You don't know what I feel!"

"Not fully perhaps, but I know you loved Malvina dearly, and—"

"Loved her!" interrupted Lottie, in great excitement, "I treated her
as though I loved her, didn't I? But there, you don't know—you don't
know!"

"Yes, I believe I do," Ann said quietly; "I know that you caused her
many a heartache, but still I am sure that you loved her; and you were
very dear to her—I need not tell you that, for you know it well
enough! Listen, Lottie, I want you to let me be your friend as I was
hers—"

"You might have been hers, miss, for she was as good as gold and fit
to be the friend of the likes of you, but I'm very different.
I'm wicked—oh, you don't know how wicked! You can't be my friend!
It's impossible!"

"I know that you bet, if you mean that; but I hope that you mean
to give up that bad habit and—and spend more time at home with your
mother, she looks very worn and sad, poor thing."

"I can't stay at home to hear mother for ever talking of Malvina,
it nearly drives me mad to listen to her. That's one reason why I go
out of an evening. I want to forget—everything!"

"But you don't want to forget your sister," said Ann, with a tinge
of reproach in her voice. She glanced around the room as she spoke.
"Do you still feed the sparrows as she used to do?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Lottie with a sob. She flung herself on the bed and
burst into a flood of tears. "Oh," she wailed, "I'm a miserable,
wicked girl, and I shall never be happy again—never, never! Oh, please
go away and leave me to myself!"

"I will certainly go if you desire me to do so," Ann rejoined, alarmed
at the violence of her companion's grief; "but remember, Lottie, that
I wish to be your friend, for your own sake as well as for Malvina's,
and if ever I can do anything to help you in any way I will."

As Lottie made no response Ann turned to leave the room, but at the
door she paused and spoke again:—

"I don't understand you quite," she said; "but I can see that you are
very unhappy. Won't you tell God your trouble and ask His help?"

"I can't, I can't!" sobbed Lottie; "I'm not fit to pray! God wouldn't
listen to me if I did! Don't you bother about me, Miss Ann—indeed I'd
rather you wouldn't."

Deeply hurt, Ann left the room, closing the door behind her, and went
downstairs. She realised that, in spite of her apparent heartlessness
in many ways, Lottie's grief at the loss of her sister was very deep,
and all the harder to bear, no doubt, because it was mingled with
remorse; but she failed to understand the workings of the unhappy
girl's mind, and was much pained that her well-meant offer of
friendship had been so decidedly repulsed.



CHAPTER XXIV

WHAT VIOLET SAW IN A SHOP WINDOW

ANN and Violet had returned to Barford a week before the date on which
it had been arranged for the pupils of Helmsford College to
reassemble, and, as the weather continued fine, they spent most of
the days out-of-doors, taking long walks in the surrounding country.
It was on their way back from one of these pleasant excursions,
in which Mrs. Reed had joined, that they were one afternoon overtaken
by Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway near her own door. The lady doctor was
delighted to see them, especially the girls, whom she had not met
for nearly two months.

"Now you must come in and have tea with me," she said, as soon as
greetings had been exchanged, "I am at leisure, or I wouldn't ask you.
I never give invitations which I don't wish people to accept. You'll
come? Yes. That's right. I want to hear how these young folks have
spent their holidays."

She led the way into her house and into the sitting-room, where she
took off her bonnet and cloak and handed them to the servant, who had
appeared upon the scene attracted by the sound of the opening of the
front door, and ordered tea to be brought at once.

"How is Mr. Luscombe?" she inquired, when her visitors were seated;
"I was so sorry to hear of his illness; it upset your plans, did it
not?"

"Yes," Mrs. Reed answered, "for we had intended paying a visit to my
mother-in-law during Ann's holidays. Mr. Luscombe is much better, I am
glad to say; he will be about again very soon, so now my husband and I
hope to go to Devonshire at the end of next month."

"Have you had your holiday, yet, Dr. Elizabeth?" asked Violet. Then,
as Dr. Elizabeth shook her head, she said: "But you'll take one, won't
you? I am sure you must need a change."

"I don't know that I do, my dear," was the smiling response; "but I
shall see. Ah, here comes tea!"

"And I for one am ready for it," confessed Mrs. Reed; "we have been
for a very long walk, and I was feeling nearly done up when you
overtook us. I am so glad to have a rest."

"We are making the most of the fine weather and the few remaining days
of the holidays," explained Ann; "but I am afraid we are tiring mother
out; we go on and on and forget that we have to walk back."

After having drunk a cup of tea Mrs. Reed declared herself to be
greatly refreshed. She sat quietly listening whilst Ann and Violet
talked to Dr. Elizabeth, telling her how they had spent their time at
Teymouth. By-and-by the conversation took a more serious turn, and Ann
spoke of poor Malvina Medland, and expressed her regret that Lottie
continued to give her mother so much anxiety.

"Have you seen Lottie since you came home?" Dr. Elizabeth inquired.

"Yes," Ann replied; "Violet and I went to see her on Saturday. She was
out when we arrived, but it was not long before she came in. As soon
as she caught sight of us in the kitchen with her mother, she ran
upstairs and shut herself into her room—Malvina's room, you know.
I went up, afterwards, and had a short conversation with her, but she
talked so wildly that she quite frightened me. She said she was
wicked, and a miserable girl, and not fit to pray, and she seemed
in a terrible state of grief. I did not know what to say to her,
I can't understand her."

"Nor I," admitted Dr. Elizabeth thoughtfully; "I've only seen her once
since her sister's death, on an occasion when I called in to see Mrs.
Medland —I happened to be passing and thought I might be able to speak
a comforting word to the poor woman. It struck me then that there was
something weighing on Lottie's mind; she seemed so restless, and I
noticed a furtive look in her eyes, a look I did not like at all.
I tried to gain her confidence, but I failed. The more I think of her
the more puzzled I become."

"Do you not think that the recollection that but for her bad behaviour
Malvina would have been much happier during her last illness weighs
upon her mind?" suggested Mrs. Reed.

"Doubtless it does to a great extent," agreed Dr. Elizabeth; "but I
do not fancy that alone is accountable for her strange conduct."

"I promised Malvina I would be a friend to Lottie if I could,"
Ann said in troubled tones.

"Yes," she went on, as she met Dr. Elizabeth's inquiring glance, "that
was the promise which she mentioned to you. But how can I befriend a
girl who evidently wants to have nothing to do with me?"

"At any rate you have tried to help her," said Violet; "you have done
all you could."

Shortly after that Mrs. Reed and the two girls rose to leave, and
Dr. Elizabeth accompanied them to the front door. As they lingered
exchanging a few words on the doorstep, their ears caught the sound
of music and many voices in the distance.

"There is a rabble in the Recreation Ground, I hear," observed
Dr. Elizabeth, "A large round-about has been there these last few
days, and it always attracts a crowd."

"That must be the round-about Mrs. Medland mentioned," remarked Violet
to her two companions when they had said good-bye to Dr. Elizabeth and
were pursuing their way along the street; "don't you remember she said
Lottie spent her evenings in the Recreation Ground now?"

"Yes," Ann assented; "Oh, how utterly heartless her behaviour seems!"

Dr. Elizabeth's house, as has been already stated, was situated in the
heart of the town, so, on their homeward way, Mrs. Reed and the girls
had to pass through the poor district in which was the Medland's home,
where the shops were small and dingy, with goods of most inferior
quality exhibited in the windows.

"See, mother," said Ann presently, "this is the pawnshop which we saw
Lottie Medland go into with a friend; don't you recollect we told you
about it?"

"Yes, certainly," Mrs. Reed answered.

"I suppose they must have been going to pawn something," said Violet;
"I wonder if they had ever been there before, or if that was their
first visit."

With one accord they paused and glanced curiously at the shop
in question. The window was filled with a medley of second-hand
articles—clothing, pictures, jewellery, and ornaments of every
description. Mrs. Reed noticed amongst other things a large family
Bible opened to exhibit a handsome print, a baby's coral with silver
bells, and a dice-box lying close together, and, as she looked,
her face saddened. She was turning away when Violet suddenly caught
her by the hand, and in a voice which was shrill with excitement,
cried:—

"Look, look! There, there! Oh Mrs. Reed, look at that purse—that
tortoise-shell purse! Oh, I'm sure it's the one Agnes Hosking lost!
Oh, Ann, look! Don't you recognise it? Oh, it must be the same!
There couldn't be two so exactly alike!"

Violet's agitation was extreme. Her cheeks were crimson, and her face
was twitching nervously. Following the direction her pointing finger
indicated, Mrs. Reed and Ann saw a tortoise-shell purse, a little open
to reveal its red morocco lining.

"Can it be Agnes Hosking's, I wonder?" said Ann. "Oh, how strange
if it is!"

"I am certain it is," declared Violet; "don't you see it has gold rims
and a gold clasp? I recognised it the moment I set eyes on it. Surely,
Ann, you must recognise it, too?"

"Yes, I do—at least I think so," replied Ann. She was the more
cautious of the two girls and was fearful of making a mistake. "At any
rate the purse is exactly like the one Agnes showed us," she added.

"There are not many purses so handsome as that one," Mrs. Reed
remarked; "if it is real tortoise-shell and real gold it is valuable."
She was feeling excited herself, and hopeful that Violet was right,
that this was indeed the purse about which there had been so much
trouble and fuss. "Perhaps someone picked it up in the street and sold
it," she suggested, "at any rate now we shall most likely be able to
find out. We will go home and tell your father about it, Ann, and
leave the matter in his hands. No doubt he will be able to ascertain
from whom the pawnbroker obtained the purse. I wonder if Agnes Hosking
would be able to identify it?"

"Oh, I should think there is no doubt about that!" exclaimed Violet.
"Oh, Mrs. Reed, oh, Ann, if that is really Agnes' purse my character
will be quite cleared, won't it? Oh, how thankful I am we looked in
that window!"

Arrived at home it was most disappointing to find that Dr. Reed had
driven into the country and had left a message to the effect that
dinner was not to be kept waiting for him as he could not tell what
time he might return, it might not be until late.

"Never mind, Vi," said Ann consolingly; "we will tell him about the
purse at breakfast to-morrow, if we do not see him to-night."

"But someone may take a fancy to it and buy it before them," returned
Violet, her bright face clouding over. Upon reflection, however,
she came to the conclusion that that was very unlikely to be the case.

Neither of the girls had much appetite for dinner; they were too
excited to eat, and Mrs. Reed being in the same condition, they did
not linger over the meal. In the drawing-room afterwards the
conversation was almost entirely about the tortoise-shell purse, and
all three continually watched the clock and kept remarking that surely
Dr. Reed would be at home soon. But it was ten o'clock before he,
at length, returned.

He entered the house by the back door, having driven the gig, in which
he generally did his country journeys, round to the stables himself,
as he had dropped his groom in the town to execute an errand for him.

Ann was the first to hear her father's footsteps in the hall, and she
would have rushed to meet him had not her mother stopped her.

"Don't be so impetuous, my dear," Mrs. Reed said quickly; "and don't
be in too great a hurry to speak of the purse. I expect your father
is tired and hungry; let him have a rest and something to eat, and
afterwards tell him our news."

But Dr. Reed was neither tired nor hungry as it happened. He had dined
at the country house where he had been to visit a patient—an old
gentleman who was a chronic invalid.

"I should have been home half-an-hour earlier, but as I was passing
the Recreation Ground I was stopped and told there had been an
accident there," he explained, "so I got out of the gig and went to
see if my services were required."

"And were they, Andrew?" asked his wife.

"No, my dear. Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway had already been sent for and had
arrived before me."

"I hope nobody was much hurt," said Ann; "what was the accident,
father?"

"A girl fell off the round-about—I daresay you know there is one
in the Recreation Ground. Well, it appears it was going at full speed
when this poor girl, who was riding on one of the hobby-horses,
somehow managed to fall off. She was picked up insensible. Her home,
it seems, is near the Recreation Ground, and, under Dr. Elizabeth's
instructions, she has been taken there; she is one of Dr. Elizabeth's
patients."

"You did not hear the poor girl's name, father, did you?" asked Ann
eagerly.

"No, I did not," the doctor responded.

"Did you see her?" inquired Violet, glancing from Ann to Mrs. Reed
whose interest had quickened on hearing that the injured girl was
Dr. Elizabeth's patient.

"Yes, and helped to put her on the ambulance on which she was conveyed
to her home. There's injury to the head, I fear. She's in good hands
with Dr. Elizabeth. It's a sad case, though, for someone—a bystander—
told me that she is the only child of a widowed mother who lost her
other daughter only a month ago."

"Oh!" cried Ann distressfully, "Oh, I'm afraid it's Lottie Medland!"

"It really seems likely," said Mrs. Reed, in tones of deep concern.
"Lottie is the sister of that poor deformed girl in whom we were all
so much interested," she proceeded, as her husband looked at her
inquiringly, "I don't think you ever saw Lottie, but you have heard
of her. Don't you remember."

"Oh, yes," answered Dr. Reed, "I remember. Lottie is the girl who
bets."

"Was the poor girl who met with the accident in mourning?" questioned
Mrs. Reed.

"Yes, I believe she was," was the reply, given after a minute's
reflection.

"Then I am afraid it is Lottie," said Violet. "Oh, what a trouble
this will be for Mrs. Medland!"

"Well, we will not make up our minds that it is Lottie," remarked
Mrs. Reed; "whoever it is, though, it is very sad. Perhaps she was
only stunned; at any rate let us hope she is not seriously hurt.
Now, Violet, dear, you tell your news."

"I hope it is good news?" Dr. Reed said, with a smile at Violet.

She told him that she considered it was, and went on to explain
how she had caught sight of the tortoise-shell purse in the pawnshop
window, and that she believed it to be the one Agnes Hosking had lost.

"I will certainly see about it to-morrow," he said gravely, as soon as
she had finished her tale, "I suppose most people would go to the
police and let them take the matter in hand, but I feel I would rather
deal with it myself. It is just possible the person who sold
the purse—I have little doubt it has been sold—may have picked it up
and not seen the bills I had posted about the town, and if that is the
case I should not like to get that person into trouble. I must act
cautiously; but rest assured upon one point, Violet, if it is Agnes
Hosking's purse the rightful owner shall have it again."

"Thank you, Dr. Reed," Violet answered gratefully. "I know you will do
what is right," she proceeded, "I am glad you do not mean to go to the
police. Oh, I do feel so excited to think the purse is found! I never
thought it would be! How glad they will be at home! And I wonder what
Agnes Hosking will say when she knows!"

"I don't know what she will say, but I should think she will be
utterly ashamed of herself!" cried Ann, hotly, "I know I should be
in her place."

"I can't fancy you in her place," Violet said, with a tender
inflection in her voice, which was not lost upon her listeners.

Dr. and Mrs. Reed exchanged a quick glance of satisfaction. It pleased
them to see the affection which had sprung up between the two girls;
and Mrs. Reed was glad that she had agreed to her husband's plan,
on which she had looked somewhat dubiously at first, of taking one of
the Wyndham girls into their home, for it seemed, on the whole, to be
answering well.



CHAPTER XXV

LOTTIE'S CONFESSION

"MOTHER, Violet and I are very anxious to find out if it was really
Lottie Medland who met with an accident in the Recreation Ground last
night. May we go and inquire?" asked Ann, after breakfast,
the following morning.

"Certainly," Mrs. Reed replied; "I would accompany you, but I have
duties at home which I cannot very well put off. By the way,
I'd rather you did not stop to look in the pawnshop window;
your father will bring us news of the purse before the day is out."

"Very well, mother," acquiesced Ann.

"I shall only glance to see if the purse is there all right as we go
by," said Violet.

And that was what she did. The one glance was sufficient to assure her
that the purse had not been removed, and she was satisfied.

When the two girls arrived at the Medlands' home, Ann knocked gently
upon the door, and her summons was answered more promptly than she had
expected, not by Mrs. Medland, however, but by the little charwoman,
Grace Jones.

"Oh, Miss Reed, is it you?" cried Grace, in a hushed voice; "I suppose
you have heard about Lottie and have come to inquire for her. Please
come inside."

"Then it was. Lottie," Violet whispered to Ann, as she followed her
into the kitchen. Aloud she said: "Is Lottie much hurt?"

"Oh, yes, miss," Grace responded, "she's had a blow on her head and
broken two ribs. Dr. Elizabeth says the ribs are the least of her
injuries. She's been raving all night and Mrs. Medland's been up with
her, but she's quieted down a bit now and seems more like herself.
It did scare me to hear her going on like a mad thing, calling herself
such dreadful names and saying as how she was a thief and would be
sent to jail."

"Poor girl, she was delirious," said Ann; "I suppose her mother
is with her now?"

"Yes, miss. I'll call Mrs. Medland, shall I?"

"No, no! You must not disturb her on our account. We only came to know
if it was really Lottie who fell off the round-about last night—we had
an idea it must have been—and, if so, to find out how she is.
You think she is better this morning?"

"She is quieter, miss, so I suppose she is better."

"It must be dreadful to hear anyone raving in delirium," observed
Violet, who was looking very grave and concerned.

"Oh, dreadful!" agreed the little charwoman. "If the police had really
been after Lottie last night she couldn't have yelled louder,"
she proceeded; "and there was no sense in what she said—it was all
about a purse she fancied she'd stolen. She'd keep on like this:
'It wasn't stealing—yes it was—she dropped it—nobody saw it
but me—a tortoise-shell purse with money in it, lots of money!'
She was just mazed, you know," she concluded, noticing that her
graphic description of the sick girl's wandering talk was making a
great impression upon her listeners. Violet and Ann had both started
violently, and now they were exchanging glances expressive of mingled
bewilderment and dismay.

"Did she say a tortoise-shell purse?" asked Ann, in a shocked tone.

"Yes, miss, she kept on about it, and once she said 'a tortoise-shell
purse with a golden clasp.' Oh, she was clean off her head! No one
could make any sense of what she said, except to understand that she
was in dreadful fear of being sent to jail. But here comes
Mrs. Medland; she'll be able to tell you more about Lottie than
I can."

"I recognised your voices," Mrs. Medland said, as she entered the
room. "Grace, will you go and sit with Lottie for a while?" Then,
as soon as the little charwoman had gone upstairs, she added: "I take
it as very kind of you two young ladies to come to me in this fresh
trouble."

"Please tell us how Lottie is," said Ann earnestly.

"She's very ill, miss, there's no doubt of that, but Dr. Elizabeth
says there's no reason why she shouldn't pull through if she's kept
quiet. She's terribly bruised one side—the side on which she fell,
you know she fell off the round-about—and two of her ribs are broken,
and she's had a nasty blow on the head—that's what Dr. Elizabeth
thinks most seriously of."

"Is she asleep now?" asked Violet.

"No, miss, but she's lying quiet—very different from what she was
a few hours ago. She doesn't know you're here, I believe if she did
she'd want to see you, Miss Ann, for in the night she kept on talking
about you, begging me to send for you because there was something
she wanted to tell you about before she died. She talked a lot
of nonsense, but I could catch a grain of sense in it now and again.
She said that you'd offered to be her friend—oh, miss, was that true?
Yes, Then, perhaps the rest was true, too, but no, no, I can't believe
it! Maybe you'll know. She kept on repeating that she was a thief—that
she had stolen a purse—oh, Miss Ann, there isn't any truth in that,
is there?"

"I—I don't know," faltered Ann, looking anxiously at Violet, who,
with flushed cheeks and eyes gleaming with excitement, was listening
with breathless interest; "I don't know how she could have done it,
but—oh, Vi, don't you remember Lottie called at our house that evening
Agnes lost her purse? Why, she was in the hall when Agnes left!"

"I remember! I thought of that just now!"

Violet answered, trying to speak quietly, but failing in the attempt;
her voice sounded hoarse and unnatural.

"Did someone lose a purse then, really?" Mrs. Medland asked, glancing
from one to the other of the girls, a piteous look on her startled
face.

"Yes, a school-fellow of ours did," replied Ann.

"Was it a tortoise-shell purse, miss, with a golden clasp?"
Mrs. Medland interrogated, her lips quivering as she put the question.

"It was," Violet answered eagerly, "do you think—"

She stopped abruptly, for the poor mother had quite broken down, and
was weeping in a heart-broken fashion most painful to witness. A long
silence followed, and, before Mrs. Medland had regained her composure,
Grace Jones appeared upon the threshold of the room and addressed
herself to Ann.

"Lottie wanted to know who was downstairs," she said, "and I told her
you had come on purpose to inquire for her, miss; she wishes to see
you if you'll be so kind as to come upstairs to her. She seems all
right in her head now."

Mrs. Medland glanced doubtfully at Ann, who, however, rose directly,
and declared her willingness to comply with Lottie's request;
accordingly Mrs. Medland preceded her upstairs to Lottie's room.

The injured girl lay with her face turned towards the door, and, at
the sight of Ann, a feverish light leaped into her blue eyes, and she
cried excitedly:—

"I'm dying, Miss Ann, I know I'm dying!"

"Oh, I trust not, and indeed I don't think so," answered Ann, speaking
calmly though her heart was beating unevenly and she was conscious of
a sensation of alarm, for Lottie's countenance was ghastly in its
pallor; "Dr. Elizabeth says you must keep quiet—"

"I can't keep quiet," Lottie interrupted; "my brain feels on fire!
Miss Ann, there's something I must tell you before I die, something
I haven't dared speak of to a soul! Mother, you listen, too!

"Do you remember, one evening last March, when I called at your house,
Miss Ann, with some work Malvina had done for Mrs. Reed, and I waited
in the hall? Well," she continued as Ann nodded assent, "it was then
it happened—what I am going to tell. You had a visitor, a stylishly
dressed young lady, and whilst I was waiting, a lady, one of the
governesses at Helmsford College—I know because I've seen her walking
with some of the pupils—arrived to fetch her home. The young lady came
downstairs with her muff under her arm. She was putting on her gloves,
and, as she reached the mat at the bottom of the stairs, I saw
something fall out of her muff—it was a purse. No one noticed it but
me, for it fell on the mat—a sheep's wool mat very thick and soft—and
made no sound. I—I—when no one was looking—I picked it up and put it
in my pocket, and—and I kept it. Yes, I kept it, although I saw the
notices about it posted all over the town. I-I wanted money so much—
oh, you don't know how much!"

"Oh, Lottie, Lottie!" wailed Mrs. Medland. She was confident that her
daughter was telling the truth; there was no appearance of delirium
about her now. "Oh, what could have possessed you to do it? Oh, how
could you have been such a wicked, wicked girl? What have you done
with the purse? Was there much money in it?" She was wringing her
hands distractedly.

"I spent the money in betting," Lottie admitted, still addressing Ann,
"it was more than a pound, but I didn't win anything by it. I didn't
know what to do with the purse, but one day I showed it to a friend of
mine and told her I'd found it, and she suggested that, as I was short
of money, I might pawn it. I was afraid the pawnbroker would ask me
where I had got it, but he didn't. I said I would rather sell it than
pawn it, so he bought it from me for half-a-crown."

There was a brief silence. Ann's face had become almost as pale as the
one which rested on the pillow; she was so shocked that she could find
no words to say.

"Now you know the sort of girl you offered your friendship to," Lottie
proceeded presently, her voice sounding weaker; "it's no good my
saying I'm sorry, but, oh, I've suffered terrible! I wanted money so
badly, but I've never had a happy moment since I stole the purse.
I never dared speak of it till now; if Malvina had known what I'd done
'twould have nigh broken her heart! But I couldn't die with it on my
conscience, and I believe I shall die! Oh, Miss Ann, do you think God
will forgive a bad girl like me?"

"Oh, yes, indeed He will," Ann rejoined earnestly; "if you are truly
sorry for what you have done. God wants to forgive our sins. He sent
His own Son to bear the punishment of them, that we might be forgiven
if we repent. Tell God that you are truly sorry, Lottie, and ask Him
to forgive you for Jesus' sake. If we confess our sins, you know,
He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins. Oh, poor Lottie, what
you must have suffered!"

"You can speak to me like that—so gently and kindly—and me a thief?
Why, I thought for certain you'd turn from me when you knew!" Lottie
raised herself in bed in her excitement, then sank back again with a
groan. "Oh, my head!" she moaned, "how it does ache! And I can
scarcely breathe!"

"You must lie still and try not to worry," Ann said soothingly; "you
have done very wrongly, but I am sure that you would act very
differently now. I am glad you have told me about the purse; but you
need not fear that you will be sent to jail for having stolen it;
several people will have to be told that you took it, however. When
you are better I will come to see you again, you are not fit to talk
more at present. Try to keep quiet."

"Are you sure I shall not be arrested and sent to jail?" Lottie asked,
feverishly, "I don't mind so much for myself, I feel I don't care what
happens to me now, but mother—" She broke off and turned her gaze upon
the grief-stricken figure of poor Mrs. Medland.

"No one will wish you to be punished more than you have been," said
Ann; "I think your remorse must have been a heavy punishment, indeed."

"Yes," admitted Lottie, and she burst into tears. The next instant
her mother's arms were round her, and she was sobbing forth her grief
and repentance upon her mother's breast.

Ann left her, still weeping, to Mrs. Medland's care, and went
downstairs. She was feeling unnerved herself, and was longing to get
home to tell her mother all that had occurred; so, after bidding
good-bye to the little charwoman, she and Violet took their departure.
They had left the poorer part of the town behind them before Ann was
sufficiently composed to give her companion an account of her
interview with Lottie, and when at last she did so, it brought
an indignant flow of words in return.

It was but natural that Violet should experience a keen sense of
resentment against the girl whose act of dishonesty had caused so much
pain and humiliation to herself; but, before Laureston Square was
reached, her just anger began to cool, and by-and-by she said:—

"I'm sorry if I've spoken too harshly about Lottie, Ann. I daresay,
as you say, she was greatly tempted, and—and although I've never done
anything actually dishonest, I've done many things I'm ashamed
to remember—mean things which haven't been right or straight. Poor
Lottie, she must have been in a terrible state of fear all these past
weeks since she stole the purse; I daresay she'll be happier in her
mind now she's confessed the truth. I do hope she'll get over her
accident all right."

"If she does I believe she'll be a different sort of girl," Ann
replied. "Your character must be cleared, Violet," she continued,
"there will be no difficulty about doing that now; but I wish it could
be done without Lottie's being branded as a thief," she added, and
with this sentiment Violet cordially acquiesced.

Mrs. Reed was greatly amazed at the news the girls brought her; and,
when the doctor returned from his morning round of visits, he was
immediately informed of the real facts in connection with the loss
of the purse. He listened attentively to all there was to tell, then
put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and drew forth the
identical article in question, which he handed to Violet who examined
it in silence before she passed it to Ann.

"Yes," said Ann, "I believe it is Agnes' purse, don't you, Violet?"

"Oh, Ann, I feel certain it is!" declared Violet, decidedly.

"I feel certain it is, too," agreed Dr. Reed, "for the pawnbroker
was able to give me the name of the girl from whom he purchased it.
It seems he asked her what she was called and she told him 'Charlotte
Medland,' so you see if she had not confessed her sin it would have
been brought home to her. The pawnbroker was very glad to let me have
the purse for a few shillings; my opinion is that he suspected it had
been stolen—he may very probably have seen the bills announcing its
loss after having bought it—and was grateful to me for having
refrained from seeking police assistance."

"The matter shall be put straight now. I shall give the purse to Miss
Orchardson, explain everything to her, and leave her to deal with Miss
Agnes Hosking, who doubtless will be satisfied, if she obtains her
purse again, to let the thief go Scot free, especially if she gets
her money back, too. Yes, I shall certainly make good the money,"
he said, as his companions glanced at him inquiringly, "for the purse
was lost in my house, and—well, I shall feel more satisfied to do so."

It proved that the doctor's surmise was right, for when, on the night
of her return to Helmsford College, Miss Orchardson called Agnes
Hosking into her private sitting-room, and explained to her that her
purse had been found, and put it into her hand, she paid little heed
to the headmistress' explanation that she had dropped it at the foot
of the stairs at Dr. Reed's, and that it had been picked up by a poor
factory girl who had been sent on an errand to the doctor's house,
and she did not even inquire the thief's name.

"Why, here is the money too!" she exclaimed, in astonishment and
delight, as she opened the purse and saw its contents.

"Yes," assented Miss Orchardson coldly, "so you have actually lost
nothing. I trust now that you recognise how cruel and unjustifiable
your suspicion of Violet Wyndham has been."

"I—I knew she was poor," stammered Agnes, "and I thought she might
have been tempted to take it, and—and—" She paused, quailing beneath
the severity of the headmistress' gaze for a minute, then she admitted
in an abashed tone: "I have been wrong."

"Very wrong," agreed Miss Orchardson; and, forthwith, she gave Agnes
such a talking to as that young person had never listened to in her
life before, so that when the girl left her presence, it was as though
a veil had been torn from her eyes, and, for the first time, she saw
in its true light her past conduct towards the school-fellow she had
maligned, and very ugly and mean-spirited it looked.



CHAPTER XXVI

"NO SENSE OF HONOUR WHATEVER."

LOTTIE MEDLAND'S recovery from the serious illness which followed her
accident was a slow one, and it was fully a month before she was able
to come downstairs again, so that it was well on in November when she
at last returned to her work at the factory, looking a pale, fragile
girl, whose blue eyes had lost their old furtive, restless expression,
and were grave and sad. Her former acquaintances declared she had
altered wonderfully, and they soon discovered that the alteration was
not only in her outward appearance.

"Bless me, child, how like you are growing to Malvina," Mrs. Medland
observed, as she glanced at Lottie across the tea-table one evening,
at the conclusion of what had been for both a hard day's work. "I'm
glad to see it," she proceeded, as a flush of gratification rose to
her daughter's wan cheeks, "and I'm not the only one who's noticed it,
for Miss Ann remarked it to me the last time I saw her. I don't think
it's so much that you're pale and thin, though may be that has
something to do with it, for of course poor Malvina always looked more
or less ill; no, I think, as Miss Ann said, that the likeness lies
in the expression of your face—a certain look which one catches now
and again."

"I am glad Miss Ann can see a likeness in me to Malvina," Lottie said
softly. "Oh, mother, how good and considerate Miss Ann has been to me!
I quite thought she'd turn from me in horror when she knew what
a wicked girl I'd been, and, instead of doing that, she's been kinder
than ever. And you, too, mother, you've never reproached me, never
even scolded me—"

"Because I saw you were really repentant, Lottie," her mother
interposed, "and you were so ill that I feared at one time I was
to lose both my daughters. I thank God for sparing you to me, my dear
child!"

"Oh, mother! And I have been such a trouble to you and such a
disgrace! But I'll try to make amends, indeed I will! Please God
I'll be a better daughter to you in the future, and I'll try to show
people their goodness to me hasn't been thrown away. Bad girl as I've
been, I've had the best friends in the world—Dr. Elizabeth, and
Mrs. Reed and Miss Ann, and that pretty Miss Violet who has always
a pleasant word for me whenever we meet. I told Dr. Elizabeth once
that I'd never bet again; I meant to keep my word, but—I soon broke
it. I'm not going to make any promise now, but I shall pray—oh, so
earnestly—that I may be helped to turn away from temptation."

There was silence between mother and daughter for a few minutes.
At length Mrs. Medland wiped away the glad tears which had risen
to her eyes, and said in a voice which faltered with emotion:—

"Oh, Lottie, how I wish Malvina had lived to see you turn over a new
leaf! She used to worry about you so much, my dear!"

"I know, I know!" cried Lottie distressfully. "When I was upstairs
ill, I was always thinking of Malvina," she continued in a tremulous
tone, "how she used to lie there suffering—oh, much worse than I ever
suffered—so patient and uncomplaining, and I used to feel I never
could be happy again; but one day I thought, maybe, where she has gone
she may be able to look down on us here, and if so she knows that I
have really and truly repented of my wickedness, and she will be glad.
As Miss Ann says, we can't tell how much the dead know. I mean to try
to be more like Malvina in future, and I hope I'll never willingly
give you trouble again." The girl's voice was intensely sincere.

It was a hard task for Lottie to walk the straight path, for it was
most difficult for her to turn her back on her former companions,
who could not understand why her illness should have sobered her to
such a marked extent, and the vice of gambling had taken such strong
hold of her that it offered many temptations still; but she stood firm
in her determination to lead a better life. She had had plenty of time
for serious thought during her recent illness, and in that little room
upstairs, where she had been obliged to spend long days alone whilst
her mother had been at work, she had truly been brought to repentance,
and had sought forgiveness of the Saviour in whom her sister had so
completely trusted. It had therefore not been resting entirely on her
own strength that she had taken up her daily life again. In Malvina's
Bible she had found a verse marked with a pencil line, and, during her
sickness it had been continually in her mind:—

"Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings and not one of them
is forgotten before God?"

"And if He watches over and cares for the sparrows," Lottie had
thought, "then surely He will not fail to help me," and she had
understood why her dead sister had loved the little brown birds, and
a sense of sweet comfort had crept into her aching heart.

Ann Reed had paid Lottie several visits during her illness. She had
told her that Dr. Reed had purchased the tortoise-shell purse from the
pawnbroker and caused it to be returned to its rightful owner, and
that he had made good the stolen money. Lottie had said very little
on hearing this, though she had wept many tears and sobbed bitterly;
in her heart of hearts she had been intensely grateful, but she had
been quite incapable of putting her feelings into words.

By Violet's desire, Ann had not mentioned to either Lottie or
Mrs. Medland that an innocent person had been suspected of the theft
of the purse.

"I don't wish either of them to know I've had to suffer for Lottie's
dishonesty," Violet had said decidedly; "they would feel so dreadful
about meeting me again if they knew." And Ann had gladly held her
peace on the point.

The news that Agnes Hosking's purse had been found had been received
with much thankfulness by the Wyndham family; and when, towards the
end of November, Dr. Reed and his wife stopped a few days in London
on their way home from their holiday in Devonshire and spent an
afternoon with the Wyndhams at Streatham, they were able to give the
assurance, when questioned, that Violet was now quite happy
at Helmsford College, and on the best of terms with most of her
school-fellows.

"I hope you will let her remain with us until her education is
completed, at any rate," Mrs. Reed said earnestly to Mrs. Wyndham;
"for I do not know what Ann would do without her now. The two girls
are wonderfully good friends. One of these days you must let Ruth come
and stay with us, will you?"

"Oh, what a treat that would be, and how I should enjoy it!" cried
Ruth, before her mother had time to reply, her sensitive face flushing
brightly at the anticipation of such an unlooked for pleasure. Then
she remembered how, a year before, Dr. Reed had spoken of her visiting
Barford and nothing had come of it. That, however, had not been the
kind doctor's fault.

"I am sure we should be delighted for Ruth to have such a nice
change," Mrs. Wyndham said with a smile. "But you must not keep her
too long," she went on somewhat plaintively, "for things will be sure
to go wrong if she is not here to look after them. My husband relies
upon her as much as I do. She is our right hand, Mrs. Reed."

"So I have heard," rejoined Mrs. Reed. "I think it is very nice to
know that one is of importance, especially in one's own home," she
added, with a kind look at Ruth who blushed more rosily than ever.

Thus it came about that when Dr. and Mrs. Reed returned to Barford,
they brought Violet the news that, if all went well, during the
Christmas holidays she was to have a visit from her elder sister.
Violet's delight was boundless on hearing this, as also was Ann's,
and various were the plans the two girls discussed, during the
following weeks, as to the way in which Ruth was to be entertained.

More than two-thirds of the winter term had now slipped by without
either Ann or Violet having exchanged half a dozen words with Agnes
Hosking; they avoided her all they possibly could, nevertheless they
were brought more or less in contact with her every day from the fact
of her being in the same class at school as themselves. Agnes was not
a favourite with the teachers, for she was an indolent girl; she saw
no reason why she should work hard as most of the other pupils were
doing, for, as she had given everyone at Helmsford College to
understand, there never would be any need for her to earn her living.
So she idled away the precious hours until those in authority lost
patience with her, and, as is generally the way in big schools, the
governesses gave their best attention to those more likely to benefit
by their instructions.

"Really, Agnes Hosking shows quite a genius for idling," Clara Garret
remarked to Violet Wyndham one afternoon subsequent to school hours.

The two girls were alone in one of the class rooms, Violet waiting
for Ann Reed who was receiving a music lesson from a visiting master.

"Yes, hasn't she?" said Violet. "I wonder what sort of report she will
have sent home at the end of the term; I should like to see it."

"You never speak to her, Violet, do you?"

Violet shook her head. "No," she replied; "once, at the beginning
of the term, a day or so after she had regained her purse, she tried
to enter into conversation with me, but I wouldn't have it. She began
to mumble something about being sorry if she'd hurt my feelings in any
way, but I simply turned my back on her, and she hasn't attempted
to speak to me since."

"Ann Reed doesn't have anything to do with her either, does she?"

"No. Clara, you can't think how bitter I feel against Agnes still,
even now my character has been fully cleared."

"It's only natural you should be resentful, I know I should be.
I don't think Agnes has had a very happy time this term, she's had
the cold shoulder shown her by several girls whose good opinion
she valued."

"Serve her right!" cried Violet vindictively.

"Still the fact of her having money gives her a hold over some who
would otherwise taboo her." Clara paused, and looked thoughtful;
then, with some hesitation, proceeded to ask: "Violet, do you consider
it very wrong to play cards for money?"

"Why, of course I do, don't you? It's gambling!" was the decisive
answer.

Clara nodded. "I agree with you," she said; "if I tell you something
will you promise to keep it to yourself—it's something I haven't told
even to Cicely."

"Then why are you going to tell me?" Violet asked, rather surprised.

"Because I feel I must get the advice of someone, and I know you are
to be trusted—so is Cicely, of course, but she isn't strong and she'd
be worried and say I ought to confide in Miss Orchardson. The fact is
I've found out—but you'll promise to keep this secret, won't you?"

"Yes," assented Violet, her curiosity now thoroughly aroused.

"Well," said Clara, "I've very good reason to believe that gambling
goes on at Helmsford College."

"Clara!" Violet's voice was shrill with astonishment.

"Hush! Don't speak so loud as that. Listen, and I'll tell you what
I've discovered. You know Cicely and I have a small room to ourselves?
Well, Agnes Hosking sleeps in a big room next to ours with three other
girls—the two Pelhams and Kitty Majendie—and they sit up late at night
playing cards—for money. Oh, no wonder you look incredulous, but it's
true!"

"But I thought—surely I've heard you say that one of the governesses
always makes a round of the bedrooms every night at ten o'clock in
order to see that the girls are in bed and the lights out?"

"Oh, yes! Miss Wilcocks has charge of the rooms on our landing;
some of the governesses occasionally pay surprise visits, but she
never does. The other night, after she'd been round as usual, I had
a most violent attack of toothache; it came on suddenly just as I was
dropping off to sleep, and, as you may imagine, it made me wide awake
in a minute. I lay still for some time hoping it would pass, but it
didn't, and by-and-by I could stand it no longer and determined to go
to Miss Wilcocks' room and ask her to give me something to ease the
pain—I remembered having heard her say she had some toothache tincture
which she had never known fail to effect a cure. Cicely was asleep,
so I got up very quietly, put on my dressing-gown, and slipped out
into the passage which was all in darkness."

"Well, as I was passing the door of the next room I thought I heard
voices, and it occurred to me that one of the girls might have
something for toothache, and that if so I need not disturb Miss
Wilcocks, so I put my hand on the door handle and turned it, but the
door wouldn't open. That surprised me, because there are no keys
allowed in the bedroom doors here. I listened and still heard voices,
then I gave a gentle knock with my knuckles, and suddenly the voices
ceased."

"I waited to see what would happen, and presently I heard something—
a box it sounded like—dragged from before the door, and the next
minute Agnes Hosking, wrapped in a dressing-gown and shawl, opened
the door to me. She was pale and trembling and looked very frightened,
but as soon as she recognised me her expression changed; she seemed
tremendously relieved and began to laugh in a silly, giggling fashion,
and pulled me into the room and shut the door."

"Yes?" said Violet eagerly, as her companion paused to take breath—
she had been speaking quickly and excitedly.

"Agnes asked me what I wanted, but I didn't answer at once for I was
looking about the room. The three other girls were in bed, but when
they saw who it was that had disturbed them they got out, and they
were all in their dressing-gowns, too; and Kitty Majendie, who had a
pack of cards in her hands, explained that they'd been having a game
of Bridge and said that of course I wouldn't tell on them and they
would trust to my sense of honour to hold my tongue. Then I inquired
if they had any toothache tincture, but they hadn't, so I said
good-night and went back to my own room; and, do you know,
my toothache had actually gone—I believe the shock I had experienced
had driven it away, for it really had been a shock to me to discover
what was going on. The next day I asked Kitty Majendie if they played
for money, and she admitted that they did, though not for high
stakes."

"I should think not!" exclaimed Violet, "but whether they play
for little or much the principle is the same—it is gambling. Oh, how
dreadful it seems! The idea of gambling going on in a school like
this! I wonder what would happen if Miss Orchardson found it out?"

Clara shook her head, she could not tell. "It seems that the Pelhams
started this card playing," she said, "their people are rich, and they
play cards for money at home, and they have a lot of pocket-money,
they have won a good bit from Kitty Majendie and Agnes Hosking.
Kitty is a silly, good-natured little creature, you know, who doesn't
like to decline to play, and Agnes thinks it's rather a fine thing
to do, she says all fashionable people play Bridge."

Violet smiled sarcastically. "Then you have spoken to her about it?"
she said inquiringly.

"Yes. I thought I ought to remonstrate with all four of them, but I
fear I did no good. The Pelhams and Agnes only laughed at me; Kitty,
however, admitted that she couldn't play cards any longer because she
had no money to stake. The question is, what ought I to do? If I tell
Miss Orchardson I shall most probably get all four girls expelled."

"The Pelhams are leaving at Christmas, anyway," said Violet
thoughtfully; "really I hardly know what to advise. I know! Threaten
to tell Miss Orchardson unless they promise you not to touch cards
again whilst they are at school."

"Yes; I might do that certainly, and I will. I am glad I have taken
you into my confidence, Violet; this business has been a real worry
to me. Not a word about it to anyone, mind!"

"Not even to Ann?"

"Well, you may tell Ann if you like, but it must go no further.
Hush, someone's coming!"

It was Agnes Hosking. She entered the room and began to turn over the
books on the table, Clara watching her whilst Violet studiously looked
another way.

"What are you searching for?" Clara inquired presently.

"Only my French exercise book," Agnes answered, "I've missed it.
I have to rewrite an exercise for Mademoiselle. I wish you'd help me
with it, Clara. Do! You understand all about irregular verbs, and I
don't."

"Mademoiselle said no one was to help you," Clara reminded her.

"But she won't know!"

An indignant flush rose to Clara's pale cheeks, and she made
no answer. Agnes glanced from her to Violet, and laughed uneasily;
she had found her exercise book now, and stood with it in her hand,
fluttering its pages.

As neither of her companions spoke, after a minute or so she turned
to leave the room; on reaching the door she overheard Violet say:
"She has no sense of honour whatever."

The remark had not been meant for her ears, so she took no notice
of it, but it had made her wince.



CHAPTER XXVII

AGNES HOSKING IN TROUBLE

"WHAT is amiss with Agnes Hosking, I wonder?"

It was Ann Reed who spoke, one afternoon in mid December, as she and
Violet Wyndham were on their way home from school. The girls were
walking fast for the air was keen and frosty, and it was as much
as they could do to keep warm in the face of the easterly wind.
Violet, who had been absorbed in her own thoughts—very pleasant ones
for they had been of Ruth's approaching visit—turned a surprised
glance upon her companion as she said:—

"Is there anything amiss with her? I haven't noticed. What do you
mean?"

"I mean that she's looking thin, and ill, and very unhappy. I've
remarked it to myself for days past, and this morning she appeared
so miserable that I asked her if she was not well—I had not spoken
to her before this term. She replied that she was quite well and
appeared decidedly annoyed at my question, in fact she was rather rude
to me, and said she hated to be watched. As though I had been watching
her!" Ann concluded with a heightened colour.

"What an ill-mannered girl she is!" Violet cried contemptuously,
"I wish you had not spoken to her, Ann," she continued, looking vexed,
"why did you? It was too bad of her to snub you when I am sure you
only meant to be kind."

"Yes, I only meant to be kind. I think my speaking to her took her by
surprise and she answered as she did to prevent my questioning her
further. I believe she is very unhappy about something; I should like
to know what it is—not from curiosity, but because if I did I might be
able to help her."

"But, Ann, I thought you had decided never to have anything more to do
with her!" exclaimed Violet, in great astonishment.

"Yes, I had, but I've been thinking, with Christmas coming, Violet,
the time of peace and good-will—" Ann broke off with an appealing
glance. Violet frowned. She considered Ann absurdly soft-hearted.
Was it really a fact that Agnes was unhappy? she wondered. Well,
it served her quite right if she was.

"I have been thinking a great deal of Agnes lately," Ann continued,
after a long pause, "especially since you told me about her card
playing. I suppose she has really given it up?"

"Oh, yes!" Violet answered, "Clara Garret insisted upon that. She took
my advice and threatened to report her and the Pelhams and Kitty
Majendie to Miss Orchardson if they did not solemnly promise never
again to touch cards whilst they were at school. They all gave the
promise, and even went so far as to burn the packs of cards, so I
think that's all right. Clara tells me that she finds out the Pelhams
have won all Kitty Majendie's money from her."

"What a shame!" cried Ann indignantly; "I believe Kitty's people
are by no means rich."

"No, they are not, so she won't have any pocket-money for the rest
of the term. It's a good thing she lost instead of winning, for she
says she's had enough of Bridge and she never means to gamble again;
she was quite horrified when Clara told her playing cards for money
was gambling, she hadn't looked upon it in that light, strange though
it seems. She's a silly, frivolous, little butterfly who doesn't think
deeply about anything, I really don't believe she meant to do wrong.
It's fortunate for her that the Pelhams are leaving at the end of the
term, for, without meaning it, they do her a great deal of harm,"
Violet concluded shrewdly.

"I know very little of the Pelhams," said Ann, rather surprised,
"I always liked them very well, but, as they are older than I am,
we have not clashed much."

"Clara says their mother is a very gay, fashionable woman whose doings
are all reported in the ladies' papers, and she is considered a great
beauty; but her girls scarcely know anything of her, and when they
were little children they only saw her two or three times a week."

"Poor girls! I suppose, though, they will see more of her when they
leave school?"

"Oh, yes! They will be presented at court by-and-by, and properly
introduced into society, and their mother will not be satisfied till
she finds them rich husbands—this is what they tell Clara Garret."

"What a way to talk! Do they really mean it?"

"Oh, I expect so. Agnes Hosking envies them, I believe; I heard her
say once that she would like nothing better than to be in a high
position and have nothing to do but to enjoy herself."

"But many people in high positions lead unselfish, hard-working lives,
Violet. Mother has a friend, with whom she went to school, who married
a rich man, a member of Parliament who is now a cabinet minister,
of course she and her husband have to entertain a great deal and are
regularly in society, but she doesn't give up her life to enjoyment,
she is always busying herself for the welfare of others, and I am
quite sure she doesn't neglect her children."

"Then she must be very different from Mrs. Pelham. I suppose some
people would be unselfish and care for their fellow creatures whatever
their position. No, I don't think it's a question of position. But to
revert to Agnes Hosking, Ann; what can there possibly be to trouble
her? I thought she had everything heart could desire."

"Well, you take notice of her to-morrow, and, afterwards, tell me
if you see any alteration in her appearance."

This Violet agreed to do. Accordingly, the following morning during
school hours, she observed Agnes more closely than she had done for
weeks past. Yes, Ann was right, Agnes was not looking well; she had
become much thinner and there were dark rims beneath her eyes
as though she had had sleepless nights, whilst her whole appearance
was one of listlessness and dejection. Once she caught Violet's gaze
fixed upon her and turned her head aside quickly, whilst a deep flush
rose to her cheeks. Violet refrained from looking at her after that,
remembering her remark to Ann that she hated to be watched.

"Well, did you take notice of Agnes Hosking as you said you would?"
Ann asked Violet, later. "Was I not right in thinking her changed?"

"Quite right," Violet agreed; "she is looking very miserable, but it's
nothing to do with us if she is—I'm certainly not going to trouble
about her."

But Violet thought about Agnes a great deal during the next few days,
and one afternoon she was surprised into speaking to her.

It happened thus. She was waiting for Ann, who was having her music
lesson, when Agnes appeared in the class-room, where Violet was alone
looking over one of her lessons for the next day, and took a chair
exactly opposite to her at the table where she was seated. At first
Violet did not look up from her book, but by-and-by she stole a
furtive peep at her companion and saw that she had opened an exercise
book over which she was poring, but not writing, though she held a pen
in her hand. Violet turned her attention to her own work after that
one momentary glance; but presently she looked at Agnes again, and
this time her gaze became rivetted on the other's downcast face which
struck her as a picture of misery, so full was it of unhappy thought;
then, obeying a sudden impulse, born of curiosity, she asked:—

"Agnes, what is it? Are you in trouble?"

Agnes glanced up quickly, but she did not answer. Her eyes were full
of tears, and one rolled down her cheek unheeded. Violet's face
softened involuntarily, and she exclaimed:—

"Yes, I see you are! Can I help you? Oh, what is amiss?"

Still Agnes made no response; she simply covered her face with her
hands and burst into a passion of sobs and tears. Violet watched her
with a sensation of mingled astonishment and dismay till she had
somewhat regained her composure, then continued:—

"I don't know the cause of your unhappiness, but I am really sorry—"

"Sorry?" interrupted Agnes, "do you mean it?" She uncovered her
crimson, tear-stained countenance, and looked doubtfully at Violet.
"Are you indeed really sorry?" she asked.

"Yes, of course I am or I should not say so."

"I should have thought you would have been glad!"

Violet flushed and was silent for a minute, then she said candidly:
"I am rather surprised myself that I am not. I have thought very hard
things of you, Agnes."

"Not harder than I have deserved."

"Perhaps not; nevertheless, I am sorry for you now, for I see you are
very unhappy, and if I can do anything to help you I will, gladly."

"You can't do anything, thank you, but I—I should like to tell
you—I wonder you haven't heard—I should have thought Ruth would have
written—hasn't she told you about my father?"

"No," Violet replied, shaking her head and wondering at the other's
incoherent utterance. "Is he ill, Agnes?" she inquired.

"Oh, no! He's failed."

"Failed?" Violet echoed, not understanding.

"Yes. He's lost all his money, and everything he has will be sold—even
our house and furniture."

"Oh, dear! How dreadful for him!"

"Yes, and dreadful for me, too! Oh, I hate the thought of being poor,
I hate it! Think what it means for me, Violet! I didn't realise all it
meant at first when father wrote and said he'd met with heavy
financial losses and that he'd arranged with Miss Orchardson for me
to leave here for good at the end of the term—I'm not coming back
to Helmsford College again. But, since, I've heard from my
grandmother, and she says father will have to begin the world afresh,
and she cannot help him because he's borrowed a lot of money from her
and lost it, but she is going to make a home for me. Oh, Violet, she's
such a cross old thing! Think what a life I shall lead with her!
And—and she says that after my education is finished—she's going
to send me to a school at Bath—I shall have to earn my own living.
Oh, dear!"

"Oh, I would not trouble about that if I were you," Violet said in a
consolatory tone, "a great many girls have to earn their own livings;
I, for one, shall have to do so, I expect."

"Yes, but it's different for you! You've always known it, and you
haven't wasted your time at school as I have."

This was very true. Violet sat silently thinking, her heart full of
pity as she looked at the dejected figure opposite her at the table.

"Oh, I am sorry for you!" she cried at length; "and for poor
Mr. Hosking, too! I suppose you are very fond of your father, are you
not?"

"Yes." Agnes' face quivered, and her tears flowed again. There was
a soft spot in her heart for the father who had showed his affection
for her by an over-indulgence which had done much to make her the
selfish girl she was. "It must be very hard lines for him," she went
on; "he said in his last letter that he was glad my mother had not
lived to see him a ruined man—you know mother died when I was quite
a little girl, I hardly remember her at all. Poor father! I wish
he wouldn't send me to grandmother; I'd so much rather be with him,
but he says that's impossible now. I am afraid he's very, very poor!
Fancy my father poor!"

"Yes, fancy!" Violet said dreamily. It was difficult to realise
it indeed. How strange it was that she should be made Agnes'
confidante, she who had suffered so much at her hands!

Perhaps Agnes guessed something of what was passing through her
companion's mind, for by-and-by she said in a voice, the faltering
accents of which expressed real regret:—

"I don't suppose that after school breaks up at Christmas you and I
will ever meet again. Before we part I want to ask you to try to
forgive me for—for having suspected that you took my purse; I want you
to understand that I really am sorry—I tried to tell you so at the
beginning of the term, but you would not listen. And I am sorry, too,
for all the rude, unkind remarks I used to make to you and your
sisters when we were at Miss Minter's, and for the way I spoke to Ann
Reed that day at Streatham. Do—do believe me."

The girl's tone was earnest and sincere, but Violet was too surprised
to make an immediate reply.

"I have behaved abominably to you all along," Agnes continued, "I took
a delight in making you feel your position, and now it is I who am
poor, and I haven't a friend in the world—not one I can rely on.
I've seen as much of the Pelhams and Kitty Majendie as I have of
anyone, but they'll never give me a second thought, especially when
they hear, as they are sure to do, that my father has lost his money.
I was sent to Helmsford College to make friends and I haven't made
one; I've been all wrong somehow—"

"I should have been all wrong, too, if it hadn't been for my coming
to live with the Reeds," Violet interposed eagerly; "I came to Barford
envious of those better off than myself, and, oh, so selfish, and—and,
as you know, I was ashamed of my poor little home at Streatham. Then,
as I grew to know Ann Reed and to understand her simple, noble
character, I began to see things in a different light, and—but, hush,
she's coming! Yes, yes, I forgive you!" she added hastily, in response
to Agnes' imploring look.

A minute later Ann entered the room. Her eyes rested first on Agnes'
tear-stained countenance, then turned questioningly to Violet.

"What is wrong?" she inquired in a voice of concern.

"Shall I tell her, Agnes?" asked Violet, and, receiving a nod
for assent, she proceeded to explain: "Agnes is in very great trouble,
Ann, because her father has lost all his money."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Ann sympathetically. She laid a kindly hand
on Agnes' arm. "I'm so sorry to hear this bad news, so very, very
sorry," she said earnestly; "has he really lost all his money?"

"Yes," sighed Agnes, "but please don't mention it to the other girls."

"Most certainly not. This is indeed a great trouble for you."

"I could not well have a greater," was the despondent response.

"Oh, yes, you could. There are many greater troubles than the loss
of money. You still have your father, remember."

Further talk of a private nature was impossible after that, for
several of the boarders came into the room, and Agnes bent her head
over her exercise book to hide her tear-blurred countenance from their
view. Ten minutes later Violet and Ann were on their way home,
conversing confidentially. Violet repeated, nearly word for word,
all Agnes had said to her, whilst her companion listened with the
deepest interest.

"I cannot help feeling sympathy for her," Violet remarked, at the
conclusion of her tale, "no, I really cannot help it."

"But you do not want to help it, do you?" inquired Ann, with a smile.

"Well—no. Still it's astonishing that I should be sorry for Agnes
Hosking; even this morning I should have said it was impossible,
for there's no doubt about it I have borne malice against her.
If anyone had told me of her father's misfortunes I should have been
sorry for Mr. Hosking, but I know I should have been glad to think
Agnes would have to experience what poverty means; but when I saw
how miserable she was, my one thought was what to say to console her."

"Oh, Violet, I am so glad—glad that you felt like that, I mean!"
cried Ann.

"Yes, so am I," Violet admitted; "I might have taken my revenge
on Agnes by reminding her that she didn't deserve my sympathy
or forgiveness, but I simply couldn't. Well I've forgiven her now,
and I must try not to think bitterly of her again."



CHAPTER XXVIII

CONCLUSION

"OH, Ann, I do feel so excited!" The speaker was Violet Wyndham,
and her pretty face, with its bright colour, smiling lips, and
sparkling eyes, was witness to the truth of her statement. It was
within a few days of Christmas, the school term having ended on the
previous afternoon, and she and Ann had been putting the finishing
touches to the room which had been prepared for the visitor who was
expected to arrive on the morrow.

"Oh, how delightful it will be to see dear old Ruthie," she continued;
"I expect her box is packed by this time. I wonder how they will
manage without her at home!"

"It is very good of your mother to spare her to us," said Mrs. Reed,
entering the room at that instant; "we must try to make her visit
a happy one."

"Oh, I am sure it will be that!" Violet cried sanguinely, her brown
eyes softening with gratitude as she turned them upon Mrs. Reed
who was glancing around to see that everything was as it should be.
"You are so very, very kind," she proceeded, "it was so like you
to give this invitation to Ruthie, and I can't express how glad I am
that she could accept it. It seems so wonderful that we should have
such friends! As for me—I shall never be able to repay you for your
goodness to me as long as I live! I know I must have worried you
a great deal at first, I was so untidy and careless, but I've really
improved in that way of late, haven't I?" she questioned anxiously.

"Yes," assented Mrs. Reed, with a smile; "you most certainly have.
The room looks very nice, girls, I don't think there is anything more
to be done to it."

"We must be in good time to meet Ruth at the station to-morrow,"
remarked Ann; "I hope her train will not be overcrowded. She has never
travelled alone before, has she, Violet?"

"Never," Violet answered. "I wonder how Agnes Hosking is feeling,"
she observed reflectively, a moment later, a sudden gravity
overshadowing her countenance; "she must be a good way on her journey
by this time—she will have a very long journey, as she has to go right
through London and on to Bath."

"I am afraid she will have a miserable Christmas," said Ann; "I think
I never saw anyone more depressed and unhappy than she was when we
said good-bye to her yesterday. 'I shall never see you again,'
she said, 'and you will have only unpleasant memories of me.' We did
not know what to say to her, as you may imagine, mother, for of course
we could not contradict her."

"I have the greatest difficulty in realising that she is poor,
it seems incredible," said Violet; "I used to think she was to be
envied because she always had plenty of money to spend and we had so
little, and Ruthie used to get so vexed with me. Well, I certainly
have no cause to be envious of Agnes now, for she is more wretched
than anyone I ever knew."

"She is intensely selfish and pities herself extremely," said Ann;
"I believe she is rather inclined to blame her father for losing his
money; she said she thought he must have been foolish and reckless,
and yet I am positive she loves him."

"Poor girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Reed. "Perhaps poverty will teach her
a great deal she has never learnt yet," she proceeded thoughtfully,
"and to be kinder and more considerate to other people; she will be
called upon to make sacrifices now, and that may be the very
discipline she wants."

"I hope she will never gamble again," said Ann gravely, "I spoke
to her about it and remarked what dreadful things it often led people
to do, but she did not seem in the least impressed until I told her
all about Lottie Medland—of course I did not mention Lottie by name,
only as the girl who stole her purse."

"And you say she was impressed then?" Mrs. Reed inquired.

"Yes. She tried, at first, to argue that betting and gambling were
different matters altogether, but by-and-by she admitted that the
principle of each was the same—the desire to gain money at another's
expense. Then she reminded me that people in good society gambled,
and I said that I didn't think any society could be truthfully called
'good' in which such a wicked practice was tolerated, and that
if people in high positions would only taboo it those in the lower
classes of society would follow their example—I heard father say that
the other day. Oh, we had quite a warm argument, I can tell you."

"Yes, indeed," nodded Violet, "and in the end she was obliged to allow
there was a great deal in all Ann had said, and she promised to bear
it in mind."

"I hope she will," Mrs. Reed said gravely; "I trust there will be
no playing cards for money at Helmsford College next term, if so
it ought certainly to be brought to the knowledge of Miss Orchardson.
It is a good thing those Pelhams have left, girls like those do a
great deal of harm in a school and always exercise a bad influence
over their companions."

"Now, my dears," she continued in a brisker tone, "I'm going to tell
you something which I know will give you pleasure—it is about Lottie
Medland. I met Dr. Elizabeth when I was in the town doing my shopping
this morning, and she spoke of Lottie to me, said how greatly the girl
had changed for the better in every way since her illness, and that
she believed she would keep steady now and live to be a real comfort
to her mother. Of course I was very, very glad to hear this,
especially as it came from Dr. Elizabeth; for she has so many
acquaintances among the factory hands that she would be sure to find
out the truth about Lottie. Then she went on to tell me that Lottie
is beginning to save money and is putting by something every week,
sometimes only a few coppers, sometimes more; and why do you think
she is doing this?"

"I don't know," Violet replied, "to buy something she fancies,
I suppose?"

"To have a nest egg against a rainy day?" suggested Ann.

"No," smiled Mrs. Reed, "she is doing it in hope of being able
to repay the money she stole—"

"But, mother, she knows that Agnes has had the money repaid to her,"
broke in Ann, "I told her that father had made it good."

"She intends to return the money to your father, Ann; she has talked
the matter over with Dr. Elizabeth, who has consented to keep her
savings for her till she has the full amount. I was very glad to hear
this of Lottie, for it shows that she is grateful to your father and
feels her indebtedness to him. I shall certainly advise him to accept
the money; it will take her some time to save it, though, poor girl!"

"Yes, indeed it will," agreed Violet.

"I can realise how she feels," said Ann; "I am sure she will be
happier in her mind if she can make the money good. I know father
hasn't given a second thought to the money itself and never expects
it to be repaid. How surprised he will be when he gets it back!
We must go and see the Medlands before Christmas, Violet."

"You shall take a Christmas pudding with you as a gift from me
to Mrs. Medland," said Mrs. Reed.

"Let us wait till after to-morrow, then Ruthie will be able to go
with us!" cried Violet; "I want her to see the old part of the town."

"We must show her all we can whilst she is with us," Ann replied;
"it shall not be our fault if she does not have a thoroughly
good time."

And it was a thoroughly good time Ruth enjoyed during those Christmas
holidays, a time to be subsequently remembered with keenest gratitude
and pleasure; for, as she remarked to her sister on the evening of her
arrival at Barford, there was nothing in the background to worry her,
and she had left those at home well, and in the best of spirits.

It was a new experience for Ruth to be made the first consideration,
and she thoroughly appreciated the novelty of the situation. The
weather, though cold, was remarkably fine for the season, and thus
there were favourable opportunities for taking her to various places
in the neighbourhood. She had some delightful drives with the doctor
in his gig; and old Mrs. Garret, hearing that a sister of Violet's
was visiting at the Reeds', wrote and gave the three girls
an invitation to spend a long day with her grand-daughters,
an invitation which was promptly accepted. Ruth had never before seen
such a picturesque home as Mrs. Garret's fine old country house
standing, as it did, in the midst of scenery which, in spite of the
season being winter, impressed her with its beauty; and she was
charmed with the sweet-faced, white-haired old lady, who welcomed her
so cordially, and the two gentle-mannered girls, upon whom she looked
with especial favour because she knew they had been kind and loyal
to the sister she loved so well.

"I think I never enjoyed Christmas holidays so much before," remarked
Ann in a tone of satisfaction, one evening early in January, when
Dr. and Mrs. Reed had gone out to dine with friends, and she and the
sisters were passing the time in chatting whilst they sat by the
drawing-room fire; "as a rule they have rather dragged—when mother's
been out of the way, you know, and I've had no one to talk to. It's so
nice to have companions of one's own age. I hope you don't begrudge
Violet to me now, Ruth; I had rather an idea in the summer,
at Teymouth, that you did."

"I don't know that I ever actually begrudged her to you," Ruth
answered, colouring as she spoke; "but I was rather afraid that you
might wean her from us—not intentionally, though."

"Oh, Ruthie!" cried Violet, whilst Ann looked her surprise; "certainly
Ann and I have become great friends, but I love you and all of them
at home as much as I ever did—more, I believe."

"Yes, but it might have been otherwise," Ruth reminded her; "I thought
you might learn to despise your home. You see I didn't know Mrs. Reed
and Ann when you left home, Vi. You are so different from what I had
pictured you, Ann."

"Now I do wonder what you and Violet thought I should be like," said
Ann, looking puzzled; "I wish you would tell me, for I have so often
been curious upon the point and wanted to know. Both of you have told
me the same, that I am different from what you had pictured me."

"Shall I tell her, Ruth?" asked Violet, laughing mischievously. Then,
as her sister nodded assent, she continued: "Well, one day, after
Dr. Reed had been to see us at Streatham, we were speaking of you,
and mother called you Prosperity's child—"

"Prosperity's child!" broke in Ann, opening her grey eyes very wide
in her surprise. "Prosperity's child?" she echoed, inquiringly.

"Yes," nodded Violet, "I'd been wondering what you were like, and I
said, I remember, that I expected you had everything heart could
desire. Oh, I was in a horrid, grumbling mood! and mother said that
doubtless you had all that father and she would give me if they could,
and she reminded me that I was a poor man's daughter and that
you were—Prosperity's child. You see we knew that your father had got
on well in the world, and we thought—I'm speaking of Ruth and myself
now, I don't know what mother's ideas were—that you wouldn't
understand anything about the pinches and privations some people get.
That's why I was shy about talking of our home to you at first;
you see I'd often heard father say that prosperity spoilt people—"

"Some people," corrected Ruth hastily, "he said prosperity had not
spoilt Dr. Reed."

"But we didn't know the effect it might have had on you, you know,
Ann," Violet went on; "I thought you would be proud and—and selfish
very likely, and want to have everything all your own way, and I
believe I half feared you might look down on me—Oh, I know you never
did! You have all along showed me more consideration than I deserved."
She paused a moment, then continued:—

"When I came here first I was surprised at a great many things; I saw
that Mrs. Reed managed the house carefully that she might have more
to give away, and—and it astonished me that you should take so much
interest in people I should never have thought of having anything
to do with myself—people like the Medlands, for instance. And I had
actually been afraid that you might be a girl like Agnes Hosking,
Ann!"

"Poor Agnes!" exclaimed Ann. Her face was growing less puzzled.
She had been looking grave and a little hurt, but now a faint, amused
smile hovered around her lips. "Poor Agnes," she repeated in pitying
accents, "I wonder if we shall ever hear of her again?"

"Not very likely," replied Violet; "Ruth says all Mr. Hosking's
belongings at Streatham were sold, and no one seems to know what has
become of him."

"People do not interest themselves much about their neighbours in
London," said Ruth; "I believe Mr. Hosking used to entertain a good
bit, but I expect his friends have turned cold shoulders on him now."

"Then they could not have been real friends," declared Ann. "Oh, I do
feel sorry for him and for Agnes too—she has no real friends either,
poor girl! I am sure she is heartily ashamed now of the way
she treated you over the loss of her purse, Violet."

"So she ought to be," asserted Violet; "there is only one thing to be
said for her, that she really did believe I had taken her purse. Well,
it's an old story now, and I've forgiven her, so we'll talk of
something pleasanter."

"Have you really forgiven her, Vi?" Ruth asked eagerly.

"Yes," nodded Violet, "I thought I never could, but I have. I've often
wondered of late whether, if I'd been brought up in the same way
as Agnes, I might not have been rather like her; for when I came
to Barford a year ago I set great store on wealth and social position,
but I've grown to see since then that it's a good thing to be rich
only if you help others with your money and don't spend it all on
yourself, otherwise you're better without it. So many rich folks are
selfish and do nothing but please themselves, they are not like
Dr. Elizabeth—I'm so glad you know Dr. Elizabeth, Ruth."

"So am I," Ruth answered. She had spent an evening with her sister
and Ann at the lady doctor's house, on an occasion when the latter
had entertained a party of factory girls, and had enjoyed herself
very much.

"She is the most unselfish person I know," said Ann; "for if she had
liked she might have lived at ease all her days; instead, see what a
busy, hard-working life hers has been and always will be, I expect.
She said to me once that God had given her great opportunities
of working for Him and that she must try to make the most of them."

"God gives very few people great opportunities," Ruth remarked. "But
we can all do our best with those we have," she added thoughtfully.

"Yes," agreed Ann; "we must believe God gives us just what is best
for us, and do all the good we can."

"It sounds very simple," commented Violet, "but it's not very easy
to carry it out. I suppose to do good one must be good. Ann, do you
remember that verse Dr. Elizabeth quoted to us? I've so often thought
of it since:—"

"'Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever,
   Do noble things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life, Death, and that vast "For-ever"
   One grand sweet song.'"

"I like that," declared Ruth heartily, "Of course goodness ought
to come first. It is not given to us all to be clever, I am not in the
least clever myself—"

"Why I am sure you have a great talent for painting," interrupted Ann,
"you cannot think how much that sketch you did of Granny's cottage has
been admired! So many people have noticed it, haven't they, Violet?"

Violet assented, and Ruth naturally looked very pleased. The
conversation then turned to Teymouth and the probability of the
families of Reed and Wyndham meeting there in August, and, by-and-by,
as it was growing late and they were not to sit up till the return
of Dr. and Mrs. Reed, the trio went to bed.

On the following morning Ann received a letter with the Bath postmark,
which proved to be a few lines from Agnes Hosking saying that her
father had decided to emigrate to New Zealand, to join a brother of
his who was settled there as a sheep farmer and had offered to give
him a helping hand, and that she was to accompany him.

"I could remain with my grandmother if I liked," she wrote; "but I
prefer to go with father. You seemed to care about what was to become
of me, so that is why I am letting you know. Perhaps, some day, I may
write again, and if I do I will give you my address. You and Violet
Wyndham have no cause to think of me kindly, yet I know you both wish
me well, and I am grateful for that. If you think I'm worth a second
thought you might pray for me—I know you believe in prayer, and I
don't think anyone ever prayed for me yet."

"Poor girl," said Mrs. Reed, when her daughter read this letter aloud
to her and the two Wyndham girls; "it may be this is the turning point
in her career. I am glad she is going with her father. We must all of
us remember her in our prayers."

"Fancy her saying no one ever prayed for her yet!" exclaimed Violet;
"how sad that seems!" And her bright eyes grew dim with sympathetic
tears, whilst the last lingering trace of resentment in her heart
against her erstwhile enemy died out altogether.

At the end of another week Ruth's visit came to an end. She parted
from her sister very cheerfully, content in the knowledge that,
strange though it seemed, Violet had actually drawn nearer to her in
heart and soul during their separation. That this was owing to Ann's
influence Ruth knew very well, and her heart was full to overflowing
with love and gratitude towards this true friend—Prosperity's Child.



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