Title: Brought out of peril
Author: Leslie, Emma
Language: English
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                     BROUGHT OUT OF PERIL


                              BY
                         EMMA LESLIE

                          AUTHOR OF
     "Faithful, but not Famous," "The Martyr's Victory,"
                  "Maggie's Message," etc.



                      THIRD IMPRESSION



                            LONDON
                 THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
      4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, E.C.



CONTENTS

CHAPTER

     I. FANNY'S FIRST HOLIDAY

    II. ELIZA

   III. THAT WATCH

    IV. JESSIE COLLINS

    V. A RENOVATED HOME

   VI. MASTER EUSTACE

  VII. MAN FRIDAY

 VIII. LITTLE ROBINSON CRUSOE

   IX. FANNY'S FATHER

    X. A TERRIBLE BLOW

   XI. A FRIEND IN NEED

  XII. AN UNWELCOME VISIT

 XIII. THE TWO FRIENDS

  XIV. ONE SUNDAY EVENING

   XV. FANNY'S LUCK

  XVI. A NEW SITUATION

 XVII. NEWS FOR MRS. BROWN

XVIII. A MOTHER'S QUEST

  XIX. THAT LETTER

   XX. CONCLUSION


BROUGHT OUT OF PERIL

CHAPTER I

FANNY'S FIRST HOLIDAY

"I DON'T see why you should be so disagreeable about it, mother. It was
my own ten shillings that I paid for the watch."

"Watch, indeed!" exclaimed her mother, as though the very word was an
offence to her. "What do you know about buying a watch?—a bit of a
girl in her first place. You need all the money you can earn to keep
you in decent clothes, to say nothing of what you owe me for all the
things I have had to buy to make you tidy, and give you a fair start in
service." And Mrs. Brown almost burst into tears as her eyes fell again
on the glittering silver watch her daughter was so proud to display.

Fanny was a little over sixteen, a tall, well-grown girl for her age,
stout and rosy, and looking the picture of health, as she stood there
telling her mother her trial month was over, that her mistress was very
well satisfied with the way she had done her work, and that she was to
have six pounds a year at first, a whole day's holiday once a month,
and every Sunday evening to go to church.

"I am very glad to have that bit of news, Fanny," said her mother, in a
more cheerful tone. "But still, I wish you had left the watch alone. I
don't believe in such finery for a girl like you."

"Finery!" repeated Fanny. "Father has got a watch."

"Yes, but your father's is for use, not to dangle round his neck like
that glittering thing. You've got a clock in the kitchen at your place,
haven't you?" said her mother.

"To be sure we have," said Fanny, with a toss of her head. "But I'm not
always in the kitchen," she added.

"Well, my girl, I dare say we shall get over it but I do feel
disappointed, for I wanted you to let me have all you could spare of
your wages this month for Eliza."

"For Eliza!" repeated Fanny, changing colour a little. "Is she ill
again, mother?" she asked.

"No; she is better—very well for her. But Mrs. Parsons from the
Vicarage came to see me yesterday, and asked if Eliza could go with the
nurse and children to the seaside for a month. Our Vicar thought she
might help to look after the children on the sands, and that the change
would do her good too."

"Oh, mother, how kind of the Vicar and Mrs. Parsons! And what a chance
for Eliza! Of course you'll let her go!"

"How can I now?" And Mrs. Brown put her apron to her eyes, for she
could not keep her tears back any longer. "I spent every penny I could
scrape together to send you out tidy, never thinking I should want to
do the same thing for Eliza yet awhile, or that you would go and throw
away your first wages on rubbish like that watch."

Fanny looked confused and defiant. Certainly, if she had known the
money was likely to be wanted for such a purpose as helping her
delicate sister to go to the seaside, she would not have bought the
watch; but she did not like it that her mother seemed to think she had
a right to claim her first wages, and she muttered something about this
just as Eliza came in from school.

"Has mother told you, Fanny?" she exclaimed, after hugging and kissing
her sister.

Fanny had pictured this meeting with Eliza again and again during the
month she had been away, and she had thought it would be part of the
day's pleasure and triumph to show her sister the grand watch she had
bought. But now—well, how could she?

"Did you tell your teacher?" asked Mrs. Brown. The younger girl looked
up quickly, for she noticed the change in her mother's tone.

"What is it? What is the matter, mother? Have they been to say that the
Nurse thinks I am too little to look after the children?" she asked,
with changing colour.

Her mother shook her head, and the tears filled her eyes, as she said—

"No, no, dear; it isn't that. But I don't know how to get you the tidy
things the Vicar said you would want."

Eliza turned and looked at her sister. "Haven't you got your wages?"
she whispered, for her mother had told her there would be no difficulty
about the new cotton frocks she would have to buy for her, because
Fanny would be able to let her have the money, and they could repay her
later. But now, as she looked at her sister's angry, downcast face, she
did not know what to think. "The lady didn't pay you, did she, Fan?"
she said, with a tremor in her voice, fixing her eyes on her sister's
face as she spoke.

"Don't look at me like that! I can't help it! I'm sorry. But I haven't
got any money to buy you new frocks, and I don't see—"

She could not say any more, for she heard her father coming in at that
moment, and she dashed out of the back door and went through a gap in
the hedge, and walked to some fields close by, where she sat down and
cried to herself for several minutes. She managed to persuade herself
that her mother was very unkind and unreasonable to think she could
have all her money to spend upon Eliza, and that she had no right to
say what she did about the watch. "I wonder what she would think if she
knew I had to pay two pounds for it. She thinks ten shillings a lot of
money, and so I shall keep it to myself that I have to pay any more."
And Fanny thought she had better go home again and make the best she
could of things, or some of the children would be sent to look for her.

Just after she had started to run back, she heard her name called by a
familiar voice, and the next minute she was joined by a girl about her
own age, but dressed in a dirty-fine frock, and looking altogether so
slatternly and untidy that even Fanny was struck with the contrast in
their appearance.

"Are you out for your holiday, Fan?" she said, as she slipped her arm
in Fanny's.

Fanny knew that neither mother nor father would be pleased to see her
with Jessie Collins, and she tried to get away from her as they drew
near their own house. But Jessie held her arm tightly.

"I haven't told you half the news yet, Fan!" she exclaimed. "I tell you
it is as true as I am here that there'll be work soon for all us girls,
and we need not go to service, and I for one am very glad of it."

"Oh, if you get a nice comfortable place, I don't see why—"

Jessie laughed mockingly. "I do though," she said. "And I told mother
this morning she needn't bother herself to look for another place for
me, for I shall go to work in the blacking factory as soon as ever it
opens."

Fanny made a wry face. "I hate the smell of blacking," she said.

"So do I," answered Jessie; "but it isn't so bad when it gives you
liberty to go where you like in the evening, and dress how you like,
too."

Fanny glanced at her companion and smiled. But just then a voice was
heard calling her in a loud tone, and she crept through the hedge
again, and came face to face with her brother.

"You've been out with that Jessie Collins, instead of waiting indoors
to see me and father," he said accusingly.

"I didn't go out on purpose to see Jessie," replied his sister, in an
aggrieved tone. And she ran in to see her father.

"Well, my girl, what made you run off just as I was coming in?" he said.

"Oh, she caught sight of that Jess Collins," announced Jack, who had
followed her into the kitchen.

Her father looked from one to the other as Fanny's face flushed angrily.

"Look here, Fanny," he said, "it don't matter just for this once, of
course, but it would not be wise to make a friend of Jessie Collins.
She is about in the streets too much of a night to please me, and I
told her father the other day that no girl of mine should ever be about
as Jessie is, and so, to please me, I hope you won't go to meet her
again."

"I didn't go to meet her, father," said Fanny, darting an angry look at
her brother.

"There, no teasing, Jack," said his father. "Fanny is a visitor to-day,
and I hope her first holiday will be a happy one," he said, patting her
head. "See what a nice pudding mother has made for dinner, just because
her girl was coming home for her first holiday."

If Brown had wondered why Fanny had ran off as she did, he thought it
best to say nothing about it just now, and he made room for her to sit
beside him, and pushed his own plate aside to make room for her dinner,
which had been kept hot in front of the fire by Eliza.

"Never mind about the wages," she whispered, as she placed it on the
table before her sister.

"You must make haste, or we shall eat all the pudding," said her
father, jokingly.

Fanny had put the watch out of sight, and she was glad of it, for now
there would be no more disagreeable questions asked unless her mother
should say something about it, which at present seemed very unlikely.
And so the dinner passed off pleasantly, and no reference was made to
either watch or wages during the rest of the meal.

"I shall see you again at tea-time, my girl; and if we aren't wanted to
work late to-night, I will see you home, like I used to see mother when
she was a girl in service," and Brown nodded to his wife as he took his
cap from its nail at the back of the door and went off with Jack to
work.

When the dinner-things were cleared away, Fanny agreed to go with her
two younger sisters to the National School to see her former governess
and tell her how she was getting on, for she had recommended Fanny
for this place, and, of course, would be glad to hear she was giving
satisfaction. The two younger girls were very proud to walk with their
elder sister to school once more. Selina was eight and Minnie twelve,
so that Fanny felt quite grown up beside these two, and took a hand of
each as they went up the street together, and quite forgot the trouble
of the morning for a little while. But before the school was reached,
Selina said—

"Isn't it a pity poor 'Liza can't have new clothes to go to the
seaside?"

"What do you know about it, Miss Inquisitive?" said Fanny, sharply.

"I heard mother and 'Liza talking about it when we came home from
school. Don't you wish mother had money enough to buy some new frocks?"

"Why, of course I do, little stupid!" said Fanny, crossly, as though
she thought Selina had spoken like this on purpose to vex and annoy
her; and then that her mother must have told the children all about the
watch.

"I dare say mother will manage somehow," said Minnie, after a pause.

But Selina shook her head. "Mother can't make new frocks out of
nothing," she said.

But just then the school was reached, and other girls gathered round
the sisters, and Fanny was soon telling her former schoolfellows what
a nice comfortable place she had got, and how kind and considerate her
mistress was to everybody. And then the school-bell suddenly stopped,
and there was a general scamper among the girls to reach their classes
in time to answer when their names were called, and Fanny was left
standing near the door of the schoolroom until the governess had
finished calling the names and was at liberty to speak to her.

Then she called Fanny to her table and shook hands with her, and said
how glad she was to hear such a good account of her from her mistress.

Fanny opened her eyes in some surprise. "I did not know you knew Mrs.
Lloyd," she said.

"She is a friend of a friend of mine," explained the governess, "and I
met her at this friend's house a few days ago. When she spoke of you,
she said what a nice, neat, tidy girl you were. You have your mother to
thank for a good deal, Fanny," added the governess.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny, and then she asked after several
schoolfellows and teachers whom she did not see in their places.

She stayed until playtime, and then went out and had a chat with some
other old friends until the children returned to school, and then she
went home.

"Fanny, dear, I am so sorry, and so is father, I know; but Jack has
just been to say they have got to work late to-night, and so father
won't be able to walk home with you as he hoped he should." And Mrs.
Brown kissed Fanny by way of consolation for this disappointment, and
also in token that all the disagreeables of the morning were over and
done with.

"Oh, mother, how tiresome everything is!" exclaimed Fanny. "I made sure
father would walk home with me."

"Never mind, Fan, mother will go instead," said Eliza, who always
thought a walk with her mother the best part of any holiday.

But Fanny sniffed at the proposal. She was afraid that if her mother
went with her she might ask more questions about the watch; and if she
thought she ought not to have given ten shillings for it, what would
she say if she found out that the price she had agreed to pay was two
pounds in monthly instalments of three shillings a month. The woman who
had come to the kitchen entrance at her mistress's house had assured
her that it was the cheapest watch that had ever been sold for that
money; but she was afraid that her mother might not be of the same
opinion, and so, for peace' sake, she resolved to say nothing about
this to anybody, nor mention the watch again to any one at home.

She found there was a pile of her own old underclothes on the table
when she went into the kitchen, and Eliza was contentedly patching and
darning these under her mother's direction.

"There is a good bit of wear in some of the things," said Mrs. Brown,
in answer to Fanny's look of surprise. "You grew so fast the last year,
Fanny, that you got too big for them, and they were torn rather than
worn out, and so I think they will do for Eliza for a little while."

"But you can't make frocks out of these things," said Fanny.

"No; but if we get these ready, mother says the frocks may come in good
time; and so, as I am not going to school, I can mend these ready,"
said Eliza, with quite a happy look on her pale, delicate face.

Like her sister Minnie, she had the fullest confidence that her mother
would manage "somehow," and that the neatly mended, outgrown clothes
would go with her to the seaside after all. So she sat and sewed and
darned, while Fanny told all about her visit to the school. She agreed
to carry her father's tea to the factory that her sister might keep on
with her work. Then they had their own tea, which Mrs. Brown contrived
should be a happy, merry meal; for she did not want Fanny to feel that
they were not all very glad to have her at home for her holiday, and
she was very sorry that anything had occurred to spoil the day they had
all looked forward to with so much anticipation.

Of course it was Fanny's own folly that had caused all the
unpleasantness. Mrs. Brown did not hide this fact from herself, nor
could she feel otherwise than disappointed that her Fanny, whom she
was so proud of, had been both foolish and selfish in spending all her
first wages before she reached home, to know whether any of the money
was required for the others.

But there should be no more said about it, Mrs. Brown was determined;
and so, when they set out on their walk this evening, she said, in a
cheery tone—

"Now, you musn't worry yourself about Eliza, what is done can't be
helped, and I think I shall manage to get her what she wants if father
has to work later two or three times. I have got enough, I think, to
make her two white aprons like yours, for Aunt Mary sent me a nice long
length for you, when she heard that you had got a place. She sent me
ten shillings, too, towards getting your new things, so that I cannot
ask her to help me with Eliza's as well."

"And, then, I was always her favourite," put in Fanny, "so, of course,
she would like to help me."

"Oh yes, of course," said her mother, with a smile.

"If aunt sent you ten shillings and all that stuff for aprons I can't
owe you much, can I, mother?" said Fanny; for she was thinking just
then of the large sum of money she still owed for that watch. And if
she was in debt to her mother too, whenever would she be able to buy
herself a new best dress?

Her mother was a little startled at the question.

"In debt?" she repeated. "I never thought of it in that way. We have
always been ready to help each other, and I thought when you were able
to earn money for yourself, you would like to help the rest of us."

"Oh yes," assented Fanny, "I should, of course, when I could afford it.
But you said this morning I owed you money for my things; but if aunt
sent that money and stuff for me, it can't be much, not worth talking
about."

"No, not worth talking about," repeated Mrs. Brown, in a mechanical
tone. But as she said the words a chill seemed to creep over her, as
though a great gulf had all at once arisen between her and her dear
child Fanny, separating them and putting a stranger in the place of the
girl she had been so proud to call "my Fanny" only a few hours before.

There was silence between the two for a minute after this, and Fanny
vaguely felt that she had hurt her mother, but still with the thought
of all the money she owed for the watch, she wanted to be quite clear
as to what her mother could claim from her, and so she said—

"Of course, I hope you will be able to send Eliza away all right, and
she is welcome to the muslin aunt sent for me, and to all the clothes I
left at home, but I don't think I shall be able to give you any money
as well."

"No, Fanny, I shall never ask for it or expect it again."

Mrs. Brown said these last words with a tremor in her voice, and as
soon as Fanny had reached the end of her walk, she kissed her and bade
her good night, and turned to walk up the garden path without another
word.

Halfway back Mrs. Brown met her husband, who had come straight from his
work to walk home with her.

"Why, what is it, mother? Haven't you anything to tell me about our
girl?"

For answer Mrs. Brown said, "I'm tired, Tom. This walk has been almost
too much for me, I think. I can't talk about anything to-night."

"Come along, then; take my arm. Never mind the dirty jacket. I will
help you home, and you shall go straight to bed, or else you will be
having one of your bad headaches, and we can't afford that just now,
can we?"

Mrs. Brown went to bed as soon as she reached home, and she had to
spend the whole of the next day there; but no word passed her lips
about Fanny and her watch, and, wisely or unwisely, she said no word to
her husband that the girl had bought one.



CHAPTER II

ELIZA

"IF you please, ma'am, mother says if 'Liza Brown isn't going to be
nursemaid at the Vicarage, couldn't you send our Polly? She's bigger
than 'Liza," added the girl, looking up at her former teacher as if to
challenge any contradiction of this assertion.

Miss Martin, the teacher of the National School, was silent with
amazement as she listened to the proposal. But she had long wanted
to have a word with her former scholar, Jessie Collins, and this was
too good an opportunity to be lost, and so, instead of expressing the
surprise she felt, she simply looked the girl over in her shabby fine
frock, and said—

"Surely your mother must know that I do not choose the Vicarage
servants, Jessie? And I have not heard that Eliza Brown was going for
more than a month, to help with the children while they are away at the
seaside."

Jessie nodded. "Yes, that's it," she said. "But 'Liza can't go; her
mother can't afford to buy her the new frocks. But mother will get
Polly a nice lot of new things!" and Jessie glanced complacently at her
own fine frock as she spoke.

"I have not heard anything about this, Jessie!" said her teacher; "but
I am sure of this, that the question of new frocks would be of far less
importance to the Vicar and Mrs. Parsons, than the character of the
girl they chose to be with the children," said Miss Martin, looking
earnestly at Jessie as she spoke.

"Well, nobody can't say a word against our Polly!" said Jessie, in a
defiant tone.

"Polly is a quiet, steady girl; and I wish you were like her," said her
teacher. "Are you in service now, Jessie?" she suddenly asked.

"No, ma'am, I ain't; and I don't think I shall go again."

"Why not? The place I recommended you for was a nice comfortable one, I
know."

"Well, I wasn't treated fairly, and I didn't stop," said Jessie, in a
sullen tone.

"Not treated fairly?" repeated her governess.

"Well, no," asserted Jessie; "mother bought me a new frock when I had
been there a month. I chose it myself, mother said I might; and the
missis said it was not at all suitable for a servant, so I just give
notice and left."

"But you have had another place since?" said the teacher, in a
questioning tone.

"Yes, but it was just about the same; she said I thought more about
finery than I did about my work; so I'm going to the new blacking
factory as soon as it opens."

"Oh, Jessie, I am very sorry to hear this, because you are placing
yourself in the way of temptations you may not be able to resist, and
may be sorry for it all the rest of your life."

"I don't like service," muttered the girl.

"My girl, everybody, in every station of life, has to endure things
they do not like, it is the way God teaches and trains us all, and it
would be much better for you to be in a respectable, comfortable home,
learning to be useful, than playing about the street as you have been
lately."

"Who said I ran the streets?" demanded the girl.

"I have seen it for myself, and I feel very sorry that a bright, clever
girl like you, who could be such a useful woman in the world by-and-by,
should just throw away all her chances which she will never have again."

"What chances?" asked Jessie, in a more gentle tone.

"The chances to learn all sorts of useful things; how to cook in the
most economical way. How to make a house clean and neat. A mistress is
always ready to teach her young maid these things, and while she is
learning them she is earning a character for herself too, that is of
more value than anything else, if she only does her work faithfully and
truly, as God's servant, as well as a household servant."

Jessie was evidently touched by the kindly tone in which these words
were spoken.

"Thank you, ma'am. I didn't know you cared about me now," she said.

"But I do care for you, and want to see you grow up a happy useful
woman, of whom I can be proud to say that she was one of my scholars
when she was a girl."

Tears had filled Jessie's eyes while her governess had been speaking.

"If it wasn't so hard," she murmured, "I'd like to please you like
that," she said.

"Nothing that is worth having is gained without hard work. Before I
could be a teacher, I had to learn many hard lessons, not from books
only; although I had to sit learning from books when I would gladly
have gone out for a walk, or to see my friends; so that I know what
hard work is better than you do."

"But you didn't have to go to service," muttered Jessie.

"No, God had fitted me to be a teacher, and opened the way for me to
learn to do my work properly. He has placed you where you can learn
to be useful by helping others to make their home nice and neat and
comfortable. Your strong, young arms can move a brush and broom much
better than some who are older and weaker, while they can teach you
many things you need to learn, if you are to be a capable, useful woman
by-and-by. Try to think of going to service in this way. We all have
to help each other in some way, and God wants many of the young girls
to use their strength to help those who are weaker and less able to
do housework. In doing this, you are helping mother and father too,
as well as yourself. Now, think over what I have said, and I hope you
will soon get another place. But if you should not do that just now,
remember that your old governess is always your friend, and ready to
help you whenever she can. Now, tell mother I hope she won't want to
take Polly away from school yet. She is a year younger than Eliza
Brown, although she is a bigger girl."

"All right, teacher," said Jessie, with a nod, "Polly shall stop at
school just as long as you want her to," she added, as though she had
the ruling of all such matters in her home.

Miss Martin looked after her, and sighed as she went out of the school,
for she feared that the influence at home was not likely to help the
girl to a right decision in the ordering of her life. And then her
thoughts turned to her other scholar, and she decided to send for Mrs.
Brown, and find out what truth there was in Jessie's report.

She knew the Browns had had a good deal of trouble. The father had
been ill, and out of work for some time, and she knew that Eliza was
delicate, and often under the doctor's care; but surely a managing
woman like Mrs. Brown, with the help she would get now from Fanny's
wages, would be able to get the girl decent clothes, so that she might
have the benefit of the Vicar's kind offer; and she called Selina from
her class, and told her to run home and ask her mother to come to the
school at four o'clock, as she wanted to speak to her as soon as the
girls were dismissed.

"I wonder what it can be!" said Eliza, anxiously, when she heard the
message. "I hope it isn't to say I am not wanted, now we have got such
a lot of things ready."

"You haven't got any new frocks," put in the chatterbox Selina.

"Never mind, they are coming, mother says," answered Eliza.

"Oh yes, they are coming!" said Mrs. Brown.

"The stuff will be here, I dare say, by the time I have finished all I
have got to do. Now, run back and tell your governess I will come at
four o'clock; and don't you chatter among the girls about things you
hear at home," added Mrs. Brown, as Selina went out.

Mrs. Brown reached the school just as the girls came trooping into the
playground, and she went on as soon as the crowd had passed, and Miss
Martin placed a chair for her near her own, for she thought she looked
very ill, and she said so.

"No, ma'am, I am not ill, but I think I got a bit overtired the day
Fanny came home for her holiday;" and she sighed as though the memory
of that day had a pain in it that could not be forgotten.

"It is about Eliza that I want to see you. I heard this afternoon that
you would not be able to let her go to the seaside after all," said
Miss Martin; and she looked as though she thought Mrs. Brown ought to
do anything rather than let her child lose such a chance as the Vicar
had offered.

Mrs. Brown coloured. "I wonder who could have said such a thing!" she
exclaimed. "We are working away—Eliza and I—to get her things ready,
and I hope we shall get the new frocks as well by the time they are
wanted," she added.

"Has there been any difficulty in this matter?" said the governess. "I
thought Fanny would be able to help you a little, for she told me what
nice new clothes you were making for her to take with her to her first
place; and, of course, she has her first month's wages now, and very
little use for the money."

The governess echoed exactly what her own thoughts had been, until she
saw Fanny and that watch. But however much Mrs. Brown might have been
pained by her daughter's behaviour, she did not wish the governess to
know anything about it, and so she made some confused allusion to her
husband's long illness, which left Miss Martin in doubt as to whether
Fanny had helped her mother or not; but at the same time the general
character of the family was so good, that she said—

"Now, Mrs. Brown, you must not let Eliza miss this chance of going to
the sea, and so I will ask you to accept the loan of five shillings for
a few weeks. You can repay it a shilling a week, as you can spare the
money; but I want you to get all Eliza will need to make her tidy and
comfortable. There is a warm woollen dress of my own that does not fit
me since I had it washed, but would, I think, make a nice one for the
seaside, if the weather should happen to be too cold for cotton frocks.
If you will come home with me, you might take it back with you."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am! Indeed, I shall be very glad to accept your
kind offer," said Mrs. Brown; and as she spoke, the tears filled her
eyes, and she looked up so gratefully at Miss Martin that the lady felt
quite glad she had remembered the old dress that had been a source of
vexation to her lately.

To Mrs. Brown it was a splendid gift. Just what Eliza needed, for
her own winter frock she had outgrown, and it was very shabby and
threadbare, while this was soft and warm, and just the colour suitable
for a seaside frock, and she carried home her parcel, feeling so
thankfully delighted, that she might have been walking on air rather
than common earth.

"More work, Eliza," she said, holding up her parcel as soon as she went
in.

"What is that?" asked little Selina, curiously. Mrs. Brown had not
noticed that the child was in the room.

"Now, Selina, was it you that told some of the girls at school that
I could not get new frocks for Eliza? I was very vexed to hear about
this to-day; and if ever you talk about home affairs at school again, I
have asked your teacher to punish you. Now you can go out to play," she
added. And the little girl, with drooping head, opened the back door
and went into the garden.

"Miss Martin has been very kind indeed, but she does not wish it to be
known, and so the girls must not go to school and chatter about it."
And then she opened the parcel, and showed Eliza the soft, warm dress
that would make her such a beautiful frock for the seaside.

"Oh, mother, it is too good for every day!" said the girl.

"Well now, I had a talk about that with Miss Martin, and she told me
to tell you to let Nurse decide when you ought to wear a warm frock.
You are not very strong, and the frock is to be worn when the days are
chilly; so remember to ask Nurse to tell you when you had better wear
it. And the next thing for us to do is to make it."

"Oh, mother, what a good thing it was we began to mend up Fanny's old
things!" said Eliza, as she turned over her governess's discarded dress
with a view to decide how much alteration would be required to make it
fit her. And when tea was over the dress was tried on, and then the
unpicking began, and everybody was busy doing something to make ready
for Eliza's visit to the seaside.

Her father was putting new thick soles on her boots, and Jack new
hinges to a small wooden box that would just hold her clothes, when
the postman's sharp rat-tat at the door startled them, and he brought
a parcel from Aunt Mary—"material to make Eliza a new best dress," she
said, in the letter that came with it. "You will be sure to get her
suitable cotton frocks," she wrote; "but the girl will want a new best
dress, I am sure, and as I sent Fanny one last year, it is Eliza's turn
now."

"Well, I am afraid I shall not be able to make it for you before you
go away," said her mother, with a sigh of relief, as she thought how
all their fears had been dispelled and Eliza provided for. The cotton
frocks would be bought the next day; but mother and daughter both
decided that the best dress could not be made until the others were
finished and everything else got ready. "I may not be able to make it
before you go," said her mother; "but you could wear one of your new
cotton frocks for the first Sunday, and I will let you have the best
one for the Sunday after, for you will want to go to church."

"Yes; I dare say I shall have to take that dear little Master Eustace,"
said Eliza. "He looks such a darling, sitting in the Vicarage pew, that
I shall like to have him sitting next to me at church."

"All right, my girl; there is nothing like being in love with your
work, whatever it is," said her father. "But you need not expect the
little chap is always going to behave like an angel; there will be
squalls sometimes, I dare say, and you will have to be patient and
gentle when you would like to scold and be angry. But you must just
think of mother, and what a deal she has to put up with from one and
the other of us here, and what a different home it would be if she got
angry and lost her temper every time we vex her."

Eliza nodded. "I will try to think of it, daddy, and think of how you
are all helping me to go away, and—"

"I don't know so much about that," interrupted her brother. "We shall
miss you more than we do Fan, I know, because you are always ready to
help anybody when you can; and so I'm not so glad you are going away, I
can tell you. Only I want you to have everything nice and comfortable
when you do go," added Jack.

They laughed at Jack; but there was no doubt he expressed the general
feeling of the family in what he said, for Fanny had always considered
herself first in anything she was asked to do for anybody else. If
it suited her mood just at the time, she would do what was asked of
her; but it she had to sacrifice any ease or pleasure, then she would
refuse, though it might be plainly her duty to do what was required.

Mrs. Brown had noticed this trait in Fanny's character before she left
home, but hoped that the discipline of being in service would help her
to overcome it; and it was this hope, so cruelly disappointed, that
had made Fanny's behaviour so deeply painful to her mother the day she
came home for her holiday, and she feared that nothing less than a very
severe lesson would be sufficient to teach Fanny what a mistake she was
making in choosing to gratify herself rather than seeking to be helpful
to others.

She made no remark about this when Jack was speaking, but she could not
help thinking of it, and could not contradict the children when, one
after the other, they each in their own way said that Fanny always took
care of herself first.

"Wait a bit, wait a bit, Jack," said his father, at last. "I like fair
play, and Fan isn't here to defend herself, and she hasn't been tried
yet, and so we can't say what she may do." Brown was very fond of his
elder daughter, and could not bear to hear her blamed. "What do you
say, mother?" he suddenly asked, turning to his wife.

"I am too busy to talk to-night," she said. "I want to get on with
Eliza's frock, for we cannot tell when she may be wanted to pack up and
be off," and so Mrs. Brown evaded saying one word about Fanny either of
blame or defence; but Jack held to his own opinion, and said it was a
good thing for the Vicarage children that it was Eliza instead of Fanny
who would look after them under Nurse's direction during their stay at
the seaside.

"They'll have a jolly time with Eliza, if the Nurse will only give
her a chance," said Jack. And as no one attempted to contradict this
assertion, the discussion dropped, and was apparently forgotten by all
but the girl's mother and father.



CHAPTER III

THAT WATCH

"GOOD morning, miss. I've come from Judds' the watchmakers." And the
speaker, a shabbily dressed young man, drew a book and pencil from his
pocket as he spoke.

"Do you want some more money for my watch?" asked Fanny, with a gasp,
and drawing the door close behind her. "The missis is in the kitchen,"
she whispered.

"All right. We don't want to see the missis about this business, do
we? Three shillings, if you please." And when Fanny took it out of
her pocket, he wrote the amount on a card and handed it to her as he
took the money. "This is your first payment. I shall call every month,
unless you send the money to our place before I come."

"It isn't the first payment," said Fanny, quickly. "I've paid ten
shillings to the lady."

"It's the first you've paid me. I haven't anything to do with money I
don't receive. Good morning." And Fanny hastily put her card in her
pocket as a woman selling cottons appeared.

"Oh yes, I want a reel of cotton," said Fanny loud enough for her
mistress to hear.

"Who is at the door, Fanny?" asked the lady at the same moment.

"I'm buying some cotton and things of a woman," answered Fanny,
thinking how lucky it was the woman happened to come at this moment.
When she returned to the kitchen, her mistress said—

"It would be better for you to buy your buttons and cottons at the
shop, Fanny. The things women sell about the street are never very
good—hardly worth using, in fact."

Fanny made no reply, but having put the saucepan on for the pudding,
went upstairs to sweep one of the bedrooms, and the moment she got
there she took the card out of her pocket to examine it. At the bottom
a slip of pink paper was attached, and on it was printed, "No money is
to be paid to the person who delivers the watch." Fanny read this over
two or three times.

"What can it mean?" she exclaimed, half aloud. "I paid her ten
shillings more than a month ago!" Then she looked more closely at the
card to see if this ten shillings had been put down to her account. But
there was no writing except that done by the young man. He had put down
the three shillings she had paid him, but it was clearly stated on the
card that she was to pay two pounds for the watch, and in the second
column of the card stating the balance still owing, "thirty-seven
shillings" had been set down.

Fanny did not master these facts all at once. Instead of sweeping the
room, she stood near the dressing-table conning her card, and was still
standing there when the door opened and her mistress came in. She put
the card hastily into her pocket just as the lady said—

"Fanny, what are you doing? You came here twenty minutes ago to sweep
the room, and you have not begun it yet."

Fanny picked up her broom and bustled about now, and the lady left
her sweeping vigorously. She had not left the room many minutes when
the broom went down, and Fanny once more had the card out to examine,
wondering and puzzling why the ten shillings she had paid had not been
acknowledged. Little as she knew of business, she remembered that,
whenever she paid the rent at home, the landlord always set down in the
book the sum that was paid, and why should not her ten shillings be set
down on the card in the same way?

It was a puzzle she could not solve, and she took up the broom again.
But her mind was so full of anxiety concerning the ten shillings that
she failed to see where flue and dust had collected in the corners,
and under the furniture, so shortly after the broom and brushes were
carried downstairs Fanny was told to take them back again and sweep the
room properly.

This made her angry. "I have swept it once," she muttered. But she knew
her mistress would be obeyed, and so she sullenly went back to do her
work over again, her mind still full of the card and the ten shillings.

This time she was determined to have everything out of its place, and
swung her broom and brushes about with such vigour that a few minutes
afterwards a crash resounded through the house. A water-jug she had
been told to be particularly careful of was broken in a dozen pieces.
The lady came running upstairs, her worst fears confirmed when she saw
the pieces of broken crockery lying scattered on the floor.

"Fanny, I asked you, when you came, to be very careful of that jug, as
I set great store by it because of the friend who made me a present of
the toilet-set many years ago. The jug was the only thing left of the
original gift, and now that is broken!"

The lady spoke almost mournfully as she looked at her shattered
treasure. Then she glanced at Fanny's angry, defiant face. But there
was no sign of sorrow there, as she muttered—

"I didn't do it on purpose."

"Well, you must save some of the pieces, and go and match it after
dinner. You must pay half the cost, too, for if you had taken more care
it would not have happened."

Fanny burst into tears, not for the loss of the jug so much as that
she would have to part with some of her money to pay for it, and she
resolved to be more careful with the crockery in future. Already she
had broken several cups and plates, but her mistress had simply warned
her against being careless. Now she wished her mistress had made her
pay for the plates, they would have cost far less than the jug, and she
would have handled it more carefully. Some such thought as this had
been in the lady's mind, when she said Fanny must pay half the cost of
this breakage, and she decided that she must be a little more strict
with her young servant in future. Hitherto she had been very lenient
towards her in many things, but Fanny's behaviour this morning had
convinced her that she must look after her more closely, or the work of
the house would be slighted and neglected.

It was an unhappy day both for mistress and maid. The mistress,
of course, knew nothing of the cause that made Fanny so cross and
negligent with her work. And Fanny resolved that no one should know
anything about her watch, and how she was paying for it. Her mother had
told her she knew nothing about buying a watch, and other people would
laugh, and call her a fool, if they heard she had been cheated of ten
shillings; for that was what Fanny began to fear might be the meaning
of the amount not being set down on the card.

It made her very angry to think anybody could cheat her, but she
resolved not to let any one else know it. She was determined no one
should be able to say, 'What a fool Fanny Brown was over that watch!'
The money she had to pay for the water-jug reduced still further the
sum she had left of her month's wages, and she also made the painful
discovery that her boots were wearing out.

Now, Fanny had not thought of wanting new boots. What she did want was
a new best dress; for when her mother provided her with new clothes
this had not been included, because Mrs. Brown could not afford it, for
one thing, and also she thought the old one would last a month or two
longer, and then Fanny would have saved enough money from her wages to
buy it for herself.

Fanny thought of the new frock, and groaned as she saw the condition of
her boots, and then she reflected that she was going home the next day
for her second monthly holiday, and also to see Eliza, who was to start
with the Vicarage party for the seaside the following day.

Fanny did not look very happy when she got home the next morning, and
was scarcely in the mood to rejoice with her sister when she told her
that she had got two new cotton frocks, a nice woollen one, and also
the material for a new best dress, which her aunt had sent.

"I'm sure you don't want that, then!" snapped Fanny. "If you have got a
dress good enough for Governess to wear you can keep that for best, and
let me have the new one."

"But aunt sent you a new frock last year, and she said it was my turn
now," protested Eliza, who felt very disappointed that her sister
showed so little interest in her affairs.

She had not packed her box, because she felt sure Fanny would like to
see everything that was going in it. And now Fanny scarcely noticed
anything, but just turned up her nose when she saw how carefully her
own old clothes had been patched and mended and made to fit her younger
sister.

The old wooden box that had been repainted and repaired by Jack was
a perfect treasure-trove to Eliza and her mother, and both were
disappointed when Fanny showed so little interest in their work.

When her father came home, Fanny greeted him eagerly with the words—

"I see you can mend boots better than ever, daddy. Eliza's do look
nice!"

"Ay, it was about all I could do for the lass," said Mr. Brown.

"Could you mend a pair for me?" said Fanny, coaxingly.

"Lor' bless the girl! I thought you said I cobbled them when you went
to your fine new place," he added, with a laugh, as he kissed Fanny a
second time.

"But you haven't cobbled Eliza's," said Fanny; and she seated herself
beside her father at the dinner-table, and persuaded him to undertake
the repairing of her boots before the meal came to an end. Having thus
succeeded with her father Fanny turned her attention to her mother and
Eliza. "I don't see that you will want a best frock at the seaside,"
she said to her sister, as they wandered out into the garden and then
to the fields beyond.

"Aunt said the stuff was to make me one," said Eliza, wondering whether
she ought to let her sister have it.

She never remembered having a new dress. Hers had always served her
sister first, for when Fanny had outgrown them, they had been done up
and called new for her. She therefore wondered now whether she would
have to give up her aunt's present that Fanny might have the first turn
with the new frock. Fanny tried hard to persuade Eliza that this was
the best way of disposing of their aunt's gift, assuring her that she
would take great care of the new dress, and only wear it for best, and
at last wrung a promise from Eliza that, if their mother was agreeable,
this plan should be adopted.

While they were in the fields, Jessie Collins joined them. She was
still waiting for the blacking factory to open, although she was far
less keen about going there than she had been when she saw Fanny the
last time she was at home.

"How are you getting on, Fan?" she asked. "Do you like your place and
your mistress as much as ever?"

"No, I don't. She's a nasty cross old thing now, and if she don't get
better soon, I shall leave and go somewhere else."

"Oh, Fanny!" exclaimed her sister.

"There, you need not be a telltale, and let mother know what I said,"
exclaimed Fanny. "You're all right. You are going to the seaside just
to play on the sands, so my troubles need not worry you."

"Troubles!" repeated Jessie, with a loud laugh. "It's come to trouble,
has it? Well, I was thinking of going to service again myself; but if
you find trouble in it, I am afraid I should too, and so I had better
stick to my blacking factory, although they are a long time before they
begin business."

"I shall see how you like the blacking, and if you get on, I may try
it," said Fanny.

Jessie looked serious. "Your mother won't like that," she said, "nor
will Governess either. I had a talk with her the other day, and she
almost persuaded me to go to service again," concluded Jessie.

Fanny was anxious not to displease her mother just now, so she would
not stay long talking to Jessie, for fear she should be seen, and so
went indoors to try and have a talk about the new dress.

"Mother, me and Eliza have agreed to have the new frock between us,"
she said, going to have another look at the box which her mother was
packing.

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Brown, rather sharply.

"Well, mother, we always have had our new frocks between us," said
Fanny.

"You mean you have always had the new clothes, and Eliza has had to
wear them when you had done with them. This will be altered in the
future, I hope."

"I don't see why we should not go on in the old way," muttered Fanny.

"What do you mean? What do you want?" asked her mother.

"We both want it," replied Fanny.

"You said it would be better to have the new frock made to fit you,"
interrupted Eliza, who greatly hoped her mother would not consent to
the plan, although she had been coaxed into promising not to oppose it.

"It was all Fanny's idea, of course," said Mrs. Brown, looking keenly
at Eliza.

"Yes, mother. She says she wants a best dress more than I do."

"Very well, if she wants a new frock she is earning money for herself
now, and can buy one," replied her mother.

"No, I can't!" snapped Fanny; and she went out and banged the door
after her. Eliza would have followed her sister, to try and soothe her
ruffled feelings, but her mother called her back.

"I am afraid we have all been spoiling Fanny and making her selfish,"
said Mrs. Brown, gravely. "She has had the new frocks because she was a
big girl, and when she had outgrown them they could be done up for you,
and so she has come to expect that she is always to have the best of
everything, whoever may have to go without. She must learn to consider
other people as well as herself, and so it will be positively unkind to
encourage her in her selfishness when there is no longer any need to do
it. Besides, Aunt Mary said you were to have the new frock this time,
for she knows we have been obliged to let Fanny have the first turn
always."

"I should like a new frock, mother, of course," said Eliza; "but if it
will make Fanny unhappy, I don't mind if it is made to fit her just for
this once."

But her mother shook her head. "I love you both," she said, "and it
would not be really kind to let Fanny have her own way in this matter.
I saw, the last holiday she had, that we had all been making a mistake
about this, and that we should have to turn over a new leaf, and help
Fanny to do the same; and a beginning must be made now, however cross
she may be about it."

"I am afraid she will think me very unkind, as I am going to the
seaside too," said Eliza, with a little tremor in her voice.

"Well, dear, I am sorry it has happened so; but, you know, true love
thinks of the good of the person loved, and not whether it will please
them. Now, to let Fanny have this new frock will do her harm, and not
good. She will be angry, perhaps, that she cannot have her own way, as
usual, and this will be like a dose of bitter medicine to her; but the
medicine will do her good, I hope, and she will be all the happier for
it by-and-by."

Fanny stayed out with some friends until nearly tea-time, and when she
came in she was looking as though she had been deeply injured.

She looked from her mother to her sister to see whether either of them
were prepared to coax and comfort her, but both were busy getting
tea ready—Eliza's last tea at home before she went away—for she was
going to sleep at the Vicarage that night, to be ready to start on her
journey the next day.

"We are to have jam for tea, and mother has made a cake for us as
well," said Eliza, as Fanny took her place at the table.

"You might put father's chair in its place for him," said Mrs. Brown,
looking at Fanny.

This was not the sort of reception the girl expected, and the gloom
deepened on her face; but, after a pause, she said, sullenly—

"What have you settled about that frock?"

"There was nothing to settle!" answered her mother.

"Yes, there was; for Eliza said we had better have it as we always had,
and I thought I would buy the body lining before I went home."

"Do you mean you would like to buy it for Eliza?" asked her mother.

"No, of course not, if the frock isn't to be made to fit me!" said
Fanny, ready to cry with vexation.

"I told you before that your aunt had settled that point. The frock
was sent for Eliza this time, and not for you, and Eliza shall have
it!" Mrs. Brown spoke very decidedly, and her husband coming in at the
moment looked from one to the other, wondering what had happened, and
then Fanny burst into a storm of sobs and tears.

"It is a shame! it is a shame!"

"What is the matter? what is it all about, my girl?" said her father,
taking his seat beside her and laying his hand on her head.

"It's all Aunt Mary's fault!" exclaimed Fanny, through her tears.

"What has Aunt Mary done?" asked her father.

"Well, Fanny seems to think that she is to have every new frock, and
she does not like it because this last one was sent for Eliza and not
for her," answered Mrs. Brown.

It was some time before peace was restored; but as soon as tea was over
Eliza had to go to the Vicarage, and later on, when Fanny was getting
ready to go back, her mother said—

"Now, Fanny, as you walk home, tell your father all about that watch
you bought. I have not said a word to him because I want you to do it!"

Fanny frowned.



CHAPTER IV

JESSIE COLLINS

MRS. BROWN watched rather anxiously for her husband's return, hoping
that Fanny would tell him all about the foolish purchase she had made,
and show her father the watch, if she had it with her. "Ten shillings
is a lot of money for a girl to waste," she said, half aloud, as she
went to the door to look down the street, for the house seemed very
lonely without Eliza. She had not missed Fanny so much, but a dreary
emptiness seemed to pervade the whole house because Eliza was not
there, and she was glad to stand at the door and say "Good night" to
the few neighbours who passed.

At length one of them stopped at the gate and said—

"Isn't it a shocking thing about Mrs. Collins?"

"Why, what has happened?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Haven't you heard? She was taken ill this evening, and the doctor says
she won't live long." At this moment a girl was seen running towards
them, and when she reached the gate she suddenly stopped. She was out
of breath with her run, but she did not wait to recover it.

"Can you lend us a sheet?" she panted.

"Why, it's Jessie Collins!" said Mrs. Brown. "How is your mother now?"

"Doctor says she is a mite better, but I must get clean sheets for her."

She did not look at Mrs. Brown as she said this, for she knew she
was no favourite of hers; and besides, the Browns had always been
people who kept themselves to themselves, making few friends among the
neighbours. But Mrs. Satchell, who stood near the gate, was an old
friend of her mother's, and might be expected to help them.

But Mrs. Satchell made no reply to the appeal for sheets; and Mrs.
Brown, after waiting for her to answer, said—

"I think I can lend you the sheets, Jessie. But they are old ones that
I have patched."

"Oh, thank you! They will do, if they are clean; and I know they will
be if they are yours, Mrs. Brown," added the girl, gratefully.

Mrs. Brown went upstairs for the sheets, and when she brought them down
she said—

"Now, can I help you put them on the bed, or have you got anybody else
to help you?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown. If you could spare a little time I should be
glad, for you know how to do everything, mother says."

"Very well. You run back to your mother, and I will soon follow." And
Mrs. Brown said "Good night" to her other neighbour, and was turning
indoors when Mrs. Satchell stopped her.

"Look here, Mrs. Brown," she said, "you don't know what you're doing,
lending sheets and helping them. I know Jessie and her mother too. And—"

"Yes; they are your friends," said Mrs. Brown, rather shortly; and
once more saying "Good night," she went and told Minnie, who had just
gone to bed, that she must lie awake until her father came home, and
then tell him that she had gone to help Jessie Collins make her mother
comfortable. "Father has got the key, and can let himself in, and so
you need not get up," added her mother, as she took a clean apron out
of the drawer, and also a clean pillow-case, which she thought Jessie
might have forgotten to ask for.

She had never been inside Jessie's home before, and the sight of the
dirty, close-smelling room she passed through on her way upstairs made
her feel sick.

"It isn't cold to-night," she said, as she went up the stairs; "and if
you were to set this downstairs window open it would make the bedroom
fresher."

"All right," answered Jessie; and she dashed down again and sent the
window up with a bang.

The bedroom was worse than Mrs. Brown had imagined. The sick woman had
lain down in her clothes on the unmade bed, and now lay moaning, half
unconscious of her surroundings.

"Doctor said she was to be quiet, so I wouldn't let any of 'em come up
to her," said Jessie, by way of explaining matters.

Mrs. Brown scarcely knew where to begin the task of making things
comfortable, but at last, with Jessie's help, she began to arrange the
unoccupied side of the bed, rolling up the sheets, ready to pass under
the invalid when they had made her ready to move.

To get her day-clothes off and a clean nightdress put on took nearly
an hour, and they had just completed this task when the doctor came in
again. He looked at his patient first, and then glanced at Mrs. Brown,
whom he recognized at once.

"You have been at work, I can see," he remarked. "You must not disturb
her further to-night, but if the room could be cleaned to-morrow it
would give her a better chance of pulling through this illness."

"You think mother will get better, sir," said Jessie, eagerly.

"She is certainly better now; but you must still be very careful, my
girl, and do exactly as I tell you. You could not have a better friend
than Mrs. Brown," he added.

"I wouldn't let none of the others come in, as you said they were
making mother worse."

Jessie said this in a tone of triumph, as the doctor went downstairs,
closely followed by Mrs. Brown, who wanted to know what was the matter
with Mrs. Collins.

"Nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Brown. Various causes have been at work
to bring about this attack. She is not a very strong woman, and close
air, dirt, and a little intemperance together have done the mischief.
Now, her daughter seems a well-meaning girl, but she wants the help and
guidance of a friend, and so, if you could give her a few hints, as you
would to your own girls, it would probably be of great service to her
and her mother."

"I will do what I can, sir," said Mrs. Brown.

"We can none of us do more," said the doctor; and then he paused a
moment to say, "I am very glad to hear that my little patient Eliza is
going to the seaside with the Vicar's children. I don't think the work
of looking after them will be too much for her now." And then, with a
hasty "Good night," the doctor hurried away.

Jessie was coming down the stairs when Mrs. Brown went back.

"Mother wants something to drink," she said. "What shall I give her?"

"What did the doctor say she might have when he was here before?"

"Hot milk with a little water in it, or barley-water. She don't care
about the milk; where can I get the other? Is it some kind of ale?"

"Oh no; you make it yourself, by boiling some barley and—"

But there Mrs. Brown stopped, for she could see by the expression of
Jessie's face that she had never heard of barley-water before, and so
she said—

"You must give your mother the milk to-night, and I will make some
barley-water at home, and bring round in the morning. What time will
your father be home?" she asked; for she did not think the girl ought
to be left alone with the invalid all night.

But Jessie declared she was not at all afraid, and her sister and
brother would be with her.

"Father don't come home till Saturday, and goes back Sunday night,"
added Jessie.

"Then you lie down on the bed beside your mother, so as to get a little
rest," said Mrs. Brown, "and to-morrow I will come and help you clean
mother's room, for the doctor says it must be done, and everything made
fresh and nice, or she cannot get better."

"I know he said before that the house wasn't as clean as it might be,
and I asked him if I should clean mother's bedroom, and he said I might
take the carpets up and leave them downstairs if I didn't make a noise,
and perhaps I might clean it another day. If you come in the morning
you'll tell me what to do," said Jessie.

The girl's willingness to do as she was told quite astonished Mrs.
Brown, and made her all the more willing to teach her and help her out
of her various difficulties. Her mind was so full of these that when
she got home, and found her husband waiting for her, she could only
tell him of the state of affairs she had found in their neighbour's
home, and forgot to ask whether Fanny had confided to him the story of
the watch she had bought.

As soon as she had put the supper on the table for her husband she
washed some barley and put it on to boil, in preparation for the
morning, talking all the time about Eliza and what the doctor had said
about her visit to the seaside, and how surprised she was to find
Jessie Collins willing and anxious to do everything possible for her
mother's comfort, now she was ill.

"I always thought she was such a naughty wilful girl, that I forbade
our girls playing with her," added Mrs. Brown.

"Quite right, mother, quite right," said her husband. "For, of course,
if our Fan had been allowed to run the street as this Jessie has, she
would not be the lass she now is."

Mrs. Brown did not reply, but did not feel sure that Fanny was so much
better than Jessie, as she had hitherto supposed; but she would not
say a word of this to her husband, for he was so fond and proud of his
elder daughter, and why should she try to make him uncomfortable over
what might be a very trivial thing after all. The thought of the watch
had occurred to her; but her husband had not mentioned it, and so she
concluded that Fanny had not told him anything about it. She wished she
had, but in the graver matters of the Collins' household this seemed
of little or no importance, and she decided not to say anything about
it just now, but to try again to persuade Fanny to tell her father all
about it.

The next morning, as soon as the breakfast was cleared away and the
necessary preparations made for dinner, Mrs. Brown took the jug of
barley-water she had made, and went to see the sick woman again.

"She was awful bad in the night!" said Jessie, who had apparently
waited the arrival of Mrs. Brown before doing anything but getting
breakfast ready. She and Polly had just finished their meal and were
waiting gloomily over the fire.

"Shall I go up and see your mother?" asked Mrs. Brown. "I have brought
her the barley-water, Has she had anything this morning?"

"No; she wouldn't have a cup of tea, because I wouldn't give her a drop
of ale last night."

"You must not give her ale until the doctor says you may. Perhaps she
will like a little of the barley-water for a change. Give me a clean
glass, that will be a change from the cup she has been having the milk
in."

Jessie knew very little of illness, and she thought at first that these
small details were mere whims of Mrs. Brown's, until she went upstairs
and saw how eagerly her mother took the barley-water when Mrs. Brown
raised her head and put the glass to her lips.

"Now we will make the bed comfortable before the doctor comes. Fetch
me some warm water, and I will wash mother's face and hands," said
Mrs. Brown; and Jessie went to do her bidding, while she shook up the
pillows and arranged the bedclothes.

When the patient was washed, Jessie asked if she could clean the room.
Mrs. Brown could see that it was very dirty, but, until the doctor
came, she did not like to have it disturbed, and so she told Jessie
it would be better to begin on the room downstairs. As Polly had not
gone to school, she might also wash up the piles of dirty crockery that
stood about wherever there was room to put them.

It was little wonder that Jessie and her sister looked dismayed, for
Mrs. Brown, with all her experience, had to look round the dreary,
dirty kitchen and consider where a beginning should be made.

At last she said, "Put a large saucepan of water on the fire at once,
with a lump of soda in it, and, while it is getting hot, sort over the
dirty things. Put the cups and saucers together to be washed first, and
greasy plates and dishes wash afterwards."

But it was soon found that there was not a saucepan clean enough to
heat the water until one was washed; and Mrs. Brown did this herself,
by way of example, for both girls refused to do this unpleasant work.

Just as the saucepan was filled and put on the fire, the doctor came.

He said the patient was no worse, and then gave directions for the
bedroom to be thoroughly cleaned, but urged that it should be done as
quietly and quickly as possible, and no other visitors than Mrs. Brown
admitted to the sick-room. Then he left directions for the patient's
food and medicine, and went away.

"Now I shall have to go and look for a pail," said Jessie.

"We shall want a broom first," said Mrs. Brown. "I will sweep the walls
and ceiling for you, for I can see there are several cobwebs hanging
about."

Jessie looked dismayed. "I don't believe we've got a broom," she said,
scratching her head. "Father broke the last, hitting mother with it. He
said if she wouldn't use it he would; and then the handle broke, and
mother put it all on the fire."

"Have you found a pail?" asked Mrs. Brown; "because I must go home for
a few minutes to see about the dinner, and I will bring some things
back with me."

A look round the yard and scullery followed, but very little was found,
and at length Mrs. Brown said—

"You had better come with me, Jessie, and I will lend you what you want
for to-day; and then if you cannot find your own things, you must ask
your father to buy some when he comes home on Saturday."

It was Jessie's first visit to Fanny's home, and she looked round the
neat, tidy kitchen in amazement.

"Oh, I say, I know how it is Fanny likes going to service! She knew how
to keep a place nice, and to tidy before she went. But the missis was
always scolding me for the things getting dirty."

"Well, you know, it is never too late to mend, Jessie," said her new
friend. "And now you have a good opportunity of doing many useful
things, for your mother requires a great deal of care, the doctor says."

"Will you show me how to make our kitchen like this?" asked the girl.
"Why, if father could only have a place like this to sit in when he
comes home from work, I don't believe he would want to go to the public
of an evening; and he'll soon come back here to work, I expect."

"Well, my girl, you ought to be able to make things comfortable for
your father and mother too. I will certainly do what I can to help you
get things straight for him before Saturday."

"I shall have to send Polly for some soap and soda and things to clean
with;" which reminded Mrs. Brown that the clean rags that had been
thrown aside lately would be handy for cleaning windows and dusting
furniture, for it would be too much to expect that dusters would be
found in the Collins's household.

So the empty pail was filled with various articles that would be needed
for the house-cleaning, and Jessie was directed to send for blacklead
to clean the grate, as well as soap and soda.

"And what about your dinner? You and Polly will want some dinner."

"Oh, mother sends to the cookshop, or else we have steak."

"Well, when she goes out to one shop, she might go to the other and
bring what you want. Another day I will show you how to make a nice
stew; but we must get the saucepans cleaned first," added Mrs. Brown.

While she had been talking she had been cutting up vegetables and
adding them to the contents of a saucepan on the hob.

"Is that stew?" asked Jessie, sniffing the savoury odour when Mrs.
Brown stirred the contents.

"Yes, that is stew; it will cook itself if I make up the fire, so that
I can come back with you for another hour and show you how to set about
your work."

They went back, and Mrs. Brown swept walls and ceilings of both kitchen
and bedroom, for both were festooned with dirt and cobwebs. Jessie
was eager to set about scrubbing the floor, but Mrs. Brown insisted
that the grate must be cleaned and the floor swept first. At last
Jessie brought her pail, but her mother could not hear the sound of
the scrubbing-brush, as it made her head so much worse. A good deal of
dirt, however, could be removed by careful washing, and the windows
cleaned; a clean curtain put up made it look quite a different place,
and for once it smelled fresh and clean.

Then Mrs. Brown showed the girls how to make barley-water, after
scouring out the cleanest of the saucepans for the purpose. Polly was
busy the whole morning washing up the dirty crockery, and Mrs. Brown
returned in the afternoon to direct the cleaning of cupboards and
dresser, that these might all be put away before the scrubbing of the
floor began.

They could not tell whether the patient upstairs approved of all this
turning out. Sometimes Jessie and sometimes Mrs. Brown went up with
milk or barley-water, but she made no comment on what was going on
after the scrubbing in her own bedroom was given up.



CHAPTER V

A RENOVATED HOME

MRS. BROWN was surprised to find how steadily Jessie kept on with her
work of house-cleaning. Of course, it was something new and novel, and
Mrs. Brown thought that when the novelty wore off, Jessie would get
tired of sweeping and scrubbing and making things tidy, especially as
she also had to run up and down stairs to wait upon her mother.

But she never flagged in this duty. She made fresh barley-water every
day, and when the doctor ordered beef-tea she asked her new-found
friend how it was to be made, and was most careful to see that the
saucepan was quite clean before she put the meat into it.

Of course, the cleaning was far from perfect. The windows were not as
clear and bright as well-cleaned windows should be, and the floor had
streaks of dirt in places, as well as other failures that a careful
housewife like Mrs. Brown could not fail to notice; but she was careful
to say little of these failings just at first, but to commend Jessie
for trying to make home more comfortable now that she was free to do
it. Mrs. Brown soon discovered from chance words that Mrs. Collins
not only disliked house-cleaning herself, but hated anything to be
disturbed by other people doing it. So Jessie had never been taught or
encouraged to try and do anything beyond running errands for her mother
and washing a few tea-things occasionally.

By Saturday night, however, the house had been cleaned from top to
bottom, and when Collins walked into the kitchen, with its bright,
clean grate, he stared with amazement at the changed appearance of his
home.

"I hope mother ain't no worse than when you sent to tell me she was
ill," he said, wondering what the change might portend.

"No, father, she's better," said Jessie, who had just come down from
her mother's room. "I'm making her some beef-tea," she added proudly,
lifting the lid of the steaming saucepan on the hob.

"And who told you to do that?" asked Collins, putting his basket down
in the corner. "And who told you to have this rout out?" he asked, with
another look at the renovated kitchen.

"Why, the doctor said I must rub things a bit, and have clean things
for mother; and Mrs. Brown lent me the sheets I wanted."

"Mrs. Brown! What made you go there to that proud set?" asked her
father, angrily.

"Just because she offered to lend them, and Mrs. Satchell didn't,"
replied Jessie, sharply. "What was I to do? The doctor said I must have
clean things for mother if she was ever to get better, and I ran out to
get them, for ours are all dirty. I went for Mrs. Satchell, and found
her talking to Mrs. Brown at their gate. I said I wanted the sheets for
mother; but no one spoke for a minute, and I was afraid I wasn't going
to get the sheets, when Mrs. Brown said she would lend them, and come
and help me make mother comfortable."

"Ah! And she put you up to turning the place out," grumbled Collins.

"It was the doctor said it first," answered Jessie.

"Well, now, look here. I ain't going to have your mother interfered
with and found fault with by no Mrs. Brown, there now."

"Dad, you're a fool!" said Jessie, in an angry tone. "And it's my
belief mother would have died if I hadn't happened to see Mrs. Brown
that night."

Collins went upstairs to see his wife, closely followed by Jessie.

"Look here, I ain't going to have mother upset," she whispered, with
her hand on the door-handle.

"Who wants to upset her?" roughly asked her father; and as he spoke he
gave the girl a push, which sent her reeling, and she fell down the
stairs with her foot doubled under her, which caused her such pain that
she fainted, and lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs until her
father, hearing her moans, came down and found her.

"There, wake up, Jess! Wake up!" he said, as he lifted her in his
arms, and seated her on a chair in the kitchen. "There, it's all
right," he said soothingly. "Your mother says Mrs. Brown ain't got no
fault-finding ways about her, and so, if she likes—"

But Jessie's only answer was another groan, that frightened her father,
and he went to the street door to look for Polly.

She was coming up the street, and ran forward when she saw him.

"Ain't we got everything nice?" she called out before she reached the
door; for Jessie had said, again and again, how pleased her father
would be when he saw the nice clean kitchen.

"Come in, come in," called Collins. "There's something the matter with
Jessie; she's fell downstairs and hurt herself, though I don't see no
blood anywhere."

Polly ran through the passage, and was almost as frightened as her
father when she saw her sister leaning back in the chair, white, and
looking as though she was dead.

"Oh, father, what is it—what is the matter?" she screamed. "Let me
fetch Mrs. Brown!" And without waiting for her father to speak, she
flew off to fetch the friend who had helped them so much the last week.

Mrs. Brown was just going out for her Saturday marketing, when Polly
dashed in, crying—

"Oh, come, Mrs. Brown, come directly to our Jess, she's fell downstairs
and killed herself!"

Mrs. Brown did not believe anything so terrible as this had happened;
but she could see Polly was very frightened, and without stopping to
ask any questions, she set down her basket at once, and hurried away
with her.

When they saw Jessie, Mrs. Brown said, "We had better send for the
doctor at once, Mr. Collins; but I will lay her down on the couch until
he comes."

An old couch stood in the kitchen, which Mrs. Collins used to lie upon,
and Mrs. Brown lifted Jessie on to it, and loosened her clothes and
bathed her forehead; but when she touched one of her feet, a deeper
groan and shudder of pain made them aware that the injury was there.

However, by the time the doctor arrived, Jessie had recovered
consciousness sufficiently to tell them that her foot was in great
pain, and when Collins told the doctor how she fell, he saw at once
that the girl's ankle was badly twisted, and advised that she should go
to the hospital.

"No, no! I can't go there!" said Jessie. "I must stay here, and look
after mother."

"But, my girl, you will not be able to go up and down stairs for some
time," said the doctor.

"Polly can go for me, and I can tell her what to do. Oh, make my foot
better," she implored, as a sharper twinge of pain made her feel faint
again.

The doctor turned to her father, who stood looking helplessly at the
sufferer.

"I don't know what we shall do without her," he said. "My wife wants
looking after, and who is to do it?"

"For your wife it might be managed," said the doctor; "but this girl
will have to lie down here on the couch all the time."

"I will do anything you tell me, doctor, if you only let me stay at
home," said Jessie. "Polly can help, you know."

"You would be more comfortable at the hospital," said the doctor,
making a last effort on Jessie's own behalf; for he knew how tedious
the days and nights would be for an active girl like Jessie to endure,
and that she would need the care and nursing that would be given to her
at the hospital.

He tried to make them all understand this; but Jessie said she would
never get well if she did not stay at home, and help nurse her mother.

"I can tell Polly what to do, and we can manage to take care of mother
between us," pleaded Jessie; and at last the doctor consented, and
proceeded to dress and bandage the injured foot, and placed it as
comfortable as the old couch would permit, telling her she must not try
to move it, and must lie as still as possible, or he would be compelled
to send her to the hospital. Mrs. Brown thought it was a pity the
doctor did not insist upon the girl being taken there at once; but she
did not dare to say so, for she could see that Collins would rather
Jessie stayed at home. And so she held her peace for the present; but
when the doctor had gone, she drew him into the passage.

"Mr. Collins, Jessie would have been better at the hospital," she
whispered; "but as you have decided that she shall stay at home,
couldn't you arrange for one of your wife's old friends to come and
sleep in the house, and help the girls a bit in the daytime. I know
Jessie was going to wash some clothes next week; but now you must have
somebody else to do it," she added.

The man scratched his head in perplexity. "I must go and see if the
foreman can let me come back here to work, and let somebody else go and
do my job over there. What about your husband, Mrs. Brown?"

"I dare say he would be willing to go, if the managers liked to send
him, as you are in such trouble just now," answered Mrs. Brown.

"Oh, never mind my trouble. I hate being under an obligation to
anybody, specially my neighbours," said Collins, roughly. "If Brown
likes to take my job, I'll speak for him, and it will be something to
his advantage, I may tell you. I hear you have been kind to my wife
the last few days, and I am thankful for it. Do you want me to say any
more?" he demanded.

"I did not want you to thank me! I am always ready to help a neighbour
at a pinch, and was glad to do what I could for Jessie," said Mrs.
Brown, with a touch of pride and pain in her voice; and, saying a hasty
good-bye to Jessie she went home, her eyes full of tears, which she
dashed away before she knocked at her own door.

Jessie heard what had passed between her father and Mrs. Brown in the
passage, and when he went back to the kitchen she said—

"Now, what are we going to do? You don't suppose Mrs. Brown'll come
back and look after us as she has done all the week, after what you
said to her to-night."

"What have I said? And what has she said of us? Didn't their girl tell
you that you wasn't good enough to go with them. Do you think I've
forgotten it?" demanded her father, angrily.

"Of course you haven't! Neither have I! And I didn't go to ask Mrs.
Brown to help us; but not even Mrs. Satchell, who has always pretended
to be such a friend to mother, would lend us a clean sheet, and if it
hadn't been for Mrs. Brown, I believe mother would have died. As to
being better than us; why, of course it was true. Their house is clean;
but ours is always dirty. They could lend me clean sheets; but we
hadn't enough for ourselves."

"I tell you I earn more wages than Brown, let 'em say what they like,"
vociferated Collins.

"Wages ain't everything," said Jessie. "I tell you the little Browns
always looked nicer than we did, though their frocks didn't cost half
so much, mother said; but then, they always had tidy boots to wear. And
sometimes when I had a new frock, I couldn't have boots, and my toes
were all out, or else there were big holes in my stockings; but Mrs.
Brown showed Fanny how to mend hers, and I don't believe mother knows
how to mend stockings now," said Jessie.

"Don't you say a word agin your mother!" interrupted Collins, sharply.
"She was the handsomest woman in this town when I married her."

"I ain't saying a word against her!" retorted Jessie, "and Mrs. Brown
ain't either. 'Take good care of your mother, Jessie. Look after your
mother, Jessie,' has been her word to me every day, while all the time
she's just been trying to make me do the things she taught Fanny long
ago. Perhaps mother couldn't help the place getting dirty; perhaps her
mother didn't show her how to do it, but it don't make any difference;
we are dirty, and the Browns are clean, and Mrs. Brown has been trying
to teach me like she did her own Fanny, and—"

"Ah, that was the girl who told Polly she was better than you,"
interrupted Collins, in whose mind the words seem to rankle still.

"Yes, Fanny said it, I dare say, but I know Mrs. Brown didn't; she
wouldn't, though I don't suppose she liked her girls to go with us,
because we were dirty and untidy, and played about in the streets at
night as long as we liked. She didn't want Fanny to do that, and so I
dare say she said, 'Now, you keep away from that Jessie Collins, or
she'll want you to run the street with her.'"

"You seem to know all about it," said her father, who could not help
smiling as she mimicked the tone and manner of Mrs. Brown.

This was just what Jessie wanted, to win her father back to a better
humour; for what should she do if he said Mrs. Brown was not to come
again. In the midst of all the bustle and hard work of this last
week, she had thought again and again of the talk she had had with
her governess, and how Miss Martin said she hoped she would grow up a
useful woman, who she would be proud to say had been to her school.

To have Miss Martin proud of her would be something worth working for,
and if anybody could show her how to become a useful woman, it would be
Mrs. Brown, and so her father must be persuaded to ask Mrs. Brown to
come in and out still, though they must have one of her mother's old
friends, she feared, to do the washing now.

Collins persuaded himself that they could not do without him at home,
and so he went to see the foreman of the work he was doing away from
home, to tell him that his wife was ill, and he could not leave again
for the whole week, especially as Jessie had sprained her ankle and
could not get up and down stairs.

"Well, who can you get to go in your place?" said the foreman. "You
told me you didn't mind being away from home, but very few of the
fellows like it," added the man.

Collins scratched his head. "There's Brown," he said at last.

"Brown! But I thought you said you would never work with Brown, as
he didn't work fair with his mate!" and the foreman looked keenly at
Collins as he spoke.

The man fidgeted from one leg to the other, and looked very
uncomfortable.

"Brown is the only chap in the shop that understands the work we are
doing over there," he said at last.

"Just what I said when it begun; but you gave the fellow such a bad
name, that—"

"Well, you see, he had been ill, and perhaps he was weak and not up to
the mark," interrupted Collins, who did not want to hear any more of
that former talk he had had with his foreman.

After a pause the foreman said, "Well, you will have to go and arrange
it with Brown yourself, as it is for your accommodation; but make him
understand that the pay is better, and that I shall expect him to stick
to it until we have finished, for I don't care to change men in the
middle of a ticklish job like that." These last words were said that
Collins might understand that if he gave up this job he could not take
it on again.

"All right, I know what you mean," he said. "Shall I tell Brown to come
round and see you to-night or to-morrow?"

"Oh, I know Brown well enough to know he won't care to come on Sunday,
so tell him to come to-night, or join us at the station ready for work
on Monday morning."

Collins had hoped that he would be told he need not trouble himself
about seeing Brown; but now he had to go to his house, and ask, as
something of a favour, that he would take over his job for him, and it
was not a pleasant task.

To his relief, however, he heard that Mrs. Brown was out; for when the
door was opened to Collins's knock, Brown said—

"The missis is out. I hope your plucky lass is no worse."

The words gratified Collins, and he said, "No, thank ye. Jess is about
the same; but I wanted a word with you."

"Come away back, then, and let's hear it. I'm mending some of the
youngster's shoes while the missis is out at her marketing." And he led
the way through the passage, and handed Collins a seat in the cosy,
comfortable kitchen, while he fetched the lamp from the scullery, where
he had been doing his shoemaking work.

"Now we can see what we are at," he remarked, as he set it on the
table. "Now, what is it I can do for you?" he asked good-naturedly.

"Can you take my job?" asked Collins.

"Your job?" repeated Brown; for he knew that Collins was considered a
more highly skilled workman than himself, and received higher wages in
proportion, so that to be asked to take up the particular work Collins
had been doing greatly surprised him.

"It is a ticklish job, as you know," went on Collins, "and last week
there might have been an accident through my hand shaking as it did.
Electrical engineering ain't child's play, you know. Well, I had heard
that my wife was ill, and that might have caused it; but now I know how
bad she is I may be worse, and so I want you to take over the job at
once, and let me stay at home and look after things a bit. 'Specially
as Jess has got her ankle hurt."

"To be sure you do," said Brown, thoughtfully; and then he added, "but
I must see Mr. Thornton, and hear what he says about it."

"Well, go and see him at once. I have just been there, and he told me
to come to you. Now, mind what I say, Brown; it is a ticklish job they
have got there, so have all your wits about you while you are at work."

Brown thought he understood what the man meant. Collins sometimes
followed his wife's example, and took a little more beer than was good
for him, and it might be this that had made his hand unsteady; but he
thanked Collins for the hint he had given him, and prepared at once to
go and see the foreman.



CHAPTER VI

MASTER EUSTACE

"NOW, Nursey, father said before he went away that I might go all round
here by myself." And the little boy extended his arms and swung round
on one foot to explain to Nurse the wide extent to which he was given
leave to ramble.

"Yes, Master Eustace, I know all about it," said Nurse, "and Eliza can
walk all round there too."

"But I don't want Eliza; she can nurse the baby or look after Winny;
but father said I was getting a big boy now, and must take care of
myself, and so, of course—"

"Ah, that is all very well to remember one part of father's talk, and
forget all the rest," interrupted Nurse. "Father told you just before
he went away that you were to do as Nurse told you. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, but he didn't say anything about Eliza," answered the child.

"Perhaps not; but Eliza must do as I tell her, and so must you,"
concluded Nurse, looking gravely at the boy.

The Vicarage party had been about a week at the seaside, and mother and
father having seen them comfortably settled, had gone on to visit a
sick relative according to their original intention. They had stayed at
the quiet little village of Stillborough the previous year, and Eustace
had rambled round the coast and neighbouring common with his father
many times, so that he considered himself quite an expert traveller,
and did not at all like to confine his explorations so as to be within
ken of Nurse, as she sat on her camp-stool sewing, or reading a little
bit to Winny out of her own book. It was still worse, the little boy
thought, to have Eliza in attendance upon him, and so he had tried to
come to an understanding with Nurse once for all.

Eliza sat near Nurse on the sand, with Winny in her lap, listening and
smiling at Master Eustace as he tried to lay down the law that was to
govern his own particular wanderings, and having done this at least to
his own satisfaction, the little boy walked away.

"I wish the master had not said so much to the child about taking care
of himself!" exclaimed Nurse, as she turned her head to look after him.
"Of course the master meant it for the best, for him and for us too,
but there's nothing that child is afraid of, and a nice treat we shall
have with him, I know;" and Nurse sighed.

"Shall I go after him, Nurse?" asked Eliza, who thought nothing of a
long ramble on the sands in attendance upon her favourite so greatly
had she improved in health already. "Shall I go after him?" she
repeated, springing to her feet as she spoke.

But Nurse pulled her skirt to sit down again. "Not now," she said. "I
can see him between those clumps of sea-thistles. Ah! he is coming back
now," said Nurse, in a tone of satisfaction. "But I tell you what you
must do if you should be away from me, and see Master Eustace wandering
off by himself—send Winny back to me, if you should have her with you,
and just follow on behind Master Eustace, so as to keep him in sight
without letting him know anything about it. Try to remember this,
Eliza, and that I give Master Eustace into your care, for you will be
able to follow him better than I can."

The girl felt very proud of the charge thus entrusted to her.

"See, he is coming back now, Nurse," said Eliza, who was always ready
to condone the little fellow's faults.

"There, I have been a far far way, Nursey, and I am back safe, you
see," said the little fellow proudly, as he stood before Nurse and made
a grimace of defiance at Eliza.

"Yes, I see you are here safe and sound, and if you never try to go
further than the far far way near the bushes, Nurse will not scold
you," she said.

"Could you see me all the time?" asked the child.

Nurse nodded, and the boy looked disappointed. "Then it isn't a far far
way," he said, in a complaining tone.

"Quite far enough, Master Eustace," put in Eliza.

"You don't know anything about this place, for you did not come with us
last year," retorted the boy, loftily.

And once more he discussed the subject with Nurse, but they could not
arrive at any definite conclusion upon the matter of distance; and when
the little boy went off again, Nurse repeated her charge to Eliza to
keep her eyes upon and follow him at a distance if he went far.

For the next few days, however, Master Eustace had very little
opportunity of going out of bounds, for each day in succession for
nearly a week had to be spent indoors, it was so wet and chilly.

It was during this time that Nurse learned to appreciate Eliza for
her unfailing patience and good temper in keeping the children amused
during the weary hours when they could not get out even for a short
walk all day. It was a relief to Nurse, and a boon to the little ones,
who were disposed to want all the toys that had been left at home, and
did not at all like the restrictions that had to be imposed upon them
for the sake of other people in the house.

All the games that Eliza had ever played were brought into requisition,
besides many others invented for the occasion.

At length the weather cleared, and the sun shone out as brilliantly as
though the sky had never been dimmed by a cloud, and Eliza was almost
as delighted as the children at the prospect of being able to go out on
the sands once more.

They were all nearly ready to start, the children equipped with pails
and spades, when Nurse noticed that Eliza had put on a cotton frock.

"My dear, you must put your warmer frock on to-day," she said.

"Oh, Nurse, see how bright the sun is!" exclaimed Eliza, in a
disappointed tone. "And we are all ready to start," she added.

"Never mind! We will only walk slowly down to the beach that you may
soon overtake us. But this is just one of the days when your warmer
frock is likely to be useful, for there is sure to be a chill in the
air after the rain."

Nurse's advice was not pleasant to the girl, and she reluctantly turned
back and put on the warm frock instead of the bright pink cotton she
had on. She did it as quickly as she could, and ran along the terrace
to catch Nurse before they could get down to the beach; but at the
corner she also saw Eustace coming from the direction of the shop,
and waited for him to join her. He had a little bundle tied up in his
handkerchief; the handle of his spade passed through the knot, and the
bundle hanging over his shoulder.

"What have you got there, Master Eustace?" she asked.

"I'm Robinson Crusoe," answered the little fellow, in an important
tone, and marching on by her side.

Nurse had been reading some chapters of Robinson Crusoe to him during
the last few days, and his mind was full of the adventures of that hero.

Eliza was ready to enter into the little boy's amusement, and so she
said—

"I'll be your Man Friday."

"Will you?" said the child, eagerly. But the next minute he said, "How
can you—you're only a girl?"

"Never mind! I can carry your things and do as you tell me," said
Eliza; and the next minute the spade and bundle were transferred from
the little boy's shoulder to Eliza's and they went on to the beach
walking in this fashion.

"What now?" asked Nurse. "What have you got there, Eliza?" she added.

Eliza shook her head. She believed it was stones, but she did not say
so.

"Eliza isn't her name now. She is my Man Friday," answered Eustace.

"Oh, I see! Well, what are you and your Man Friday going to do this
morning?" asked Nurse, relieved to find that whatever the little fellow
contemplated doing, Eliza would be at hand to keep him out of danger
and mischief.

"We are going to look over this island first thing, of course,"
answered the boy, "and we can't waste our time here. We shall find you
by-and-by, I dare say, and then you and baby and Winny will be savages,
and you must do what I tell you."

"Very well; but that part had better come after dinner, because you
will have to do as I tell you, and come home to dinner in good time,
and you must look after your Man Friday, and see he don't get away."

This, of course, was intended as a hint to Eliza, and Nurse knew she
understood it as such. And the two went off for their ramble, and Nurse
did not see them again until dinner-time, and then Eliza's bundle had
somewhat diminished in size.

It was Nurse's custom to put the children to bed for an hour after
dinner, and they usually fell asleep in the course of a few minutes.
But to-day Eustace pleaded that he and Man Friday might go off on their
rambles again as soon as dinner was over.

"We have found a cave, and, of course, we can sleep there," announced
Eustace, running to get his hat.

But Nurse said she wanted Man Friday to do something for her before
they went out again, and amid tears and expostulations, Eustace was
laid in his own little bed, while Eliza and Nurse sat down in the
shaded sitting-room for their own afternoon rest. Eliza soon fell
asleep, but Nurse could hear that Eustace was grumbling and tumbling
about in his bed, and was by no means disposed to go to sleep this
afternoon. She let Eliza have her usual rest, for she knew the girl
needed it, and so she kept Eustace as quiet as she could until the time
for rousing the children came, and they all went out again.

Nurse usually took a parcel of bread-and-butter and cake with her, and
they bought some milk on the beach about five o'clock, returning home
about seven to a more substantial meal; and afterwards the children
were bathed and put to bed.

To-day, however, Eustace demanded that Man Friday should carry their
portion of bread-and-butter, that they might eat it together in the
cave.

"Don't change your frock," said Nurse, when Eliza went to wash her face
and hands before starting out again.

Eustace insisted that his bread-and-butter should be tied up in the
handkerchief, and Nurse saw that there was a piece of bread there
already, and then learned that the child had bought a penny loaf in the
morning by way of providing stores for his journey, and he and Eliza
had eaten part of it before dinner. But he insisted upon the remaining
portion being taken in the handkerchief, and carried the bundle himself
until they got down to the beach, for fear Nurse should tell Eliza to
take it out.

Here she was "Eliza," and under Nurse's control; but when once their
camp was reached, she was "Man Friday," and under his direction. This
was the compact that Nurse had been obliged to make with him in the
morning; and so, as soon as her stool was set up, and baby and Winny
set about their digging, Eliza and Eustace went off, Nurse looking
after them with a smile of complacent assurance that nothing could
happen to the little boy with Eliza in attendance, little dreaming what
weary, anxious hours would pass before she should see either of them
again.

"Now we are going to our cave," announced Eustace, when they were
fairly away from "the savages." "I know just where to find it, though I
did forget when father first went away. It's a wonderful cave, Friday,
and leads right through the mountains to another country."

Eliza opened her eyes. "There are no mountains here, Master Eustace,
only the chalk and sand cliffs."

"Of course; you have never seen my island before, Friday, and cannot be
expected to know a mountain."

Eustace said this with such a look of lofty disdain that Eliza found
it difficult to keep from laughing, which would be altogether wrong in
"Man Friday," as Eustace had explained to her. Though she could not
help saying, "The cave is a long way off," as they walked on and on
until the bank of sea-thistles were left far behind, and the cliffs ran
down much closer to the sea than they did near their camp where they
had left the savages.

"You have only got to follow me," commanded Eustace, looking round at
her. "You're not afraid, are you?" he demanded.

"Oh no, not afraid! I'm not afraid," replied Eliza.

"It's like a girl to be frightened because you cannot see any houses
here, and there aren't many people about; but my father says it is a
grand view, and we can be close to the sea and the mountains too."
And, thus reassured, Eliza followed the little boy into what looked
like a hole cut in the side of the cliff. It ran a good way back, but
the floor was firm and dry, dotted with pretty little shells, and more
delicate seaweed than they found near the camp, and Eliza was soon
busy picking up both shells and seaweed, while Eustace, as became
his dignity, sat on a shelving bank to watch his "Man Friday," not
admitting even to himself that he was tired after his long walk.

"Have you got enough?" he asked at length. "We have got to explore this
cave, you know, and find a place where we can make our bed."

Eliza stood up and peered into the shadowy part of the cave, where the
sun's rays never reached the sandy bottom, and she found it wet.

"I shouldn't like to sleep here, master," she said, still in her
character of "Friday."

"Never fear, I will take care of you, Friday. Now, follow me close,"
said Eustace, who thought he would rather have Eliza near him while
going up the dark steps that had been cut in the chalk which he had
once ascended with his father.

"This is a queer place," said Eliza, with a shiver, as they turned a
sharp corner at the back of the cave, and began to climb the rough
uneven steps that led them up into the darkness, as it seemed to
the girl. But if a little fellow like Eustace was not afraid to go
first into this queer place, Eliza was not going to yield, and so she
followed on as closely as she could, but it was a great relief when at
last a streak of daylight could be seen in what looked like the roof of
this stairway.

"Now are you frightened?" asked Eustace, triumphantly.

"No, but I am glad to see the light, and I hope we shall soon get to
the top."

But Eliza found that when the chalk steps ended a sandy and clay bank
began, through which a path had been trodden, and they had to climb
this, greatly to the detriment of their clothes. But at last they
emerged at the top, and came out upon what looked like a wide heath
or common, but there was not a house to be seen anywhere, and Eliza
declared she would not go any further for fear of losing their way, and
missing the particular slope that would lead them to the steps down to
the beach.

"Suppose we untie our bundle, and have our supper," said Eustace, who
was hungry after his climb.

Eliza was only too glad to sit down in the bright sunshine and eat the
bread-and-butter they had brought with them, or at least a part of it;
for Eustace said they must keep part so that their wallet should not be
empty.

They sat there for some time, until at last the little boy showed signs
of being sleepy, and then Eliza jumped up in great alarm.

"Master, we are a long way from the savages, and I shall be frightened
if we don't soon get back," she said.

The little trick answered, and Eustace roused himself.

"You ain't fit for a Man Friday," he said, standing up.

"Ah, I wish the Vicar was here, don't you?" said Eliza, still trying to
keep up the fiction that she was afraid, but thankful that they were at
last going down the sandy slope that would take them to the beach.



CHAPTER VII

MAN FRIDAY

LITTLE ROBINSON CRUSOE went bravely down the descending path between
the high sandbanks, Man Friday walking closely behind, for Eliza began
to fear that they had sat too long in the warm sunshine at the top of
the cliff, and wished they had not such a long walk to go before they
could reach the camp, for she was afraid Nurse would grow anxious about
them being away so long.

As the little boy drew near the chalk stairway, his steps grew more
slow, and Eliza, noticing this, said—

"Master, Man Friday had better go first now," and as she spoke the
little fellow gladly let her pass him with the wallet over her
shoulder, while at the same moment a quantity of sand and lumps of clay
came tumbling down the side of the bank, and the girl could not help
wishing they were at the bottom instead of the top of this stairway. To
enter the dark hole required some courage, but she took care not to let
Eustace see that she had any fear, although she could hardly repress a
shudder.

"It's like real Robinson Crusoe, isn't it?" said the little boy, trying
hard to keep up his courage. "You are a girl, and girls don't like
these things like men do, I suppose."

"No, they don't," said Eliza; "but girls' frocks are handy sometimes,
and if you take hold of mine, and keep close to me, we can help each
other to get down the steps better."

They had reached the chalk bank and groped their way into the darkness,
Eliza carefully feeling with feet and hands along the wall lest they
should slip down the roughly cut steps.

"Now we shall soon be down," she said, when they had descended about
half a dozen steps.

Then they were cheered with a ray of light through a hole at the top of
the cliff, by which they could see that they had come to a place where
the steps made a sharp bend, and they had to turn the corner of the
chalk wall very carefully.

"Now we shan't be long, master," said Eliza, cheerily; for after a few
more steps she could see a tiny speck of light far below, and knew that
this must be the lower entrance to the dark staircase, and that in a
short time they would reach the cave into which it opened.

But almost at the same moment she heard the thunderous roar of the sea
as it beat upon the cliffs below, and she stood still for a moment to
listen.

"Did the sea make a noise like that before?" She spoke half to herself,
half to the little boy, who was clinging closely to her skirts behind.

"Why, you silly, the sea always makes a noise like that," answered
Eustace; and he tried to push Eliza forward, for he did not like the
darkness, and was impatient to reach that spot of light below them,
which he could see now as well as Eliza. She, too, would be glad enough
to be out upon the beach once more, although she feared that Nurse
would be angry with her for staying away so long. But even this was
forgotten in the tenseness with which she listened, and the care she
took that the little boy should not push past her or make her slip down
the steps.

"Oh, you are slow!" said the little fellow, impatiently. "Let me come
first," he added; and he tried again to push past the girl.

But she firmly kept her place, and held him back.

"Listen! Listen!" she said. "I think the water is in the cave where I
picked up the pretty shells; and if it is, and you should fall in, you
might be drowned."

The little fellow was awed for a minute, but quickly exclaimed—

"I am not afraid. If the water has got in we must run through it."

But Eliza was not to be moved from her determination, and would not go
faster, for above the roar of the water outside and the swish-swish of
it as it rose across the floor of the cave, she thought she could hear
a closer lap-lap, as though the waves were trying to climb the stairs
they were descending. So she put the foot that was to descend first
very slowly and cautiously forward, and before the bottom was reached,
her worst fears were realized, for the descending foot vent into deep
water at last. The poor girl sank down upon the step on which the
little boy was standing, and for the moment was quite overcome by the
horror that seemed to have seized upon her. But she quickly mastered it
for fear of frightening the child.

[Illustration: BEFORE THE BOTTOM WAS REACHED HER WORST FEARS WERE
REALIZED.]

"We must go back again, Master Eustace," she said as quietly as she
could.

"What for?" demanded the little boy, although as he spoke he ceased to
push the girl, for he, too, felt that something had happened that he
did not quite understand.

"The water has come into our cave," she said. "One foot went into it
just now, so that we are close to the edge."

Eustace quickly clambered up the steps, holding fast by Eliza's frock.

"I must take care of you," he said, when she asked him not to pull
quite so hard.

They made their way back to where the stairway turned, and were glad of
the peep of daylight from above when they saw it again.

"We must make haste now," said Eliza, "for we shall have to walk home
along the cliffs, and that is further round, I heard Nurse say."

They clambered on as quickly as they could for a few yards further,
and then met a steep bank of earth, while the little bit of daylight
visible was still a long way ahead of them.

"Why, what has happened?" exclaimed Eliza, as she stumbled forward on
to the soft mass of sand and clay that rose like a wall before them,
nearly closing the entrance of the stairway.

At the same moment the little boy's courage and endurance quite gave
way, and he sank down.

"I am so tired I can't walk any further," he cried, and burst into a
storm of sobs and tears.

For a minute or two Eliza was too much overwhelmed to do anything but
look up at the tiny rift in the darkness. Then she stooped down and
took the little boy in her arms.

"Master Eustace, God can take care of us in this dark place," she
whispered. "He knows where we are and all about us."

The little fellow raised his head and tried to stop his tears.

"I'm so tired," he said, with a gasp. "If I wasn't so tired and my legs
so stiff, I'd climb up this bank and help you to get out, but I can't,
Eliza."

"No, dear, we must just stop here and let God take care of us. The
water won't stop in the cave for all the time. When the tide goes down,
the water will all run out again," she said.

As this thought occurred to her, half the trouble seemed to drop away
and leave her able to think how she should comfort the little boy and
make him warm and comfortable, so that he might go to sleep and forget
all his weariness and discomfort.

"We'll go back a little way till we get to the wall down there," she
said, pointing down to the bend in the stairway. "There I can make a
tent of my frock, and we will have our supper and go to bed in our
cave, and be real Robinson Crusoes."

The word "bed" had a charm for the tired little fellow, and he readily
agreed to let Eliza take the direction of affairs. So they went back to
the corner formed by the bend, and Eliza said—

"There, that will be my armchair. You can lie down against me, and I
can cover you all up with my warm frock. Isn't it a good job Nurse made
me put it on to-day?"

She kept talking like this for fear Eustace should cry again, for she
was afraid she might cry too if he did.

When the corner was reached she took off her hat, drew the frock over
her head, carefully wrapped her petticoats closely round her, and held
out her arms for Eustace. The little boy was glad enough to creep into
her lap, and then she folded the soft warm skirt all round him.

"Isn't that nice?" she said in a cheery tone, as Eustace laid his head
against her.

"Shall I go to sleep?" he asked.

"Oh yes, of course, when we have had our supper. Robinson Crusoe always
had supper, I think," she added, for she wanted him to eat some of the
bread-and-butter they still had in the wallet.

She had to eat some, too, although she thought it would choke her at
first. Still, for the sake of the child she must try; and they both ate
some bread-and-butter. Then he kneeled down in her lap and said his
prayers, as though he was at home in his own nursery.

When Eliza had made him as cosy and comfortable as she could, wrapped
round in her frock, he said—

"When father says, 'God bless you, my little Eustace!' before he goes
to bed, will God tell him we are out here in the dark, all alone?"

Eliza shook her head. "I don't know how God speaks to people," she
said; "perhaps He puts the right kind of thoughts into their minds;"
and as she said this, it occurred to her that the idea of the tide
going out, that had never left her since it first entered her mind, was
one of the thoughts that came from God to comfort and help her to be
brave, that she might take care of Master Eustace. Of course the Vicar
would pray that God would take care of all of them, and especially
his own little boy, for she knew he was very fond of Eustace, and so
perhaps the thought had come to her through the Vicar's prayer.

At any rate, it was such a comfort to the girl that soon after her
little charge was asleep, she, too, had closed her eyes, and slept
soundly for an hour or two, leaning against the chalk wall with her
frock drawn closely round the child.

But she woke out of this sleep with a start that almost woke Eustace.
She could not remember where she was for a minute or two.

She felt cramped and stiff, and her feet were very cold. Raising her
head, she saw one star looking down upon her through the hole in the
roof, and she remembered all that had happened, and that their one hope
of escaping from the cave lay in the tide going down. She wondered when
that would be, and what the time was now.

Then she managed to move the little boy without waking him, so that she
could move her feet, and change the position in which she was sitting.

But having done this, she could not go to sleep again. That one star up
above seemed to be watching her and inviting her to keep her eyes open
and look at it.

By degrees she noted that the deep blue of the sky was growing paler
and paler, and the joyful thought came to her that the night was almost
over, and the morning was coming at last.

She kept her eyes steadily fixed on the one rift of sky until her star
paled, and the purple sky hid it. Then her eyes grew tired, and try as
she would she could not keep them open, but fell asleep once more.

Meanwhile, Nurse had a troublesome time with the little ones. Miss
Winny had grown fond of her little nurse, who was always ready to play
with her. When she saw her walk away with her brother, and show no
signs of coming back, she called—

"Lila! Lila! Me want you! Me want you!" and then turned to Nurse, and
said, "Make Lila come back."

"She will come soon," said Nurse, soothingly.

But this did not satisfy Winny. "Me want her now! Me want her now!" she
screamed; and then burst into a flood of tears, in which baby very soon
joined.

Nurse raised her voice then, and called "'Liza! 'Liza!" as loudly as
she could; but the wind carried her words in the opposite direction,
and no sounds reached the young explorers, who very soon disappeared
from view altogether.

This brought a fresh outburst of lamentation from the little girl,
who would not be pacified by anything Nurse said to her; and at last
Nurse threatened to take her home, put her to bed, and not let her stay
until the others came back. She tried to amuse her by scooping up some
sand the little girl's spade, but it would not do. The child knew the
difference now between this kind of play and the interest Eliza took
in building a castle or digging a trench, and she shook herself, and
screamed the louder for "Lila."

Nurse tried all sorts of plans to make the little one forget her
playmate, but it was of no use; and after an hour or two, she decided
to take the children home without waiting for Eliza to return.

"Winny is a naughty girl!" she said sharply, as she gathered up her
various belongings, and prepared to return home.

But Winny refused to go without "Lila," seated herself on the sand,
and screamed until Nurse grew desperate. So, asking another nurse who
sat near to keep an eye on her till she came back, she rushed off with
baby, and left him in charge of the landlady while she went back to
fetch the little girl.

Altogether it was a most unhappy evening for Nurse, but she did not
grow anxious about Eustace and Eliza until she had bathed Winny and
baby, and put them both to bed, the little girl sobbing piteously even
in her sleep, for she had refused to be comforted to the very last
because "Lila" did not come home.

When, however, she was snugly tucked into her cot, Nurse had time to
think of the young Robinson Crusoe. She went to the landlady of the
house, and asked if she knew where the cave was.

"Cave! What cave?" she asked.

"I don't know; only I heard Master Eustace tell Eliza he was going to
take her to some cave on the shore."

"There are no caves hereabouts," said the landlady, in a reassuring
tone, "and there is no call for you to fidget over the children, for
our shore is as safe as my back garden. They will be home in a few
minutes, I dare say;" and she went about her business, leaving Nurse by
the window to watch every one who came up the street from the beach.

Little groups of twos and threes were passing now, dragging spades and
pails behind them and Nurse wished she could see Eustace and Eliza.

"Those children will be tired out," she said, when the landlady came in
to lay the supper-cloth.

"They are late," she admitted, "for it is getting dusk, and you have
never been so late as this with them."

"I wish I dare leave the children upstairs, and I would go and look for
them."

She hoped the woman would offer to look after the baby if he should
wake, but she was not disposed to make the offer.

"I expect my boy in every minute, and he knows every inch of the shore.
I'll send him to find them the moment he comes in. I expect Master
Eustace has fallen dead tired, and can't get along. My boy can carry
him better than your girl can."

"I doubt whether Eliza could carry him many yards, for she is not at
all strong."

The suggestion had relieved her a little, and a minute afterwards she
saw the landlady's son come dashing in.

"We want you to go and look for that little Master Eustace and the
girl, Tom," his mother said; and Nurse told what she had heard about
their going to look for a cave.

"There ain't no cave on our beach," replied Tom. "There's just a hole
or two in the cliff that the waves have scooped out. Which way have
they gone? Down Prawn Point?"

"Which is Prawn Point?" asked Nurse.

The boy explained, and Nurse knew that it was that direction Eustace
always had chosen for his rambles.

Tom scratched his head. "You ought not to have let them go to the
Point," he said seriously.

"Is it dangerous?" asked Nurse, in a tone of alarm.

"Well, that depends upon the time. When did they go?"

"This afternoon, about four o'clock, I should think," answered his
mother.

The boy whistled. "The tide would be coming in."

"Is there danger? Tell me if there is, for I must send for his mother
and father at once," almost screamed Nurse.

"Well, I wouldn't care to be round Prawn Point, I can tell you,"
answered Tom.

Nurse did not wait to hear any more. There was a telegraph-office a
little further up the street, and Nurse rushed off there.

"Can you send a message directly?" she panted.

"Oh yes," said the girl, calmly. "Will you write it down?"

"I can't write now," said Nurse, in agitation "Say, 'Come at once;
Eustace and Eliza lost.'" The girl looked up as she finished pencilling
down this message.

"Do you know which way they have gone?" she asked.

"To some place called Prawn Point," answered Nurse.

"Ah, that is a nasty place," said the girl. "You haven't told me the
address," she added, as Nurse was turning away from the counter.

She gave the address where the Vicar was staying, and returned home
almost distracted, but was relieved to hear that the landlady's son had
started in search of the children, and that he expected he should find
them on the other side of the Point, where they would be compelled to
stay until the tide went down.

"Oh dear, they will be frightened to death, even if they are alive!"
said Nurse, wringing her hands, and pacing up and down the small
sitting-room.

In the course of an hour a reply came from the Vicar.

"Coming first train in the morning," he said.

The landlady assured her that the children would be safe at home in
their own beds long before her master came, for three or four men
besides her Tom had gone out now in search of the children, and they
would be sure to find them.

But hour after hour of that terrible night passed bringing no news of
the children to their distracted Nurse, and some began to whisper that
they must have been carried out to sea by the outgoing tide, and that
nothing might ever be seen of them again.



CHAPTER VIII

LITTLE ROBINSON CRUSOE

WHEN Eliza looked up through the hole at the paling sky, she quite
intended keep awake until the sun was up, and then creep down the
stairs to see if the cave was clear of water, before she disturbed the
little boy from his sound sleep.

But before she was aware of it her eyelids drooped, her head sank back
against the chalk wall, and she too was as soundly asleep as the child.
She slept on for an hour or two, and then woke up with a start and in
a fright. She looked up through the hole at the morning sky, and saw
that it was quite bright. She felt sure that she should find the cave
had dried in the morning sun, so she slipped the little boy aside out
of her arms, unfastened her frock, and after some pulling and tugging,
managed to get her arms out of the sleeves, and tucking the frock
securely round the little sleeper, she made her way down the steps as
quickly as she could.

When she reached the last step, she saw, to her dismay, that the tide
was coming in again, and the sea was just beginning to flood the cave
once more, but it was not deep enough yet to more than wet her feet,
and she walked through that to look out and see if she could carry
Eustace to the dry sand which she knew would lie a little way beyond.
But, to her great consternation, there was no dry spot within view of
where she stood, and she gazed out upon the water as it came slowly
lapping in, and wondered whether anybody had been to look for them or
would come this morning; and with the wild hope that Nurse or somebody
might be searching for them, she thrust her head out as far as she
could, and called, "Nurse, Nurse."

But no answer came to her call, and Eliza grew almost desperate as
she thought of the little boy asleep up the steps. Presently he would
wake up and cry for his breakfast and for Nurse to come to him; and
what could she do to pacify him? And with the thought of poor little
Robinson Crusoe's distress, she took courage to step out of the cave
into the water beyond. It was very terrible to see nothing but the
whirling, eddying water all round her, but she boldly ran forward to
where she thought she would be seen if any one had come in search of
her. To her intense relief, she saw the figures of three men in the
distance, and she raised her arms and waved them, at the same time
shouting "Help, help!" For a minute they did not seem to hear or see
her, then all at once one of them began to run, and waved his arms in
token that he saw her; and by that time Eliza's clothes began to dabble
in the water, and she made her way back to the cave, but still stood at
the edge looking out, for fear the men should pass, and this hope of
rescue be lost to them.

But in a minute or two she saw, to her amazement, that the man who had
outran the others was no other than the Vicar himself. She was too much
overcome to speak for a moment, but before he stepped into the cave,
she called out, "Go up the stairs quick, sir—Master Eustace is asleep
just at the top;" and as the Vicar ran past her she sank down in the
water, but was picked up the next minute by one of the fishermen who
had followed closely behind the Vicar. The other, seeing the girl's
scanty, dripping clothing, pulled off his thick guernsey and covered
the girl up in it, and then ran back for a boat.

Eliza lay limp and inert in the fisherman's arms, and he wondered in
some alarm whether they had not come too late to save the girl.

There was little doubt but that the Vicar's son was safe, for he could
now be heard calling—

"Man Friday, Man Friday, I won't come till you find Friday."

The Vicar said afterwards that he rushed up the steps, and almost fell
over the outstretched legs of the little boy, who was sleeping as
comfortably wrapped in Eliza's frock as if he was in his own cot at
home. He picked up the precious bundle, and would have gone out by the
cliff entrance, but saw that it was blocked by the fall of sand; and he
was just turning to go down again, when Eustace, rousing sufficiently
to know that he was being carried in somebody's arms, began to kick and
struggle and call for "Man Friday."

He looked round, thinking there might be another child; but, seeing
Eliza's hat, he concluded she must be Friday, and by that time the boy
was sufficiently awake to recognize his father, and tell him Lila was
with him.

"My darling! my darling!" was all he could say as he kissed the child
again and again while carrying him downstairs to the cave.

But at the sight of it being empty and the waste of waters all round,
the little fellow almost sprang out of his father's arms.

"Dadda, dadda," he cried, "we can't go without Friday! See, I have got
her frock to keep me warm."

"Hush, dear, hush! Eliza is safe. Do you think I would leave the girl
who forgot herself to make you warm and comfortable?"

For answer Eustace kissed his father; but he was not satisfied until he
saw the blue bundle being carried in the arms of the fisherman, and was
told that that was Man Friday being carried to the boat that they could
see approaching them in the distance.

Evidently Eustace was very little the worse for his adventure, for
as his father waded through the water murmuring thanksgivings to God
for his boy's escape, he was telling his father, as graphically as he
could, how he was Robinson Crusoe and Lila his Man Friday; and how they
had gone along the beach in search of the cave his father had showed
him the year before; and how they had climbed to the top, and sat out
on the heath to have their tea.

Then the finding the water in the cave and on the steps was told; and
how he should have been afraid, only Man Friday was not, even when they
went back and found they could not get out at the top.

"She told me God would take care of us till the tide turned, when I
cried. And then she made a cosy bed-place with her frock, and I just
went to sleep till you found me."

"Brave little woman!" murmured the Vicar, under his breath.

"Wasn't I brave too, father?" asked the little boy, looking down
earnestly into his father's eyes.

"Yes, dear, you were. To go to sleep and let God take care of you in
His own way was the best and bravest thing you could do. You believed
what your Man Friday said—that God would take care of you until the
tide turned; and then, of course, you could help yourselves. Man Friday
must have gone to sleep too, I expect," added the Vicar to himself.

But the little fellow shook his head in dissent. "I told her to stop
awake and help God take care of me," he said, "and she could not lie
down like I did."

"She certainly took good care of you," said the Vicar; and then, with
one more plunge through the deepening water, the boat was reached, and
the little boy could see for himself that it was Eliza the fisherman
had carried just in front of them. But when he saw her face he looked
very grave. "What have you done to her?" he demanded, looking at one of
the men.

"She was just like that when I picked her up yonder," said the man.

The truth was that Eliza had fainted as soon as there was no further
demand upon her courage and endurance.

The Vicar understood better than Eustace or the fishermen what a
terrible time it must have been for the girl, and that she had
completely broken down as soon as relief arrived was not at all
surprising.

"We will send for the doctor as soon as the boat gets in," said the
Vicar.

"Ay, I expect he will be there to meet us, for my mate sent his boy
to tell the ladies that the gell was badly like and might want the
doctor," said one of the fishermen.

"Thank you. I am glad you did that, for, of course, my wife is in a
terrible state of anxiety. We have been travelling all night, and only
reached here at six o'clock this morning."

"Oh, father, did you come on purpose to look for me?" said Eustace, in
a penitent tone.

His father looked at the grieved little face. "I don't think you will
go so far away from Nurse again, will you?" he said gravely.

The boy shook his head. "No, I never will, father. But ask God to let
Lila get well soon," he added.

"Yes, dear. I am afraid Eliza may be very ill after this, so that you
will have to be careful and not give her any trouble, or want her to
walk far with you. We shall have to take great care of her when she is
well enough to go out again," concluded the Vicar.

There was quite a little crowd of visitors besides Nurse and Mrs.
Parsons standing at the end of the landing-stage when the boat reached
its destination.

Eustace threw off the frock when he saw his mother, and the Vicar
helped him out of the boat, the child exclaiming as he jumped—

"I am so hungry. Have you got anything for me, Nurse?"

Everybody being thus assured that very little ailed Eustace, their
attention was turned to Eliza, who still lay still and white on the
little couch arranged for her in the boat by the fishermen.

"Give me the frock," said the Vicar, and he put aside the rough
guernsey that covered her, and carefully wrapped her in it.

"Let me carry her, master," said one of the men, when he had finished
mooring the boat.

But the Vicar shook his head. "Thank you all the same, but if she
should waken, she will know me, and the sight of a stranger, as she is
now, may frighten and hurt her."

And the Vicar took Eliza in his arms, and carried her as if she was
a baby, while Mrs. Parsons and Nurse went on to give hungry little
Eustace his breakfast and to hear his story, while the Vicar followed,
and was soon joined by the doctor.

They did not, have far to carry their burden. The landlady had already
prepared a warm bed, and Eliza was soon undressed, wrapped in a
blanket, and covered up. Then the doctor gave her a restorative, which,
in a few minutes, revived her, and she looked round in astonishment, as
Mrs. Parsons bent tenderly over her.

"I am very sorry," began Eliza, in a faint voice.

But the lady held up her finger. "You must not talk or feel sorry,
for we are all very glad to have you back safe. Now, you are to
rest, and do exactly as the doctor and Nurse tell you. Are you quite
comfortable?" asked the lady.

Just then Winny's voice was heard calling, "Lila! Lila!" and the girl's
face grew bright as she heard it.

"Oh, please let me see Miss Winny," she said.

Mrs. Parsons opened the door and let the little girl come in.

"Up! up!" she cried, stretching out her arms towards her young nurse;
and her mother lifted her on to the bed and let her lie for a minute or
two beside her, the little one stroking her cheek and murmuring, "Poor
Lila! Poor Lila ill!" And in a very few minutes Eliza was asleep.

Mrs. Parsons arranged to take the children to the beach while Nurse
watched beside Eliza and got what rest she could, for she had slept
very little all night. Eliza slept, and Nurse too, until the doctor
came in again, when he set their fears at rest by saying that a day or
two in bed was all that was necessary for Eliza's recovery.

The girl slept nearly the whole of that day and the greater part of the
next, only rousing up have a meal of light food that would help her to
go to sleep again.

The third day, however, the girl was more wakeful, and wanted to get
up, and the doctor allowed her to do so for a short time in the evening.

"You will come out with us, won't you, Man Friday?" said Eustace, when
Eliza went into the sitting-room to tea.

But Eliza shook her head. "Not to-day, dear," she said, with a smile,
for she had never felt so weak before, and knew she would not be able
to walk to the beach, even if she wished to do so.

"Now, Eustace, you must be very kind and quiet for Eliza's sake, or
else she will be ill again," said his mother; and the little fellow
looked tenderly up at his young nurse as she sat in the easy-chair that
Nurse usually occupied.

The Vicar went back to his father's house as soon as Eliza was declared
to be out of all danger, for the old gentleman was still very ill. But
Mrs. Parsons did not leave until Eliza was quite well.

Before she left she heard from the Vicar that their stay at the
seaside would have to be extended, for he had heard that scarlet fever
had broken out at the other end of the town, and what was worse for
them individually, the Vicarage drains had been discovered to be out
of order, and they would have to be thoroughly repaired before the
children could return home.

Mrs. Parsons wrote to tell Mrs. Brown of this alteration in their
plans, and also of Eliza's adventure and illness, and how highly she
and the Vicar esteemed her for her brave endurance and unselfish care
of their little boy. The letter concluded by asking Mrs. Brown if she
would allow Eliza to stay on at the Vicarage when they returned, as
they would like to have her as nursemaid to the children.

Eliza wrote as well, asking that she might be allowed to go to the
Vicarage nursery, and telling her mother how kind the Vicar and
everybody had been to her, and that she would be quite well and strong
again by the time they came home.

When Mrs. Parsons left them to rejoin the Vicar, Nurse took care that
Master Eustace did not go roaming again.

"I don't want to go and look for another cave, for fear it should make
Man Friday ill," said the little boy. "We will play Robinson Crusoe
without a cave this time," he added.

It was on a Saturday morning that the letter reached Mrs. Brown,
telling her of Eliza's adventure, and how greatly pleased the Vicar
and his wife were with her kind, unselfish ways with the children
altogether.

To say that Mrs. Brown was pleased with this letter would not express
a tithe of what she felt when she read it, and to have this offer for
Eliza of a place in the Vicarage was more than she had anticipated
to be possible, and she felt proud indeed, and looked forward to her
husband's return in the afternoon, to tell him the wonderful news.

Of course, she told the two girls who were at home, and Selina
danced with delight as she dusted the kitchen chairs, while the more
thoughtful Minnie paused in her work of cleaning knives and forks, and
said—

"Mother, God must have told her what to do to take care of Master
Eustace, and that is what we shall feel proud of. Of course, if our
Eliza had not tried to serve God in the little things here at home,
she would not have known what to do when she was shut up in that nasty
cave."

It was a view of the matter that had not occurred to Mrs. Brown
herself, but Eliza had always been the little comforter at home, and
was always ready to sympathize and help everybody, quite forgetful of
herself and her own interests.

Selina had another way of showing her pride and pleasure in her
sister's brave doings. She wanted to run out and tell all the
neighbourhood what great things Eliza had done. Her mother knew this,
and kept a watchful eye upon her; and when the kitchen chairs were
dusted, the little girl was sent upstairs to dust the bedrooms, for
Mrs. Brown did not wish the neighbours to hear the news before her
husband came home.

She wanted to tell him about the letter herself; but in this she was
disappointed, for Selina, having finished all the housework she was
capable of doing, had earned the right to go and meet her father at the
railway station, and Mrs. Brown would not deprive her of this justly
earned pleasure.

As she was going out, however, Minnie said, "Now don't tell father
everything there is in that letter, because I know mother wants to tell
some of it herself."

"Do you, mother?" asked the little girl.

"Well, yes. I think I should like to tell father something of it,"
replied Mrs. Brown.

Selina paused and looked puzzled. "Why didn't you tell me that I
couldn't go and meet dad to-day," she asked.

"Because that wouldn't be quite fair," said her mother, "I always let
you go out for an hour when you have done your housework properly, and
as I have had no fault to find with you to-day, you have the right to
go and meet your father if you like."

"Yes. But she need not go and tell him everything, as she generally
does," put in Minnie, who did not see why her mother should be deprived
of all the pleasure of imparting the pleasant news, because she would
be strictly fair to Selina.

To this appeal from her sister the little girl hesitated to reply. Half
the pleasure of going to meet her father would be taken away if she
could not tell him all the wonderful news in the letter. At last she
said, looking up into her mother's face—

"May we do it between us, mother? You tell half and I tell half."

Mrs. Brown laughed.

But Minnie said, "It is as much as we can expect, I suppose, from a
chatterbox like you. Now, mother, tell her what she may say, and what
you want to tell father," added Minnie.

"Very well, you may tell father all about Master Eustace and the cave,
and let me tell the kind offer that has been made to take Eliza into
the Vicarage nursery."

"Yes, yes," answered Selina. "I will remember that I am not to say a
word about that. But I am glad I may tell about the cave, because that
is the best bit of all;" and the little girl ran off by the shortest
road to the railway station, for fear she should be late, and so miss
her father.



CHAPTER IX

FANNY'S FATHER

BROWN had been away from home since the previous Monday morning, for he
was now duly installed in the post previously held by Collins, and was
likely to continue there.

It had all come about in the most natural way possible. When Brown went
with the other men that first Monday morning, the foreman went to show
him where Collins had been working; but almost as soon as the man saw
what had been done, he exclaimed, "Collins never did this, surely!" and
he called some of the other men to ask what they knew about it.

They each in turn disclaimed having touched this part of the work, and
Collins being a more highly skilled workman, was scarcely likely to
allow them to do it; but, at the same time, it was equally difficult to
understand how he could put such work into this as he had done by what
they saw before them.

"What is to be done with it, Brown?" said the foreman, scratching
his head in perplexity, for he felt he had neglected his duty in not
looking more closely after Collins and his work.

"There is nothing for it but to undo it," replied Brown.

"Unwind all this coil, do you mean?" said the foreman, aghast at the
proposal.

"There is nothing else for it that I can see," answered Brown. "To let
it pass as it is will never do, for some bad accident may be caused
through that bit of scamped work. It's a nasty job, I know, but I
should not like to think that the whole station here might come to
grief, and lives be lost, for the sake of a day or two's hard work. I
will be as quick about it as I can, and say nothing to anybody, for the
sake of Collins himself."

"All right. I see you understand how matters are. You had better have
one of the boys to give you a hand; but you need not let him know why
we are having it undone."

"You may trust me for keeping a still tongue over the whole matter.
Collins had a pretty peck of trouble last week," added Brown, "and I
expect it was thinking of his wife bad in bed that made him a bit slack
with his job."

"It was the whisky, more likely," said the foreman, sharply,—"I hear
he was bringing it in as well as being at 'The Blue Posts' every
night—that upset him, and I was to blame that I did not look after him
more sharply."

The foreman took care that there was no further remissness on his part,
and kept a pretty close watch on Brown and the way he worked.

He soon found, however, that the careful, steady way this man did his
work was not likely to lead to further trouble, and when the bit of
scamped work was put right, Brown proved to be as quick and skilful
as ever Collins had been, and at the end of the week Brown learned,
to his great satisfaction, that he might consider himself permanently
engaged for this class of work, which would mean higher wages and
less laborious though more highly skilled tasks for the future. This,
perhaps, would mean more to Brown than any other man in the factory,
for the long illness of the previous year had left a lingering weakness
that hard work had made very trying occasionally. Now quickness of eye,
steadiness and deftness of hands, rather than actual strength, was what
would be required of him, and he had carefully trained both eyes and
hands whenever he had an opportunity, in the hope that some day they
might prove useful both to himself and others. The careful mending
of the children's shoes at home had been part of this training. The
repairing of his wife's sewing-machine now and then had also helped, so
that now his fingers could handle the more delicate parts of the work
as neatly and deftly as any man in the factory, and he was reaping the
fruit of his long and painstaking labours.

When Selina met her father that Saturday afternoon, she was so full of
her story about Eliza that she never noticed that he was looking more
grave than usual; but Mrs. Brown saw that there was something unusual
the moment her eyes met those of her husband.

"What is the matter?" she asked anxiously, as he came in.

"Nothing but what will keep," he said pleasantly.

"Are you going away to work again next week?" asked the inquisitive
Selina, who had heard the question.

"To be sure I am, pussy," answered her father.

Mrs. Brown breathed a sigh of relief, for this disposed of her first
fear that something had gone wrong with the work, and he would have to
go back to his old place once more.

She had prepared a nice little Saturday dinner for him, and this fear
relieved, she said—

"There, come along, father, and have your dinner. What did you think of
Selina's news?" asked Mrs. Brown, cheerfully, as she set the dinner on
the table, and drew her husband's chair to its usual place.

"Oh, the chatterbox was in such a hurry to tell me everything at once
that I shall have to hear it over again before I can quite understand
all about it."

So Minnie volunteered to give this second and revised version of
Eliza's story, and then Mrs. Brown added her share, and told him of the
offer made for Eliza to go into the Vicarage nursery.

"Thank God for that!" said Brown, fervently; and his brow cleared, and
he looked less anxious, his wife thought, during the remainder of the
meal.

What could have happened to trouble him, she wondered. But there was no
opportunity to ask him any questions just now, for Jack came in before
dinner was over, and he wanted to tell his father all that had been
going on at the factory during the week.

"Collins is a fool," was his final comment.

"Well, my boy, if you have to work under him, it is your duty to do the
best you can, and hide his folly as far as possible. You could not have
a more skilful workman to learn under," added Brown.

"I don't know so much about that," grumbled Jack. "And there is not
much skill required in the work we have to do," he added.

"Oh, as to that, you must train your fingers to do better work in all
sorts of ways. Take your mother's sewing-machine to pieces. I dare say
it wants a good clean, and it will go all the better if you do it," he
added, laughing, with a glance at his wife.

"It certainly does want a good clean," said Mrs. Brown. "I have used it
a good deal lately, and now I have finished Eliza's new frock, I shall
be able to spare it."

"Are you going to send the new frock to her?" asked her husband.

"She says she does not think she will want it now, as Nurse has found a
place where they will wash her new cotton ones very nicely, and she can
wear one of them to go to church."

"A clean cotton frock for Sunday!" repeated Jack. "That would not suit
Fan, I know," he said.

No one made any comment, but Mrs. Brown noticed that the anxious look
returned to her husband's brow, and she wished Jack would go out and
give her an opportunity of having a few quiet words with her husband.
But Jack had some other news to impart, it seemed, for he did not move
from his seat, and presently he said—

"Collins has taken to the drink pretty badly, dad."

"Has he? I am sorry to hear that."

"Oh, well, it isn't to be wondered at, you see; for his wife has done
it for years and years, and he has had a pretty bad time with her, the
chaps say."

"But she has not had anything lately, I know," said his mother,
quickly, "and Jessie is doing all she can to keep things straight and
comfortable at home, though the poor girl can't put her foot to the
ground yet."

"Oh, well, Jess has had a pretty good fling, being out at all hours of
the night, so that it won't hurt her to be tamed down a bit," remarked
Jack. "But all the fellows are sorry for Collins himself. Don't you
think you could say a word to him, dad, to make him pull up a bit? They
say at the factory that you know a thing or two that might make him
pull up short, if you said he must."

Brown looked at his son in surprise. "What have you heard, lad?" he
asked.

"Nothing very special, only that—There, I won't say what, for, after
all, nobody seems to know anything for certain."

"Of course not, where there is nothing to know," said Brown, laughing.
"However, if I come across Collins to-night, when I go out marketing
with mother, I will see if I can have a word with him, though he may
think I have no business to interfere with him and what he does."

Having received this promise from his father, Jack went out, and then
Mrs. Brown said—"Now you must tell me what is troubling you."

"Well, wife, I think it is troubling me, and yet it is only a trifle,
after all. I had a letter from our Fanny last night, and I don't know
what to make of it."

"A letter from Fanny!" repeated his wife. "What did she want?"

"Well, that I can hardly tell you, for it was a rigmarole about not
being loved now; but I could see that Eliza's new dress that her aunt
sent was at the bottom of the whole trouble."

"But she had no right to it," said Mrs. Brown, in a sharp tone.

"Of course not. But, you see, she always has had the new frocks, and
she thinks she always must. Now, it seems to me that through this and
other little things we have spoiled her a good deal, and now, the thing
is, how are we to undo the mischief?"

"Not by giving way to her in this, for that will make matters worse,"
said Mrs. Brown, promptly.

"Yes, I see that well enough; but how are we to make her see it, and
yet convince her that we love her just as dearly now as when she had
the new frocks, and Eliza those she had outgrown?"

His wife shook her head as she recalled the talk she had with Fanny the
evening of her first holiday.

"It would not be so difficult if she were different," she said, more to
herself than to her husband.

"Different?" he repeated.

He was very proud of Fanny. People had called her "a bonny girl," "a
winsome lassie," and friends always noticed her, and he did not like
even his wife finding fault with her.

"Different," he repeated again. "What would you have, mother?"

"Well, we have been partly to blame, no doubt, but our Fanny has grown
very selfish and wilful. I did not notice it while she was at home, but
things have happened since she has been away that has brought out very
clearly the faults that were hidden before, and I was quite upset when
I first found it out."

"What was there to find out? What has happened to alter our girl so
much as all that?" asked Brown, curiously.

"Well now, I did not want to tell you myself, for I hoped Fanny would
do it, as I asked her. Mind, I am not saying she is so altered since
she has been away, for I suppose the selfishness was there before, only
we did not see it, and there was nothing to bring it out. You see, to
get Fanny nicely ready for service, with new underclothes, frocks, and
aprons, cost me a pretty penny, one way and another, to say nothing
of the hours I had to sit sewing to get everything ready. Well, when
the Vicar's offer came for Eliza to go to the seaside to help Nurse
with the children, I thought at once Fanny's first wages would come in
nicely to buy what I wanted to send Eliza away neat and tidy; but when
she came home for that first holiday, instead of bringing me the ten
shillings, as I had hoped, she had bought a watch with it, which she
wore round her neck."

"Bought a watch for ten shillings?" repeated Brown.

"Yes, she told me she had given all her first month's wages for the
rubbishing thing." And Mrs. Brown could scarce restrain her tears even
now, as she thought of the glittering thing as she saw it on Fanny's
neck.

"I suppose you told her it was rubbish, and not worth the money she had
paid for it?" said her husband.

"Wouldn't you have told her the same thing? I know you would. What
should a girl like her know about buying a watch?"

Brown could scarcely help smiling at his wife's evident annoyance,
and he concluded that she had said some rather hard words to Fanny,
which she had taken to heart, and had grown discouraged since, as she
recalled them, and then foolishly concluded that because her mother had
spoken angrily, and afterwards refused to let her have the new frock,
that she no longer loved her.

"I see it all now," he said, his brow clearing. "You said a few sharp
words about this ten-shilling watch, and afterwards refused to let her
have the new frock, and she concludes from this that, as she is away
from home now, you care less for her than when she was one amongst us."

"She never could be so foolish," said Mrs. Brown.

"Well, we can set matters right with that letter of yours," replied her
husband. "Instead of going to our own church to-morrow night, I will
go and see Fan, and take the letter with me for her to read. The walk
would be too much for you, I know—it upset you before; but it will be
good for me, and I can tell her all the news, and let her feel that she
is still one of us, though she may be away from home. Now, what time
will you be ready to do your marketing to-night?" he asked, for he did
not want to say any more about Fanny just now.

"I shall be ready soon after tea; but I must go and see Jessie Collins
before I go, for she wants me to bring her some meat from the market."

"How is the poor girl?" asked Brown. "It must be hard for her to lie
still after having the run of the street as she has had."

"The worst of it is she doesn't lie still," said Mrs. Brown; "it is
almost impossible, I suppose, with only little Polly to do everything.
Of course Jessie tries to sit up and help her with things, when she
is in a muddle, and, as I tell her, every time she does this she is
undoing all the good that has been done, and making her foot worse."

"Ah! she ought to have gone to the hospital when it was first hurt,"
remarked Brown.

"She should too, if she had been my child; but her father didn't want
her to go, you could see, and Jessie wanted to be at home to look after
her mother. I never saw a girl so fond of her mother as poor Jessie is,
and to think I should have had such a bad opinion of her! I feel vexed
with myself when I think of it sometimes," added Mrs. Brown.

"The girl's good qualities have been brought out by her mother's
illness," remarked Brown. "How is the poor thing now?" he asked.

"Not much better. She is just a 'poor thing,' and lies there in bed,
without any wish to stir herself, and help things downstairs."

"But is she well enough to do that? I thought you said she was very
ill."

"So she was at first; but the doctor has told her to try and sit up
a little while, and he told me it would do her good if she made some
effort to get about. But when I have asked her to try and do as the
doctor says, she promises to try to-morrow. But that to-morrow never
comes, and she just lies there, day after day, and nothing seems to
rouse her; nor will she take the least interest in home affairs.
'Jessie can manage things now,' she says, if I try to persuade her to
get up."

"'But Jessie has hurt her foot, and ought to go to the hospital,' I
said to her yesterday; but she only sighed, and said things would come
right somehow, and 'Jessie liked to stop at home.'"

"Well, it isn't like you, mother," said Brown; "and there's no telling
what I might be if I had a wife like Mrs. Collins. It has always been
the same ever since they were married, I have heard. Some of the chaps
say she was a pretty dressy piece, but had no idea of making home
comfortable for her man. She just let things drift as they could, and
when she took to the drink it was more because the gossips persuaded
her to take it, than that she cared so much for it herself. It was
too much trouble to say 'No' and stick to it," commented Brown. "Her
husband always said she was a very easy-going woman, and never troubled
him much about anything, so long as she got her money every week."

"Easy-going? Yes, I suppose she was; but somebody else was bound to
have the trouble. And now, where are the wages? She don't get the wages
every week now! Nor Jessie either; for so much of it goes in drink that
the poor girl don't know how to make ends meet very often," exclaimed
Mrs. Brown, angrily.

"Are things really as bad as that?" exclaimed Brown. "Well, well, I
will try and get a word with him to-night, for the poor girl's sake.
Don't stay long when you go over there, and if she hasn't got the money
for the meat, just find out what she wants, and I dare say we can make
it up between us, and be little the worse off. We can afford to help a
neighbour, in thankfulness for God's help to our girl," added Brown,
reverently.

"All right. I'll find out what Jessie wants, and very soon be back. If
I go now, while Minnie gets the tea ready, we can start as soon as it
is over, and get back before the market is so crowded."

But to Mrs. Brown's inquiry as to what Jessie wanted from the shop that
night, Jessie shook her head, and burst into tears.

"Thank you, all the same, Mrs. Brown," she said, after a minute, "but I
shall have to send Polly for a bit of steak over the way. Father hasn't
come home yet, so it isn't much of his wages we shall see at home."

"Never mind the money to-night, Jessie; just tell me what you want, for
Brown is in a fidget for me to get back. Shall I do the best I can for
you, as I should for myself?" she asked.

The next minute Mrs. Brown had gone, for she thought she heard
Collins's unsteady footsteps coming down the street, and she beat a
hasty retreat by the back door, for she did not want to meet him if he
was the worse for drink.



CHAPTER X

A TERRIBLE BLOW

"NOW we've got a ticklish job, missus, and I wish Collins had gone
straight home this afternoon with his money, instead of going off up
the town as he seems to have done, for he is an ugly customer, I have
heard, when he has had a drop too much."

"Well, I should try and find out before I spoke whether he had been
drinking, and if he had—well, it would be better to walk on and take no
notice of him," prudently advised Mrs. Brown.

Her husband shook his head. "The thing is, what ought I to do? Jack
says it is getting a common thing with him now, and we all know the
manager won't stand a man drinking at our works; and so, as I know
this, if I can say a word to make him pull up short, it is my duty to
do it at all costs."

Mrs. Brown almost wished her husband had stayed at home, for she knew
the quiet determination of his character where he thought anything was
a matter of duty. When they reached the outskirts of the market, she
gave him her basket to hold while she went into a shop, and almost at
the same moment Collins came reeling along the road, and seeing Brown
with the large market-basket in his hand, made some jeering remark
about him being a "tame cat." Mrs. Brown was in the crowded shop, and
neither saw nor heard Collins, and Brown only heard part of what was
said, but he laid his hand on the shoulder of the half-drunken man, and
whispered—

"Look here, Collins, old man. I want—"

But Collins did not give him time to say more. With an oath he struck
out at him, exclaiming, "You'll get more than you want this time;"
and with a second blow in the face knocked him down in the roadway,
and would have kicked him in his fury if one of the men near had not
dragged him back.

A crowd quickly gathered round, and when Mrs. Brown came out of the
shop, she found her husband lying insensible in the centre of this
crowd, and she guessed at once that Collins had been the aggressor.
She pushed her way through to his side, and one of the men ran for a
doctor; but by the time he arrived Brown had so far recovered that
he could sit up on a chair that had been fetched for him from a
neighbouring shop, and look round in a dazed fashion.

"Take him home as quickly as you can," said the doctor.

Brown had not spoken, and Collins was not to be seen, and Mrs. Brown
would not ask a question as to how it happened while the crowd were
within hearing; but as they walked slowly back, Mrs. Brown said—

"How did it begin?"

"Oh, just after you left me he came up and said something about a tame
cat, and I put my hand on his shoulder and began to speak, when he
struck out all round, and at the second blow I went down, and don't
remember any more. My head is badly bruised, though, I can feel," he
added.

Before he reached home, the poor fellow seemed so ill that his wife
became alarmed; and as soon as he was safe indoors, she went for
the doctor, telling him what had happened, but not mentioning his
assailant's name, merely mentioning him as one of his mates.

The doctor ordered his patient to bed at once, and said he would
probably be obliged to stay there for a day or two at least.

"Oh, I hope not," said Brown anxiously. "I hope you will pull me round
so that I can go to work on Monday morning as usual," he continued
feebly, for he felt very ill.

"Now, you must just keep him as quiet as possible, and don't let him
worry himself about Monday morning," said the doctor, when he was
leaving. "If you keep his head wet with the lotion I will send, and he
takes the medicine, he may get all right quickly; but mind! he must
keep in bed to-morrow, and must not talk to anybody. Quiet and rest is
the only thing that will save him from a long turn in bed," added the
doctor.

Jack came home while the doctor was there, and went back with him to
get the lotion and medicine.

"You must do your share, my lad, towards keeping the house quiet all
day to-morrow," said the doctor, as he handed Jack the bottles.

"I wonder who could have done it? Did my father tell you, sir?"

"No, he didn't; and you must not ask him just now. Don't ask any
questions; wait till he is well enough to tell you all about it."

The doctor's manner impressed Jack, and he feared that his father must
be very ill. What a misfortune that would be for them just now, for the
outside work on which he was engaged could not wait, and so another man
would have to be found who could do it.

The lad went home in a very subdued frame of mind, willing to do
anything that would help his mother that she might devote all her time
and care to nursing his father.

He said something of this when his mother came down for the medicine,
and to ask whether the doctor had sent any further message.

"Only this, that you must look after him well and keep him quiet," said
Jack; and then he added, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

His mother looked at him for a minute, and then said—

"I had hardly began my marketing when this happened, and I want two
lots of meat to-night, for I promised I would bring Jessie's from the
market."

Now, if there was anything Jack disliked it was being sent on what he
called "tame cat business" in other words, the Saturday marketing for
the home. But one look at his mother's anxious face decided him, and he
said quickly—

"All right, I'll go. Tell me what to get and where to go, and I'll be
back in a jiffy."

The marketing question thus being settled, Mrs. Brown could devote all
her thought and attention to her husband, and was careful to follow the
doctor's direction to the very letter, and kept his head constantly
bathed as he lay in bed.

Jack was as good as his word, and brought back the various articles he
was sent for with an account of the money he had spent, and delivered
all to his sister Minnie as if she had been his mother. Then when his
mother came downstairs to have her supper, he took the meat he had
bought for Jessie, with a message that his mother would not be able to
go there again that night.

This message, however, was not delivered, for just as Jack reached the
door it was flung open, and Collins staggered out, and the next minute
Jessie appeared at the other end of the passage.

"Oh, Jack, why didn't you stop my father?" she said, in a reproachful
tone. "He only came in about ten minutes ago, and you can see he has
been drinking. Polly is out, too, and I am afraid mother is worse
to-night."

A sudden twinge of pain in her injured foot was more than Jessie could
bear, and with a groan she burst into tears.

"There, don't cry," said Jack, wishing his mother or Minnie had come.
"Don't cry, Jess," he repeated. "See, I have brought you some meat,
and I'll go and look for Polly if you like. I dare say your father
will soon be back. The chaps at the factory know your mother is ill,
and they will look after him and see that he comes home all right
presently," added Jack, by way of comforting Jessie. He could not
deliver his mother's message just now, he thought.

"Polly won't be home yet awhile. We've always been used to a Saturday
night run, and she thought father would be at home, and she won't come
back for another hour, I know," said Jessie, speaking through her
tears. Just then a deep moan was heard from the bedroom above, and
Jessie started forward and tried to crawl to the stairs.

"Oh dear, it's mother, and I know she is worse. Help me upstairs, Jack.
I must go to her."

Jessie's foot and ankle were so tightly bandaged that it was very
difficult for her to get upstairs, but with Jack's help she managed to
reach her mother's room. "I couldn't come before, mother," she panted.

"Your father, Jess; I want him," said the invalid, in an eager whisper.

"He'll be in soon," said Jessie, feeling vaguely alarmed at the change
in her mother.

"You must take care of your father when I am gone," went on Mrs.
Collins. "I have never been the wife to him I ought, but he was always
good to me, and you, too, and never till lately did he touch the drink.
He got tired of waiting for things to be better, I suppose. Just as
they were coming too," she added, with a sigh, "for I know you have
been trying to straighten things out and keep the house clean, which I
never could do. Don't, don't give up trying, Jess. I never could begin,
but you have, and so you can keep on after I am gone."

"Oh, mother, mother, don't talk like that! Try and get better, and help
us all to make home comfortable."

But the invalid closed her eyes, and murmured faintly—

"Too late, too late. My life is gone—wasted, wasted," she murmured,
more and more feebly.

Jack was awestruck, and crept away as gently as he could to fetch some
help for Jessie. As he went out he met Polly coming in with her arms
full of parcels of various sorts and sizes.

"Jessie is upstairs," he whispered. "I think your mother is worse, and
I am going to fetch somebody."

"Oh, fetch your mother, Jack! She knows just what we want, and we don't
mind her seeing things, because she won't go and talk about it to other
people. Oh, do fetch her!" added Polly, imploringly.

"I'll go and see if she can come," answered Jack. "But you had better
go and tell the doctor that your mother is worse, and ask him to come
at once;" And then he ran off towards home, and reached the gate in
time to see his mother open the door.

"Where have you been, my boy?" she asked as he came up the steps.

"Over at Jessie's. Can you go now, mother? I think Mrs. Collins is
dying. She spoke so solemn a little while ago."

"Dying!" repeated his mother, in a startled tone, "I never thought it
would be so soon as this."

"I wish you could have heard what she said about wasting her life,"
said Jack. "Couldn't you go to Jessie, and let me sit beside father's
bed and bathe his head? That's all there is to do, isn't it?"

"Yes, that is all; and he seems so much better now I think I might
leave you to keep the rags on his head moistened. He is in a good
sleep, and I don't want him disturbed, so you must be very quiet when
you change the rags on his head, for the sleep will do him quite as
much good as the lotion. You'll try to keep awake?" she added.

"Yes, mother, I'll do anything, so that you can go to poor Jessie,"
said Jack.

The two went up to the dimly lighted bedroom, and Jack watched his
mother change the wet rags on his father's head, and felt sure he
could do the same if he could only keep awake. This would be the most
difficult part of his task, but he was determined that his father
should not suffer through his neglect; and so he sat down with a
resolute determination that however sleepy he might feel, he would
resist the inclination to go to sleep.

He heard his mother close the street door as she went out, and listened
to her quick footsteps as she went up the street, and then the silence
seemed to descend and wrap the whole house in its folds, so that Jack
could hear every breath his father drew, and noticed the regularity
with which every breath came and went. Then he began thinking of all
that had happened that night, and what he had heard from the dying
woman about her life being wasted.

He knew it was true, for had not she and Jessie been the byword of the
neighbourhood? Every decent mother had warned her girls to keep away
from Jessie Collins; and now it seemed that it was the fault of the way
in which Jessie had been brought up rather than her own, for his mother
said Jessie had very good points in her character, and had made the
most of what she had learned at school.

Thinking of this kept him from going to sleep, and his thoughts
travelled from Jessie to his sister Fanny, and he could not help
wondering what sort of girl she would have been if she had had the same
chances as Jessie, and no more.

"The way people are taught and brought up has a great deal to do with
what they are afterwards, but it isn't everything," was the conclusion
Jack arrived at after a good deal of pondering; and then he noticed
that his father was not sleeping so peacefully, and he remembered that
he had not yet put fresh cool rags on his head, and at once squeezed
those that were in the basin of lotion, and took off the hot almost dry
ones, to be replaced by those that were cool and moist.

In a few minutes he noticed that this change had restored his father's
peaceful breathing, and he felt repaid for all the trouble it had cost
him to keep awake. He did not wait so long before changing the damp
rags the next time; and soon after daylight he heard his mother put the
key in the street door, and then he crept down to meet her.

"How is father now?" she asked anxiously, as he went down the stairs.

"All right. Just as you left him. He has not woke once."

"Then you have not been to sleep, my boy, but have kept his head bathed
as I should have done."

"How is Mrs. Collins now?" asked Jack.

Mrs. Brown shook her head. "It is all over, Jack. A wasted life has
come to an end; and bitterly as she repented of it at the last, there
was no time left to undo even a little bit of the mischief it has
caused to others as well as herself. Now you go to bed, Jack, and I
will go to father. Mrs. Tate is with Polly and Jess now, and no one can
do any more for them just at present."



CHAPTER XI

A FRIEND IN NEED

"IF you please, ma'am, may I see Fanny?"

The lady who had opened the door looked at Jack in surprised silence
for a minute, and then he said—

"Fanny is my sister, ma'am!"

"Oh dear, what a pity, to be sure, that you have missed each other! How
could you have managed it? I hope your father is no worse?" added the
lady.

"No, ma'am, he is a good deal better to-day, thank you."

"Fanny will be glad to hear that. She has gone home this afternoon,
because of the news she got yesterday morning."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Jack, not knowing what else to say, and
wondering how Fanny could have heard the news. "Good afternoon, ma'am,"
he said, as he turned away to walk home, hoping he might overtake Fanny
and ask her how she had heard that his father was hurt.

He walked on quickly, keeping a sharp look-out for his sister as he
went, but could see nothing of her. Just before he reached home, a
thought occurred to him that made him almost stand still in the middle
of the street, and he exclaimed, half aloud—

"Why, how could Fanny have heard that dad was ill yesterday morning?
He wasn't hurt till last night. That's a rum go! I'm sure Mrs. Lloyd
said she had the news yesterday morning;" and he walked on at a brisker
pace, for he was anxious to reach home now and solve this mystery.

As he turned into the street, he saw his mother coming towards him. She
had evidently been to see Jessie Collins, and he hurried forward to
meet her before she reached their own door.

"Why, how is it you are back so soon, Jack? I thought you said you
should go to church with Fanny?"

"Yes, so I should; but she has come home to tea, and I missed her
somewhere."

"Home to tea?" repeated Mrs. Brown, in surprise. "She must have come
in, then, while I have been away, and I didn't stay long with Jessie
either."

"I say, somebody sent and told her father was ill yesterday morning,"
said Jack, as they were turning in at their own gate.

"Nonsense. No one could have done it, for there was nothing the matter
with him until last night."

"Well, Mrs. Lloyd says Fanny knew it yesterday morning. I never thought
about it till I was half way home, and then it seemed a rum go to me
that Fan should know before anything had happened."

Mrs. Brown looked at Jack in silence for a moment, while she took the
key of the door from her pocket; then she said, in a changed tone—

"Jack, we must keep this to ourselves, if Fanny isn't indoors. I am
still to keep your father very quiet, the doctor says, and it will
never do to upset him about Fanny just now. And he will be cross if he
hears that she has had leave to come home, and not come."

"But where could she go?" asked Jack. "She doesn't know anybody out
there, does she?"

"She may have made friends!" said his mother. "But mind, your father
must not know this just now."

Almost at the same moment Selina opened the door.

"We heard you talking," she announced, "and father said I might come
and see who it was. Haven't you been, Jack?" she asked.

"Been? Been where, Miss Inquisitive?" asked her brother.

"Why, to see Fanny, of course. You said you should meet her as she was
going to church."

"Well, I missed her," said Jack.

His father was downstairs in the sitting-room now, and heard what he
said to Selina.

"You have not seen Fanny?" he said questioningly, as they went into the
room.

"No; he missed her somehow," said Mrs. Brown, answering for him.

"Why didn't you go on and see if she had started?" said his father.

"So I did, and saw Mrs. Lloyd, who told me I must have missed her
coming along," answered Jack.

"But you could have gone to the church," said Brown, in a tone of
annoyance.

"Yes, if I had known which church she was going to to-night; but there
are two within easy reach of her place, and she told me the last time
I saw her that sometimes she went to one, and sometimes to another; or
she may have gone for a walk," suggested Jack, who expected Fanny to
come in at any moment, as she evidently had not arrived yet. And then,
to avoid being asked any more awkward questions about his sister, he
asked his mother how she had found Jessie Collins.

"Oh, she is very poorly, of course, and her foot is very painful
to-day, but she is less anxious now they have got her father to go home
again. Radford took him this afternoon, and though he looks very bad,
he understands all that has happened."

"Poor chap, he has had a hard time of it," said Brown, "and the hardest
part is that, having kept himself a sober man all these years, he
should break down just now. Did he see you?" he suddenly asked of his
wife.

"Oh yes; he was sitting near Jessie when I went in, and he looked up,
and asked how you were, and if it was true you had had a bad fall.
'Quite true,' I said, 'but we don't want any fuss made about it,' and
then I talked to Jessie while he went and sat by the window."

"I should like to go and see him," remarked Brown.

"That will never do," said his wife, promptly; "it will make matters
worse all round. And besides, I heard while I was out that the foreman
was coming to see if you would be well enough to go to work as usual
to-morrow morning."

"To be sure I shall. Thanks to the doctor's care and your good nursing,
I shall be right as a trivet by the morning, and a deal better at my
work than stopping here to wonder over this and that, and wish I could
alter things."

"Well, if the foreman thinks you had better go, I will not hinder it,"
said Mrs. Brown, thinking of Fanny, and how her father would worry if
he only heard the news Jack had brought.

Just before bedtime the foreman came in, for he had heard all sorts of
reports about Brown's illness, and wanted to satisfy himself as to what
had happened.

"I wasn't there to see!" answered Mrs. Brown, when the man asked if she
had not gone out with her husband. "I had gone into a shop, and when I
came out there was a crowd, and Brown lying in the middle of it."

"Well, you know what Collins said—that he had killed you."

"Oh, Collins was mad with drink on Saturday!" said Brown, quickly. "No
one believes a man when he is like that."

"And you don't want it to be believed, you mean," said the foreman.

Brown laughed. "Who is likely to believe that I am killed when they
hear I have gone to work as usual on Monday morning. Besides, what good
would it do to have the police meddling between friends?"

"That is sensible enough, if it satisfies you, that you will not again
be hurt by the same fool."

"That's it? Whoever it was knows he is a fool now," said Brown, "and he
won't be likely to repeat it. I shall be all right when I once get back
to my work, and so I hope you'll let me go as usual to-morrow."

"Let you? I shall only be too glad to have you, if you can come. But it
must be on the understanding that you give up if you are not well, and
take things easily if you are. Everything is straightforward now, and
you like your work, I know."

"Like it? I should think I do, and I should like my Jack to have the
chance of learning this branch of it."

"Well now, that will be the very thing for us. I suspect the boy you
have had has let his tongue run away with him as to what happened down
there, and so I will arrange that he stays here for a time, and your
boy can go in his place if he is a steady reliable lad, and he can keep
an eye upon you and make things comfortable if you are not quite the
thing."

Brown himself hardly liked to accept this kind offer; but Mrs. Brown
said eagerly—

"If you could manage this without being unfair to the other boy I
should be very thankful, for Jack could let me know at once if his
father was not well, and my mind would be at rest about him."

"Well, then, let Jack come with his father to-morrow morning. It will
be a lesson, perhaps, to the other chap not to let his tongue run so
fast about what does not concern him, so that it will be quite fair to
make the change, Mrs. Brown."

Then the foreman went away, and husband and wife could talk over this
piece of good fortune—for it was an opportunity of learning the more
highly skilled portion of the work, if a lad was careful, steady, and
observant.

Jack had to prove whether he would use the opportunity thus given to
him; but he was delighted and astonished when he came in to learn that
he was to go with his father the next morning. "My boy, it will be the
making of you, if you only take care and learn all you can," said his
father.

"I shall have to stick to my books, though, if I want to get on," said
Jack, to whom book-learning was not pleasant.

"Yes, you will; for, as you know, I have had to do it, old as I am,
that if ever the chance came in my way I might be able to take it.
There will be arithmetic, and lots of other things to learn of an
evening," added his father.

"But you will go this week, at any rate," said his mother; "for I shall
fidget about your father unless I know he has somebody to look after
him."

"Why, mother, what do you take me for?" said Jack, in a half-offended
tone. "Of course I am very glad to go with father, because you will
know things are all right; unless I write and tell you he is not so
well, and ought to come home."

Brown laughed. "I see you are to go as a sort of keeper, as though I
was not to be trusted by myself."

"Well, something like it," admitted his wife. "I know how anxious you
are to keep this work, now you have got it. How hard you have tried to
fit yourself for this kind of work if ever it came in your way, that
you may be inclined not to give it up even when you ought, for fear you
should lose it altogether."

"Well, you may be right," said Brown, "for I don't mind telling you
that I should be awfully disappointed to lose my present job now. It is
responsible work, and requires all a man's thought and attention while
he is at it. And because of that, I hope I should not be tempted to
stop on when I wasn't fit, even to save my place. So, if Jack sees I
am not up to the mark, he must tell me, and I will come home at once,
and go under the doctor again. There is no telling what might happen if
there was any mistake or neglect where I am now."

"All right, father; don't worry yourself about it," interrupted Jack.
"I will keep a strict watch, never fear; and if you only blink as
though you had got the headache, off you go, and I shall send for the
foreman."

"Right you are, lad," said Brown. "That is what I want you to do for
me; and you can think about the book-learning, and whether you will
take it up when you are off duty."

"So I can. And I dare say by the end of the week I shall be able to
make up my mind whether the job will be worth all the trouble and
bother and fuss of having to learn this and that."

"Perhaps it will be better than deciding at once that you will take
this chance of getting on," said Mrs. Brown.

But it was easy to see that she would be greatly disappointed if Jack
decided against it.

When the lad had gone up to bed, Brown spoke of this.

"Better let him think it out for himself, and count the cost," he said.
"Book-learning he don't like, as you know; and he must decide for
himself whether he will take the trouble to overcome this dislike, or
whether he will jog along as most of the men do. He has got to live his
own life, and must decide this question for himself. Many a man quite
as good as I am would not take my job, even if they could, because of
the responsibility of the thing. I will talk to Jack about it while we
are away; but I shall not say a word to persuade him either way, for I
don't think that would be fair. As Jack did not leave your letter for
Fanny, don't you think you might go over and see her yourself, mother?"
he suddenly broke off. "You know, I meant to go to-day, and clear some
of the cobweb out of the silly girl's head; but as I couldn't go, and
Jack managed to miss her, well, I think it will be better for you to go
when you can manage the walk."

"Yes, it will be best, certainly," assented Mrs. Brown, who was
wondering where Fanny could have gone when she went out to tea, and how
she could have heard that her father was ill before it happened.

The next morning Brown seemed quite recovered, and he and Jack went off
by the early train with the others. As soon as breakfast was over, and
the girls gone to school, Mrs. Brown went to see Jessie, and hear what
they were going to do about her mother's funeral.

She was afraid no provision had been made in any way, and was not
surprised to find Jessie in tears, and to hear her say—

"Father is in an awful way about the funeral, Mrs. Brown. He doesn't
know what to do, or which way to turn."

"Your mother did not belong to a club or anything of that sort?"

"Mother didn't. She never could save; and father knew it, so he joined
a club where they make some sort of allowance when a wife dies. But
he hasn't kept this paid up, and unless he can clear the books this
morning before twelve o'clock, we shan't get a penny, and mother will
have to be buried by the parish." And Jessie burst into tears again at
the thought of such an indignity as a parish funeral for her mother.

Mrs. Brown was silent. Perhaps she thought a parish funeral was all
that Mrs. Collins deserved; but she did not say so, and she could
sympathize with Jessie in her love and regard for her mother. So, at
last, she said—

"Do you know how much there is to pay up this club of your father's?"

Jessie shook her head. "Father said it was nearly a pound, and he would
never be able to get it in time," sobbed the girl.

"Has he tried?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"He asked two or three of his mates last night," said Jessie.

Again Mrs. Brown was silent, while she thought over what she could do
to help.

"Do you know how much money he would get if the club money was all paid
up?"

"About six pounds," replied Jessie.

"Enough to buy you and Polly new black frocks, repay the money you
must borrow to get this, and still leave plenty to bury your mother
decently, and provide something for your father. Now, if I lend you the
pound that is wanted, will you promise that I shall be repaid out of
this six pounds as soon as you get it?"

"Oh, Mrs. Brown, if you would do this for us, I am sure father will be
glad to pay you the moment we get the club money."

"Very well, I will trust you. But, you see, it is what I have got to
spend in the house this week, and so I shall have to ask people to give
me credit until you can pay it back," explained Mrs. Brown.

"Yes; I see. I understand," said Jessie. "And, of course, you never
have credit, Mrs. Brown?"

"Not now. Not as a regular thing. But, you remember, Brown was ill a
long time last year, and there was no help for it but to get into debt.
Thank God, these debts are nearly all paid off now; but we have had a
hard time of it, Jessie, to keep our heads above water sometimes."

Jessie opened her eyes in amazement. "Why, everybody thought you had
got a little fortune somewhere!" she exclaimed. "We knew Mr. Brown was
ill, and couldn't work; but it didn't seem to make any difference, and
you all held your heads as high as ever. Mother said this again and
again."

"I did not know that we ever held our heads above our neighbours," said
Mrs. Brown, quickly. "Of course, we did not want it talked about that
we were sometimes glad to have a dinner of dry bread, and to sell all
our best furniture. I tell you this, Jessie, that you may understand
that I cannot afford to lose this money I am going to lend you. Now,
how will you manage to send it?" asked Mrs. Brown, in conclusion.

"Polly hasn't gone to school yet. She knows where to take it, and I
know where father keeps the book. Oh, won't he be glad when he comes
home, and I tell him he can go and see about the funeral as soon as he
has done work! Why, we never did anything for you when you wanted it,
but you are ready to help us all you can," added Jessie.

"Well, for one thing, you did not know how we were pushed. You thought
we had a fortune, so that it was not your fault that we were sometimes
hungry," said Mrs. Brown. "But when you can do a neighbour a kind turn,
do it, whatever it may be. Now, let me sweep up the room and make you
comfortable, while Polly goes to pay the club." And as she spoke Mrs.
Brown fetched brush and broom, and soon made the kitchen neat and tidy.

"I didn't feel as though I could do anything this morning," said Jessie.

"I dare say not, my dear. Things are hard with you just now, I know;
but I have always found it a good rule not to let anything interfere
with the sweeping and cleaning. When Brown was ill, I seemed to lose
heart sometimes; but I kept a clean floor and a tidy dresser, for it
would have made me worse to see things all in a muddle."

When Jessie herself was made comfortable, and her lame foot placed on
a pillow, Mrs. Brown went home, wondering whether she had done a wise
thing or a foolish in parting with her money so readily. It would put
her to some inconvenience through the week to be without ready money in
her pocket, until it occurred to her that perhaps Fanny might lend her
a few shillings. She resolved to tell her all about Jessie Collins, and
ask her if she could let her have a little money until Collins could
return what she had lent.



CHAPTER XII

AN UNWELCOME VISIT

"AH mother, is it you?" The exclamation came from Fanny Brown, who had
been sent to post a letter, and saw her mother close by as she turned
away from the letter-box.

For answer, her mother kissed her and said, "You do look well, Fanny.
You have got a colour like a rose. I am glad you have got such a nice
comfortable place."

"I don't see how you can tell what sort of place I have got," said
Fanny, a peevish look coming into her face as she spoke.

"Oh, you may trust a mother's eyes for seeing proof of that," said Mrs.
Brown. And then she added quickly, "How was it you did not come home to
tea yesterday, as your mistress gave you leave to come?"

"Oh, Jack has been telling tales again, has he? What business has he to
come spying upon me as he did?"

Her mother looked at her in surprise. "Spying upon you!" she repeated.
"He came because father sent him to tell you all the news of what
has happened the last week. Who told you that your father was ill on
Saturday morning?"

Fanny tried to laugh. "Oh, it was just a guess of mine," said Fanny,
lightly. "I wanted to go out with a friend, and I knew I could get out
that way. Now, don't scold, mother. Things have altered since you were
at service, years ago."

"They have indeed," answered Mrs. Brown, in a grave tone; but she would
not say any more just then, for she wanted to gain her daughter's
confidence, and this was a bad beginning.

"Are you going back with me, mother?" asked Fanny, after a pause, as
her mother walked beside her.

"I should like to come and sit down in the kitchen for a rest, after my
long walk. You might ask your mistress if she has any objection."

They had reached the side entrance, and Fanny took a key from her
pocket to let herself in.

"Come in, mother. Mrs. Lloyd won't mind, I am sure," she said.

"I would rather you went and told her I had come, Fanny," said Mrs.
Brown, hesitating at the open door.

"Oh, well, come inside while I go and tell her," said the girl, sharply.

She was back again in a minute or two. "I am to make you a cup of tea
after your long walk," she said, "and you can tell me all the news
while I am getting it." And Fanny stirred the fire under the kettle and
reached down a cup and saucer in a great bustle. "How is father?" she
asked carelessly.

"Better now. But he had a bad fall on Saturday night, and was ill all
day yesterday."

"Oh La! How did he fall?" exclaimed Fanny, pausing in her bustle of
preparation. "I didn't think my words were coming true like that," she
added, with a little more concern.

Her mother told her that the fall took place in the town when they were
out marketing; but she did not enter into particulars, assuring her
that the danger was all over now.

"I have some good news for you too," she added quickly.

"Oh, that's about Eliza, of course; she is the favourite now."

"Don't be foolish, Fanny. I never made a favourite of one more than
another; and I am sure you will be pleased to hear the letter Mrs.
Parsons has sent me about Eliza."

And she drew the precious letter from her pocket and began to read it.
To her at least it was intensely interesting. But Fanny did not see
anything to make a fuss about, and she said so, while her mother sat
sipping her tea and wondering what could have happened to Fanny that
she cared so little for her sister or any of them at home now, and she
wondered what she had better do about telling her of the death of Mrs.
Collins and the trouble they were all in through it.

But necessity compelled her to do this, for now that she had lent all
her housekeeping money to pay Collins's club, it had left her almost
without a penny, and so the sad tale had to be told.

"La, mother, do you mean to say you have been running after that Jessie
Collins like that? Why, you didn't like me to speak to her when I was
at home," retorted Fanny.

"No, I didn't; but I did not know her as well as I do now, and when you
were at home, she did little else than run the street, which is no good
to any girl. But I have had to do more than go in and out to help them,
Fanny, I have had to lend them all my week's housekeeping money to pay
up the club that Collins might get the allowance to pay for his wife's
funeral. If it had not been paid this morning, the whole six pounds
would have been lost."

"And serve him right," said Fanny, coldly. "He kept away from the drink
for years and years. What made him take to it just lately? I have seen
him hardly able to walk," concluded the girl.

"So have other people; but the poor man is in a great deal of trouble
now, and who knows but he may give up the drink after this. At any
rate, I could not see them in such trouble and not lift a finger to
help them, so I have lent them all the money I had got, and have come
to ask you to lend me a few shillings till the end of the week, just to
piece out with what I can get on credit," added her mother

"I want a few shillings for myself," said Fanny, in an angry tone. "You
seem to think, mother, that I ought to give you every farthing of my
wages. I want a new pair of boots and a new frock, and I can't have
them because I have not got money enough, and now you come and ask me—"

"I only want you to lend me what you have saved towards buying the new
frock," interrupted her mother. "I do not ask you to give me a farthing
of your wages. Thank God, your father is in good work, and whatever you
can lend me, Jack shall bring back next Saturday as soon as your father
gets home from work."

"Well, I can't do it, mother, for I haven't got it," answered Fanny, in
a dogged tone. "Mrs. Lloyd pays such poor wages that I don't think I
shall stop much longer."

"Fanny, you would never be so foolish as to leave a comfortable place
like this," exclaimed Mrs. Brown, looking round the cosy kitchen, which
she had already calculated in her own mind required so little hard work
to keep neat and nice. "Why, this is as nice as any parlour," she said,
uttering her thoughts aloud.

"Oh, it's all very well," said Fanny, with a toss of the head; "but a
comfortable kitchen isn't everything, and I have heard that I can get
higher wages than Mrs. Lloyd pays."

"Money is not everything, my girl. A considerate mistress, who tries
to make things comfortable for her servant, and where a growing girl
like you has as much to eat as she wants, may not be so easily found as
you seem to suppose. Higher wages will mean harder, rougher work, very
likely. Here you have just enough to keep you comfortably employed, and
you have a mistress who does not mind teaching you how to do your work
thoroughly."

"Oh, I have learned nearly all she can teach me now," said Fanny, with
a smile, and a complacent look round her neat little kitchen.

Her mother sighed. "Well, as she has been at the trouble to teach you
a good many things you could never learn at home, don't you think it
would be very ungrateful to leave her so soon after you have been able
to master the work and do it properly?"

"Ungrateful!" repeated Fanny. "Don't I work for every penny I get?"

"Yes, I dare say you do. Nobody keeps servants to look at, of course;
but when an untrained girl, like you were, comes into a house like
this, a mistress has to be at a good deal of trouble before she is of
very much use. I know what it is when I have to begin teaching what I
do at home. Why, it is easier to wash up tea-things than to teach a
girl to do it properly, and it is the same with other things."

"Oh, well, I believe Mrs. Lloyd likes to teach girls, and to worry
them too," retorted Fanny. "Of course, Eliza never gave anybody any
trouble," she added, with something like a sneer.

"We were not talking about Eliza," said her mother, calmly. "When she
goes into the Vicarage nursery, I dare say she will have to learn a
good many things, and I only hope, if Nurse has this trouble with her,
she will stay and repay her with the work she has to do."

"What wages is she to have when she is a proper nursemaid?" asked
Fanny, eagerly.

"That is not mentioned in the letter," answered her mother. "I dare say
Mrs. Parsons thought that it would be sufficient to let me know that
she was willing to take her. They will pay enough to keep her neat and
tidy, and that is all a girl should expect while she is learning the
duties of her place."

"Oh, they are old-fashioned ideas! People don't think like that now;
and I tell you, Mrs. Lloyd does not pay enough, and I dare say I shall
tell her so very soon."

"I hope you will not do anything so foolish, Fanny. Your wages ought to
be sufficient for all you want at present. It puzzles me what you can
do with so much money," added Mrs. Brown, rising from her seat as she
spoke. "Would your mistress like to speak to me," she added suddenly,
as though the thought had just occurred to her.

"I know she is very busy and cannot spare the time," said Fanny,
quickly. She did not ask her mother to sit and rest a little longer,
and Mrs. Brown felt that, for some reason she could not understand,
Fanny was glad to get rid of her. She noticed, too, that the girl
opened the street door which was close to the kitchen, most carefully
and cautiously; for the truth was Fanny did not want her mistress to
see her mother, and had not let her know that she was in the house for
fear she should say she would come down and speak to her.

Mrs. Brown went away feeling depressed and disappointed. She had been
careful not to say a word that was harsh or fault-finding, and yet
Fanny had shown so little pleasure at her visit that her mother felt
sure she was glad to have her go, instead of pressing her to stay as
long as she could; and the poor woman sighed as she thought of the
change that had taken place in Fanny since she had left home.

She knew that she was always a little selfish, a little wilful; but
with Jack and the others to be considered as well as herself, these
faults were kept in check a good deal. But, in spite of this, it must
have been that Fanny herself never really tried to overcome these
faults, or there would not have been such a change in her as her mother
now deplored. The thought of this made her grave and anxious as she
walked homeward, for she felt helpless now to combat this, and yet she
felt sure it would bring trouble to her child if she did not overcome
it.

Then she was disappointed, too, that Fanny could not lend her a
shilling or two for the week's provisions; there were some things she
could not get on credit, and she hardly knew how she was to manage now
that she had parted with all her ready money.

In her thoughts of this and Fanny's unkindness, she quite forgot that
she had told Minnie and Selina that they might come and meet her when
they came out of school, until she saw them running towards her, each
trying to reach her first.

"Oh, mother, you have come a long way without us!" said Selina,
reproachfully. "You said we might walk as far as the corner of Green
Lane, and we have not got nearly so far. It isn't fair," said the
little girl, in a complaining tone.

"Didn't you stay long with Fanny?" asked the more thoughtful Minnie.

"Not very long, dear. You see, Fanny's time is not her own now; she
is in service," said Mrs. Brown, by way of warding off any further
questions on this subject.

Then Selina suddenly remembered that she had been told to ask her
mother to go and see her governess that evening.

"There, I had nearly forgotten all about it!" exclaimed the little
girl. "May we go with you to teacher's house?" she asked.

"No, dear. If Miss Martin had wanted to say anything to you she would
have told you in school," replied Mrs. Brown. "Minnie shall take the
key, and go and get the tea ready by the time I come back. I had a cup
of tea at Fanny's; but I dare say I shall be ready for some more when I
get home. Now, my nearest way to Miss Martin's will be to turn up the
next road, but you two had better go straight home now."

"It is a shame to have such a little bit of walk with you, mother,"
grumbled Selina. "You must have stopped a tiny while with Fanny. I'll
ask her when she comes home why she didn't keep you a long long time."

"We shouldn't have liked that," said Minnie, clasping her mother's hand
tighter as she spoke. "I think it was kind of Fanny not to keep mother
away from us, for fear we should be waiting for her."

Mrs. Brown let them talk on until they reached the corner where their
roads parted, and then she bade the two girls go home quickly, while
she walked onwards to see their teacher. She felt in her pocket to make
sure that she had got her precious letter from the seaside, for she had
no doubt that Selina had been chattering at school about this, and Miss
Martin wanted to see it for herself, and hear exactly what had been
said. But to her surprise, Miss Martin said no word about the letter
that was so important to Mrs. Brown.

"I want to have a few words with you about poor Jessie Collins," she
said, as soon as her visitor was seated. "I have heard from Polly what
a good friend you have been to them ever since her mother was taken
ill, and I want to know whether we can help the poor girls in any way.
You see, they are rather difficult people to deal with, and the Vicar
being away from home makes matters rather worse, for Collins being such
a strange, independent sort of man, Mr. Nye, our curate, might give
offence if he called upon him just now."

"He might; there is no telling," said Mrs. Brown. "But the poor girls
are in need of any help that a friend can give them."

"Yes, I thought that would be the case, and I think Jessie Collins is
not so hopelessly naughty as people have thought her," said Miss Martin.

"Naughty!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown. "People have made a great mistake
about Jessie Collins. Of course she was rude and rough from being
allowed to run the streets as she has; but underneath this she is a
kind-hearted, unselfish girl, and as willing to learn anything I could
teach her that would help her mother as my own girls would have been,"
said Mrs. Brown, warmly.

"I am very glad to hear this," said Miss Martin, "I always liked
Jessie, although she was far from being a pattern girl. Still, she was
always ready to help anybody in trouble, whether it was a friend of
hers or not, and I wondered whether there was anything I could do for
them. I have a left-off black dress I could give her, if you think they
will not be offended."

"Oh no; I am sure Jessie will be pleased to receive it from you, she
has told me about the last talk you had with her, and that you expected
her to be a credit to the school, which she is now, I can assure you,
for her loving, self-denying care of her mother would be an honour and
credit to any girl, though the world may never hear of it. Her father
is learning to know her value too, and I hope she may help him to
overcome the love of the drink that has taken hold of him lately."

"Yes, I have heard he has been very unsteady," said the teacher, "and
this, of course, has made things worse for them at home."

"Yes, it has, and Collins was always such a steady man that people are
the more surprised," said Mrs. Brown. "For years and years the poor man
has had a miserable home, but he has made the best of it, and never
grumbled to the neighbours, though everybody has known for the last
year that Mrs. Collins drank more than was good for her, and either
could not or would not try to make home comfortable for her husband and
children. Things have been going from bad to worse lately, for he lost
heart, and took to drink, too, and since her mother's illness the whole
burden of keeping the home together has fallen upon Jessie, and every
penny Collins can get from his club will be swallowed up in funeral
expenses and paying some of the rent that is owing. I said at first
the girls might be able to have a new black frock each, but I learned
afterwards that it would have to go to the landlord; and so you may be
sure how grateful Jessie will be when she hears of your gift."

"Ay, and what of yours?" suddenly asked Miss Martin. "Polly told me
this morning that you had given them all the money you had."

"Not given," interposed Mrs. Brown, "only lent until the club money is
paid."

"And this must be at a good deal of inconvenience to yourself," said
the teacher, quickly, "and so I want you to let me share in this loan.
You lent them a pound, let me lend you ten shillings until Collins can
repay you."

Mrs. Brown coloured, but a smile of relief slowly beamed in her face,
as she said slowly—

"Oh, ma'am, it's just as though God knew what I wanted, and told you,
too. I shall be so grateful if you would lend me ten shillings until
Collins gets his money, or until my husband comes home on Saturday."

"Certainly, you shall have it," said Miss Martin. And as she spoke she
placed half a sovereign in Mrs. Brown's hand, who was truly thankful
for this timely help.

Then she told the teacher of the letter received from Mrs. Parsons
concerning Eliza, and the two could rejoice together that the girl was
likely to do so well.

Before she went, Miss Martin gave her the black dress for Jessie, and
promised to try and get some further help for the girls from a friend,
and with this hope to give Jessie Mrs. Brown hurried homewards.



CHAPTER XIII

THE TWO FRIENDS

"WELL, I declare! Who'd have thought of seeing you here?"

"I didn't expect to see you," replied Fanny to her new friend, Miriam
Jarvis. They had stepped from different train-cars at the terminus a
mile or two from where they lived, and came face to face with each
other as they were crossing the road. Neither looked very pleased to
see the other, and they strolled along side by side in an aimless
fashion, until Fanny suddenly said, "Can you tell me where Spring Grove
is?"

"Spring Grove?" repeated her friend, looking hard at Fanny. "It is the
place I have come to find. Have you come about a watch?" she added
quickly.

Both girls reddened as the question was asked.

"Yes, I have," said Fanny. "I believe they have cheated me, and am
going to take my watch back."

"They won't give you the money back," interrupted Miriam. "I tried it
when the man came for the last month's money, but I am going to tell
them that I can't pay any more, and see what Judds himself says about
it."

"I can't pay either, and get other things that I want. It don't sound
much, perhaps, but three shillings off of every month's money isn't
so little as it seems when you have to buy shoes and stockings and
caps and aprons, and a new dress every now and then," said Fanny, in a
complaining tone.

"That's just it," answered the other. "You and I both want new Sunday
frocks, and I mean to have one, too, for my cousin, where we went to
tea last Sunday, says mine is getting very shabby."

"And I know mine is," answered Fanny, in an aggrieved tone, "for my
mother gave the frock my aunt sent for me to my little sister."

"What a shame!" exclaimed Miriam. "I do call that mean."

"Yes. Mother seems to think I have more money than I can spend because
I get ten shillings a month."

"Does she know about your watch?" asked her friend.

"She knows I have got it, for I wore it the first holiday I went home
after I had it; but she doesn't know I have got to pay such a lot for
it. She thinks the first ten shillings bought it, and she made a fine
fuss about that, I can tell you. Said I knew nothing about buying a
watch."

"Well, I suppose we don't, and Judds know it," admitted Miriam.

"Well, that may be; but we don't like to be told of it as if we were
babies, and that's what my mother did, and I shan't forget it either,"
exclaimed Fanny, in an angry tone.

They walked and talked over their grievance concerning the watches
until they saw the name of the road they were in search of, and then it
was arranged between them that Fanny should go first, as they thought
it might not be wise for them to go together on this errand.

She found that "Judds" was a small shop, but it seemed to be well
stocked with very glittering jewellery besides watches, and she marched
boldly up to the counter and laid her watch down before a little man,
who was looking over some watches he had just unpacked.

"If you please, sir, I find I cannot afford to pay for my watch, and so
I have brought it back, and—"

"You should have thought of that before you bought the watch. We never
take them back," said the man, curtly; and he went on with his work at
the little box before him.

"But I tell you I cannot afford to pay for it," said Fanny, pushing the
watch a little further across the counter. He took no notice, but went
on with his work as though he had the shop to himself.

After waiting a minute or two, Fanny said, "You must take the watch
back and give me the money I have paid for it. I gave the woman ten
shillings when she brought it, and I have paid two months since, which
makes sixteen shillings."

Fanny stopped talking, hoping the man would lay the money on the
counter when he had done with the box he was busy over. But he seemed
wholly absorbed in his task for some minutes, and when at last he did
look up and saw Fanny, he immediately pushed her watch towards her
again and said—

"It is of no use standing there. I tell you we don't do business in
that fashion. You have got a good watch, and you must pay the price
agreed upon for it."

"But I can't," said Fanny, almost in tears now. "My mistress makes me
pay for all I break, and will have me wear—"

"I have nothing to do with your mistress and what she does,"
interrupted the man. "You have bought a watch, and you must pay for
it, and our collector will call in the course of the week; or, if it
will be more convenient, I will tell him to postpone calling until next
week, but it must not go beyond that time," he added.

"I can't pay it," said Fanny, with a gasp, picking up her watch as she
spoke, and fairly bursting into tears as she went out of the shop.

As she expected, she met her friend Miriam outside, and one glance at
Fanny's tearful face was enough to tell her that her errand had failed.
But she was not to be daunted.

"I'll give him a piece of my mind if he doesn't take my watch back,"
she exclaimed. "Wait for me, Fanny," she added, and she walked into the
shop.

"This watch isn't a good one," she said, laying it down on the counter
as Fanny had done.

"Why, what's the matter with it?" asked the man. "It keeps good time,
don't it?"

"No, it doesn't; and it isn't worth the money you ask for it," added
Miriam, boldly.

"But you saw it before you signed the agreement to pay the price we
asked?" said the man. "We instruct our agents to let every lady examine
the watches before she is asked to buy."

He spoke quite calmly, while his very coolness seemed to make Miriam
more angry.

"Oh yes. The woman puts a watch into our hands and tells all sorts of
lies about it being a better watch than any other that could be bought,
and that she only asks us to pay ten shillings down and we can have the
watch to wear at once. I wish I had never seen her or the watch either."

"But you saw it and signed the agreement at the same time," said the
man, mildly.

"Yes, I did; but, of course, I thought the ten shillings I had paid
would be taken off the price of the watch—the two pounds—and weeks
after that has been paid, you send a notice to tell us we are not to
pay any money to the agent who delivers the watch. What do you call
that but cheating?"

"There is nothing in the agreement about the fee paid to the first
agent being taken off the price of the watch. It is a very carefully
drawn agreement," added the man.

"I dare say it is," retorted Miriam. "You've had it made so as to
squeeze money out of poor servant girls; but you won't get any more out
of me, I can tell you. If you don't take this watch back, and hand me
the money I have paid for it, I shall keep it, but not another farthing
will I pay for it."

"Oh, we have means to enforce our rights!" said the man, calmly. "One
visit from our inspector will be sufficient, he will let you know what
to expect if the money is not paid at once to him: however, we are not
in the habit of unduly pressing our customers, and so I will tell our
collector to defer his visit for a week, so as to give you a little
more time," said the man, soothingly.

"Then you won't take the watch back and give me the money I have paid
for it?" said Miriam, sharply.

"No, indeed, we cannot do that, miss," replied the man. "You have had
the watch three months now—"

"But I have only worn it twice," said the girl. "It has been locked up
in my box all the time, and is as good as if it had been in your shop,"
she added.

But the man still shook his head. "We cannot do business that way," he
said.

"Give me back the ten shillings I paid the woman, and keep the watch,"
she said, pushing it towards him.

But he was not to be moved. "We never return money under any
circumstances," he said.

"Very well, you'll never have a farthing more of mine. You may send the
police as much as you like, and I'll tell the magistrate how you cheat
poor servant girls;" and snatching up her watch, Miriam walked out of
the shop, not tearful, like Fanny was, but angry and defiant.

"What have they told you?" asked Fanny, anxiously.

"Just what they told you, I suppose." Miriam could scarcely speak
civilly even to her friend, she was so angry.

"It is a shame," said Fanny, the tears filling her eyes again.

"They are cheats and swindlers, and they shan't have another farthing
of me. No, not even if they send a policeman, as the fellow says he
will," declared Miriam.

At the sound of the word "policeman" Fanny shivered.

"Do you think he would do that?" she asked.

"Oh, there's no telling—he might; but if he does he must. I won't pay
him any more money, I know," said Miriam.

The two girls walked on together in silence for a few minutes, and then
Miriam said—

"Have you thought of what you would like for a new frock? The summer is
getting on now, so it won't do to have anything too light."

"I'm not likely to get a new frock of any sort, light or dark," replied
Fanny, in a grumbling tone.

"But you must," said her friend. "The one you wore on Sunday is getting
too short for you, and the body is too tight. Oh, you must have a new
one," concluded Miriam, in a decided tone.

"Mother ought to have let me have the one auntie sent," grumbled Fanny.

"It's no good crying over spilt milk," said Miriam. "The thing is just
this. I want a new frock, and so do you, and if we could make up our
minds to have them alike, my cousin could let us have them cheap."

"Your cousin?" repeated Fanny, with widely opened eyes.

"La, how you look!" laughed Miriam. She had forgotten all her anger and
anxiety about the watch now, and was only anxious to arrange matters
with Fanny so that she might call upon her cousin as she went home and
ask her to get some patterns of dresses before the next Sunday, that
she and Fanny might choose one.

"How is it your cousin can buy dresses so cheap?" asked Fanny.

"Because her husband is in the trade. He is at one of the biggest shops
in the town. And my cousin being a dressmaker, she can get lining and
everything cheap, so that she could make up your dress for very little
more than it would cost you to buy the stuff."

"Would she do it for me as well as for you?" asked Fanny.

"I dare say she would, as you are my friend. And if we could settle
between ourselves what we would like, she could, perhaps, get it cheap,
if we had them both alike."

"Oh, I should like that," said Fanny, "if you would."

"Yes, I should, if we could think alike about it. We should not be able
to have light dresses now, because the summer will soon be over; so I
will tell her to get some patterns of dark stuff, that we could wear in
the winter, perhaps, as well as just now."

"Yes, that would do," said Fanny, approvingly. "But the dress must not
cost too much, because of that watch. Oh, I do wish they would take it
back," she added, with a sigh.

"Oh, bother the watch! Do let us forget it for a little while; we have
had enough of it for one day."

"I wish I could forget it altogether, for I have had very little
pleasure out of it," said Fanny.

"Don't go talking to my cousin like that about it. I have never told
her a word about mine; and I don't want her to know of it just now, so
mind you don't say a word," added Miriam.

"Have you told your mother and father?" asked Fanny.

"Oh no! How could I? They live fifty miles away in the country. My
cousin got me my place, and the Vicar wrote to recommend me; and I
should not like to let them know at home that I have been cheated over
this watch. But I feel sure Judds have cheated us both," she added in a
more serious tone.

"Do you really think they have?" asked Fanny. "The woman told me when I
bought mine that the price of watches was going up through so many men
going to the war that very soon there would not be a good watch left,
they were being sold so fast."

"I don't believe it," said Miriam, laughing. "They'll say anything to
get you to buy their watches. But, now, mind, not a word to my cousin
about this, or it's very likely my father will say I am not fit to be
away from home by myself. Now, what colour do you like for a dress?"
suddenly asked Miriam, determined to forget all disagreeable subjects
if she could.

"I had a brown frock last time, and I liked that a good deal better
than the one I have got now."

"Very well, we'll ask my cousin to get a brown among the patterns,
though I am not sure that I shall like such a dull colour. What time
have you got to go in?" she suddenly asked.

"Oh, it is my afternoon out," said Fanny, "so that if I get in by six
o'clock, it will do. My mistress has her tea half an hour later when it
is my turn to go out," explained Fanny.

"I generally go in the evening; but as I wanted to go to that place
to-day, I thought I had better go while it was light. We shall have
time to call at my cousin's and tell her to get the patterns for us,"
concluded Miriam, as they reached the tram terminus where they met
earlier in the afternoon.

They would ride the next mile, and then, in the ordinary way, their
roads separated; but as they went it was arranged that they should go
together to see Miriam's cousin, and explain just what they wanted for
a new dress, and also to inquire what the probable cost would be, and
whether they would have to save up their money before buying the dress,
or whether they could order it as soon as they had chosen the pattern,
and pay for it in monthly instalments.

"We could pay four or five shillings out of our wages every month, and
not miss it," said Miriam.

Fanny had thought the same thing when the woman was persuading her to
buy the watch, but she was not so sure about it now. Still, she could
see her friend's cousin and hear what she said, and decide what she
would do afterwards.

So, as soon as they left the tramcar, they hurried to Mrs. Scott's,
and told her what they had been talking about—that they both wanted
new best dresses now; and they would like to know what it would cost
to make them each a dress that they could wear at once, or even in the
winter with an extra petticoat.

"Mother says I have not done growing yet," explained Fanny, "and so it
will not do to have a frock to put away."

"No, indeed; and there is no occasion for it," said Mrs. Scott. "You
can have a nice neat material, suitable for any season. Now, about the
price. It must, of course, depend upon what you girls can afford, in
the first place. Could you afford to pay twenty-five shillings for a
dress, both of you? Of course, it will be made and everything found for
that money."

Fanny shook her head at once, for the sum to her seemed enormous.

Miriam laid her hand on her arm. "Look here," she said, "my cousin
would not want you to pay all that at once, she told you. How much
should we have to pay a month for a dress like that?" asked Miriam.

"Well, that would depend upon the material you chose. You see, it
is all in the way of business," she said, turning and speaking more
directly to Fanny. "If I have to give credit, I have to charge for it,
and the longer I have to wait for my money, the more I must charge for
the dress. You understand what I mean," she added, looking at the two
girls.

Miriam looked vexed that her cousin spoke so plainly, for she was
afraid Fanny would not venture to order a new dress just now.

"But you could give us a little credit, Cousin Madge, without charging
for it," she said.

"Well, it would depend upon what you called a little," said Mrs. Scott.
"I suppose you have both saved something towards the new dresses, and
the next month's money, we'll say, pays a little more than half what
the dress is to cost. Now, if you can pay half when you take the dress
home, and the second half a month later, then I should charge you very
little indeed for that month's credit; but if I had to take the whole
amount in monthly instalments of a few shillings a month, then I should
have to charge a good deal more for the dresses. Now, think the matter
over between now and Sunday, and make up your mind what you can afford
to pay, and how you can pay it. John will bring me some patterns and
prices from the shop on Friday, and I shall be ready to tell you what I
can do when you get out on Sunday."

"We shan't be able to come to tea," said Miriam.

"Well, you can come in as you go to church, if you like; I don't mind,"
said Mrs. Scott.

"I wish we didn't have to go about it on Sunday," said Fanny, as they
were on their way home.

"Oh, what does it matter?" said Miriam, crossly.

"Well, my mother and father wouldn't like me to go about a new frock
on Sunday!" said Fanny. "And it will vex them, I know, when they hear
about it."

"Then they shouldn't have given the other to your sister, as you say
they did. I would do it on purpose to serve them out," concluded
Miriam, a view of the matter that seemed to commend itself to Fanny;
for she laughed, and promised to meet her friend at the corner of the
street where Mrs. Scott lived at six o'clock the following Sunday
evening.



CHAPTER XIV

ONE SUNDAY EVENING

"THERE'S a letter for you, Fanny, on the kitchen table. When you have
read it, I want you to go out again and fetch some cakes and biscuits
for tea to-morrow. I have a friend coming in the afternoon, and she
will stay to tea, of course."

It was Saturday afternoon, and Fanny had been out for some errands for
her mistress, who met her at the lower street door as she was coming in.

"You must shut the cat outside when you go," said the lady. "Twice
to-day she has fetched me down here with her scratching to get out."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny; but she was thinking what a nuisance
Sunday visitors were, and wondering what time she would be able to get
out if this lady visitor was coming to tea. She wanted to go early,
for she had promised to meet Miriam at six, to go and see about their
new dresses, and she would go too, visitor or no visitor, if it was
possible. She muttered this to herself, as she picked up her letter,
which she saw at once came from her father.

She tore it open, and read the few lines that it contained, and then
threw it on the table again.

"I might have known it was something like that!" she exclaimed in a
tone of vexation. "Father says he is coming to meet me, to go to church
to-morrow. Of course he will some about six, and how am I to be in
three places at once?"

Fanny stood for a minute pondering the situation, and then went for the
money for the cake, resolving to take what advantage she could of her
father's letter.

She took it with her, and handed it to her mistress.

"You see, ma'am, father says he is coming to meet me, to go to church
to-morrow evening. Shall I send and tell him not to come, as you are
going to have company?"

"Oh dear, no! There is not time to do that, and I should not like to
disappoint you both if there was. If my friend is here, punctually to
her time, tea will be nearly over before you want to go out, and in
any case I can manage it if you get everything ready before you go. If
you leave here five minutes before the time, you will meet him at the
corner of the road. I can leave the tea-things in the dining-room, for
you to clear away when you come home."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Fanny; and she went off on her errand, glad to
know that she would be able to go out in good time the next day, but
wondering how she could avoid meeting her father on her way to Mrs.
Scott's, for she had no intention of missing this appointment.

Almost at the same moment Miriam touched her on the shoulder.

"Just the girl I wanted to see!" she exclaimed. "I want you to come out
a bit earlier to-morrow. Meet me at a quarter to six instead of six
o'clock."

"I only wish I could," answered Fanny; "but the missus is going to have
company to tea, and I may have a job to get away at six."

"What a bother, to be sure!" exclaimed Miriam. "Some of our folks are
going out to tea, and so I can get away earlier. I do think it is a
shame that poor servants can be muddled about as we are, we ought to
be able to claim our own time and stick to it. Half-past five is your
time, I know. That was why I said a quarter to six, for I thought you
could walk round to my place in that time, and it would be nice to talk
over things again before we go in to my cousin's."

Fanny shook her head. "I don't believe I can get away so early as
that," she said. "I shall have a scramble to get away before six."

She did not say a word about meeting her father, for she did not
want Miriam to see him. He looked just what he was, a respectable
working-man; but Miriam's cousin and her husband were very genteel
people, and would be sure to look down upon people like her father.

Fanny was very fond of him, she thought, and would guard him and
herself from hearing disparaging remarks passed upon his manners and
his clothes. But she did not consider the pain she would cause him by
keeping him waiting, while she went about this other business.

She quite intended to see him after her visit to Mrs. Scott, but she
could not afford to wait much longer for her new dress, because Miriam
had noticed that her present one was shabby and short, and Miriam
always looked so nice, that Fanny was almost ashamed to be seen out
with her.

Miriam pressed again that she should insist upon coming out at her
promised usual time, and Fanny gave a sort of half promise to do this,
although she feared it would not be of much use. Still, the thought
that she was being hardly dealt with easily found a lodgment in her
present frame of mind, and she went home feeling she had a grievance
against her mistress for having company to tea on Sunday.

The old-fashioned practice of Saturday cooking prevailed in Mrs.
Lloyd's small household, so that Sunday was a very quiet day, and Fanny
had very little to do beyond setting and clearing away meals; so on
this particular Sunday Fanny had time to think over what Miriam had
said about servants having a right to keep to their own time, until she
had worked herself up to a state of surprising dissatisfaction, and
Mrs. Lloyd, looking at her gloomy, sullen face, wondered what could
have happened to upset her while she was at church in the morning.

"Did any one come while I was out this morning?" she said, at last.

"No," answered Fanny, in an insolent tone.

"I think you are forgetting who you are speaking to," said the lady,
reprovingly.

"I ain't likely to forget that. Servants seem to have no rights in
these days."

"Certainly not the right to be insolent!" said Mrs. Lloyd.

Fanny went out of the room, and shut the door with a bang.

As she sat over her dinner in the kitchen, she recalled something else
her friend had told her. She was to have her wages raised in a few
weeks' time, and it had been brought about by having given her mistress
notice to leave, and it occurred to Fanny that she might do the same
thing with a similar advantage. Mrs. Lloyd was evidently annoyed,
"cross," Fanny called it, and she took care to do all that was possible
to vex her through the afternoon, and when at last the lady said, in a
tone of expostulation, "Fanny, you really must be more careful," she
said, in reply, "Well, as I don't seem to please you lately, I'll go
this day month."

"I cannot take your notice to-day, Fanny, and I hope by to-morrow you
will have thought over what has happened, and be ready to beg my pardon
for what has occurred."

"Beg your pardon!" repeated Fanny, in an angry tone. "That I never
will, and so you need not think it."

"Leave the room at once, Fanny; you have said quite enough for to-day,"
said her mistress, in a firm tone, and Fanny went out, feeling somewhat
ashamed of herself.

The visitor came a few minutes after five, and Fanny carried in tea and
had her own before the clock struck the half-hour, and she was dressed
and ready to go out by ten minutes to six.

She did not go where she was likely to meet her father, but in another
direction to see her new friend, Miriam.

"You are late," grumbled Miriam; "I told you to meet me a quarter to
six, and it will strike in a minute or two!"

"Well, I told you I wasn't sure that I could come," said Fanny, in a
deprecating tone.

"And I told you to stand up for your rights and not be put upon."

The day had been a miserable one to Fanny, and this greeting from her
friend did not make her more cheerful.

"I wish you knew my missus."

"I know my own, and they're all about alike, I expect," said Miriam.

"But now about our frocks. I want to have a word with you before we go
to Lizzie's. I was there on Friday evening, and she showed me a lovely
piece of stuff. It is not the colour I wanted; but it is such a lovely
piece of stuff, and my cousin says it will wear so well, that I shall
put up with the colour if you like it."


"I shall like it if it is cheap," said Fanny, trying to laugh; "but, as
the people won't take back my watch, I shall have to be careful."

"I tell you what it is, you ought to have more money than you get. You
do all the work of that house, and you ought to be paid well for it,
and I should tell the missus so if I was you."

"I mean to, if I get the chance," said Fanny. "I must, if I am to have
a new frock," she added.

"Well, now will be a good time," commented Miriam. "You have been there
just over three months—haven't you?—and so you could easily say, 'I
want you to raise my wages next month, and I shall give you notice if
you don't.'"

"Is that what you said when you got yours raised?" asked Fanny.

"Something like it," answered Miriam. "Of course I am older, and do
nearly all the cooking at my place, and that makes a difference. But
still you ought to have nine pounds a year now, and I should tell the
lady so, and that you can't stay unless she raises your wages to that."

By this time they had reached Mrs. Scott's, and were very soon looking
over the patterns she had obtained for them.

"There, this is the one I like," said Miriam, drawing forward a piece
of material, soft, and fine, with a small satin flower of the same
colour—a rather dark cinnamon-brown.

"Oh, I do like that!" said Fanny, as soon as she saw it. "My mother
would like it too, I am sure," she added.

"It is neat enough for any one to like it," said Mrs. Scott. "But the
question you girls have to consider is whether you can afford it."

"You said the stuff was very cheap, Lizzie," said Miriam, quickly.

"So it is, very cheap indeed, considering how good it is; but I could
not make either of you a dress for less than a pound, and I should want
half the money when you had the dress, and the other half within two
months."

Fanny looked at Miriam in blank dismay, it seemed an enormous sum to
her.

"Suppose we wanted four months to pay it, what would you charge then?"

"Twenty-five shillings," answered Mrs. Scott, promptly. She did not
attempt to persuade the girls to have dresses of that particular
material, but showed them some cheaper, which she assured them would
also be durable, and serve them for afternoon dresses when they had
done with them for best. Fanny looked on silently, leaving Miriam and
her cousin to discuss the merits of the various stuffs; but although
she took no part, she was thinking and making up her mind about whether
she should say she would have the brown dress, and give notice the
next day that she would leave, unless her mistress would give her nine
pounds a year.

When she was being served with the cake, the previous evening, she
heard a lady ask if they knew of a servant who could do housework, and
that she gave ten pounds a year. Ten pounds seemed an immense sum to
Fanny just now, and she thought if she could only get that, she need
not be so worried about the watch and other things, for with this she
would have plenty of money for all she needed.

So, by the time Miriam had finished her discussion, Fanny had made up
her mind to have that ten pounds a year if it was possible; and so,
when Miriam turned to her, she said—

"I will have the brown dress, if you do, and I will pay five shillings
a month, as I have not got much put away for it."

Mrs. Scott looked at her in some surprise. "You have thought it all
out, I suppose?" she said.

"Yes; I have counted it all over, and I don't think I could do better
than have the brown frock," said Fanny, decidedly.

"I am glad," said Miriam. "Of course, I can have one too; so we shall
have frocks alike after all. Now, when can we have them, Lizzie?" she
asked.

"Well, if you come in one day this week to be measured, I dare say I
can let you have them in a fortnight," said Mrs. Scott; and then she
wished the girls good night, and they went away.

It struck seven as they went up the street. "I am going to St. Peter's
to-night," said Miriam.

"I want to go to St. Mary's; that is close by; and we are late now,"
said Fanny. Her father was to meet her at the corner of St. Mary's
Road, close to the church, and Fanny hoped he had waited for her. She
was not sorry that Miriam was determined to go in the other direction,
and she crossed the road and looked eagerly round, feeling sure her
father was waiting for her somewhere near.

She went a little way up each road in turn, and then back to the corner
of the churchyard, and waited; but her father was not to be seen. Fanny
went to the church porch and looked into the church, hoping to see him
on one of the benches near the door, and because he was not there Fanny
grew anxious and disappointed, almost heart-sick, as she looked into
strange faces, and her father was not among them.

She wished now that she had come here direct, instead of going first
to meet her friend. She lingered near the church until the service
was over, and then looked eagerly at the people as they came out, and
among those she saw the lady who had asked about a servant at the
confectioner's shop the day before. She walked up the street alone, and
not seeing anything of her father, Fanny decided to speak to the lady,
and ask if she still wanted a servant.

The lady looked a little surprised at being asked such a question at
such a time and place, but replied—

"I am wanting a servant. But how did you hear of it?"

"I was at Carpenter's buying some cakes for my mistress yesterday, and
heard you tell the young woman that served me that you were in want of
a servant, and would give ten pounds a year."

"Yes, I will, to a suitable girl. But you had better come and see me
to-morrow morning," added the lady; and then she gave Fanny her address
and walked on, leaving the girl almost bewildered by the swiftness with
which her good fortune had come to her.

She gave one last lingering look round the two streets to see if she
could by any possibility have missed her father coming out of church,
and then walked home.

"Why, Fanny, where have you been?" said her mistress, when she opened
the door.

"To St. Mary's church, where I was to meet my father."

"And did you meet him, after all?" asked the lady.

"No; I could not see him anywhere," answered Fanny.

"You were not there by six o'clock, nor yet by half-past six; for your
father came here about a quarter to seven to ask if you were going out,
for he had not seen you anywhere."

"Father came here?" uttered Fanny, slowly.

"Yes, he did, and seemed a good deal put about that you were not at the
place to meet him. If I could have left my friend, I should have asked
him to come in, that I might have had a few words with him about you;
but, as it was, I could only tell him that you went out about a quarter
to six, as nearly as I could tell."

Fanny tossed her head. "I want to give you warning to-morrow, and so
you need not trouble yourself about me if father does," she said.

Mrs. Lloyd took no notice of this rude speech, and Fanny went upstairs
to take off her hat before setting the supper-tray.

The next morning, directly after breakfast, when Fanny went to clear
the table, she said—

"If you please, ma'am, I should like to leave this day month, and can I
have an hour this morning to see a lady about another place?"

Mrs. Lloyd looked at her in amazement.

"Another place!" she repeated. "Have you told your mother and father
what you intend to do?"

"No, ma'am, not yet; but I dare say I shall before I leave."

"Do you think your mother will be pleased to hear that you have done
this without asking her advice? When you were coming here, she wisely
came to see me first and judge what sort of a home you were likely to
have with me. I suppose you have been tempted by the offer of higher
wages?" concluded Mrs. Lloyd.

"Yes, partly," answered Fanny. "Everybody wants as much money as they
can get," added the girl.

"You will learn one day that money is not everything, Fanny, and a
light, comfortable place such as you have here may be worth more than
higher wages with little comfort."

Fanny muttered something about "being so particular;" but Mrs. Lloyd
took no notice of this, but gave her permission to go out for an hour
when some of the morning work was finished.

Fanny's coolness and assurance puzzled the lady, and she wondered who
or what could have effected the change that had undoubtedly taken place
in the girl.

Looking back to that time, Mrs. Lloyd recalled the Fanny that first
came to her—a happy, lighthearted, hopeful girl, willing and eager
to give satisfaction, and then, after a few weeks of this, a change
gradually crept over the girl, and she grew anxious and dissatisfied
and careless, as though her heart was no longer in her work, but as if
she had some secret care upon her mind that was constantly troubling
her. What could it be? What could have happened in the short time she
had been with her?

But there was no answer to her anxious questioning. She knew nothing of
Fanny's watch, or of the way in which she spent her money. She had to
remind the girl once or twice that she must keep herself supplied with
house-slippers, but beyond this she had never made any complaint about
her dress. Indeed, she was much pleased with her neat, tidy appearance
always, and the way in which her mother had provided for her first
start in life gave her great satisfaction, so that she was unusually
disturbed when the girl gave her notice to leave after she had been
there little more than three months.



CHAPTER XV

FANNY'S LUCK

"IF you please, ma'am, I've got the place, and the lady will give me
ten pounds a year if you can let me go in a fortnight." Fanny had
returned, highly elated at the success that had attended her efforts to
"better herself," as she called it.

Mrs. Lloyd looked somewhat surprised. "The lady is coming to see me
about your character, I suppose?" she said.

"I don't know, ma'am. She didn't say anything about that," answered
Fanny.

"You think she is going to take you without a character?" asked Mrs.
Lloyd.

"I don't know. I told her I had been living here, and gave her your
address."

"Then perhaps she will call and see me," said Mrs. Lloyd. "I hope she
will; it is always more satisfactory. How many are there in family at
this place?" asked her friend; for she was a true friend to Fanny if
she could only have believed it.

"I don't know. I didn't ask," said the girl, a little pertly.

"Is it a larger house than this?" asked Mrs. Lloyd.

"Oh yes; bigger than this," answered Fanny, in a tone of triumph, as
though she owned the larger house.

"Tell me the name and address, that I may make some inquiries for you
before you decide to take this place," said her mistress.

Fanny pouted and looked sullen. "I can do that," she said. "The lady
only wants to know if I can go to her in a fortnight. Her name is
Lewis, and she lives at 16, Mortimer Street," she suddenly added,
apparently fearing that Mrs. Lloyd would decline to let her leave at
the fortnight if she refused to give the address.

"Very well. I will let you know this evening whether I can spare you in
a fortnight. Now set the dinner-table; I am going out this afternoon."

Fanny wondered whether her mistress was going to see Miss Martin to ask
if she had another girl in the school who could take her place, and
what her mother would say when she heard she was going to leave.

Well, it would save her the bother of telling the story herself, she
thought, as she took off her things and put on her cap and apron.

She noticed that Mrs. Lloyd did not sit long over her dinner to-day,
and this confirmed her suspicion that she was going to the school,
for that was a long walk from this end of the town, and there were no
tramcars running in that direction. So, when the lady came back about
five o'clock looking rather tired, Fanny felt sure she knew all that
had happened while she was out, and she would find out who was coming
in her place if she could.

But, in point of fact, Mrs. Lloyd's visitor of the day before had told
her that if she wanted to make a change, she could recommend a girl
about Fanny's age, who, she felt sure, would give satisfaction. But
before telegraphing to this friend to engage the girl to come to her,
she resolved to make some inquiries about the place and people Fanny
had told her of.

Of course it was rather a delicate undertaking, for apparently Mrs.
Lloyd had no sufficient reason for asking the questions she did.

But from the information thus gained, she judged that there were
several children, and that Fanny might not find it a very easy place;
but there was nothing to justify her in refusing to let her go there,
she decided, and a little more hard work would not hurt Fanny, and
might teach her a useful lesson of contentment.

Just as the tea-things were placed on the table a telegram came for
Mrs. Lloyd, announcing that the girl could come at the time named,
which removed the last difficulty concerning Fanny going to the new
place; and so, when she came to clear the tea-things, Mrs. Lloyd said—

"I shall be able to spare you, Fanny, at the end of a fortnight; but
as you will be leaving so soon, and must give each room in turn a good
clean before you go, I shall not be able to spare you for a whole day's
holiday next week, but will let you go home to tea one day to tell your
mother about your new place."

"Thank you," said Fanny, rather ungraciously.

"You had better go at once, and tell Mrs. Lewis that you can go to her
in a fortnight, as she wishes. You can wash up the tea-things when you
come back," added her mistress.

Fanny ran off to Mortimer Street in joyful haste, and on her way met
her friend Miriam, who had been sent out on an errand.

"Oh, I say, I have got a new place!" exclaimed Fanny aloud, as soon as
she saw her friend.

"Where is it?" asked Miriam, with almost equal eagerness.

"16, Mortimer Street," answered Fanny; and at the same moment the
man who was in the habit of calling for the payment of her monthly
instalment on the debt for her watch passed and looked at the girls,
and then wrote down the address he had heard in his pocket-book.

The friends were too much occupied with their own affairs to notice
him, but went on eagerly with their talk.

"You are to have ten pounds a year!" repeated Miriam. "Well, you are in
luck! And only sixteen, too!"

Fanny laughed. "They think I am eighteen," she said. "The lady asked if
I was eighteen, and I said, 'Not quite.' And she said, 'Well, you look
quite eighteen, and so I think you will suit me.'"

"I don't think much of Mortimer Street," remarked Miriam. "I suppose
there are a swarm of children."

"Two or three, I think," said Fanny. "I shan't mind that. It will make
a little life in the house," she said.

"Yes; if you don't have too much of it," commented Miriam. "When are
you to come out?" she asked the next minute.

"Oh, Sunday evening, of course. I shall have to help cook the dinner in
the morning."

"Well, it will be all right for your new frock now," said Miriam. "I am
glad we ordered them on Sunday."

"Yes. So am I." And Fanny bade her friend good-bye, and hurried on to
Mortimer Street.

She had to ring the bell several times before she could make herself
heard, for a game of romps seemed to be in progress, and the noise of
children's voices, shouting, screaming, and laughing, made other sounds
inaudible in the house.

"I won't have that row in my kitchen, I know," muttered Fanny, as she
gave another vigorous pull at the front-door bell.

This time somebody did hear it, and at once flew to the door.

It was a boy about ten, and in answer to Fanny's inquiry for Mrs.
Lewis, the boy slammed the door in her face, and dashed off upstairs,
calling—

"Mother! mother! here's a girl wants you!" Fanny was not too well
pleased. "What a way to answer the door!" she said, half aloud.

The next minute it was opened by Mrs. Lewis herself.

Fanny stated her errand. The children, crowding round their mother to
look at the stranger, made open comments on the "new girl's" looks.

"If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Lloyd says she can spare me to come to
you this day fortnight, and if you would like to see her about my
character, she will be at home any morning before eleven."

"Oh, very well. I may call if I have time," said Mrs. Lewis; and she
pulled the children in as they went crowding out on the doorsteps.

Recalling this last scene as she walked homewards, Fanny did not feel
quite so elated over her good fortune. Some of the gilding had been
rubbed off the promised ten pounds a year. She felt disappointed
too, for she had felt sure of seeing the present maid-of-all-work,
and asking her a few questions concerning the place, and why she was
leaving.

She walked home more soberly than when she came out, and for the first
time asked herself whether she was wise in leaving Mrs. Lloyd in such
a hurry. "There, it's too late to think about that now," she said to
herself after a minute or two. "If I don't like the place, or the
children are too tiresome, I can leave at the end of the month, and
Mrs. Lloyd will give me another character, so I am not going to worry
myself. Ten pounds a year is ten pounds, and I may think myself lucky
to get it."

She did not tell Mrs. Lloyd a word about the children, simply saying
she had told Mrs. Lewis she could have her character, but that she did
not know whether she would call for it or not.

"It would be much more satisfactory in every way to come and see me,
and ask a few questions," commented the lady.

Fanny tossed her head. She thought her mistress wanted to prevent her
taking the place even now, and she hoped Mrs. Lewis would not have time
to come and hear all Mrs. Lloyd had to say about the things she had
broken and damaged since she had been there.

As she washed up the tea-things she wondered who was to be her
successor—which of the girls Miss Martin would recommend, and how soon
the school would hear that she was going to leave her first place
in less than six months, and so forfeit the Vicar's prize. She told
herself again and again that she did not care a pin about this prize;
but in reality she cared very much, now she came to think about it,
especially as her sister Eliza had given such satisfaction to Mrs.
Parsons and the Vicar. But then, again, came the thought of the higher
wages she was going to have at her new place, and that consoled her, if
it did not perfectly satisfy her.

The next few days were busy ones, for Mrs. Lloyd superintended the
turning out of each room in turn that the house might be quite clean
for the new maid, as it had been for Fanny when she came; and it was
not until the last week of her stay with Mrs. Lloyd that Fanny received
permission to go home for the afternoon to have tea with her mother,
and tell her of the change she was about to make.

Fanny decided that she would find out as she went home who was coming
to take her place, and so, instead of hurrying away directly after
dinner, she did not go out until nearly three, for she intended to go
round by the school and arrive there just as the girls were leaving at
four o'clock. She should hear then all about the girl who was coming to
take her place, and also what her mother had said when she heard she
was going to leave.

But when the school was reached, and she met her sisters coming out of
the playground, and they ran eagerly forward to meet her, they did not
say what she expected to hear, "Why are you going to leave your place,
Fanny?"

"How is mother?" she asked, after various questions and exclamations
had passed.

"She is very well, but she has gone out to tea, as you didn't come home
at the proper time. Mother said this was the day for your holiday; and
she made a cake, too," put in Selina.

"Yes, she thought you would have written to tell us if you could not
come as usual," explained Minnie.

"Oh, Fan, father was cross the other Sunday when he came to meet you
and you did not come," said Selina.

"I was cross, too," said Fanny; "but, after all, it did not matter, for
I got—"

And there she stopped, for she did not mean to say a word about the new
place just now, especially to Selina; and at the same moment a group of
old schoolfellows gathered round her, and one among them exclaimed—

"Now, Fanny, you are coming home with me to tea. You said you would the
last time you had a holiday, and now you must."

"But I haven't had a whole holiday this time. We are busy just now,"
said Fanny.

"Never mind, a promise is a promise, and you must come with me. Minnie
can tell them at home where you are."

Fanny made a slight resistance to this plea, but it was very slight,
for she was not anxious to go home, as her father had been so put out
at not meeting her that fateful Sunday evening.

She sent a message to her mother that she would come in and see her
on her way back to Mrs. Lloyd's, and then she kissed her sisters and
joined the group of girls with Mary Taylor.

This was the girl she had decided in her own mind would succeed her
at Mrs. Lloyd's, and she was surprised that she had not heard at once
about this. Perhaps for some reason it had not been openly spoken of in
the school; but if she went home with Mary to tea she would be sure to
hear the news.

On their way to Mary's home, when the other girls had left them, she
said to her friend—

"Are any more girls leaving yet, Mary?"

"No. Mother is rather disappointed, for, you know, she had my name put
down for the next place that teacher heard of. Now she has written to
my aunt who lives near London to look-out for me."

Fanny was puzzled. So Mrs. Lloyd had not been to Miss Martin for
another maid, and she wondered whether by her carelessness she had
brought her old school into such ill repute that her mistress would not
have another girl from there.

It was not a pleasant thought, and she put it away from her as quickly
as she could, laughing and chatting with Mary quite merrily.

She was not in a hurry to go home when tea was over, and she left
herself so little time to see her mother that she could hardly wait
while Selina fetched her from Jessie's; for it was there she had gone
to tea; to show her how to manage some alterations that were necessary
in the black dress Miss Martin had given her for Jessie, and which
there had been no time to do before.

Fanny chose to be aggrieved that her mother should devote so much of
her time to Jessie Collins.

"I never heard of such a thing in my life," she grumbled to Minnie,
while Selina ran to tell her mother she was waiting. "When I was at
home I was not to talk or play with Jessie, and now mother makes more
fuss of her than she does of her own children. I don't think it's fair
to keep me waiting here when I have so little time because she is with
her favourite."

"Fanny, how can you talk like that?" protested Minnie. "Mother did not
go to help with the frock until long after the time for you to come
home. She got a hot dinner for you, and a cake for tea, and now you
come when it is time to start to go back again. I call it shameful; as
bad as serving father as you did. It seems as though you were tired of
us all now you have got a nice, comfortable place," added Minnie.

"Well, perhaps I am going to leave that nice, comfortable place," said
Fanny, with something like a sneering laugh.

"It would serve you right if you did," said Minnie, in an angry tone;
and in the midst of these angry words Mrs. Brown hurried in.

"My dear Fanny, where have you been that you did not get home to dinner
as usual?" said Mrs. Brown, kissing Fanny and taking no notice of
Minnie's wrathful face.

"We are busy, and I could not get away until after dinner," answered
Fanny, "and I must get in early, or Mrs. Lloyd will be cross," she
added.

"But surely you can stay with us for an hour now you have come!"
exclaimed Mrs. Brown, quickly.

"No, I must not stop a minute. I forgot I promised to go to tea with
Mary Taylor the last time I was at home," said Fanny, "and she made me
go with her when I went to meet the children coming out of school."

"Wait a minute, then, and I will put on my other bonnet and go with
you," said her mother. "Cut yourself a piece of cake, I shall be ready
by the time you have eaten it."

Fanny cut a slice of cake, and her mother was ready to start before she
had finished it. When they had begun their walk, Mrs. Brown said—

"How was it you did not go to meet your father as he asked you, my
girl? I never saw him so upset as he was when he came home that Sunday
night. He says he could not have missed you if you had gone near the
place within half an hour of the time he mentioned. It is not fair to
treat your father like this," added Mrs. Brown, in a reproachful tone.

"There, mother, hold your tongue. I thought what it would be when you
said you would walk with me. You always find something to grumble
about. I had to go somewhere else before I could go to meet father. I
am sure I have got as much to grumble at as he has, for I was waiting
and looking about at that corner all church-time. I do think if father
really wanted to see me, he might have waited a bit longer."

Mrs. Brown was angry at the manner in which Fanny spoke.

"He did more than just wait for you," she said, "he went on, and asked
your mistress if you could not come out to church, and she said you had
been gone nearly an hour. Then your father felt sure that you had gone
another way on purpose to avoid him, and he came home at once, worried
and upset, I can tell you. I said I would ask you to tell me all about
it when you came home, and I hope you will, Fanny," added her mother,
in a more persuasive tone.

"I don't know that there's anything to tell," said Fanny, suddenly. "I
have made friends with another girl, who is a servant living close by,
and I had promised to meet her before I got father's letter, and then
I had to go another way to St. Mary's Road, and that was how I missed
him, I expect."

Mrs. Brown breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, Fanny, why didn't you send
him a line the next day, saying you were sorry you had missed him? Or
why didn't you go to him first, and he would have gone with you to meet
your friend, and you could have gone to church together?"

"Well, I might have done that, I suppose," remarked Fanny, "but I never
thought of it. Tell him when you write, mother, that I am sorry, and
that I was looking for him all the evening round by the church." Then
she added, "Now, mother, I must walk on faster, or I shall be late; and
Mrs. Lloyd wants to go out, I know."

So Mrs. Brown bade Fanny good-bye, somewhat relieved by the explanation
the girl had given, and yet feeling vaguely uneasy about her, she knew
not why.

Fanny hurried along the road when she left her mother, reflecting that
she had escaped a good scolding, such as she had expected, for no word
had been said about her leaving her situation, and her mother had heard
nothing of the new one to which she was so soon going.



CHAPTER XVI

A NEW SITUATION

"ARE you the new servant? If you are, mother says you're to go down to
the kitchen, and wash up the things. My sister is ill, and the doctor
is coming presently."

The speaker was the elder boy of the group of children she had seen
before, and this was Fanny's introduction to her new situation.

The boy who had helped her to carry her box set it down in the passage
and went away; while a feeling of forlornness began to creep over Fanny
as she followed the little boy down to the kitchen.

When they reached the door, she paused for a moment.

"Is this the kitchen?" she asked, almost aghast at the sight of the
dirty, comfortless room, that seemed to be filled with dirty cups and
plates from end to end. Even the single wooden chair, that stood near
the table, was piled high, like the table and dresser, with dirty
crockery, and a vision of Mrs. Lloyd's cosy little kitchen rose in
contrast.

"What are you staring at?" asked the little boy. "Jane ran away the
other morning, so there's been nobody to wash up the tea-things and
dinner-things."

It occurred to Fanny that she had better follow the example of her
predecessor, and run away too; but she knew now that her situation at
Mrs. Lloyd's was filled, and the thought of ten pounds a year made her
willing to put up with some discomfort.

After a silent look round the room, she slowly took off her hat, and
when the boy was turning away, she said—

"Wait a minute; you must show me where to find things, if I am to clear
up this muddle."

A fire was lighted in the choked-up grate, for the first thing, and a
kettle of water put on to boil, and when the little boy had told her
where various things were kept, and had left her to find out what she
could for herself, she commenced her task by taking off her afternoon
frock, and putting on the one she had worn in the morning, and a large
coarse apron over it, for the kitchen did not look as though it had
been cleaned for a month, and dresser, cupboards, and table looked
equally dirty.

At first, Fanny felt disposed to sit down and cry, but as the fire
burned up, the kitchen began to look more cheerful, and with all her
faults, Fanny was not afraid of hard work, and so she was soon sorting
and separating cups and saucers from plates and dishes, and had more
water on the fire to get hot, for she could do nothing without plenty
of hot water.

No one came near her for nearly an hour. The children seemed very
quiet, and she supposed Mrs. Lewis was upstairs with the little girl
who was ill; so she set about her task of clearing up, and was nearly
half done when her new mistress came into the kitchen.

"Come, make haste, Mary, I want the supper things set as soon as
possible," she said.

"My name is Fanny," said the new servant.

"Well, we have been used to call the girls 'Mary' until the last, and
she would be called Jane."

"I should like to be called by my own name, too," said Fanny; but the
lady said that "Mary" was a much more convenient name, and so Fanny had
to accept it.

She could not wash up all the dirty crockery, but as soon as she had
done plates enough for the supper-table, she had to go upstairs and lay
the cloth. Most of the children sat down to that meal, as well as her
master and mistress, so that by the time that was cleared away, Fanny
was tired with running up and down stairs, and had apparently made very
little progress with clearing up the kitchen.

Ten o'clock had been the hour for going to bed at Mrs. Lloyd's; but
apparently there was no such rule here, for after the clock had struck
eleven, her new mistress told her to clear up all the rest of the dirty
things, and put them away, before she went to bed; and that she must
get up at six the next morning to get all the boots and shoes cleaned
before breakfast, and the dining-room swept and dusted.

Fanny answered, "Yes, ma'am;" but it was easy to see that she already
began to think she might have to pay too dearly for her increased
wages, and by the time she got to bed, she was so tired that she cried
herself to sleep.

By the end of the next day she had made up her mind that she would not
stay more than a month, for Mrs. Lewis did not seem to understand how
to manage either household or children; and now that one of them was
ill, Fanny was kept running up and down stairs to the neglect of her
other work, and was then scolded because it was not done.

Coming from a well-ordered household like Mrs. Lloyd's, it seemed to
Fanny that everything went haphazard here, and mistress and maid alike
seemed to be always struggling to overtake the work that needed doing,
and yet never succeeded.

Mrs. Lewis was never a good manager, but now that she had her little
daughter to nurse, matters were a good deal worse, and poor Fanny was
so tired before bedtime came that she hardly knew how to drag one foot
before the other.

It came to be a regular thing that she should cry herself to sleep
every night, and oversleep herself in the morning.

Then, when the child got worse, and Fanny heard some one say it was
scarlet fever, she could scarcely snatch time to have a meal in peace,
for there was no time to sit down. When a meal was given to her, she
took it to the kitchen and had a mouthful as she could snatch it, while
washing up or getting something ready to take upstairs.

One day when she took up something to the sick-room, Mrs. Lewis gave
her an apron full of odds and ends, and told her to put them on the
kitchen fire; but the sight of a pink silk scarf, scarcely soiled, made
Fanny decide to look then; over before she burned them, and when she
did so, the pretty scarf and one or two pieces of ribbon were selected
as being too good to throw away, and Fanny put them into her pocket.

At the end of a fortnight Fanny told her mistress that she would like
to leave at the end of the month, as the work was too much for her.

Mrs. Lewis looked at her for a moment in silence, and then actually
burst into tears.

"What am I to do if you leave me just now? Nobody else will come, with
scarlet fever in the house."

"Is it so dangerous?" said Fanny, in a sudden fright.

"People are silly enough to be frightened of it," said the lady, "and
so I hope you will stay with me until it is all over, and then I will
make you a present for the extra work you have had, as well as give you
a good holiday."

Fanny considered the matter for a minute, and then consented, though
she heaved a sigh as she did so, for she was growing very tired of the
hard drudgery of her work day after day, without any relaxation.

Since the little girl had been so very ill, Fanny had not been able to
go out even on Sunday evening. Only when sent on an errand occasionally
was there a chance of losing sight and sound of the constant work and
worry.

She had been there three weeks, and began to wish that she had not
consented to stay beyond the month, when one morning she woke up
unusually early, but when she got up her head ached so much that she
was obliged to lie down on the bed again.

She managed to crawl downstairs at six o'clock, and after breakfast she
felt a little better; but before she went to bed at night her throat
was sore, and she tied the pink scarf round it when she went upstairs.
The following day, when she was answering a knock at the kitchen street
door, she was startled to see the collector from Judds', as the boy who
had brought potatoes turned away.

"You didn't expect to see me, miss," he said with a grin, as Fanny
changed colour. She felt too poorly, too much upset by the sight of the
man to reply. "Judds don't like this sort of thing," he said, after a
pause. "Customers moving away and never giving us notice is against the
rules. Now for the money," he added.

"I can't pay you to-day," said Fanny, thinking of the new frock that
had been sent home the previous evening from Mrs. Scott.

"Then you know what the consequence will be, miss. I shall have to send
the inspector to call upon you," said the man.

"Very well," was all Fanny could answer, for the shock of seeing this
man, whom she thought she had escaped, for a time at least, seemed to
deprive her of all her remaining strength. She shut the door, crept
back to the kitchen, and sank down on the chair as though she was
about to faint. She sat there until she was startled by the imperative
ringing of the front-door bell. She stumbled up the stairs, and opened
the door to the doctor. He stepped in, and then paused on the mat to
look at her.

"What is the matter?" he asked. "You are ill. You have no business to
be here, my girl. Where is your mistress?" he added.

Mrs. Lewis came downstairs at the same moment. "She is better to-day,
doctor; I am sure she is better," she said, in a tone of glad
excitement.

"I am glad to hear it," said the doctor; "but we have another patient
here, I am afraid. This girl has taken the fever, and must go to bed at
once. Send her to her room, and I will see her there presently."

"Go to bed, Mary," said her mistress, in a blank, bewildered tone.

"I will come and look at you in a minute," said the doctor, speaking to
Fanny as she crept upstairs. She was thankful, indeed, to be told to go
to bed, and thought nothing of what might happen to her next, for she
was now too ill to think of anything. She had only just crept under the
bedclothes when the doctor and Mrs. Lewis came upstairs. The result of
the doctor's examination, and the talk with Mrs. Lewis that followed
was that Fanny was taken to a fever hospital a few hours later, and the
next day she was quite delirious. Fanny's things were put together in
her box, the new dress taken down from its peg and tumbled in with the
rest, and they were all taken away to be fumigated.

The doctor had remarked that Fanny was a strong, healthy girl, and
might soon be able to come back; but Mrs. Lewis had her own opinion
about this. The poor woman was so bewildered as she thought of what
she should do, now that Fanny was gone, that she entirely forgot that
the girl had friends who ought to be informed of what had happened to
her, and it was not until the following Sunday that the thought of
this occurred to her. She was doing something in the kitchen about six
o'clock, when there came a knock at the street door, and when Mrs.
Lewis opened it, Miriam stared for a moment at seeing the lady, and
then said—

"Isn't Fanny coming out to-night?" She spoke rather aggressively, for
she had been disappointed the previous Sunday.

"Oh, you mean Mary, I suppose?" said Mrs. Lewis. "Do you know where her
mother and father live?" she asked.

"Has she gone home?" exclaimed Miriam, quickly.

"No. She has gone to the hospital, and I could only give the people
this address, for she was too sleepy and stupid to tell us anything; so
you go and tell her friends that she was taken to the fever hospital
last Thursday."

Miriam nodded. "Whatever was the matter with her?" she said.

"She caught scarlet fever, but the doctor thought she would not have
it very bad," added Mrs. Lewis; and then she shut the door, without
waiting to hear any more from Miriam.

For a minute she stood still, wondering what she had better do, and
how she could let Fanny's friends know what had happened to her,
considering she knew no more of their address than that they lived at
the other end of the town. At length she remembered Mrs. Lloyd, and
thought she would be sure to know where Fanny's friends lived, and she
felt sure that she should find the lady at home, as she seldom went
out on Sunday evening. So she hurried to Mrs. Lloyd's, and, as she
expected, that lady answered the door herself.

"If you please, ma'am, can you tell me where Fanny lives?" she said
quickly.

"Fanny?" repeated the lady. "She has left my service."

"Yes, ma'am, and she's in the fever hospital, and nobody don't know
nothing about it," interrupted Miriam.

"In the hospital! But the authorities there will know where she lives,
surely!" exclaimed Mrs. Lloyd.

"No, ma'am, I've just seen the lady at Fanny's new place, and she says
Fanny was sleepy and stupid-like when they took her away, and they put
down that address, and she doesn't know where Fanny lives. She never
told her, and she never told me," concluded Miriam.

"Dear me, what is to be done, then? For I don't think she ever told me
her proper address. I know where she went to school, and I will go and
see her teacher the first thing to-morrow morning."

This did not quite please Miriam. She had often wondered where Fanny
lived, and why she had not been asked to go home to tea with her, and
supposed that her home was hardly respectable, or she would have been
invited to go there.

In reality it was Fanny's foolish pride that had made her unwilling to
let her friend know where she lived; for Miriam had made no secret of
the fact that her father was a small farmer, which sounded grand to
Fanny, who was painfully conscious of how one thing after the other had
been taken out of the home and sold to meet the expense of her father's
long illness, and as yet they could not afford to replace this parlour
furniture; but Fanny had spoken of it as though it still formed part of
her home when Miriam told of the old-fashioned blue parlour that was
seldom used, except for weddings and christenings.

Now, Miriam thought she would like to find out what sort of a house her
friend's mother did occupy, and so she said—

"I am not going to church this evening, so if you will tell me where
Fanny went to school, I will try to find her mother this evening."

But it had occurred to Mrs. Lloyd that it would be kinder to let the
school-mistress know what had happened, and ask her to break the news
to the girl's friends, rather than send a girl like Miriam to carry the
message.

So she said, "Thank you for your kind offer; but I think the friend who
recommended Fanny to me would be the best person to break this bad news
to her mother and father."

"Well, I suppose it is bad news," said Miriam. "And I heard yesterday
that scarlet fever was very much about."

"Very likely," Mrs. Lloyd replied; and then she waited for Miriam to go
away, which she was obliged to do at last, without finding out where
Mrs. Brown lived.

She went to her cousin's, and asked about Fanny's new dress.

"I took it home last Tuesday. I couldn't get yours and hers both done
on the Saturday, I told you. What are you looking at?" said Mrs. Scott,
in a tone of sudden alarm.

"Nothing. Only I wondered what would happen next," answered Miriam.

"Happen next! What do you mean? You are not going to tell me she has
left her situation and taken that lovely new dress with her."

Miriam shook her head. "She has left her situation, but I don't suppose
she has taken the new dress with her, for she has gone to the fever
hospital," she said.

"The fever hospital!" almost screamed Mrs. Scott, and retreating from
Miriam as though the talking of a fever hospital would convey the
infection. "I heard only yesterday that people were being taken to the
hospital in hundreds, that they have had to take a house outside the
town to send some of the people there because the hospital is so full.
And now that poor girl has gone there, you say."

"She's gone to the hospital! Won't they send her clothes with her,"
asked Miriam.

Her cousin shook her head. "I wish I hadn't been in such a hurry to
send that dress home," she said, with a sigh.

"I wish I knew where her mother lived, I would go and tell her all
about it," said Miriam.

"Well, I think you ought to know that," said her cousin, "and I ought
to have been told before I made that dress. I suppose I may reckon that
as lost now;" and Mrs. Scott scolded Miriam for not taking care to know
all about her friend before recommending her.

"Oh, I dare say it will be all right, and you will get the money for
the dress," said Miriam, crossly; and she bade her cousin good night in
no pleasant mood.



CHAPTER XVII

NEWS FOR MRS. BROWN

"OH, mother, I do wish Fanny could have had her holiday next Monday?
It would be so nice for us, and for you too, wouldn't it?" And Eliza
kissed her mother in a sort of rapture at the anticipation.

The Vicarage party had returned from the seaside the day before, but
Eliza could not be spared to come home until this afternoon, and now
she could only stay for an hour; but she had come to say she was to
have a whole long day with her mother the following Monday, so she
wanted her to send for Fanny that they might spend this wonderful
holiday together.

Mrs. Brown was not thinking so much of the holiday as of Eliza, and
the change that had been wrought in her by this lengthened stay at the
seaside.

"You have grown taller and stouter too, my dear, I am quite sure," said
her mother, as though she had not said it half a dozen times before,
as she looked at the girl. She was rosy and happy, and there was a
quickness and alertness about her that told of increased health and
strength, such as she had never before enjoyed.

"Don't you think Fanny will be surprised when she sees how I have
grown," said Eliza, who was anxious to stand beside her elder sister
and thus prove that she was taller than when she went away.

Mrs. Brown was by no means sure what Fanny might think or say; but she
was anxious to please Eliza, and so she proposed that she should write
a letter the next day, and ask Fanny if she could come out to tea on
Monday if her mistress could not spare her for the whole day.

"Your daddy will want to see you, too, when he comes home on Saturday,
and so it would be better, if Mrs. Parsons would allow it, for you to
have two half-days instead of one whole day on Monday. Do you think you
could ask her this, my girl?" said Mrs. Brown.

"I will, when I go back. Nurse likes me to ask her things," added Eliza.

"And you think she will arrange the nursery work so that you can come
and see daddy on Saturday or Sunday?"

"I dare say it will be to-morrow," answered Eliza, "because the Vicar
likes us to stay at home on Sunday, I know; but if I cannot come then,
you may be sure daddy can have his day on Sunday."

Mrs. Brown took Eliza to see Jessie Collins, and the girl was not a
little surprised to see the change in Jessie during the time she had
been away. Her foot was better now, although she still limped, and was
glad to lean on the table or back of a chair as she got about the room.
Still, she managed to sweep and dust, and keep the hearth clean and
neat, with her father's armchair ready by the side of the fire whenever
he should come in.

By degrees the old chair was beginning to do its work, too, for Collins
often spent an evening at home now by his own fireside, instead of
going off to the public-house as he had done for some months past.

"If ever I do get father back into his old ways, it will be through
your help, Mrs. Brown," said Jessie, as she told her that for the last
three nights her father had sat in his chair smoking and reading, as he
used to do before he took to going out.

"I don't know what we should have done without your mother in our
trouble," said Jessie, turning to Eliza. "My mother would have been
buried by the parish, and Polly and I could not have had a bit of
mourning for her. Father often talks about that. He thinks more of what
you did to save my mother from a parish funeral than anything else you
have done, though he likes to see us in our black frocks and hats,
looking like decent girls, he says."

Eliza nestled up to her mother's side, looking up at her with
affectionate pride.

"Yes, I know what a dear mother she is," she said.

"You and Fanny ought to be proud of her," said Jessie.

"Oh, we are! we are!" said Eliza, warmly; but still she was very glad
that somebody else should learn to appreciate her mother; and she
talked to Jessie about her visit to the seaside, and explained how it
was she and Master Eustace were shut up in the cave. The two girls had
a very pleasant hour together, until it was time to go and meet Minnie
and Selina coming out of school, and to see her teacher once more.

Mrs. Brown intended to write her letter to Fanny so that she might
have it some time during the next day, but the business of getting tea
ready, and thinking how well Eliza was looking, put it out of her mind,
and she did not think of it again until she went to bed. It was too
late then, and so it was not until Saturday's work was nearly done that
the letter was written, and Selina sent to post it, as she went to meet
her father coming from the railway station.

Just as her father reached home, Eliza came from the Vicarage to spend
an hour or two with him.

"This is your day, daddy, and Monday is to be Fanny's day," said the
girl. "I am going to have another holiday on Monday, so that I may see
everybody, and Fanny is to come on Monday."

"My bonnie lassie! Why, you look almost as well as Fanny herself,"
exclaimed Brown, holding his girl at arm's length to admire her.

"I shall know whether I have really grown, as people say I have, when
Fanny comes, and I can stand at the side of her. I know just where my
head used to reach when she was at home," said Eliza, with flashing
eyes.

"Why, I declare you are growing like Fanny, my girl," said her father.

"I hope not," said Jack, quickly; "one Fanny is enough in the family.
Have you seen anything of her this week, mother?" he asked.

Mrs. Brown shook her head. "I have been waiting for Eliza to come home,
that I might have something to write about," she said.

"You have written now, haven't you, mother?" said Brown.

"Yes; but I am afraid she won't get the letter until Monday morning.
Selina was rather late in posting it."

"Oh, mother! I hope it won't be too late for her to come out on
Monday," said Eliza. "You see, I am to begin the regular nursery work
next week, and I shall not have a holiday for a month, so that it will
be a pity if she comes another day, when I can't see her."

"Yes, it would; and I think I must send another letter to her mistress,
asking her to spare Eliza for Monday afternoon, if she cannot come out
for the day."

"Oh yes, mother, do!" said Eliza, clapping her hands, and making almost
as much noise as Selina herself.

No one had seen Eliza so noisy and merry before, and mother and father
could only look at each other and smile, with satisfied pleasure as
they looked at the girl.

Again her father remarked how much she was growing like Fanny, to
which Mrs. Brown could only answer by a sigh; for to her it would be
bitter indeed if Eliza should show the same wilful, selfish tendency of
character that Fanny did.

But at present, every action was like those to which they had been
accustomed in the old days, when she was ready to do a kindness to any
one who needed her help, and to think of Eliza as anything but the
kind, helpful sister seemed impossible.

Now it was Jack and Minnie and Selina who were consulted, and for each
she had brought a little present from the seaside; although it had cost
every penny she possessed to bring something for each of the dear ones
at home.

They were but trifles, perhaps. A shell box for Jack, a similar one for
Minnie, some shells she had picked up on the beach for Selina, and a
shell pincushion for her mother. Still this trifle was worth its weight
in gold to her mother's heart, for it was an assurance to her that, at
least for the present, Eliza was unchanged; and all the kind things
that had been said to her, and of her, had not spoiled her yet. For her
father she had brought a wooden tobacco-pipe; and it seemed to Mrs.
Brown that her husband did not value it as he ought.

Fanny had never given him even such a trifle as this, which was,
perhaps, why her father did not set such store by it as he might have
done, if the gift had come from his darling Fanny.

However, neither said a word to the other as to what they thought of
their gifts.

A very happy evening was spent, and then mother and father walked
back to the Vicarage with Eliza, who still had another happy day to
anticipate, when she should meet her elder sister on Monday.

Husband and wife did not say much beyond the improvement in Eliza's
health, and how it had affected her spirits and behaviour. Brown had
written a letter to Fanny's mistress, Mrs. Lloyd, asking her to let
Fanny come home for at least part of the day on Monday; and he took
care to post this before he went home again, that he might be sure it
would reach its destination by Monday morning.

Then Mrs. Brown took her basket, and went for her marketing, Polly
Collins going with her this time, that Mrs. Brown might make the
purchases, and Polly carry them home in her own basket. Jessie hoped to
be able to do this for herself soon; but at present she was thankful
that her father could give her the money for Polly to go and fetch what
they wanted. She did not grudge her little sister this small pleasure,
much as she would have liked to go herself.

The Sunday passed in pleasant anticipation of another visit from Eliza
on the Monday, and talking over with Jack what he would do for the
future, for he could not quite make up his mind that his new work would
be worth all the book-knowledge he would have to acquire if he wished
to go on learning this branch of electrical engineering.

"Careful, thorough work is wanted everywhere," argued Jack, "and I am
not like father. A little hard work, more or less, is nothing to me;
but, of course, with father it is different, and he isn't fit for hard
work now. But somebody must do it."

"Yes; that is true enough," said his father.

"And the question has to be looked at all round. Hard work there must
be for everybody, and the choice you have to make now is whether it
shall be hands and muscles that shall be set to work, or brains. If you
feel the brains are not ready to take up the task, then let it be hands
and muscles. And you can be just as proud of a bit of thoroughly honest
work in which the strength of arms has been used as the man who has
done a clever bit of work by the nimbleness of his brain."

Mrs. Brown still wished Jack would apply himself to his books, and try
to overcome his dislike to study; but she was wise enough to leave her
husband to argue it out with him. For the present it would make no
difference to him, and they went off to work the next morning, Brown's
last words being—

"Now, I hope you will have a very happy day with your two girls,
mother; and you must write and tell me all about it afterwards."

His wife nodded and smiled. "Look-out for a long letter on Tuesday,"
she said. And when they were gone she began at once the work of the day.

The girls went to school at the usual time; but about ten o'clock she
saw Minnie running in by the back way. She went at once to open the
door, for a feeling of anxiety had seized her, and she was afraid
something had happened to Selina.

"What is it, Minnie? What is the matter?" she asked.

"I hardly know, mother; but a lady is coming to see you. It is Fanny's
mistress, I think. Teacher sent me with her to show her the way, and I
asked her to let me run on and tell you she was coming."

"There! That is her knock, I am sure!" said Minnie; and she ran to
the front-door to admit Mrs. Lloyd, and show her into the almost bare
sitting-room.

Her mother followed almost immediately, and she guessed at once that
the trouble, whatever it might be, concerned Fanny. She had seen Mrs.
Lloyd once before, and she said, as she entered the room—

"You have come about my daughter, ma'am? Is she ill? How long has she
been ill?"

Mrs. Lloyd looked surprised at the question. "Surely you have heard
that your daughter left my service three weeks ago?" she said.

"Fanny left her place!" uttered Mrs. Brown, in amazement.

"I am sorry to say she did. She left me with only a fortnight's notice,
that she might 'better herself,' as so many girls do. Before she went,
I sent her home to tell you all about it, and where she was going."

"She never came," murmured Mrs. Brown, through her pale lips, for she
felt the worst had not been told yet.

"Yes, mother, Fanny came one afternoon. Don't you remember she said
they were busy, and she could not have a proper holiday that day?"

"That would be the time," said the lady. "It was about a month ago; and
she left me the following week, so that you may be sure I was surprised
to receive a letter from your husband this morning asking leave for
her to come for a holiday to-day. I was coming to see Miss Martin this
morning, for last night one of Fanny's friends called to tell me that
she was ill, and had been taken to the fever hospital."

"My Fanny! Oh, ma'am, why didn't you send for me? I would have had her
brought home and nursed her myself."

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Lloyd under her breath, as she saw how greatly
the poor woman was upset. "You must not fret," she said. "There is no
doubt Fanny will be taken good care of; and very likely they would not
have let her come home to be nursed, even if you had known she was ill,
and could have sent for her. Certainly the hospital people could move
her with more care and less danger to her than you could have had it
done yourself," she added.

Mrs. Brown dried her eyes. "I suppose I can go and see my poor girl,"
she said, feeling that she must do something for Fanny.

"I should think you could," said Mrs. Lloyd, "although I know nothing
about the rules of the hospital myself. I dare say Fanny's last
mistress would be able to tell you all about it, though. For of course,
when they took her away, the messengers would leave word when friends
could see and hear about the sick person."

"Do you know where Fanny's new mistress lives?" asked Mrs. Brown.

"Yes. I have not seen her, for she did not trouble to come to me for
Fanny's character, and from all I have heard, I should think she is
rather a careless woman, but nothing worse, so that you may rest
assured that Fanny was taken care of when she was ill. The address is
Mrs. Lewis, 16, Mortimer Street—not far from where I live myself,"
added Mrs. Lloyd, now rising to leave.

Mrs. Brown thanked her for her kindness in calling to give her all the
particulars concerning Fanny. When Mrs. Lloyd had gone, she said—

"You had better go back to school, Minnie, and I will go to the
Vicarage and see Eliza, and ask if she can put off coming home until we
hear more about Fanny. I may be able to see the Vicar, too; and I dare
say he can tell me what I want to know about this fever hospital, and
when I could go to see her."

Minnie received directions about her own and Selina's dinner, while her
mother put on her bonnet; for, as she told Minnie, she did not know
when she should get home again.

Her visit to the Vicarage did not take long, and rather depressed the
poor woman, for the Vicar told her that, as it was a fever hospital
to which Fanny had been taken, he did not think that friends would
be allowed to visit the patients, for fear of catching the disease
themselves or carrying the infection to other people.

"Oh, sir, but I must see my child," said Mrs. Brown, with tears in her
eyes. "If Fanny is dangerously ill, I am sure she will want to see me,
for she did not tell me she was going to leave the comfortable place
Miss Martin got for her, and I know she will feel better when she has
told me all about it."

"Very well. I hope the rules will allow you to see her, Mrs. Brown, for
I can understand how anxious you must feel about poor Fanny. But do not
forget that, although you may not be able to go to her, God is with
her, to direct and comfort her, as He was with the other little woman
when she was shut in the cave."

"Oh, sir, but Eliza was doing her duty when she got on those steps she
told me about; but I am afraid Fanny has been naughty and wilful;" and
there Mrs. Brown stopped.

"But God cares for His wilful children as well as those who try to
serve Him in the way of duty. I do not say that they are alike in being
happy in His service. The wilful ones may doubt whether God cares for
them any longer, and may think themselves forgotten by God, but this
does not make any difference in His love and care. You say Fanny has
been naughty and wilful, but you are going to look for her the more
carefully because you think she needs you the more on account of her
wilfulness. Now, try to think that your mother-love is only a shadow of
the greater love God has for us, and trust Him to take care of Fanny,
although you can do very little for her yourself just now."

Mrs. Brown tried to thank the Vicar for his kindly advice; and having
been assured that Eliza should come home some other day for the
promised holiday, she hurried away, for she had a long walk before her,
and as yet there were no tramcars running between this distant suburb
and the neighbourhood of Mortimer Street.

Fortunately for Mrs. Brown, she had little difficulty in finding the
address she wanted, and Mrs. Lewis was at home and saw her with very
little delay. She also could give the poor woman some little comfort,
for she spoke very highly of Fanny as a hard-working girl, and said
she hoped she would come back to her when she was able to leave the
hospital. But she could give her no information about the rules of the
hospital, or whether she would be able to see Fanny if she went there.



CHAPTER XVIII

A MOTHER'S QUEST

THE uncertainty as to whether she would gain admittance to the fever
hospital, did not deter Mrs. Brown from going there. Fortunately she
found that a tramcar from the neighbourhood of Mortimer Street passed
the gates of the hospital, so that she was able to reach it without
walking much further. When at last the hospital was reached, and the
gate opened to her impatient ringing, it seemed hours that she had
to wait, before she could gain any certain news about Fanny. The
only thing the porter did seem certain about was that she could not
go beyond the porch of the building, where inquiries had to be made.
To see Fanny, unless she was dangerously ill, was quite out of the
question. So Mrs. Brown had to go back at last with what comfort she
could get from the assurance that she was going on very well, and if
there was any change for the worse, she would be sent for immediately,
as this was the rule of the hospital.

Then the sliding window closed, and Mrs. Brown turned homewards by
another road to avoid going through the town. She grew more calm and
less anxious about Fanny the longer she considered the matter, for she
had heard of this fever hospital before, and knew that the patients
received every care, and were as well nursed as if they were at home.
She felt sure that Fanny would be taken good care of; but she wanted to
see her, and know all that had happened, and why she did not write to
tell her she was ill, before she was so bad as to be taken away. There
were so many things she wanted to ask her, that it was well for Fanny
that her mother could not go to see her just now.

Mrs. Brown had asked about Fanny's clothes, and the lady had told her
that, after she had been taken away, the parish authorities had sent to
fetch them to be disinfected.

"They had better be sent home when they are ready," said Mrs. Brown.
And, at her request, Mrs. Lewis wrote a note to this effect, and this
Mrs. Brown left at the office as she passed, telling the clerk that she
was the girl's mother, and that Fanny would return home as soon as she
was well.

Brown wrote to his wife the next day, when he heard the news from her,
saying what he could to comfort her, and that if he had been working at
the factory close at hand he could have done no more than she had, and
that he was glad she made the necessary inquiries about her clothes,
for the poor girl thought so much of her clothes, he knew, and she
would want them when she came home.

What a bitter commentary on this the next day brought. A large, blue,
official-looking letter came in the middle of the afternoon.

Mrs. Brown's fingers shook as she took it out of the postman's hands,
and Jessie Collins, who had been helped to limp over to pay her first
visit to her friend, said, in a tone of alarm, "Is there anything the
matter, Mrs. Brown?" when she went into the kitchen with the letter in
her hand.

"I don't know, I don't know," said Mrs. Brown; and then, with a
desperate effort, she tore open the envelope, and took out the large
sheet of blue paper and read, "I regret to inform you that your
daughter, Fanny Brown, died this morning, and I have to request that
her body—"

Mrs. Brown did not read any further. The letter slipped from her
fingers, her head drooped, and she would have fallen out of the chair
on which she was sitting if Jessie had not saved her.

Jessie was frightened, but managed to reach to the wall, and knock for
the next-door neighbour, who was a friend of Mrs. Brown's.

"Whatever is the matter?" she exclaimed, as she rushed in at the back
door.

"It was all through reading this blue letter," said Jessie; and when
the woman had moved Mrs. Brown to the armchair, she picked up the
letter to see what could have caused the fainting-fit.

"Mrs. Poole, Fanny Brown is dead!" exclaimed Jessie.

At the same moment, Selina ran in from school, and was in time to hear
Jessie's exclamation.

"I don't believe you, Jessie Collins. What have you done to my mother?
Oh, mother, mother, speak to me!" implored the little girl, bursting
into tears. "Don't you believe what Jessie Collins says," she went on,
as her mother slowly opened her eyes. Selina's cry had done more to
restore her than all the water and burnt feathers Mrs. Poole had used.
For a minute she looked round the room in a dazed fashion, as though
waking from a terrible dream. Then all at once she looked at Jessie,
and said—

"The letter! the letter! I thought I had a terrible letter!"

Selina was holding the letter now, and gave it to her. She shuddered as
her fingers touched it.

"Yes, yes, it is true then," she said; "and my Fanny is dead."

She did not faint again, but sat and stared at the letter for a minute,
and then said—

"I must go to him. I must tell my husband."

Selina had run out and spread the news, and in a few minutes other
neighbours had come in. They soon persuaded Mrs. Brown that the best
thing she could do was to send a telegram to her husband, bidding him
and Jack come home at once, as Fanny was worse.

This would be the best way of telling the sad news, Mrs. Poole thought;
so just as he had finished his day's work, the telegram was handed to
Brown.

But although he started for home as soon as he could after he received
it, he did not reach his wife until nearly ten o'clock, and then it was
too late to go to the hospital and ascertain further particulars about
Fanny's death.

He went on this sad errand the next morning, leaving his wife in the
care of Jessie and Mrs. Poole, for she was now so ill that the doctor
had been sent for, and had ordered her to keep her bed for the present.
The fatigue of the long walk a day or two before, followed by the shock
of the sudden news of Fanny's death, had proved too much for her.

The only person she asked to see was the Vicar, and when he came, she
said—

"Where is my Fanny now, sir?"

"In God's keeping," he answered tenderly. "Nothing can take her out of
His hands."

"But she is dead," said the poor heart-broken mother; "and I know she
had been wilful and selfish, and—"

But there the invalid stopped with a groan.

"And you do not know anything that happened to the poor silly girl
after she went to the hospital? But cannot you believe that God was
there with your wilful child, as well as in the cave with your brave
girl? And could He not lead Fanny to repentance for the past, as well
as give courage and endurance to her sister?"

A little something like hope crept into the poor woman's eyes as she
listened.

"Do you really think so," she asked.

"I do, indeed. Many a lesson learned at home or at school, and
forgotten or neglected, perhaps despised for years and years, often
comes back when we are ill. And what is more likely than that your
Fanny turned to God and asked His forgiveness for Christ's sake? And
though no one may know of this, we are sure that God was ready to
forgive all her sins, and receive her to Himself."

Mrs. Brown was too ill to bear much talking; but the Vicar felt sure,
from the changed look in her sad eyes, that the few words he had
spoken had led her to hope in God's mercy to Fanny. And then he left,
promising to help in the business arrangements if his help was needed.

Of these, however, Mrs. Brown heard very little, Fanny's body had been
placed in a coffin, and fastened down before her father reached the
hospital, and arrangements for the funeral had to be made, and carried
out very quickly.

Mrs. Brown was too ill to ask many questions, so she did not know that
her husband had not been able to look upon the face of their child. He
was careful to keep this to himself as far as he could. By-and-by they
might be able to talk the matter over. Now they spoke of the pleasant
shady spot where Fanny had been laid in the churchyard, and where
several of her old schoolfellows had already placed bunches of choice
wildflowers, such as Fanny had often gathered herself in her lifetime.

Jessie Collins insisted upon doing her share of the nursing for her
friend, and Minnie allowed her to sit with her mother many an hour,
when she would rather have been there herself, because she knew that
Jessie longed to show her gratitude by doing what she could for them in
their trouble.

Everybody was very kind to the bereaved parents; and when at last Mrs.
Brown was able to come downstairs once more, friends and neighbours
tried all they could to shield her from any painful reminder of her
loss, and tried to interest her in what was going on.

There was one subject that was in the mind of a good many people;
although Mrs. Brown herself had apparently forgotten it, and this was
Fanny's box of clothes. Brown had sent to the parish authorities asking
them not to send them back immediately, as his wife was ill, and his
work took him away from home at present.

To this request a polite answer had been returned that the clothes
might remain in their charge for a month, if that would suit the
convenience of Mr. Brown, and this arrangement being made, Brown
thought no more about the matter, and the days and weeks went on, until
more than a month had passed since the news of Fanny's death first
reached her mother. One morning, after the girls had gone to school, a
cart stopped at the door, and when Mrs. Brown went to open it to the
man who had knocked, she saw that he had just set down Fanny's box.

"Good morning, ma'am. Will you please look through this, and see that
everything is right by this paper?" and he held out a list of what the
box had contained when it was taken from Mrs. Lewis's.

For a minute Mrs. Brown felt that she could not open the box; but,
after a minute's hesitation, she said—

"If you will lift it into the front room, I will open it."

"All right," answered the man; and he handed the key to Mrs. Brown.

With trembling fingers she unlocked it, and lifted the lid. She did
not recognize the first article she lifted out, for it was Fanny's new
dress, now limp and tumbled and creased.

Then came articles that Mrs. Brown knew quite well, and these brought
the tears to her eyes, and a pang to her heart, but the business had to
be gone through, and the articles compared with the list the man had
given to her.

At the very bottom, underneath caps and aprons and all the small
keepsakes she had treasured, was a cotton bag, and in this was Judds'
collecting-card, with its record of what she had paid; and also the
watch and chain, which had been the source of all Fanny's trouble, and
her mother's sorrow and disappointment.

At the sight of this Mrs. Brown burst into a violent flood of tears.

"I cannot do any more," she said, with a gasp.

The man lifted his cap, and scratched his head.

"It's kind of upset you, missus," he said, in a tone of apology. "But
there, we've got to the end now, and if you'll just write your name at
the bottom of this paper I shan't want to bother you again."

Mrs. Brown choked back her tears, and wiped her eyes that she might
see to write her name where the man told her it was to be written, and
having done this, and shut the street door, she could do as she pleased
with these memorials of her lost darling. For nearly an hour she sat
tearless, but with a bitter pang at her heart; for, try as she would,
she was forced to admit that there was conclusive evidence that self,
and self-gratification had been the ruling spirit of Fanny's life to
the very last. But this should not be known to any one but herself. She
would put away the things, lock the box, and keep the key. She replaced
the watch and chain in its bag, puzzled a little as she read the rules
printed on the collecting-card, but holding to the belief in what Fanny
had told her that she had bought the watch for ten shillings. Then,
when the well-known articles, which she herself had made, were replaced
in the box, the new brown dress was shaken out and examined, and when
the quality of the material was noted and the way in which it was made,
Mrs. Brown exclaimed—

"Where could the silly girl have bought this? She certainly could not
afford it!" And tears filled her eyes once more, for how could she
endure to blame Fanny now that the silence of death severed them, and
she could not explain how and why she had bought this expensive dress?
At any rate, no one else should see it. She would hide her daughter's
folly in her own heart, that no word of blame might be spoken or even
thought of by any one but herself, and for her she must learn to think
kindly and tenderly of poor Fanny, even though bitter thoughts of
blame must sometimes mingle with them. She folded the new brown dress
carefully, and put it at the top of the other things in the box, then
closed the lid and locked it, before either of the girls came home from
school.

Selina looked at her mother closely as she came in.

"Is there anything the matter, mother?" she asked.

"No, dear, nothing, only I have a little headache to-day."

"Mother, I met Eliza as I came out of school, and she told me to tell
you that she is coming home to tea this afternoon." It was Minnie who
spoke, and Selina at once asked when she had seen Eliza.

"As I was coming out of school," repeated her sister. "You always stay
behind to the last minute, and so, of course, you missed seeing her,
for she could only stay a moment to ask how mother was, and to tell me
she was coming home to tea with her to-day."

Selina pouted. "It was all teacher's fault," she grumbled. "She made me
go back into the class and sit down because I pushed past Bella Hinton,
and the little stupid cried about it."

"Well, it was unkind to push a poor little lame thing like Bella," said
Minnie, reproachfully.

"Oh, well, people have to look after themselves if they don't want to
be left behind," said Selina.

"My dear, I hope you are not going to make that your rule of life,"
said her mother. "For I am afraid, if you do, yours will not be a very
happy one, nor will your friends have much happiness through you."

Mrs. Brown spoke very seriously, and Minnie looked up at her mother in
wondering surprise. "It was only a little thing, mother," she said, by
way of excuse for Selina.

"Yes, dear, it is, I know, only a little thing. Straws, too, are little
things; but by the way they float on the top of a stream they show
which way the tide is running, or the stream flowing; and so a little
girl, who will push a lame schoolfellow aside to be able to run past
her, will be likely to grow up a selfish girl, considering only her
own convenience and pleasure rather than the wishes and wants of other
people. Now, I particularly wish my little girls to think of the other
people as well as themselves, to try and put themselves in the place
of the other, and ask themselves what they would like that other to do
to them if they could exchange places. Now, how would Selina like it,
if she had a lame foot and could not walk very well, to have a strong
girl, who could run anywhere, come and push her out of the way? Would
you like to see the strong girl running past you and getting to the
playground first?"

Selina shook her head, but did not reply audibly.

"Well, now, I want you in future, for mother's sake, to think of this
whenever you are going to do something that is not quite kind. Just
wait a moment, and say to yourself, 'Should I like it if I was in her
place?'"

Mrs. Brown thought this would be enough for the first lesson; but she
was resolved that Selina, who promised to grow up like Fanny, should
not be left to follow her own inclinations on these small things, lest
by-and-by she too should become a cause of bitter pain and suffering to
others, instead of a blessing and comfort, such as every girl should be
to her parents.



CHAPTER XIX

THAT LETTER

"I SAY, Minnie, I've got a letter. I'll show it to you as we go to
school."

Selina spoke in a mysterious whisper as they were washing their hands
in the scullery, and the little girl looked cautiously over her
shoulder, lest her mother should hear what she said.

Mrs. Brown was in the adjoining kitchen, and hearing Selina's voice,
she told the girls to make haste, or they would be late for school.

Minnie hurried to finish, in obedience to her mother's command.

"What a time you are washing your hands!" she said to her little
sister. "I must go," she said the next minute, and with a hasty
"Good-bye, mother," she hurried out the back way, but was speedily
followed by Selina.

"Wait for me, Minnie! Wait for me!" called the little girl.

Minnie looked back and saw her sister waving a letter in her hand, and
she ran back to meet her.

"What have you got there?" she asked, rather sharply.

"The letter I told you about. The postman was at the door when I
fetched the milk this morning, and he gave it to me. It's one of those
nasty blue letters that come from that hospital where poor Fanny died.
Wasn't I lucky to get it before mother saw it?" said the child. "It
would be sure to make her ill again if she had it, you know."

"What do you mean, Selina? This letter is for father or mother," she
added, taking it out of the little girl's hand and looking at the
address.

"What are you going to do with it?" asked Selina, as Minnie turned
round to walk home again.

"Why, we must take it to mother, of course," said Minnie, quickly.

"No, no, Minnie; don't do that. You know the last time one of those
ugly blue letters came it made mother ill," pleaded Selina.

"That was because it brought the news about poor Fanny," said Minnie.

"Yes; and that will bring some other nasty news, though it can't
be about Fanny. Still, it will be sure to make mother cry and be
miserable. The sight of the old thing is enough to do that," said
Selina. "Tear it up, Minnie," she added.

"Why, Selina, what are you saying? The letter isn't ours to do as we
like with it; and even if it should make mother ill again, she must
have it, for it wouldn't be right to do anything else with it." Minnie
was quite clear in her own mind upon this point.

Selina pouted and tried to snatch the letter away from her sister, and
even proposed that they should take it to school and ask their teacher
about it.

But Minnie still shook her head. "I know what Miss Martin would say,"
she answered; "she would tell me to take it home to mother at once. And
so you had better tell her I have had to go back; but you run on to
school now, or we shall both be late." And as she spoke Minnie turned
towards home again, and left Selina still pouting, and exclaiming that
she did not love her mother, or she would not want to take the letter
to her.

Minnie, however, paid no heed to these upbraidings. She knew that it
was the only right thing to do, whatever the consequences might be, and
so she went on, though her steps flagged, and she wondered again and
again what would happen when this blue envelope was opened.

Mrs. Brown saw Minnie from the bedroom window before she reached the
door, and she came down to see what had happened, for she had caught
sight of the large official envelope, and she wondered what fresh
trouble it could bring to her.

"What is it, Minnie?" she asked, as the little girl reached the
doorstep.

"Selina had this letter, mother. She was afraid to give it to you for
fear it should make you ill; but I thought you had better have it;" and
Minnie handed the letter to her mother.

Mrs. Brown could not repress a shudder as she took it.

"You did quite right, Minnie," she said, in spite of the shiver that
went through her. "Come in, dear, and we will see what news this
brings."

Minnie watched her mother's face as she tore open the large envelope;
but that and a sheet of blue paper fell to the ground unheeded as Mrs.
Brown saw another letter, in another handwriting, folded inside the
official letter. The writing was weak and shaky, as though the writer
was ill, and the colour left Mrs. Brown's face, and Minnie feared her
mother was going to fall out of the chair, as she cried out—

"My child, my Fanny, my darling!"

"What is it, mother? What is it?" asked Minnie, putting her arms round
her mother's neck, and looking down at the letter in her hand. "Is it
from Fanny?" she asked, with a gasp, for the handwriting was strangely
like her sister's.

Her mother nodded and smiled, and then the tears came into her eyes,
and it was some minutes before either of them could read the letter
through, although it was a very short one.

"Dearest Mother," she wrote, "Nurse has just told me that I may try and
write a letter to you. I have been ill for a long time, and I dare say
you have wondered where I was. I have been a naughty girl, I know now,
for I left my place where I was comfortable and went to one where I
caught the fever, and had to come to the hospital. I am afraid it has
been a great deal of trouble to you, for I know you love me, although
I have been so naughty, and do not deserve it. But you will forgive
me and send me a letter soon to tell me you have not forgotten me,
although I have not heard from you for such a long time."

Mrs. Brown and Minnie read this letter, though it is doubtful whether
either of them understood much beyond the wonderful fact that Fanny was
not dead, after all.

"Mother, how is it there was such a mistake about Fanny?" said Minnie,
at last; and as she spoke she picked up the official letter and
envelope from the floor.

In this letter it was explained that two girls of the same name were
admitted to the hospital on the same day, and by some mischance the one
who had died was supposed to be the one who was surviving; but to make
sure that there was now no error, the survivor had been asked to write
a few lines to her friends, and give their address, now that she was a
little better and in the full possession of her faculties. An answer
was asked to be returned, giving the full name, age, and address of the
girl whom they claimed as their daughter. A letter might also be sent
to the patient, but at present no visitors could be allowed to see her,
although she would soon be well enough to be sent to a convalescent
home.

It was not until this had been read a second time that Mrs. Brown
and Minnie could understand all it meant, and when at last she did
comprehend it, Mrs. Brown was all impatience to send the answer
required.

"Get me a pen and ink, Minnie. You shall take the letter to the central
post-office so that it may go quicker. My poor Fanny! If I had only
known this she should not have waited to hear from us."

But Mrs. Brown did not find it so easy to answer the official letter
she had received, and she wondered where the parents of the girl they
had buried could be found. These people were living in the belief that
their daughter was getting better; and what a cruel awakening it would
be when they heard she had been buried by strangers in a strange place.

She could not help thinking of these unknown parents as she rejoiced
over the news this letter had brought to her.

"It was a good thing we did not tear up the ugly blue letter," said
Minnie, as her mother wrote the few lines required as the official
reply.

To Fanny she wrote more freely, assuring her of love and forgiveness,
and promising to come and see her as soon as visitors were allowed, and
that Minnie and Eliza should write to her the next day.

Having sent Minnie with this letter to the central post-office that it
might reach its destination the more quickly, she next wrote to her
husband, enclosing the letters she had received from the hospital, and
telling him what she had done. When this letter was finished, she put
on her bonnet and went herself to post it, and send a telegram to him
at once, for she could not keep the wonderful news to herself. She
wanted to tell everybody she met that it was all a mistake that her
Fanny was dead. She did tell several of the neighbours whom she knew,
and they, remembering how ill she was when the news of Fanny's death
first came, looked at her in wondering surprise, and though they said
a few words of congratulation at the time, they shook their heads in
a pitying fashion afterwards, and whispered to each other that they
feared poor Mrs. Brown had gone out of her mind. This report reached
Jessie Collins before Mrs. Brown returned after sending her telegram.

Jessie's foot was better now, and she was waiting at the corner of the
street when Mrs. Brown got back from the post-office.

"I have come to see if I can help you do anything this morning," said
the girl, looking keenly at her friend.

"Thank you, dear; but Minnie will be back very soon now. She has not
gone to school this morning. Have you heard the good news? I told Mrs.
Tate when I met her going to the post-office. It is all a mistake about
our Fanny being dead. She is getting better. I had a letter from the
hospital telling me this morning, and have just sent to let her father
know."

Jessie looked puzzled. Certainly her friend did not look like a person
out of her mind; but still the news seemed too wonderful to be true.

"Let me come in with you until Minnie comes back," she said, after a
pause, for Mrs. Tate had remarked that she ought not to be left alone.
"I should like to see the letter they sent to tell you Fanny was
getting better," added Jessie.

"Yes, I might have shown it to you before I sent it away; but I have
sent it to Brown now. I wish I could go and tell him myself; but he
will get a telegram quicker, and the letter will reach him to-night,
they say."

Jessie walked home with Mrs. Brown, and very soon Minnie came in, and
Jessie at once asked if she had seen the letter from the hospital.

"Oh yes, I saw it. You need not think it is all a dream," answered
Minnie.

Jessie had never seen quiet, steady Minnie so excited.

"Now, mother, we have posted the letter to Fanny, and you have sent
to let father know about it. Now let me go and tell Eliza up at the
Vicarage, for you know how she has grieved about poor Fanny."

"I will stay and help you, or help Minnie," said Jessie, who felt she
must do something to help in spreading the joyful news.

Mrs. Brown considered the matter for a minute, and then she said—

"I think I would rather go to the Vicarage myself, Minnie; but you may
go to the school and tell Miss Martin and Selina. I dare say the child
is wondering what news the letter she was so afraid of has brought to
us; and you ought to go at once. Now, Jessie, will you wash up the
breakfast things for us? I have stripped the beds, and Minnie can help
me make them when I come back from the Vicarage; but I do not feel as
though I could stay in the house until I have told all the friends, who
were so kind to us in our trouble, that it is all over now, and God has
kept our child in life all this time when we thought she was dead."

"Yes, you go to the Vicarage and see Eliza, while I go to school and
tell Miss Martin," said Minnie; for she thought it would do her mother
good to have a word with the Vicar, as she had talked so fast that
Minnie, too, was afraid she might be ill again.

Mrs. Brown was so impatient to reach the Vicarage that she did not
notice that Minnie lingered behind to speak to Jessie after she was
gone.

"I never saw mother just like this before," she said, as soon as the
door closed after her.

"But the news is really true, Minnie?" said Jessie, in a questioning
tone.

"What do you mean, Jessie?" asked Minnie.

"Well, I met Mrs. Tate before I came here, and she said your mother had
gone out of her mind; and, you see, nobody ever heard of such a thing
as this before, and so—"

"Oh, you think the letter never came to tell us such wonderful news!"
interrupted Minnie.

"Well, Mrs. Tate seemed to think the trouble about Fanny had turned
your mother's brain," said Jessie.

Minnie could afford to laugh at this suggestion. "Oh no; it is quite
true about the letter. I saw it and read every word, and mother has
sent it on to father, and I hope he will come home as soon as he gets
it, for fear the good news should make mother ill. Selina said she knew
the nasty letter would make her bad again, and she wanted to tear it
up, only I said it would not be right, and mother must have it."

Jessie laughed. "That's just like you Browns. If a thing is right, or
you think it is right, then it must be done, no matter what happens
through it," said Jessie.

"Why, yes, of course," answered Minnie, as though there could be no two
opinions upon this matter. "Selina isn't old enough to think about such
things as she ought, or she would not have wanted to tear up a letter
that was not her own," said Minnie.

"It would have been a pity if she had torn up this one," said Jessie,
"though I am not sure that it won't make your mother ill, after all.
There, you go and tell Miss Martin, and get back before your mother
comes," she added. For in point of fact Jessie felt half afraid lest
her friend was going to lose her senses, and she thought Minnie would
know better what to do for her mother than she did.

So Minnie ran off to school, and Selina looked greatly relieved when
she saw her sister come in smiling, and looking at her reassuringly,
for her long absence had convinced the little girl that the dreadful
letter had caused some mischief, and she had informed one or two of her
schoolfellows that she knew her mother was ill, as Minnie had not come
to school.

But now, instead of going to her own class, Minnie walked straight up
to Miss Martin's table, and said—

"If you please, ma'am, mother told me to come and tell you that we have
had a letter from the hospital where we thought Fanny had died, and she
is not dead, but getting better."

Miss Martin looked so astonished, so incredulous, that Minnie said—

"It is true, ma'am, really."

"But, my dear child, no one ever heard of such a thing before."

"That is what everybody says. And of course we cannot tell how it could
have happened; but we have got a letter from Fanny, herself, as well as
from the people at the hospital, telling us that a mistake was made,
and she is getting better."

"Dear me! How wonderful! But how careless somebody must have been to
make such a mistake. Nov, you want to go and tell Selina and one or two
of Fanny's friends, I know. Selina does not know the news, or we should
all have heard it long ago," added Miss Martin.

Meanwhile Mrs. Brown had reached the Vicarage, and asked to see Eliza.
The housemaid looked surprised at such a request being made so early.

"She is not going out to-day, is she, Mrs. Brown?" she asked.

"Oh no. I shall not hinder her more than a few minutes, if she is busy.
The Vicar has gone out, I suppose," added the visitor.

"I don't think he has gone yet," replied the servant. "Would you like
to see him?" she added, for she knew that Nurse would not be pleased if
Eliza was fetched away from her work just now, no matter who might want
her.

So she went to see if the Vicar was disengaged, and came back in a
minute and took Mrs. Brown to the room where her master received his
parishioners.

"Good morn—"

But Mrs. Brown was too eager to tell her news to wait for the usual
greeting.

"Oh, sir, I am glad you are at home, for I wanted to tell you. My girl,
my Fanny, is not dead. She is not, indeed, sir. It is all a mistake."

The Vicar looked at her in astonishment, and then he said—

"How did you hear this, Mrs. Brown?"

"From the hospital, sir. I had the letter this morning. There was one
from Fanny too, and I have sent them both to my husband."

The Vicar hardly knew what to think. Like Mrs. Tate, he feared it must
be the effect of her illness from which the poor woman was suffering.
He talked to her for several minutes, and tried to persuade her not to
tell Eliza until she had some further confirmation of the news.

"Oh, sir; but I cannot wait! Eliza has grieved so about Fanny, that she
ought to hear the good news as soon as anybody."

"Yes; and because she has grieved more than is usual for her sister's
death, I want to spare her any future disappointment," said the Vicar,
kindly. "Will you trust me in this matter? As you know, Eliza has not
been well since the news came of her sister's death, and she must be
told very gently that she is living, lest the news should do even more
harm. Now, leave it to me, and I will go at once and make further
inquiries about this report. And if I find it is indeed true, I will
bring the news to you at once, and then you shall come and tell Eliza
yourself as soon as I get back."

Mrs. Brown found it hard to yield to the Vicar's wish on this point;
but she knew it was for her child's sake he asked it, and so, for her
sake, she consented, and went home again without seeing Eliza, or
telling any one but the Vicar of her wonderful news.



CHAPTER XX

CONCLUSION

IT was with eager anticipation that Mrs. Brown looked forward to the
return of the Vicar, for when she reached home and sat down to rest
and think over the matter once more, she gradually came to understand
that it was not so strange, after all, that people should doubt if such
wonderful news could be true. Indeed, the more calm and quiet she grew
the more reasonable this view of the matter became, especially when she
considered that none but herself had seen the letter from the hospital.

When, at last, she saw the Vicar walking briskly up the street, she
went at once and opened the door, for she felt sure he brought her good
news.

"I have seen her, Mrs. Brown! I have seen your Fanny," he said, almost
as eagerly as the poor woman herself had spoken that morning at the
Vicarage.

She was trembling with excitement now. "Thank God, thank God for me,
sir," she exclaimed, as the Vicar stepped in.

When she was seated in the almost bare front room, the Vicar told her
more about his visit.

"She has been very ill, indeed, and for some time it seemed likely
that if she did not die of scarlet fever, she would succumb to brain
fever, for it seems that her brain was more affected than could easily
be accounted for," said the Vicar. "The nurses told me all about this
complication, and asked me to try and persuade Fanny to tell me what
was troubling her. They had failed to do this. They knew from her
ravings when she was delirious that it had something to do with a
watch, and from what she said she was in evident fear of the police
going after her; and, of course, the natural conclusion was that
she had stolen a watch from somewhere, but she refused to tell them
anything about it."

"Oh, that watch! The misery and trouble it has caused!" said Mrs.
Brown, with a groan.

The Vicar looked surprised. "Then you have heard about it," he said:
"although Fanny seems to think she has kept the whole matter a secret."

"Yes, sir. I have heard about it; but I cannot say that I understand it
clearly. When Fanny came home for her first holiday, she had got a very
bright-looking watch, with a chain round her neck, and she told me she
had given ten shillings for it. Naturally I was angry that she should
spend her money so foolishly—the first wages she had ever earned. I
wanted her to tell her father afterwards, and let him see the watch,
but she never did tell him, and I never heard any more about it, except
what I said myself, until I had her box come home a little while ago,
and I had to look through it—for the man brought a list of things that
were in it when it was taken away from the place where she caught the
fever—and in a bag I found the watch I had seen before, and with it a
collecting-card, by which I saw that she had agreed to pay two pounds
for the watch, and two or three payments of three shillings had been
paid. I will fetch the bag, and let you see it, sir. I have not told
her father about it; for how could I let him know how our girl had
deceived me as soon as she got away from home?" And poor Mrs. Brown
burst into tears as she went out of the room to unlock Fanny's box.

She was away several minutes, and there were still traces of tears on
her face when she came back with the little print-bag in her hand.

"There, sir," she said, "that bag made the news of her death doubly
hard to bear; and I made up my mind that my husband should not have
that sorrow to endure, if I could help it. So I have kept the box
locked ever since it came back, and I put the key where I knew none but
myself would find it."

The Vicar took out the watch and looked at it. "This is worth about
fifteen shillings, I should think," he remarked, as he turned it about
in his hand.

"How could they sell it for ten, then?" said Mrs. Brown. "I am sure
Fanny told me she gave ten shillings for it," added her mother.

"Yes, I believe she told you the truth about the ten shillings," said
the Vicar. "But as you were cross with her for giving even that small
sum for it, she kept it a secret that she had so much more to pay.
What seems to have upset her so much was that these people claimed the
whole two pounds she had agreed to pay, without any abatement for the
ten shillings she gave the woman when she bought the watch; and she
had had the watch nearly six weeks before they called for the first
instalment of the two pounds. Then, if you look at this card you will
see that they carefully ignore having received anything on account of
the payment to be made;" and the Vicar pointed with his finger to the
columns where Fanny's payments had been acknowledged and the amount set
down as that still owing.

Mrs. Brown heaved a sigh of relief. "Then she really did tell the truth
about the ten shillings? Poor silly Fanny? Why didn't she tell us the
whole story, and then we might have helped her somehow," said Mrs.
Brown.

She did not enter into further particulars with the Vicar; but she
could understand how it was that Fanny could not lend her any money,
for there was the bitter knowledge of this debt hanging over her always
present to her mind, her mother thought.

"My poor foolish girl! If she could only have trusted her mother and
father," she exclaimed, tears of pity filling her eyes as she thought
of all the needless suffering Fanny had endured.

"Ah," said the Vicar, "I am afraid there are a good many like Fanny
among us. If we would only trust the love and care of the great Father
of us all, what different men and women we should be. How much happier.
How much more ready to help one another." The Vicar talked a little
while to Mrs. Brown, and then he told her what was indeed glad news;
for he had obtained permission for her and her husband to go and see
Fanny the next day. "You will have to obey orders, and wear a wrap that
will cover you and keep you from infection. You will also have to wash
your face and hands, and rinse your mouth both before you go into the
ward and when you come out," said the Vicar. "I had to submit, and I am
sure you will be willing for the sake of seeing your child," he added.

"Yes, indeed, sir, I would do anything to see my Fanny again; and I
can never be sufficiently grateful to you for all the trouble you have
taken for us."

"Well, Mrs. Brown, I think, from all I have heard, that you would have
done the same for me or a poorer neighbour. The poor family you have
been helping lately would not have accepted help from me—not, at least,
such help as I could give, but you have managed to overcome the man's
pride and prejudice. You and Miss Martin between you have helped the
girl to begin a new life, so that there is more hope for them all now
than there ever was before, and it may be we shall see Collins himself
coming to church if we are only patient enough to work and wait without
trying to hurry things. I met him as I was coming here, on his way back
to his work, I expect, and when I lifted my hat, and wished him good
afternoon, he positively returned the greeting, and looked pleasantly
at me when he did it."

Mrs. Brown smiled. "Ah, the black frock and bits of mourning Mrs.
Parsons sent to Jessie pleased her father quite as much as it pleased
the girl!" she said. "They had no money they could spend for black
things; but with what Miss Martin and Mrs. Parsons and another friend
gave them they were able to go into comfortable mourning for their
mother, and this respect paid to the memory of his wife has done more
to touch Collins than anything else could. And now he has begun to give
up the drink again, Jessie hopes to make the home more comfortable for
all of them. Do you know, sir, she has gone to work at the blacking
factory three days a week? They need extra help there, and Jessie has
gone that she may be able to do something towards paying off the debts
that have grown to be such a burden to them lately."

"Brave girl!" said the Vicar. "Tell her that we shall all be proud of
her yet, and I shall try to get her father to join our men's club when
it is open. I can say a good word to him about his daughter, and that
will help me to open the subject as soon as things are forward enough."

The Vicar talked thus, thinking it would be good to draw Mrs. Brown's
mind away from her own trouble and joy for a little while. But as he
was leaving, he said—

"Now, if Eliza can be spared for an hour, she shall come home for you
to tell her the good news yourself. Brown, I expect, will be home
to-night, for I sent him a telegram to say he had better come and have
matters cleared up."

As Mrs. Brown anticipated, when she thanked the Vicar for his promise
that Eliza should come home for an hour or two, it was not long before
the girl appeared, and then all the wonderful tale had to be told over
again. When Selina and Minnie came home from school, they had a fresh
item of news. A friend of Fanny's, not having heard the story taken to
school in the morning, had brought a bunch of flowers to put on her
grave, and then, hearing what had happened, Miss Martin had suggested
that the flowers should still be placed on the grave, but with the
inscription, "For the stranger who lies here instead of Fanny Brown."

By the last train Brown himself came home, having obtained leave to
come and do what he could towards clearing up the mystery that led to
the report of his daughter's death.

Like everybody else, he was disposed to think the present information
might prove false, until his wife told him that the Vicar had been to
the hospital and actually seen and talked with Fanny.

"We are both going to see her to-morrow," she added. "But we shall have
to obey the rules and regulations, the Vicar told me, although they may
seem strange to us."

"All right, we will do as we are told, for the sake of seeing our
girl," said Brown; "but I shall want to know afterwards how they came
to send us that blundering message."

But before they went to bed that night they were destined to hear
something more about the matter. Just as they were going upstairs
there came a knock at the door, and when it was opened Brown saw a
well-dressed man, whom he took to be a clerk, standing on the doorstep.

"Is this Mr. Brown's?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, my name is Brown."

"And you have a daughter ill in the fever hospital?" said the stranger.

"Yes, sir. I heard she was there to-day, though we thought we had laid
her under the trees in our churchyard. Is that the business you have
come about?" asked Brown.

"Yes. I have come to know where the true Fanny Brown is buried, for it
is Mary Brown that is still living in the hospital."

Mrs. Brown heard the words, and her heart almost died within her.

"My child's name is Fanny, not Mary," she said, going to the door.

"Will you come inside, sir, and let us see what this other mistake may
mean?" said Brown.

The man stepped in. "My daughter's name was Frances Florence Brown,
and she was about sixteen. I had sent her to boarding-school since
her mother's death, two years ago. The fever, it seems, broke out in
the school, and they were obliged to send my poor girl away before
I could have any choice in the matter. She was called Fanny by her
schoolfellows, and that was how the name of 'Fanny' came to be entered
in the books of the hospital. I have written again and again to the
authorities, and was told each time that my child was seriously ill,
until yesterday I insisted upon seeing her for myself; and then, judge
what my feelings were to see that it was altogether another Fanny
Brown, and not my daughter at all. The Nurse told me then that this
girl said her name was Fanny, but she had been entered in the books as
Mary Brown. She had been admitted on the same day, and about the same
time as my daughter, and that was how the two names had been confused.
You received notice of your daughter's death, when my daughter died."

"May I ask, sir, what sort of a girl your child was?" said Brown.

"Rather small for her age, and very delicate," said the grieved father,
with tears in his eyes. "The girl I saw to-day is not the least like
her."

"No, sir, I think there cannot be any mistake this time, for our Vicar
went to see our Fanny this morning, and he would be sure to know her.
Besides, she talked to him for a little while, though they would not
let him stay very long," said Mrs. Brown.

It was agreed before the stranger left that he should come early the
next day to see where his child was buried; and he did this before the
Browns went to the hospital. The Vicar had been informed of this, and
met them at the grave; and the bunch of flowers left there for "the
stranger" touched the father's heart very deeply.

When Brown and his wife reached the hospital, they found Fanny
anxiously looking out for them.

"You won't be able to stay long, mother," she said, "and I want to tell
you something while I can. I told the Vicar all about the watch; but
in my box you will find a new brown frock, and I have not paid for it.
I got a new place, where I was to have ten pounds a year, that I might
pay for this and the watch. Oh, you don't know what a foolish, wicked
girl I have been!" said Fanny, bursting into tears.

"Hush! hush! You must not cry, or I shall have to send your mother
away, and then you will not be able to tell her what you want her to
do," said Nurse, speaking very firmly.

The tears were in her father's eyes as well as in Fanny's; but he
managed to say—

"You want me to pay for this dress, dear?"

"Oh yes, if you can. I want you to lend me the money, and when I get
well, and can go to service again, I will pay you back, daddy."

"Yes, yes," said her mother; "we will do just what you wish. We have
saved some money, you know, to buy new furniture for the parlour, but
your new frock shall be paid for out of it directly."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, mother," said Fanny, gratefully. "Now I
shall be able to go to sleep, Nurse," she added; "for my father and
mother will pay what I owe, I am sure. Give my love to Miriam when you
see her. And if Mrs. Lloyd's servant leaves, ask Mrs. Lloyd to wait
till I get well, and let me come back to her."

"There, no more," said Nurse; "you must go now," she said, speaking to
Mrs. Brown; and the next minute they were hurried out of the ward, and
Fanny was swallowing some medicine that should help her to go to sleep.

The rest of my story is soon told. Mrs. Brown went home and once more
unlocked Fanny's box. As the girl had told her, she found Mrs. Scott's
bill in the pocket, with a few words added that the writer could not
afford to give long credit, and that she hoped half the price of the
dress would be paid the following week. She showed this to her husband,
and he agreed that the whole twenty-five shillings must be paid at
once. It seemed an extravagant amount to Mrs. Brown, who had been used
to get a frock for Fanny at the cost of a few shillings, even when she
had to pay for it herself; and when she looked again at this brown
dress she could only say that it was not worth half the money now, it
was so tumbled.

But she took the bill and the money to Mrs. Scott that same afternoon,
while Brown and a friend, who understood the value of watches, went to
see Judd. The man began talking to Brown at first very much as he had
talked to Fanny; but he soon learned that the police would be called
in, and the whole case taken before a magistrate, if he did not do as
Brown wished. Sorely against his will, he had to give a receipt for
the ten shillings Fanny had first paid, and acknowledge this as part
payment for the watch. Then followed a wrangle with Brown's friend,
whom Judd learned was as well acquainted with the value of these
watches as himself. The storm raged round the sum of four shillings,
which Brown's friend declared had already been paid in excess of the
value of the watch. Fifteen shillings was a fair retail price; and,
as Fanny had paid nineteen shillings, he demanded that four shillings
should be returned to her father; for even at this reduced price, Judd
would receive a fair profit, and more than this he had no right to
demand.

After a good deal of haggling the four shillings were returned, and
the collecting-card receipted in such a way, that although fifteen
shillings only were paid, Fanny received a full discharge for the whole
amount she had contracted to pay, and no further claim could be made
upon her in the future.

This settled, Brown went to hear what the people had to say who had
sent to tell him that Fanny was dead. Their explanation was very much
like what he had heard from the other Mr. Brown, as to the similarity
of the girls' names, but he also added that the violence of the
epidemic for a short time had taxed their resources, and compelled
their officials to work long beyond their usual hours. Mr. Brown was
asked to take these circumstances into his consideration in making
complaint about the mistake that had arisen.

With regard to the expense he had incurred, in paying for the funeral
of a stranger, ample compensation would be made at once; so that when
he left, Brown felt he had very little to grumble about.

A few weeks later, Fanny was sent to a convalescent home at the
seaside, and when she returned she was allowed to go direct home to her
friends. She was looking very different then from what she did when the
Vicar saw her in the hospital. She looked older and graver too, for
the bitter experience she had passed through she was never likely to
forget. She was wiser too, and more diffident; less eager to receive
high wages than to secure a comfortable home, when she would be able
once more to take up the threads of life, and learn to be useful.

She had said she would like to go back to Mrs. Lloyd's, but she had
small hope of being able to do so, until one day Miss Martin sent to
tell her that Mrs. Lloyd's servant had been obliged to go home, because
her mother was ill, and Mrs. Lloyd would be glad if Fanny could go to
her for a few weeks.

The girl needed no second invitation. She went the same day, and the
few weeks extended to months and even years; for the thought of going
to a new place was one of horror to Fanny, and though she had to dress
plainly, and be careful and economical, there was not a more happy,
healthy, winsome lassie than Fanny Brown, who had once been so wilful
and selfish as to well-nigh break her mother's heart.



THE END



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