Title: The Rectory Children
Author: Molesworth, Mrs., 1839-1921
Language: English
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THE RECTORY CHILDREN

BY MRS MOLESWORTH

ILLUSTRATED BY

WALTER CRANE

[Illustration: 'It's the sun going to bed, you know, dear.' P. 37.]

  London
  MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
  NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  1897



               TO
   MY NIECE AND GOD-DAUGHTER
  Helen Louisa Delves Walthall

  85 LEXHAM GARDENS
    _Shrove Tuesday_, 1889.



CONTENTS


                                  PAGE
  CHAPTER I
  THE PARLOUR BEHIND THE SHOP       1

  CHAPTER II
  THOSE YOUNG LADIES               18

  CHAPTER III
  A TRYING CHILD                   34

  CHAPTER IV
  BIDDY HAS SOME NEW THOUGHTS      51

  CHAPTER V
  CELESTINA                        66

  CHAPTER VI
  THE WINDOW IN THE WALL           83

  CHAPTER VII
  ON THE SEASHORE                  99

  CHAPTER VIII
  A NICE PLAN                     117

  CHAPTER IX
  A SECRET                        134

  CHAPTER X
  BIDDY'S ESCAPADE                151

  CHAPTER XI
  AND ITS CONSEQUENCES            169

  CHAPTER XII
  ANOTHER BIRTHDAY                186



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                             PAGE
  '----and--oh, Alie, I have so torn my frock, and it's my
  afternoon one--my new merino'                               27

  'Little girl,' she called, when she got close to the
  other child                                                 75

  'It's like a magic-lantern; no, I mean a peep-show'         89

  'I would like to go there,' she said                       115

  A secret                                                   148

  ----carrying between them a little dripping figure, with
  streaming hair, white face, and closed eyes                161

  'Now, Biddy. Open your eyes'                               195



          'O little hearts! that throb and beat,
           With such impatient, feverish heat,
           Such limitless and strong desires.'--LONGFELLOW.



THE RECTORY CHILDREN



CHAPTER I

THE PARLOUR BEHIND THE SHOP

          'I was very solitary indeed.'
                   (_Visit to the Cousins_).--MARY LAMB.


The blinds had been drawn down for some time in the back parlour behind
Mr. Fairchild's shop in Pier Street, the principal street in the little
town of Seacove. And the gas was lighted, though it was not turned up
very high. It was a great thing to have gas; it had not been known at
Seacove till recently. For the time of which I am writing is now a good
many years ago, thirty or forty at least.

Seacove, though a small place, was not so out-of-the-way in some
respects as many actually larger towns, for it was a seaport, though not
a very important one. Ships came in from all parts of the globe, and
sailed away again in due course to the far north, and still farther off
south; to the great other world of America, too, no doubt, and to the
ancient eastern lands. But it was the vessels going to or coming from
the strange mysterious north--the land of everlasting snow, where the
reindeer and, farther north still, the white bear have their home, and
where the winter is one long, long night--it was somehow the thought of
the north that had the most fascination for the little girl who was
sitting alone in the dull parlour behind the shop this late November
evening. And among the queer outlandish-looking sailors who from time to
time were to be seen on the wharf or about the Seacove streets, now and
then looking in to buy a sheet of paper and an envelope in her father's
shop, it was the English ones belonging to the whalers or to the herring
smacks bound for the north who interested Celestina by far the most.

This evening she was not thinking of sailors or ships or anything like
that; her mind was full of her own small affairs. She had got two new
dolls, quite tiny ones--Celestina did not care for big dolls--and long
as the daylight lasted she had been perfectly happy dressing them. But
the daylight was gone now--it was always rather in a hurry to say
good-night to the back parlour--and the gas was too dim for her to see
clearly by, even if she had had anything else to do, which she had not,
till mother could give her a scrap or two for the second dolly's frock.
It was mother she was longing for. She wanted to show her the hats and
cloaks she had made out of some tiny bits for both the dollies--the
cloaks, that is to say, for the hats were crochet-work, crocheted in
pink cotton. Celestina's little fingers were very clever at crochet.

'Oh, mother, mother,' she said half aloud, '_do_ come.'

She had drawn back the little green baize curtain which hung before the
small window between the shop and the parlour, and was peering in, her
nose flattened against the glass. She was allowed to do this, but she
was not allowed to run out and in of the shop without leave, and at this
time of the day, or evening, even when there were few customers, she
knew that her father and mother were generally busy. There were late
parcels to put up for the little errand-boy to leave on his way home;
there was the shop to tidy, and always a good many entries to make in
the big ledger. Very often there were letters to write and send off,
ordering supplies needed for the shop, or books not in stock, which some
customer had asked for.

It was a bookseller's and stationer's shop; the only one worthy of the
name at Seacove. And Mr. Fairchild did a pretty good business, though
certainly, as far as the actual _book_ part of it was concerned, people
read and bought far fewer books thirty years ago than now. And books
were much dearer. People wrote fewer letters too; paper and envelopes
were dearer also. Still, one way and another it was not a bad business
of its kind in a modest way, though strict economy and care were
required to make a livelihood out of it. And some things had made this
more difficult than would otherwise have been the case. Delicate health
perhaps most of all. Mr. Fairchild was not very strong, and little
Celestina had been fragile enough as a baby and a tiny girl, though now
she was growing stronger. No wonder that a great share of both work and
care fell on Celestina's mother, and this the little girl already
understood, and tried always to remember.

But it was dull and lonely sometimes. She had few companions, and for
some months past she had not gone to school, as a rather serious illness
had made her unable to go out in bad weather. She did not mind this
much; she liked to do lessons by herself, for father or mother to
correct when they had time, and there was no child at school she cared
for particularly. Still poor Celestina was pining for companionship
without knowing it. Perhaps, though mother said little, she understood
more about it than appeared.

And 'Oh, mother, mother, _do_ come,' the child repeated, as she peered
through the glass.

There were one or two customers in the shop still. One of them Celestina
knew by sight. It was Mr. Redding, the organist of the church. He was
choosing some music-paper, and talking as he did so, but the pair of
ears behind the window could not hear what he said, though by his manner
it seemed something not only of interest to himself but to his hearers
also.

'I wish I could hear what he's saying,' thought the little maiden, 'or
most of all, I _wish_ he'd go and that other man too--oh, he's going,
but Mr. Redding is asking for something else now! Oh, if only mother
would come, or if I might turn on the gas higher. I think it would be
nicer to have candles, like Fanny Wells has in her house. Gas is only
nice when it's very high turned on, and mother says it costs such a lot
then. I _do_ so want to show mother the cloaks and hats.'

She turned back at last, wearied of waiting and watching. The fire was
burning brightly, that was some comfort, and Celestina sat down on the
rug in front of it, propping her two little dolls against the fender.

'To-morrow,' she said to herself, 'as soon as I've made a frock for
Eleanor, I'll have a tea-party. Eleanor and Amy shall be new friends
coming to tea for the first time--if _only_ the parlour chairs weren't
too big for the table!' she sighed deeply. 'They can't look nice and
_real_, when they're so high up that their legs won't go underneath.
People don't make our tables and chairs like that--I don't see why they
can't make doll-house ones properly. Now, if I was a carpenter I'd make
a doll-house just like a real house--I could make it so nice.'

She began building doll-houses--her favourite castles in the air--in
imagination. But now and then she wanted another opinion, there were
knotty points to decide. As 'all roads,' according to the old proverb,
'lead to Rome,' so all Celestina's meditations ended in the old cry, 'If
only mother would come.'

The door opened at last--gently, so gently that the little girl knew it
could be no one else but mother. She sprang up.

'Oh, mother, I am so glad you've come. I've been so tired waiting. I do
so want to show you the cloaks and hats, and _can_ you give me a bit to
make Amy's frock? She looks so funny with a cloak and hat and no frock.'

'I will try to find you a scrap of something when I go upstairs,' mother
replied. 'But just now I must see about getting tea ready. Father is
tired already, and he has a good deal to do this evening still. Yes, you
have made the cloaks very nice, and the little hats too. I'll turn up
the gas so as to see better.'

Celestina gave in without a murmur to waiting till after tea for the
piece of stuff she longed for so ardently, and she set to work in a
neat, handy way to help her mother with the tea-table. They understood
each other perfectly, these two, though few words of endearment passed
between them, and caresses were rare. People were somewhat colder in
manner at that time than nowadays perhaps; much petting of children was
not thought good for them, and especially in the case of an only child,
parents had great fear of 'spoiling.' But no one who looked at Mrs.
Fairchild's sweet face as her eyes rested lovingly on her little girl
could have doubted for a moment her intense affection. She had a very
sweet face; Celestina thought there never could be anybody prettier than
mother, and I don't know that she was far wrong. If she ever thought of
herself at all--of her looks especially--it was to hope that some day
she might grow up to be 'like mother.'

Tea was ready--neatly arranged on the table, though all was of the
plainest, a little carefully-made toast to tempt father's uncertain
appetite the only approach to luxury--when Mr. Fairchild came in and sat
down in the one arm-chair rather wearily. He was a tall thin man, and he
stooped a good deal. He had a kindly though rather nervous and careworn
face and bright intelligent eyes.

'Redding is full of news as usual,' he said, as Mrs. Fairchild handed
him his tea. 'He is a good-natured man, but I wish he wouldn't talk
quite so much.'

'He had some excuse for talking this evening,' said Celestina's mother;
'it is news of importance for every one at Seacove, and of course it
must affect Mr. Redding a good deal. I shall be glad if the new
clergyman is more hearty about improving the music.'

Celestina so far had heard without taking in the drift of the
conversation, but at the last words she pricked up her ears.

'Is there going to be a new clergyman--is old Dr. Bunton going away,
mother?' she asked eagerly, though the moment after she reddened
slightly, not at all sure that she was not going to be told that 'little
girls should not ask questions.' But both Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were
interested in the subject--I think for once they forgot that Celestina
was only 'a little girl.'

'Yes,' the mother replied; 'he is giving up at last. That has been known
for some weeks, but it is only to-day that it has been known who is to
succeed him. Mr. Vane, that is the name, is it not?' she added, turning
to her husband.

'The Reverend Bernard Vane, at present vicar of St. Cyprian's, somewhere
in the west end of London--that is Redding's description of him,' Mr.
Fairchild replied. 'I don't know how a fashionable London clergyman
will settle down at Seacove, nor what his reasons are for coming here,
I'm sure. I hope the change will be for good.'

But his tone showed that he was not at all certain that it would prove
so.

'Is he married?' asked Celestina's mother. 'Oh yes, by the bye, I
remember Mr. Redding spoke of children, but old Captain Deal came in
just as he was telling more and I could not hear the rest.'

'There are several children and Mrs. Vane a youngish lady still, he
said. The old Rectory will want some overhauling before they come to it,
I should say,' remarked Mr. Fairchild. 'It must be nigh upon forty years
since Dr. Bunton came there, and there's not much been done in the way
of repairs, save a little whitewashing now and then. The doctor and Mrs.
Bunton haven't needed much just by themselves--but a family's different;
they'll be needing nurseries and schoolrooms and what not, especially if
they have been used to grand London ways.'

Celestina had been turning her bright brown eyes from one parent to
another in turn as they spoke.

'Is London much grander than Seacove?' she asked. 'I thought the Rectory
was such a fine house.'

Mrs. Fairchild smiled.

'It might be made very nice. There's plenty of room any way. And many
clergymen's families are very simple and homely.'

'I wonder if there are any little girls,' said Celestina. 'And do you
think they'll go to Miss Peters's to school, mother?'

Her father turned on her rather sharply.

'Dear me, no, child. Of course not,' he said. 'Miss Peters's is well
enough for plain Seacove folk, but don't you be getting any nonsense in
your head of setting up to be the same as ladies' children. Mrs. Vane
comes of a high family, I hear; there will be a French ma'amselle of a
governess as like as not.'

Celestina looked at her father with a world of puzzle in her eyes, her
little pale face with a red spot of excitement on each cheek. But she
was not the least hurt by her father's words. She simply did not
understand them: what are called 'class distinctions' were quite unknown
to her innocent mind. Had she been alone with her mother she might have
asked for some explanation, but she was too much in awe of her father to
question him.

Her mother turned to her somewhat abruptly.

'I want some more water; the kettle, Celestina love,' she said; and as
the little girl brought it, 'I will explain to you afterwards, but don't
say any more. Father is tired,' she whispered.

And Celestina quickly forgot all about it; the sight of Eleanor and Amy
still reposing on the hearthrug as she replaced the kettle drove out of
her mind all thoughts of the possible little Misses Vane.

After tea, when the things were cleared away and Celestina had helped
her mother to make the room look neat and comfortable again, fox the
little servant in the kitchen was seldom seen in the parlour, as she
fidgeted Mr. Fairchild by her awkward clattering ways, Mrs. Fairchild
went upstairs to fetch some sewing that needed seeing to.

'I will look for a scrap or two for you,' she said to Celestina as she
went. 'But I'm not sure that you should sew any more to-night. It's
trying for your eyes.'

'And what about your sums, child?' said her father. 'Have you done all I
set you?'

'Yes, father, and I've read the chapter of _Little Arthur's History_
too,' Celestina replied.

'Well, then,' said Mr. Fairchild, drawing his chair nearer to the table
again--he had pushed it close to the fire--'bring your slate and your
books. I'll correct the sums and set you some more, and then we'll have
a little history. I will question you first on the chapter you have read
to yourself.'

Celestina could not help an appealing glance at her mother--she had the
two little dolls in her hand, poor Amy still looking very deplorable in
her skirt-less condition. Mrs. Fairchild understood her though no word
was spoken.

'I thought you were going back to write in the shop,' she said gently to
her husband. 'The stove is still hot.'

'I am too tired,' he replied, and indeed he looked so. 'There is nothing
so very pressing, and it's too late for the London post. No--I would
rather take Celly's lessons; it will be a change.'

Mrs. Fairchild said no more, nor did Celestina--father's word was law.
The little girl did not even look cross or doleful, though she gave a
tiny sigh as she fetched her books. She was a docile pupil, thoughtful
and attentive, though not peculiarly quick, and Mr. Fairchild, in spite
of his rather nervously irritable temper, was an earnest and intelligent
teacher. The sums were fairly correct and the multiplication table was
repeated faultlessly. But when it came to the history Celestina was less
ready and accurate in her replies.

'My dear,' said her mother, who had sat down beside them with her sewing
by this time, 'you are not giving your full attention. I can see you are
thinking of something else. If it is anything you do not understand ask
father to explain it.'

'Certainly,' Mr. Fairchild agreed. 'There is nothing worse than giving
half attention. What are you thinking about, child?'

Celestina looked up timidly.

'It wasn't anything in the lesson--at least not exactly,' she said. 'But
when father asked me who was the king of France then, it made me think
of what father said about a French ma'amselle, and I wondered what it
meant.'

'Ma'amselle,' said her father, 'is only our English way of saying
"mademoiselle," which means a miss, a young lady.'

'But those young ladies, the Rectory young ladies, aren't French,'
Celestina said.

'Of course not. What I meant was that very likely they have a French
governess. It's the mode nowadays when every one wants to speak French
well.'

'Oh,' said Celestina, 'I didn't understand. I'd like to hear somebody
speak French,' she added. 'Did you ever hear it, mother?'

'Yes,' Mrs. Fairchild replied. 'When I was a girl there was a French
lady came to live near us that I was very fond of; and she was very kind
to us. She sent me a beautiful present when I married. I called you
after her, you know, Celestina--I'm sure I've told you that before. Her
name was Célestine.'

'I remember,' the little girl replied; 'but I forgot about her being
French. I would like to see her, mother.'

'I do not know if she is still alive,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'She must be
an old lady by now, if so. She went back to France many years ago; she
was in England with her husband, who had some business here. They had no
children, and she was always asking mother to let her adopt me. But
though there were so many of us, mother couldn't make up her mind to
spare one.'

'Things would have turned out pretty different for you, Mary, if she
had. You'd have been married to a French "mounseer" by now,' and he
laughed a little, as if there was something exceedingly funny in the
idea. Mr. Fairchild did not often laugh.

'Maybe,' his wife replied, smiling.

'I do hope they'll have a French governess,' said Celestina.

'Who? oh, the Miss Vanes,' said her father. 'Why, you _are_ putting the
cart before the horse, child! We don't even know that the new clergyman
has any daughters--his family may be all boys. Besides, I don't know
when you'd be likely to see them or their governess either.'

'They'd be sure to come to the shop sometimes, father,' Celestina
replied eagerly. 'Even old Mrs. Bunton does--I've often seen her. And
there's no other shop for books and stationery at Seacove.'

Mr. Fairchild smiled at the pride with which she said this.

'It would be a bad job for me if there were,' he said, 'for as it is
there's barely custom for a shop of the kind,' and an anxious look came
over his face. But Mrs. Fairchild reminded him that if they did not
finish the chapter of _Little Arthur_ quickly, it would be Celestina's
bedtime, so the talk changed to the Black Prince and his exploits.



CHAPTER II

THOSE YOUNG LADIES

          'Leave me alone--I want to cry;
             It's no use trying to be good.'--ANON.


Six weeks or so later--Christmas and New Year's day were past; it was
the middle of January by this time--a little group of children might
have been seen standing on the shore about half a mile from Seacove.

Though midwinter, it was not very cold. There is a theory that it never
is very cold at the seaside. I cannot say that I have always found this
the case, but it was so at Seacove. It lay in a sheltered position, out
of the way of the east wind, and this was one reason why Mr. Vane had
decided to make it for a time the home of himself and his family.

These were his children--the group on the seashore. Rumour had
exaggerated a little in saying he had 'several.' There were but three of
them, and of these three two were girls. So Celestina Fairchild's
thoughts about them had some foundation after all.

'It looks just a little, a very little dreary,' said the eldest of the
three, a girl of thirteen or so, slight and rather tall for her age,
with a pretty graceful figure and pretty delicate features; 'but then of
course it's the middle of winter. Not that spring or summer would make
much difference here; there are so very few trees.'

She glanced round her as she spoke. It was a bare, almost
desolate-looking stretch of country, down to the sea, which was still
and gray-looking this morning. Yet there was a strange charm about it
too--the land, though by no means hilly, was undulating. Not far from
where the children stood there was a grand run of sand-hills, with
coarse, strong grass and a few hardy thistles, and, in its season,
bindweed with its white and pinky flowers, growing along their summit.
Farther off was a sort of skeleton-like erection, looking not unlike the
gaunt remains of a deserted sail-less ship: this was a landmark or
beacon, placed there to point out a sudden turn in the coastline. And
out at sea, a mile or so distant, stood a lighthouse with a revolving
lantern; three times in each minute the bright light was to be seen as
soon as night fell. A kind of natural breakwater ran out in a straight
line to the lighthouse, so that in low tides--and the tides are
sometimes very low at Seacove--it was difficult to believe but that you
could get on foot all the way to the lighthouse rock.

But all these interesting particulars were not as yet known to Mr.
Vane's children. They had arrived at Seacove Rectory only the night
before.

The boy--he was next in age to his elder sister Rosalys--followed the
direction of her glance.

'No,' he said, 'there's very few trees, certainly. But I think it's
going to be very jolly all the same. When I get my pony _I'll_ be all
right any way; and on Saturdays, or odd half-holidays--there always are
odd half-holidays at every school, you know--I'll take you girls out a
drive in that funny little donkey-chaise, or whatever it is, that's
standing in the coach-house.'

'I don't fancy there are many places to drive to,' Rosalys replied.
'Papa said there would be no use in having any sort of proper carriage.
The only good road is the one to your school, Rough, and you'll have
enough of that morning and evening.'

'Papa said Seacove was a--I can't remember the word--something
French--cool--cul----'

'_Cul-de-sac_,' said Rosalys; 'leading to nowhere, that means.'

'Except to the sea, I suppose,' added the little girl who had stumbled
at the French word. 'It would be nice to have a ship of our own instead
of a carriage. Don't you think we might ask papa to get us one?'

'A _ship_, Biddy--I suppose you mean a boat,' said Rosalys, in a rather
'superior' tone. 'No; I don't fancy papa would trust us to go about in a
boat. Mamma would be frightened out of her wits about us.'

'The sea looks _so_ quiet,' said Bridget, gazing out at it. 'I don't
think it could ever be tossy and soapy here like it used to be at
Rockcliffe.'

'Couldn't it just?' said Randolph. 'Wait a bit, Bride. It may look quiet
on a day like this, and inside the shelter of the bay, but I can tell
you there's jolly rough work outside there sometimes. I was talking to
an old sailor this morning when I ran out before breakfast.'

'I'd like to see a shipwreck--I mean,' as she caught sight of a shocked
expression on her sister's face--'I mean of course one that nobody would
be drowned in.'

'But how could any one be sure of that? You should be more careful what
you say, Bride; you are so heedless.'

Bridget's face puckered up. It was rather given to puckering up, funny
little face that it was. She was eight years old, short and rather
stout, with thick, dark hair and a freckled complexion. Her nose turned
up and her mouth was not small. But she was not ugly; she had merry gray
eyes and very white teeth. Somehow, thorough little English girl though
she was, she reminded one of the small Savoyard boys one sees with a box
of marmots slung in front of them, or a barrel organ and a monkey.

'I didn't mean to say anything naughty, Alie,' she began, in a plaintive
tone. 'I'm always----'

'Oh, come now, Biddy, stop that, do,' said her brother; 'don't spoil the
first morning by going off into a howl for nothing. No one supposes you
wanted to drown a lot of people for the sake of watching a shipwreck,
only, as Alie says, you should be more careful. Strangers might think
you a very queer little girl if they heard you say such a thing.'

Bridget still looked melancholy, but she did not venture to complain any
more. She was a good deal in awe of Rough, who was twelve and a big boy
for his age. He had been at school for two years, and now he was going
as a day-scholar to a large and very excellent public school, which was
only about two miles from Seacove, quite in the country. Mr. Vane had
bought a pony for him to ride backwards and forwards, so Randolph was in
capital spirits. But he was not an unkind or selfish boy, and though his
pet name 'Rough' suited him sometimes as regarded his manners, his heart
was gentle. And indeed the name had been given to him at first on
account of his thick shaggy hair, as a very little boy.

'It's rather cold standing about,' said Rosalys. 'Don't you think we'd
better walk on or take a run?'

'Let's have a race,' said Rough. 'The sand's nice and firm about here.
I'll give you a good start, Alie, and Biddy can run on in front and wait
till we call to her that we're off.'

Bridget trotted off as she was told, obediently. She did not care much
for running. Her legs were short and she was rather fat, but she did
not like to complain. She ran on, though slowly, till at last Randolph
shouted to her to stop. Then she stood still waiting till he called to
her again, for he and Rosalys took some time to settle how much of a
start Alie was to have--from where she stood, Biddy heard them talking
and measuring.

'I wish they wouldn't run races,' thought the little girl. 'They're so
big compared with me--they've such much longer legs. I shan't like
Seacove if they're going always to run races. In London they couldn't in
the streets; it was only when we went in the gardens, and that wasn't
every day, it was too far to go. I wish I had a brother or a sister
littler than me; it's too much difference between Alie and me, thirteen
and eight. I wish----'

But here came a whoop from behind.

'Off, Biddy; look sharp--one, two, three.'

Poor Biddy--off she set as fast as she _could_ go, which is not saying
much. She puffed and panted, for she was not without a spirit of her own
and did not want to be overtaken _too_ soon. And for a time Rough's
cries of encouragement, 'Gee-up, old woman,' 'Famous, Biddy,' 'You'll
win yet,' and so on, spurred her to fresh exertions. But not for long;
she felt her powers flagging, and as first Alie and then Rough, both
apparently as fresh as ever, passed her at full speed, she gave in.

'It's no use. I can't run races. I wish you wouldn't make me,' she said,
as in a minute or two the two others came flying back again to where she
stood, a convenient goal for their return race.

'But you ran splendidly for a bit,' said Randolph; 'and I'll tell you
what, Biddy, it would be a very good thing for you to run a good deal
more than you do. It'll make you grow and stop you getting too fat.'

'I'm not fatter than you were when you were as little as me, Roughie.
Nurse says so--you were a regular roundabout till you had the measles;
mamma says so too,' replied Bridget philosophically.

'I'm quite hot,' said Rosalys; 'fancy being hot in January! But we'd
better not stand still or we'll get a chill. Isn't it nice to come out
alone? I'd like to walk to Seacove--I want to see what it's like, but of
course we mustn't go so far. Mamma said we must stay on the shore.'

'If it was summer we might dig and make sand-castles,' said Biddy
regretfully. Digging in the sand was an amusement much more to her taste
than running races.

'I think that's stupid--it's such baby play,' Rosalys replied. 'But come
on, do. I'm going to climb up to the top of that bank--that's the
sand-hills papa was speaking about.'

It was more tiring work than she had expected. Before they got to the
top of the bank Alie had decided that they would have done better to
remain where they were, on the smooth firm sand down below, but once at
the top she changed again. What fun can be more delightful than playing
in sand-hills, jumping from a miniature summit to the valley beneath
with no fear of hurting one's self even if one comes to grief and rolls
ignominiously as far as one can go! How helplessly one wades in the
shifting, unstable footing--tumbling over with a touch, like a house
built of cards! The children's laughter sounded merrily in the clear
cold air; Bridget plunged about like a little porpoise in the water, and
Rosalys quite forgot that she had attained the dignity of her teens.

But a bell ringing suddenly some little way off caught their ears.

'That's papa ringing,' said Randolph. 'He said he'd have the big
dinner-bell rung when it was time for me to go in. I'm going to walk to
the town or the village, or whatever it is, with him. Good-bye,
girls. It's only three o'clock--you can stay another half-hour,' and off
he ran.

'Let's go down to the shore again,' said Alie. 'Mamma said _perhaps_
she'd come out a little, and she'd never see us up here.'

Bridget hung back a little.

'I daresay she won't come out,' she said. 'Do stay up here, Alie. If
mamma comes out she'll only talk to you and I'll be all alone. I don't
want her.'

'Oh, Bride, that's not nice. I'm sure mamma likes to talk to you too,
only you see I'm older, and there's often things you wouldn't understand
about perhaps, and----'

'I know--it's always the same. I'm too little to be any use. I know
you're older and sensibler, and I don't mean that mamma's not kind. But
families should be settled better--and--oh, Alie, I have so torn my
frock, and it's my afternoon one--my new merino.'

[Illustration: '--and--oh, Alie, I have so torn my frock, and its my
afternoon one--my new merino.' P. 27.]

Rosalys looked much concerned.

'_What_ a pity!' she exclaimed. 'I wish we hadn't played in the sand.
But really, Biddy, you are very unlucky. I've been jumping just as much
as you, and I've got no harm.'

'You never do--I don't know how it is that I always get torn,' said
Bride dolefully. 'And oh, Alie, there is mamma'--they were down on the
shore by this time, coming down being a much speedier affair than
climbing up,--'she will be so vexed, for I've got this frock new, extra
to yours, you know, because of the stain on the other the day I spilt my
tea all down it. I am so sorry, Alie. Could you pin it up?'

Rosalys stooped to examine the damage. It was not _very_ great, still
under the circumstances of its being a new frock, it was vexing enough.

'You've got it so sandy, too--that makes it look worse,' said the elder
sister, giving the unlucky skirt a shake as she spoke.

'I wish mamma hadn't come out,' said Bridget. 'Then I could have got it
brushed and mended before I told her, but perhaps it's best to tell at
once,' and she gave a little sigh.

'Much best,' her sister agreed, and they went on to meet their mother.
Suddenly Bride gave a little cry of satisfaction.

'Oh, Smut's with mamma,' she exclaimed. 'I'm so glad. You can walk with
mamma alone then, Alie, and Smut and I will come after you. I'm always
quite happy with Smuttie--I wish he was my very own.'

It was rather unlucky that just as they got up to Mrs. Vane, Bridget was
so occupied in calling to Smut, who came careering forward to meet the
girls, that the dilapidated frock went quite out of her mind. At the
first moment her mother did not notice it.

'Well, dears, here I am!' she began brightly. 'I got my letters finished
more quickly than I expected. What a quantity of things there are to
order when one first comes to a new house! And I do so miss M'Creagh!
Did you see me coming, Alie darling?'

'Yes, mamma--not very far off though. We were up on the sand-hills when
papa rang for Rough, and----'

But Mrs. Vane interrupted her.

'Oh, Bridget,' she exclaimed in a tone of vexation, 'what have you been
doing to yourself? Do you see, Alie? Her skirt is torn from top to
bottom--the stuff torn, not the seam. And so dirty. Your new frock
too--really, child, you are too provoking.'

Biddy's round rosy face grew longer and redder, and her eyes filled with
tears. She opened her mouth to speak, but Rosalys came before her.

'It isn't so very bad, dear mamma,' she said eagerly. 'I've been
looking at it. It looks worse because of the sand, but it isn't really
dirty; it will brush off. She rolled down one of the sand-hills. I'm
afraid it was my fault. It was my idea to play about there.'

Mrs. Vane glanced at Alie's own garments.

'Your frock is none the worse,' she said. 'I do not see that Bride need
have hurt hers if she had been the least careful. But you are so
incorrigibly heedless, Bridget, and _so_ thoughtless. Why, you were
dancing and jumping and calling to Smut when I met you as if there was
nothing the matter! I suppose you had forgotten all about your frock
already.'

Mrs. Vane's voice was rather sharp as she spoke thus to the little girl.
It sounded quite differently from the bright sweet tone in which she had
greeted them. And it did not seem to suit her to speak sharply. She was
very pretty and sweet-looking, and she seemed young to be tall Alie's
mother; indeed, people often said they looked more like sisters: stout,
sturdy little Bridget was quite unlike them both.

Rosalys looked up at her mother anxiously. She could not bear her to be
troubled, and though she was sorry for Bridget, she was vexed with her
too. She slipped her arm inside Mrs. Vane's and drew her on.

'It's too cold to stand still, mamma dear,' she said. 'Let us walk on to
that beautiful smooth piece of sand--it's rather stony just here. Biddy,
take care of Smut.'

That meant, 'You may stay behind and keep out of the way a little.'
Biddy had no objection to do so.

'Come, Smuttie, stay by me,' she said coaxingly to the little shaggy
black dog. Smut was very fond of Bridget, who had a very big heart for
all dumb animals. He wagged his tail and looked up in her face with
inquiring sympathy, for he saw quite well that Biddy was in trouble.
This was nothing new; many and many a time had the little girl buried
her tearful face in his rough coat and sobbed out her sorrows to him.
They were never very big sorrows really, but they were big to her, and
rendered bigger by the knowledge in her honest little heart that they
were generally and mostly, if not entirely, brought about by her own
fault.

She could not stoop down to cry on Smut's back now; it would have risked
considerable more dirtying of her poor frock. But she stayed some way
behind her mother and sister, so that she might talk without being
overheard by any one save her four-legged companion.

'Smuttie,' she said, 'I'm very unhappy. This is only the second day at
Seacove and I've vexed mamma already. I made good resol---- never mind;
_you_ know what I mean, Smut--to begin new here, and it's all gone. I
don't know what to do, Smuttie, I truly don't. Alie means to be kind,
but it's quite easy for her to be good, I think. And it's no good me
trying. It really isn't, so I think I'll just leave off and be
comfortable.'

Smut looked up and wagged his tail. He was quite ready to agree with
anything Biddy proposed, so long as she spoke cheerfully and did not
cry.

'Good little Smuttie, kind little Smut,' said the child; 'you're so nice
and understanding always.'

But Smut seemed restless; he fidgeted about in front of Bride, first
running a step or two, then stopping to wag his tail and look back
appealingly at her in an insinuating doggy way of his own. Biddy
pretended not to know what he meant, but she could not long keep up this
feint.

'I do know what you want,' she said at last with a sigh. 'It's a scamper,
and I hate running, and I'm sure you know I do. But I suppose I must do
it to please you. You won't roar after me like Rough, anyway.'

And off she set, her short legs exerting themselves valiantly for
Smuttie's sake. He of course could have run much faster, but he was far
too much of a gentleman to do so, and he stayed beside her, contenting
himself every now and then by stopping short to look up at her, with a
quick cheery bark of satisfaction and encouragement.



CHAPTER III

A TRYING CHILD

          'I think words are little live creatures,
             A species of mischievous elves.'
                                _Child Nature._


Bride and Smuttie did not overtake Mrs. Vane and Rosalys, for they were
running towards the sea, whereas the others were walking straight along
the shore. But the dog's bark and the sound once or twice of the child's
voice speaking to him came clearly through the still winter air.

Mrs. Vane stopped for a moment and looked after them. She and Alie had
been talking about Bridget as they walked.

'There she is again,' said her mother, 'as merry and thoughtless as can
be. That is the worst of her, Alie, you can make no impression on her.'

'I don't think it's quite that, mamma,' Rosalys replied, 'though I know
it often seems so. She was really very, very sorry about her frock. And
she's so young--she's not eight yet, mamma.'

'You were quite different at eight,' answered Mrs. Vane. 'Just
think--that time I was so ill and papa was away. You were barely seven,
and what a thoughtful, careful little body you were! I shall never
forget waking up early one morning and seeing a little white figure
stealthily putting coal on the fire, which was nearly out; taking up the
lumps with its own little cold hands not to make a noise. My good little
Alie!' and she stroked the hand that lay on her arm fondly.

Rosalys smiled up at her. She loved her mother to speak so to her, but
still her heart was sore for Biddy.

'I believe--I _know_ Biddy would be just as loving to you, mamma, if she
knew how,' she said. 'But it is true that she's very provoking. Perhaps
it would be different if she had brothers and sisters younger than
herself--then she'd _have_ to feel herself big and--as if it mattered
what she did.'

'Responsible, you mean,' said Mrs. Vane. 'Yes, that is the best
training. But we can't provide small brothers and sisters ready-made for
Biddy, and I am very well contented with the three I have got! It might
be a good thing if she had some companions nearer her own age, but even
that has its difficulties. Just think of the scrapes she got into that
time I sent her to your aunt's for a fortnight! Why, she was sent home
in disgrace for--what was it for--I forget? Biddy's scrapes are so
many.'

'For taking the two smallest children to bathe in the pond before
breakfast, wasn't it?' said Alie.

'Oh yes--after having half killed their valuable Persian cat by feeding
it with cheese-cakes, or something of the kind,' added Mrs. Vane.

But she could not help smiling a little. Alie had already seen that she
was softening; whenever mamma called Bridget 'Biddy,' she knew it was a
good sign.

'There is one comfort,' said the elder sister, in her motherly way,
'Biddy has a _terribly_ kind heart. She is never naughty out of--out of
_naughtiness_. But oh, mamma, let us wait a minute; the sunset is
beginning.'

And so indeed it was. Over there--far out, over the western sea, the
cold, quiet, winter sea, the sun was growing red as he slowly sank, till
he seemed to kiss the ocean, which glowed, blushing, in return. It was
all red and gray to-night--red and gray only, though there were grandly
splendid sunsets at Seacove sometimes, when every shade and colour which
light can show to our eyes shone out as if a veil were drawn back from
the mysterious glory we may but glimpse at. But the red and gray were
very beautiful in their way, and the unusual stillness, broken only by
the soft monotonous lap, lap, of the wavelets as they rippled themselves
into nothing on the sand, seemed to suit the gentle tones of the sky.
And some way off, nearer the sea, seeming farther away than they really
were, as they stood right in the ruddy trail of light, were two little
figures, both looking black by contrast, though in point of fact only
one was so. They were Bridget and Smut, both apparently absorbed in
admiring the sunset.

'Isn't it beautiful, Smuttie?' Biddy was saying. 'It's the sun going to
bed, you know, dear.'

Smut wagged his tail.

'It's so pretty,' she continued, 'that it makes me think I'd like to be
good. P'raps I'd better fix to try again after all--what do you think,
Smut?'

Repeated and more energetic tail-wagging, accompanied this time by a
short sharp bark. Smut has had enough of the sunset and standing still;
he wants to be off again. But Bride interprets his response in her own
way.

'You think it would be better?--thank you, dear, for saying so. You are
so nice, Smut, for always understanding. Well, I will then, and I'll
begin by telling mamma I'm dreadfully sorry about my frock. Good-night,
sun--I wish I lived out in the lighthouse--one could see the sun right
down in the sea out there, I should think. I wonder if he stays in the
sea all night till he comes up at the other side in the morning? No--I
don't think he can though, for it says in my jography that it's sunshine
at the other side of the world when it's night here, so he can't stay in
the sea. I must ask Alie--p'raps it's not the same sun as in London.'

She turned, followed by Smut, who, failing to persuade her to another
scamper, consoled himself by poking his nose into the sand in search of
unknown dainties which I fear were not to be found. The pair came up to
Mrs. Vane and Rosalys, who seemed to be waiting for them.

'Mamma,' Biddy began, in a very contrite tone, 'I've been thinking and
I want to tell you I am truly and really very, _very_ sorry about my
frock. I didn't mean not to seem sorry. I can't think how it got torn,
for Alie didn't tear hers, and she was playing about just the same.'

'I don't know either, Biddy,' said her mother. 'It is just the old
story, you must be more careful. Perhaps, to go back to the beginning,
it would have been better to change to an old frock if you meant to romp
about; _or_, it would have been better still perhaps, not to romp when
you knew you had a good frock on.'

'That was my fault, mamma,' Alie put in.

'Well, we must try and get the mischief repaired, and let us hope it
will be a reminder to you, Biddy, every time you wear this frock.'

Bridget murmured something; she meant to be very good. But when she got
a little behind her mother and Alie again she gave herself a shake.

'I shouldn't like that at all,' she thought. 'I should hate this frock
if it was always to remind me. I think mamma is rather like the mamma in
_Rosamund_ when she speaks that way, and I'm like Rosamund on her day of
misfortunes, only all my days are days of misfortunes. But I do think
I'm nicer than she was.'

As they reached the edge of the shore, where a gate opened into a
pathway through a field to the Rectory itself, Mrs. Vane stopped to look
across once more at the sunset.

'Yes, he is just going--just. Look, children.'

Alie turned too, but Biddy walked on.

'I don't want to look again,' she said. 'I've said good-night to him
once.'

Mrs. Vane glanced at Rosalys.

'What's the matter now?' her glance seemed to say.

Rosalys smiled back.

'It isn't naughtiness,' she whispered. 'It's only some fancy.'

And so it was.

'I said good-night to him when I'd fixed to try to be good,' Bride was
saying to herself, 'and if I look at him again now it'll undo the
fixing. Besides, I've begun to feel a little naughty again already--I
don't like Rosamund's mamma.'

As they walked up the path, Smut, who was really Mrs. Vane's dog and had
got his own ideas as to etiquette, returned to his mistress's side and
trotted along gravely. He knew that his chances of scampers were over
for the day, for not even the most ardent runner could have crossed the
field at full speed without coming to grief. It was rough and stony,
and to call it a field was a figure of speech; the soil was nothing but
sand, and the grass was of the coarsest. But the Rectory stood on rather
rising ground, and old Dr. Bunton and his wife had fortunately been fond
of gardening. The lawn on the farther side of the house was very
respectable, and more flowers and shrubs had been coaxed to grow than
could have been expected. Still, to newcomers fresh from a comfortable
town-house--and there is no denying that as far as comfort goes a
town-house in winter has many advantages over a small country one--it
did look somewhat dreary and desolate. All the brightness had gone out
of the sky by now; it loomed blue-gray behind the chimneys, and a faint
murmuring as of wind in the distance getting up its forces began to be
heard.

Mrs. Vane shivered a little.

'I do hope your father and Randolph will be in soon,' she said. 'It may
be very mild here, but it strikes me as chilly all the same. I really
don't think it is wise to stay out so late, and it has been so almost
unnaturally still all day, I shouldn't wonder if it was setting in for
stormy weather.'

Biddy's eyes sparkled.

'I would so like,' she was beginning, but she suddenly checked herself.
'Are there always shipwrecks when there's storms?' she asked.

'I fear so,' her mother replied.

'Then I mustn't like storms, I suppose,' said the child. 'It's very
tiresome--everything's made the wrong way.'

'Bridget, take care what you're saying,' Mrs. Vane said almost sternly.

Biddy's face did not pucker up, but a dark look came over it, taking
away all the pleasant brightness and the merry eagerness of the gray
eyes. She did not often look like that, fortunately, for it made her
almost ugly. And though her face cleared a little after a while, still
it was gloomy, like the darkening sky outside, when she followed Alie
downstairs to tea, after they had taken off their things and the torn
frock had been changed.

Things had hardly got into their regular order yet at Seacove Rectory.
The Vanes had only been there three days, and every one knows that the
troubles of a removal, especially to a considerable distance, are very
much aggravated when it takes place in midwinter. It was not to be
wondered at that 'mamma' felt both tired and rather dispirited. She was
a little homesick too, for mammas can feel homesick as well as both boys
and girls; and indeed I would not take upon myself to say that 'papas'
are quite above this weakness either. Christmas time had been spent at
Mrs. Vane's old home, a warm, cheery, old-fashioned country-house, where
grandpapa and grandmamma were still hale and hearty, and never so happy
as when surrounded by their grandchildren. This old home of mamma's was
within easy access of London too; no wonder, therefore, that the remote
seaside rectory seemed a kind of exile to Mrs. Vane, though the reasons
that had made Mr. Vane accept the offer of Seacove had been very
important ones.

Rosalys, and Randolph too, though in a less thoughtful way, understood
all this, and both of the elder children were anxious to help and cheer
their parents to the best of their ability. And as all children love
change, and most children enjoy, for a time at least, the freedom and
independence of the country, it was much less trying for them than for
their father and mother. To Bridget the idea of coming to live
altogether at the seaside was one of unmixed pleasure. She dearly loved
the sea, and all she had hitherto known of it was in pleasant summer
weather, and at a bright amusing little place called Rockcliffe.
Seacove was certainly not exactly what she had expected; still,
sand-hills and a great stretch of splendid shore were not to be
despised. I feel sure, however, that young as she was she would have
sympathised with her mother, and tried 'extra' hard not to vex her, had
she known more about it all. But very little had been explained to her;
indeed, Rosalys had been forbidden to say much about the reasons for the
change to her little sister. 'She is such a baby for her age, and so
heedless,' said Mrs. Vane. In treating Bride thus, I think her mother
made a mistake.

The children's tea was laid out in the dining-room, for the schoolroom
was still in a chaotic state, and Miss Millet, the governess, was not
coming back for another week yet. And in the meantime mamma, and papa
too, sometimes had tea with the little girls and Randolph.

The fire was burning brightly and the table looked inviting when Mrs.
Vane came downstairs. Alie had hurried down to see to it all; she knew
what a difference a little care makes sometimes--how a crumpled-looking
table-cloth or untidily placed dishes will add to low spirits when any
one is not feeling as bright and cheerful as usual. There were still
some of grandmamma's good things, which she had had packed in a hamper
for the first start at the new rectory--home-made cakes and honey and
fresh butter, the very sight of which made one hungry!

Rosalys glanced at her mother, and was pleased to see that the sweet
face looked rather brighter and less anxious as she stood for a moment
at the fire warming her hands.

'There is one comfort in this house, inconvenient though it is in many
ways,' said Mrs. Vane, 'the chimneys don't smoke. And close to the sea
as it is, one could scarcely have wondered if they had done so. If only
it really does your father as much good as the doctors said, I am sure
I shall get to like it.'

'Yes indeed,' Alie agreed. 'Mamma dear, won't you sit down and let me
pour out your tea?'

'The wind is really rising,' said Mrs. Vane. 'I wish they would come
in--papa and Rough. It would be such a pity if he caught cold,' she
added with a little sigh.

Something in the tone and the sigh caught Biddy's attention. She was
sitting at the table more silent than usual, very much absorbed, in
fact, with her own grievances. What did mamma mean?

'Is papa ill?' she asked abruptly.

Alie glanced at her, frowning slightly. Her mother turned quickly.

'What a strange question to ask, Bride,' she said; 'it is just like
you--you cannot but know that papa is not at all strong.'

Biddy looked puzzled. 'Strong' to her meant vaguely being able to lift
heavy weights, or things of that kind.

'I didn't know he was _ill_,' she replied. 'I didn't know big people
were ill except for going to die, like our 'nother grandmamma. Papa's
had the measles and chicken-pox when he was little, hasn't he? I thought
it was only children that could be ill to get better like that.'

Mrs. Vane glanced at Rosalys in a sort of despair. But before Alie could
say anything to smooth matters, her mother called Bridget from her seat
and made her stand before her.

'Bridget,' she said, 'I don't know what to say to you. Have you no heart
or feeling at all? How _can_ you say such things. I do not believe in
your not understanding; you can understand when you choose, and you are
nearly eight years old. You must know how miserably anxious I have been
and still am about your father; you _must_ know it is for his health we
have come to this strange, dreary place, away from every one we care
for, and you can talk in that cold-hearted, cold-blooded way about dying
and not getting better and--and----' Mrs. Vane's voice trembled and
quivered. She seemed almost as if she were going to cry. Alie came and
stood beside her, gently putting her arm round her mother and looking
daggers at Bride. Mamma was nervous and over-tired, she knew; she had
had so much to go through lately. How could Biddy be so naughty and
unfeeling? And yet, as the words passed through her mind, Rosalys
hesitated. Biddy was not really unfeeling--it was not the word for her.
It was more as if she would not take the trouble to feel or to
understand anything that was not her own special concern; there was a
queer kind of laziness about her, which led to selfishness. It was as if
her mind and heart were asleep sometimes.

But she could feel. Her face was all puckered up now; there was no
temper or sullenness about it, but real pale-faced distress.

'Mamma,' she said brokenly, 'I didn't, oh, truly, I didn't mean it that
way. I know papa isn't old enough to die; but I thought he was too big
to be ill like that.'

'Biddy,' said Alie sternly, 'you are talking nonsense again. You know
big people are ill often, and sometimes they get better and sometimes
they die. Don't you remember Mrs. Hay--Meta Hay's mamma? She was ill
and----'

'Yes, I quite forgot,' exclaimed Biddy eagerly; 'I didn't think. Yes,
Meta's mamma was very ill, and she died. I wish I'd remembered; and she
wasn't at all old like Grandmamma Vane.'

She spoke almost cheerfully. Again Mrs. Vane glanced at her elder
daughter.

'It's no use,' she was beginning, but Alie interrupted. How she wished
the unfortunate Mrs. Hay had not been the first instance to occur to
her!

'_Children_ get ill and die too sometimes,' Alie went on, 'and big
people very often get better. There was Captain Leonard next door to us
at home----'

'And--I know--the boy-that-brought-the-potatoes' papa,' cried Biddy. 'I
_am_ so glad I thought of him. I was in the kitchen one morning fetching
sand for Tweetums's cage and he came in, and cook asked how was his
papa, and he said, "Finely better, I thank ye, mum." I think cook said
he was a _Hirish_ boy,' Bridget hurried on in her excitement--and when
she was excited I am afraid her 'h's' were apt to suffer--Mrs. Vane
gasped! 'I am _so_ glad I thought of him. Papa will get better like the
potato boy's father. I'll say it in my prayers. Dear mamma, I won't
forget. And I _will_ try to be good and not tear my frocks nor speak
without thinking.'

The tears were coming now, but Biddy knew mamma did not like her to
begin to cry, and truly it was no wonder, for once she began it was by
no means easy to say when she would leave off! She choked them down as
well as she could. And the little face, hot and flushed now, was timidly
raised to her mother's for a kiss of forgiveness.

It was not refused, but a sigh accompanied it, which went to the child's
heart. But there was no time for more, as at that moment the hall door
was heard to open and Mr. Vane's and Rough's voices sounded outside.

Quite subdued, desperately penitent, Bridget went back to her place. Her
head was full as well as her heart. She had so many things to think over
that she felt as if she could not eat. First and foremost was the
strange newly awakened anxiety about her father. She looked at him as he
came in as she had never looked at him before, almost expecting to see
some great and appalling change in his appearance. But no--he seemed
much as usual--his face was indeed reddened a little by his brisk walk
in the chill air, and his voice was as cheery as ever. Biddy gave a
loud, most audible sigh of relief. Mr. Vane started and interrupted
himself in the middle of a lively account of the adventures he and
Randolph had met with in their walk.

'My dear Biddy,' he said. 'What _can_ you have to sigh about in that
appalling way?'

Bridget opened her mouth as if to speak, but Rosalys, trembling as to
what she might not be going to say, interrupted.

'Please, papa, don't ask her just now,' she said; 'do go on telling us
about what sort of a place Seacove is,' and she added in a whisper, as
she gave a little private tug to his sleeve, 'Biddy's been
rather--tiresome, and if she begins to cry----'



CHAPTER IV

BIDDY HAS SOME NEW THOUGHTS

          'O, children take long to grow.'
                           JEAN INGELOW.


Mr. Vane nodded in token of comprehending Alie's hint.

'You must walk to Seacove to-morrow and see it for yourselves,' he said.

'That is to say if it is fine,' said Mrs. Vane. 'Doesn't it look stormy
to-night?'

'The wind is getting up, but that one must expect at this time of the
year, and a good blow now and then won't hurt the girls. I feel ever so
much the better for the touch of it we had this afternoon. I'm certain
it is a very healthy place.'

Mrs. Vane smiled a little.

'I have noticed that that is generally said of places that have nothing
else to recommend them. But no,' she went on, 'I must not begin by
finding fault. If it proves to us a health-giving place I certainly
shall like it, whatever else it is or is not. Did you go into the church
this afternoon?'

'Just for a moment. Rough wanted to glance at it,' Mr. Vane replied, his
tone sounding rather less cheerful.

'It looked very dingy and dismal,' Randolph said. 'It's all high pews
and high-up windows, you know, mamma. Papa says it must have been built
at the very ugliest time for churches, before they began to improve at
all.'

'And there is nothing to be done to it,' said Mr. Vane. 'Even if we
could attempt it and had the money, there would be endless difficulties
in the way of prejudice and old associations to overcome.'

'And it is not as if we were really settled here,' said the children's
mother. 'You must not take the church to heart, Bernard; you could
scarcely expect anything better in a place like this.'

'No--it will be slow work to bring about any improvement in outlying
places of this kind certainly,' Mr. Vane agreed. Then he brightened up a
little. 'There is a very good organ, and I met the organist. He seems
very hearty and eager.'

'That's a good thing. How did you come across him?' asked Mrs. Vane.

'We went to the stationer's to order the newspapers. I might of course
have had them straight from town, but I think it is right to get what
one can in the place, and it helps me to get to know the people a
little. The organist--Redding is his name--was in the shop; I fancy he's
a bit of a gossip, for he looked rather guilty when we went in, just as
if they had been talking about us, and then he introduced himself. He's
coming up to have a talk with me to-morrow.'

'It is quite a nice shop,' said Randolph. 'I expect it has some of the
College custom. I saw some books with the College crest on lying about.
You can get painting things there, Alie,' he added.

Rosalys looked interested, and Biddy's face grew some degrees less long.

'Is there a toy-shop?' she asked.

'There's better than a toy-shop--a wonderful sort of place they call a
bazaar,' Rough replied. 'You may walk all round and look at the things
without having to buy, and there's one part where all the toys are only
a penny.'

Biddy clasped her hands in ecstasy.

'Oh, mamma,' she said, '_may_ we go and see it to-morrow? Oh, I'm sure
Seacove is ever so much nicer than London!'

Mr. Vane smiled.

'How many pennies have you got to spend, Biddy?' he said.

Biddy's face sobered again, and the corners of her mouth went down.

'I've got two,' she said in a very meek voice, 'and there would have
been another to-morrow, that's Saturday, if--I--hadn't----'

'What?' asked Mr. Vane.

'Tore my frock,' said Biddy very slowly.

'_Torn_, if you please,' said her father. 'Well, suppose mamma lets you
off as it's the first Saturday at Seacove, that will be threepence, and
suppose I give you three pennies more, that will be sixpence--with
sixpence you could make important purchases at the penny counter, could
she not, Rough?'

'Certainly, I should say,' Randolph replied.

Bridget's face crimsoned with pleasure. She got up from her seat and ran
round to the arm-chair by the fire where Mr. Vane was quietly sipping
his tea, and at the imminent risk of throwing it all over him, flung her
arms round his neck.

'Oh, thank you, papa, _dear_ papa,' she said, 'dear, dear papa, and I do
_so_ hope you'll be like the boy-that-brought-the-potatoes' papa, and
I'm going always to be good now, always.'

Poor Mr. Vane disengaged himself and his tea-cup with some difficulty
from his little daughter's embraces. To his surprise, when he could
manage to see her face, there were tears in her eyes. He was touched but
at the same time rather apprehensive; it was ticklish work when Biddy's
floodgates were opened.

'My poor little woman,' he said; 'yes, it's quite right to make good
resolutions. But, remember, Rome wasn't built in a day, Bride; you'll
have to keep up your courage and go on trying. But what's all that about
boys and potatoes?'

Biddy grew red; she felt by instinct that she must not tell over all the
conversation; mamma would be vexed.

'I only meant----' and she hesitated.

'Biddy knew a little greengrocer boy in London who was very fond of his
father,' said Rosalys quickly.

'Never mind about that just now,' Mrs. Vane added. 'I have several
things I want to ask you about your study. If you have finished your
tea, will you come in there with me? The work-people about here are
rather stupid, I'm afraid, Bernard. They don't the least understand
about the book-shelves.'

'Don't worry yourself about it,' Mr. Vane replied. 'Things will get
straight by degrees. I'm afraid you have much more trouble now that
M'Creagh's gone.'

M'Creagh was Mrs. Vane's 'old maid,' as the children called her. She had
been with her since Mrs. Vane's childhood, and had lately given up her
right to the title by getting married, to the great regret of everybody
except, I _fear_, Biddy. For M'Creagh had 'managed' the little girl in a
wonderful way; that is to say, she had kept her in order, and Biddy very
much preferred being left to her own devices.

Mrs. Vane sat down on the low couch--one end of which was covered with
piles of books,--they were in the study by this time.

'Yes,' she said, 'I miss M'Creagh, but my real trouble just now,
Bernard, is Biddy. I am afraid I don't take the right way with her,
somehow. She is so tiresomely heedless and provoking, and sometimes
I really wonder if she has any heart.'

Mr. Vane looked up in surprise, in which there was a little touch of
indignation, at this. Fresh from Bridget's loving hugs and the sight of
the tears in her eyes, he could hardly be expected to agree with this
opinion of her.

'My dear,' he said, 'I think you are not fair upon her. I really can't
help saying so. The poor child is heedless and provoking to a degree,
but she is very affectionate.'

Mrs. Vane did not seem annoyed; she was, on the contrary, rather glad of
what Mr. Vane said.

'Yes, she seems so sometimes, and I hope it is only her
childishness--but it is so impossible to make any lasting impression on
her. And I don't see how things are to improve with her. Rosalys was a
perfect little woman at her age. Bridget thinks of _nothing_--I have
seen it so much since we came here and during the bustle of the removal
from London. She lives like a complete baby--perhaps it is partly that
Alie is so unusually thoughtful and helpful, a real right-hand to me,
and Rough too for a boy is very sensible. So Biddy goes her own way,
nothing is expected of her, and she certainly fulfils the expectation,'
she wound up with a half smile.

Mr. Vane sat silent.

'She might be better with some companionship of her own age,' he said
in a few minutes. 'The give-and-take of even childish companionship is a
kind of training and discipline. As it is, she is almost like an only
child. Now, if Alie were away for a while, Bridget would have to try to
take her place.'

'I could not do without Alie, not just now certainly,' said Mrs. Vane
decidedly. 'We must just hope that somehow time will improve Bridget.'

'And don't be too hard on her,' said her father. 'I feel sure she means
well.'

'When she means anything,' replied Mrs. Vane; 'but she seldom thinks
enough for that.'

'I don't know about that,' said Mr. Vane doubtfully, 'still----'

But then something in the arrangement of the book-shelves caught his
eye, and no more was said of Biddy for the time.

Papa did not forget. Bridget got her fourpence the next day, a penny
from mamma and threepence from papa. And all troubles were thrown to the
winds, torn frocks and everything disagreeable forgotten, when she set
off with Rosalys and Randolph, under their maid's charge, for a visit to
Seacove, the wonderful bazaar being the real object of the walk.

Only a very slight misgiving came over her as papa stooped to kiss her
in the doorway; they met him on their way out.

'Be a sensible little woman to-day, my Biddy,' he said, 'and don't get
into any scrapes to worry your mamma.'

The child looked up into his face. Was it the yellowish morning light
from over the sea--for it was clear and bright though cold--that made
papa's face so pale? And yesterday he had looked so nice and rosy--Biddy
felt rather strange; for the first time in her little life there came
over her a faint, very faint shadow of _the_ shadow which, as we grow
older, we learn cannot be avoided; the wings of the solemn angel seemed
for an instant to brush her softly. Biddy trembled without understanding
why.

'Papa, dear papa,' she said, but somehow no other words would come.

He kissed her again, and he smiled. It seemed to brighten up his face.
Bridget gave a sigh of relief: the potato boy's papa had got well, and
very likely he too looked pale sometimes. Still that strange breath of
feeling had left some result.

'Alie,' she said, as she trotted down the garden path beside her sister,
the sixpence tightly clasped in her hand, 'is there anything I could get
for a present for two of my pennies? I want to get some of the toys for
myself with papa's three pennies, and I want to get a thimble with one,
'cos I've lost mine, and my workbox is messy-looking.'

'You can't get a proper one for a penny, not a silver one, and mamma
says imitation ones are bad to wear,' said Rosalys. 'I've got my first
thimble that's too small now--it's real silver. I'll give it you, and
that'll leave you threepence for your present. But who's it for?'

'Three pennies won't do,' said Biddy. 'It must be two pennies, 'cos it's
for papa, and he gave me three pennies, and it would just be like giving
it him back again.'

Rosalys and Randolph glanced at each other. They could scarcely believe
it was thoughtless Biddy speaking.

'Yes, I quite understand,' said Alie. 'Let's see--what could you get for
papa? Can't you help us, Rough?'

Rough considered deeply.

'A purse--no, that would be too dear--or an inkstand?' he said.

'I'm sure an inkstand would be far dearer,' said Alie sharply. 'You're
no good, Rough. I daresay we'll see something there, Biddy dear. I'll
not forget.'

Bride felt very pleased. She was in high favour with Rosalys, she could
see. She began jumping up and down the little grass-covered sandy
hillocks that bordered the road, scarcely more than a cart-track, across
the common between the Rectory and the little town.

'There's a shorter way if we turn, a little farther on,' said Rough. 'We
can either get on to the road above the shore--it's a proper road--or
cut across a very sandy place, much sandier than the common.'

'No,' said Alie, 'I'd rather go along the road even if it's farther.
Walking on sand is so tiresome, and spoils one's boots so. Biddy, I
think you'd better walk quietly: remember what papa said, and you know
you are rather unlucky.'

It was pleasant walking along the firm, hard road, and the fresh air was
exhilarating--the sunshine, thin and wintry though it was, gilded palely
the little shallow lakes and pools left by the outgoing tide along the
shore, for it was almost low water now. Even the bare stretches of sand
did not look ugly, as they sometimes do--a touch of sunshine makes all
the difference! And the even stony path--a sort of natural breakwater
running out towards the lighthouse--here and there caught a gleam or two
from the sky.

'It looks quite different to last night,' said Alie. 'That's one thing
I like the seaside for; it's always changing.'

'And the wind's gone down with the tide,' said Randolph, 'though it did
blow last night. There'll be rough weather before long, everybody says.'

'I _would_ so like to be in the lighthouse if there was a storm,' said
Biddy. 'That isn't naughty to wish, Alie, for the lighthouse is to keep
away shipwrecks. And if there just _was_ one, you know, it _would_ be
nice to be there to help the poor wet people, and carry them in to the
fire, and rub them dry with hot blankets, like in that story, you know.'

'A lot you'd be able to carry,' said Rough contemptuously. 'Why, you're
so fat and roundabout, and your legs are so short you can scarcely carry
yourself.'

'Rough,' began Rosalys warningly. And

'_Alie_,' began Bridget at the same moment in her whining tone, 'do
listen to him.'

But a peremptory 'Hush' from Randolph checked her. Both the girls looked
up. A short, rather stout, pleasant-faced man was at that moment
overtaking them.

'Good-morning, sir,' he said as he passed, and 'Good-morning, Mr.
Redding,' returned Rough courteously, as the other lifted his hat.
Rough had very nice manners.

'That is Redding, the organist,' said Rough. 'He's something else as
well--a tailor or a draper----'

'"A butcher, a baker, or candlestick-maker,"' interrupted Rosalys
laughingly. She did not mean to make fun of good Mr. Redding, but she
wanted to make the others laugh too, to restore their good humour.

'Well, something, any way,' Randolph went on. 'Papa says he's an awfully
good sort of man; he gives all his spare time to the organ for nothing.'

'That's very nice,' said Alie approvingly.

They were near the actual town of Seacove by this time--town or village,
it was difficult to say which, though the rows of tall masts a little
way off in the docks and the paved streets hardly seemed to suit the
idea of a village. And a few minutes more brought them to what was
ambitiously called the 'Parade,' where stood the long low bazaar, with a
large placard at the door announcing that 'entrance' was 'free.'

In summer the bazaar blossomed out into twice its winter size, thanks to
a tentlike canvas front; at present it was a building of not very
imposing appearance. But it was long in proportion to its width, and one
or two gas-jets lighted up the innermost end, even in the daytime. This
gave it a rather mysterious air, and added much to Biddy's admiration.

'It's a _lovely_ place,' she whispered to the others in an almost
awestruck tone. Rough felt much gratified; he considered the bazaar his
own 'find.' He set to work very graciously to do the honours of it, and
led the way slowly between the two sloping-upwards counters or tables at
each side, on which were arranged the more important and expensive
wares--china vases, glass, English and foreign, some of it really quaint
and uncommon, such as was not, in those days at least, to be often met
with in regular shops, workboxes and desks of various kinds;
papier-mâché writing-books, a few clocks; jewelry, a little real, a
great deal imitation, in glass-lidded cases; and so on. And down the
centre stood groups of walking-sticks, camp-stools, croquet-sets, and
such like.

'Usefuller' things, as Biddy afterwards told her mother, were not
wanting either. Hair-brushes and combs, metal teapots, and lots of gaily
painted trays were among them. And some very magnificent dolls gazed
down with their bright unblinking eyes at the whole from a high
position, where they and the larger, more costly toys were placed.

It was all very imposing, very breath-taking-away, and Biddy's eyes
were very eager and her mouth wide open as she trotted after Alie. For
London shops were not as magnificent forty years ago as they are now;
and, besides it was not often that the little Vanes had paid a visit to
Cremer's or the arcades, which are children's delight. And then it was
here so delightfully uncrowded and quiet. The shopwoman, knowing who
they were, felt not a little honoured by their prompt visit, and beyond
a civil 'Good-morning, young ladies,' left them free to stare about and
admire as they chose.

But they did not linger long before the objects which they knew to be
quite beyond their reach. It was the penny counter for which they were
really bound, and to which Rough piloted them with an air of great
pride.

'There, now,' he said, waving his hand like a show-man; 'what do you say
to that, girls? All these things--everything you can see as far as
here--for a penny!'

Biddy gasped; even Alie was impressed.

'They're really very nice, Biddy,' she said. 'And oh, look, what nice
dolls' furniture! What a pity, Biddy, you don't care for dolls!'



CHAPTER V

CELESTINA

          'Little china tea-things and delightful dinner-sets;
           Trumpets, drums, and baby-horses; balls in coloured nets.'
                                      _What the Toys do at Night._


Just as she said these words Rosalys became conscious that some one else
was standing beside her. She looked round. A little girl, simply but
neatly dressed, had come into the bazaar, and had made her way
noiselessly up to where the Rectory children stood. She was a slight,
delicate-looking child, taller than Bridget, though not seemingly much
older. She had large, earnest, perhaps somewhat wistful, brown eyes,
which made her face attractive and interesting when you looked at it
closely, though at first sight it was too small and pale to catch one's
attention. She stood there quietly and very grave, her eyes fixed on
Alie Vane's lovely and sweet face, yet without the slightest shadow of
forwardness or freedom in her gaze. An expression of great surprise,
mingled with a little pity, flitted across her when she heard the elder
girl's words--'What a pity, Biddy, you don't care for dolls!' and it was
with intense interest she listened to Bridget's reply.

'I would care for them, Alie, if I had any one to play at them with me.
But you think you're too big--I think you've always thought yourself too
big--and Rough's a boy. So how could I care for dolls all alone?'

Bride's voice had taken the peculiar little whine it always did when she
was at all put out. It was comical and yet a little irritating; but just
now neither Rosalys nor Randolph was inclined to be irritated. Alie only
laughed.

'Well, I'm not forcing you to play with dolls, nor to buy them,' she
said. 'Only these little tiny chairs are so funny.'

A voice behind her made her start. Yet it was a very soft, rather timid
little voice.

'You can play much nicer with little dolls alone--a good many little
dolls--than with one or two big ones,' it said.

Biddy turned round and stared at the small maiden. She did not mean to
be rude; she was only surprised and curious; but her rosy cheeks and
round eyes looked much less sweet and gentle than Alie's pretty face and
soft long-lashed blue eyes, which had always a rather appealing
expression. Biddy opened her mouth but did not speak. The little
stranger grew very red. Rosalys spoke to her gently.

'Yes,' she said, 'I should think little dolls would be much more amusing
to play with alone. You could make them act things, and you could make
houses for them. Biddy, wouldn't you like to furnish our old doll-house
fresh?'

'I don't know,' said Biddy rather surlily. 'You'd call me a baby.'

'Indeed I wouldn't,' said Alie eagerly. 'It would be such a nice play
for you. You might buy two or three of those sweet little chairs as a
beginning.'

'They are particular nice,' put in the shopwoman. 'It isn't often
they're made so small, not so cheap. And what were you wanting this
morning, my dear?' she went on to the little newcomer.

'If you please, I want two of them--of the chairs,' the child replied,
holding out two pennies. Her face was still rather red, but she glanced
with admiration mingled with gratitude at Rosalys.

The shopwoman handed her the two little chairs, but she did not seem
quite satisfied.

'Would you like to choose for yourself?' said the woman with a smile.
She seemed used to the ways and manners of small customers--of this
small customer especially, perhaps--and she made way for her as the
little girl, well pleased, came close to the counter. Then for a minute
or two the child stood absorbed, weighing the comparative merits of blue
and pink cotton chair seats, and of dark and light coloured wood. At
last, with a little sigh of mingled anxiety and satisfaction, she held
out two to the woman.

'These, please,' she said; and, without waiting for her purchases to be
wrapped up, she turned, and with a glance at the other children, a
shadowy smile for half an instant wavering over her face, she quietly
made her way out of the shop.

'Poor little girl,' said Rosalys. 'You quite frightened her when she
spoke, Bridget. Why did you glare at her so?'

'I didn't glare at her; you're very unkind, Alie, to say so,' said
Biddy, in her complaining tone.

'Oh, I say, Biddy, don't be so grumpy,' Randolph put in, 'and do fix
what you're going to buy. There's something over here that papa would
like, I know. A whistle, such a jolly strong one, and only two-pence. It
would do for him to call me in by, and much less trouble than ringing
that clumsy bell.'

Biddy went off to look at the whistle. It was a very neat one, in the
shape of a dog's head, and she at once decided upon it, for she had
great faith in Rough's opinion as to what papa would like. Then ensued
another weighty consultation at the penny stall, where Alie had meantime
bought a pair of tiny dolls, which she meant to dress in secret as a
'surprise' for her little sister--'it would be so nice if she took to
dressing dolls for herself,' she thought--and a yard measure for
herself. Bridget's perplexities ended in the purchase of one of the neat
little chairs and a small table and a tiny china dog.

'They'd be pretty as ornaments on my mantelpiece even if I never have a
doll-house,' she said. 'And if I did have the doll-house done up, it
_must_ have a dog, to keep watch, you know, Alie.'

At the entrance of the bazaar they ran against Mr. Redding. He looked
hot and hurried and was walking very fast, but at sight of them he
stopped suddenly, and then, came up to Randolph.

'_Would_ you excuse me, sir,' he began, 'if I were to ask you a great
favour? I have just been at the Rectory to see Mr. Vane and I am
hurrying off to Brewton by the next train, for unfortunately there is
something wrong with one of the organ stops and I must get a man to come
over at once. It would never do not to be able to use the organ properly
the first Sunday Mr. Vane is here. I find it later than I thought, and
I had undertaken to leave this note at Mr. Fairchild's in Pier Street for
the rector. You will pass there on your way home, unless you
particularly want to go by Sandy Common?'

'Oh no,' said Rough, 'we don't mind. Of course I'll leave it for you,
Mr. Redding. Is there an answer?'

But Mr. Redding, having thrust the note into the boy's hands, was
already some paces off. He called out some rather incoherent reply, of
which 'thank you, thank you,' were the only intelligible words.

'What a fussy little man,' said Alie. 'But papa said he was proud of his
organ, and it would be horrid at church without it. Which is Pier
Street, Rough, do you know?'

'Not a bit of it--nor which is Mr. Fairchild's shop, or if it is a shop.
He only said at Mr. Fairchild's,' replied Randolph. 'I suppose any one
can tell us however; it's not like London.'

The 'Parade' at its farther end turned into the docks. The children
walked on, tempted by the sight of the tall masts in front of them.

'Wouldn't I like to see over some of those ships,' said Rough. Just then
a little group of sailors, looking little more than boys for the most
part, in spite of their bronzed and sunburnt skin, passed them,
chattering and whistling cheerily. They belonged to a vessel but newly
arrived from some southern port. One could see how happy they were to be
on English ground again--some of them maybe belonged to Seacove itself.

'Would you like to be a sailor, Rough?' said Alie.

Randolph hesitated.

'No, I don't think so, but I like seeing ships and hearing about
voyages.'

'_I'd_ like to be a sailor,' said Bridget suddenly. Rosalys and her
brother could not help laughing.

'What a funny sailor you'd make,' they said. And indeed it was not easy
to imagine her short, compact, roundabout figure climbing up masts and
darting about with the monkey-like swiftness of a smart little middy.

'I don't think you'd like it for long, Miss Biddy,' said Jane, the
young maid. 'I came once, in my last place, from Scotland by sea, and
though I wasn't at all ill, it was dreadful rough work. I was glad to
feel my feet on firm land again.'

'Was it very stormy?' asked all the children together. 'And how long
were you in the ship? Oh, do tell us about it, Jane.'

Jane's value rose immensely on the spot. She was not a particularly
lively girl generally, but this was quite a discovery.

'Was it a very big ship?' asked Bridget, 'or quite a teeny-weeny one,
just big enough to hold all of us like?'

'You stupid little goose,' said Rough. 'You mean a boat--a _ship_ is
never as little as that.'

'Boats and ships is all the same,' Biddy persisted; 'and I heard papa
say there was a Scotch boat to Seacove twice a week--there now, Rough.'

'Oh well--but that's only a way of speaking. Papa didn't mean a real
boat--a little boat. Now, if we could go down those steps right among
all the ships I'd soon show you the difference.'

'But we mustn't, Rough,' said Alie anxiously. 'Not without papa or
somebody big--any way we must ask leave first.'

'Well, I suppose it would hardly do for you girls,' Rough replied. 'But
of course papa would let _me_ go. He and I walked all round the docks
last night, and we should have gone to the end of the pier if----'

'Oh, that reminds me,' said Rosalys. 'Haven't we passed Pier Street?
I believe that must be it opposite. Yes, I see it put up. Now we must
find out Mr. Fairchild's. Can't you ask somebody, Rough?'

Randolph, though he would not have confessed it, was a little shy of
accosting any of the few passers-by. Just because there were so few and
the place was so quiet, the children felt themselves rather
uncomfortably conspicuous, and they could not help noticing that here
and there the inhabitants came rather unnecessarily to their doors to
look at them as they passed. It was not done rudely, and indeed it was
only natural that the arrival of a new rector and his family at Seacove
should attract a good deal of attention, considering that old Dr. Bunton
and his wife had been fixtures there for more years than Mr. Vane
himself had been in the world.

'Oh yes,' said Rough in an off-hand way, 'I can ask any one. But we
may as well walk on a little and look about us. If it is a shop we'll
see the name.'

Just then there came out of a shop in front of them--a baker's, I think
it was--a small figure which walked on slowly some paces before them.

'That's the little girl of the dolls' chairs,' exclaimed Bridget. 'Shall
I run on and ask her? I don't mind.'

'You never do,' said Alie, and indeed Biddy was most comfortably
untroubled with shyness.

'Yes, run on and see if she knows where it is.'

Off trotted Biddy, her precious purchases tightly clasped in her hands.

'Little girl,' she called, when she got close to the other child.

[Illustration: 'Little girl,' she called, when she got close to the
other child. P. 75.]

The little girl turned, and looked at Biddy full in the face with her
grave earnest eyes without speaking. And for half a moment Bridget did
feel something approaching to shyness, but it gave her a comfortable
fellow-feeling to see that the small stranger was also still carrying
the little chairs she had bought. They were not done up in paper like
Biddy's--she had not waited for that,--but she had covered them loosely
with a very clean, very diminutive pocket-handkerchief, and Bridget saw
quite well what they were.

'Please,' Biddy went on, slightly breathless--it did not take much to
put Biddy out of breath--'please can you tell us where Mr. Fairchild's
is in this street? Rough's got a letter for him, but we don't know if
it's a shop or only a house.'

'Mr. Fairchild's,' repeated the little girl, 'he's my father; it's our
shop. I'll show it you,' and a faint pink flush of excitement came into
her pale face. These were the Rectory young ladies, she had been sure of
it when she saw them in the bazaar. Fancy--wouldn't mother be surprised
to see them coming in with her? And father, who had said she'd maybe
never see them. Was that the French ma'amselle with them?--and Celestina
glanced back at honest Jane Dodson, from 'grandmamma's' village, walking
along in her usual rather depressed fashion--if so, French ma'amselles
were very like English nurse-maids, thought her little observer.

'How funny!' said Biddy, quite interested. And Celestina began to like
her better--she had been rather disappointed in Biddy at the bazaar. She
was not pretty, and Celestina, though she scarcely knew it, was very
much taken by beauty, and she had been rather, almost a little rude--at
least Celestina knew that _she_ would have been told she was rude had
she behaved as Bridget had done. But now she seemed so bright and
natural--'She is quite a little girl,' thought Celestina; 'and perhaps
if she's the youngest she's treated rather like a baby.' 'How _very_
funny!' Biddy repeated. 'I must run back and tell Alie and Rough. And
have you a doll-house, little girl, and will you show it me? I've bought
a chair too and a table. Perhaps if I saw your doll-house and
teeny-weeny dolls I'd get to like to play with them too. We have a----
Oh, Alie,' as Alie, surprised at the length and apparent friendliness of
the conversation proceeding between the two children, hastened up. 'Oh,
Alie, _isn't_ it funny? She's his little girl. The note's for her
house.'

Rosalys turned her soft blue eyes full on Celestina.

'How like an angel she is!' thought Celestina.

'Who's?' said Alie. 'Do you mean Mr. Fairchild's? Why don't you explain
properly, Biddy?'

'Yes, that's it,' said the stranger child. 'I'm Celestina Fairchild.
I'll show you the shop.'

'Thank you,' said the elder girl. But Biddy would scarcely let her say
the two words. Her eyes were very open, looking rounder than ever.

'_What_ a funny name!' she exclaimed. Biddy's collection of adjectives
did not seem to be a very large one. 'Do say it again; oh, please do.'

'Biddy, I think you are rather rude,' said Alie severely. 'You wouldn't
like any one to say your name was funny.'

'I didn't mean----' began Bridget as usual, but Celestina quietly
interrupted.

'I don't mind; she's only a little girl. Don't be vexed with her,' she
said to Alie with a sort of childish dignity that seemed to suit her. 'I
think my name _is_ funny; mother called it me 'cos--, but p'raps we'd
better go on. I've been out a good while and mother might be wondering
what I was doing, and then if the letter for father matters much----'

'Yes,' said Alie; 'you're quite right; we'd better be quick.'

So the little party set off again up the street. Biddy and
Celestina--for now that Biddy's interest was awakened in the stranger
child she had no idea of giving her up to the others--in front; Rosalys
and her brother following; Jane Dodson, discreet and resigned, bringing
up the rear.

They had not far to walk, but Bridget's tongue made the most of its
opportunities.

'Have you got a doll-house, then?' she inquired of Celestina; and as the
little girl shook her head rather dolefully in reply, 'What do you get
furniture' (Biddy called it 'fenniture') 'for, then? Is it for
ornaments?'

'No; I've got a room, though not a doll-house,' Celestina replied. 'It
once was a kitchen, but I played with it too much when I was little, and
the things got spoilt. So father did it up for me with new paper like a
parlour--a best parlour, you know. Not a parlour like you use every
day.'

'I don't know what a parlour is,' said Biddy; 'we haven't got one at the
Rectory, and we hadn't one in London either. We've only got a
schoolroom, and a dining-room, and a droind-room, and a study for papa,
and----'

'I forgot,' said Celestina. 'I remember mother told me that they don't
call them parlours in big houses. It's a drawing-room I mean; only the
dolls have their dinner in it, because I haven't got a dining-room. They
haven't any bedroom either; but I put them to bed in a very nice little
basket, with a handkerchief and cotton-wool. It's very comfortable.'

'Yes?' said Bridget, greatly interested, 'and what more? Tell me,
please. It sounds so nice.'

'Sometimes,' Celestina went on--'sometimes I take them to the
country--on the table, you know--and then I build them a house with
books. It does very well if it's only a visit to the country, but it
wouldn't do for a always house, 'cos it has to be cleared away for
dinner.'

Biddy's mouth and eyes were wide open.

'We have dinner in the dining-room with papa and mamma,' she said; 'so
we don't need to clear away off the schoolroom table except for tea.
That's in London. I don't know where we're to have tea here, when Miss
Millet comes back. Don't you have dinner with your papa and mamma--when
they have luncheon, you know?'

In her turn Celestina stared.

'I don't know how you mean. We all have dinner in the parlour,' she
said, 'like--like everybody. But this is our shop,' she added, stopping
and turning so as to face the others. 'If you please, miss,' she went on
to Rosalys, 'this is father's shop. If you'll come in, he'll be there.'

Not a little surprised was Mr. Fairchild to see his daughter showing the
way in to the three children, whom he rightly and at once guessed to be
the new rector's family. Celestina looked quite composed; though so very
quiet and silent a child, she was neither shy nor awkward. She was too
little taken up with herself to have the foolish ideas which make so
many children bashful and unready: it never entered her head that other
people were either thinking of or looking at her. So she was free to
notice what she could do and when she was wanted, and her simple kindly
little heart was always pleased to render others a service, however
small.

'Father,' she said in her soft voice; 'it is young Master Vane and the
young ladies with a letter for you.'

Mr. Fairchild came forward, out from behind the counter. He made a
little bow to Rosalys, who was the foremost of the group, and a little
smile brightened his thin face as his eyes rested on hers. Every one was
attracted by Alie, and her voice was particularly gentle as she spoke to
Mr. Fairchild, for the first thought that darted through her mind was,
'How very ill he looks, poor man--much worse than papa.'

'It is a letter for you, Mr. Fairchild,' she said. 'Mr. Redding asked my
brother to give it to you. It is from pa--from Mr. Vane.'

'But I don't know if there is any answer,' said Rough. 'Redding didn't
say. Please see, will you?'

Rosalys and Randolph and Jane in the doorway stood waiting while he
read. But Biddy's eyes were hard at work. She caught Celestina as she
was disappearing through an inner door.

'Oh, please,' she said, 'don't go away. Won't you show me your dolls?
And oh, please, what _is_ that funny little window up there in the wall?
I would so like to look through it.'



CHAPTER VI

THE WINDOW IN THE WALL

          'Will you step into my parlour?'
                     _The Spider and the Fly._


Celestina hesitated. She was anxious to be friendly to Bridget, and she
had a strong instinct of hospitality, but the little girl rather took
away her breath. Just at that moment, luckily, the door between the shop
and the parlour--a door in the corner behind the counter--opened, just a
little, enough to admit Mrs. Fairchild, who came in quietly. She had
heard voices in the shop, and thought she was probably needed there,
though at this time of the morning, especially when Celestina was out,
she had to be sometimes in the kitchen.

'Celestina,' she exclaimed, surprised and not quite sure if she should
be pleased, 'what are you doing? You should have come in at once. I have
been expecting you.'

Then her eyes fell on the three--or four--three and a half, one might
say, to be very correct--strangers in the shop, for Jane was still
wavering on the doorstep, one foot on the pavement outside and one
inside.

'Won't you come in?' said Mrs. Fairchild to her civilly; 'it is a cold
morning--and then I could shut the door.'

Jane moved inwards, though without speaking, and Rough darted forward
and shut the door carefully.

'Thank you, sir,' said Mrs. Fairchild, with a little smile that lighted
up her whole face. She gave a half unconscious glance at her
delicate-looking husband, which explained her anxiety. Bridget drew near
her and looked up in her face. Somehow since Mrs. Fairchild had come in
every one seemed more friendly and at ease.

'Are you Ce--Cel--the little-girl-in-the-bazaar's mamma?' asked Biddy.

Mrs. Fairchild smiled again.

'Yes,' she said, touching Celestina on the shoulder, 'I am _her_ mother.
Did you see her at the bazaar?'

'She was buying chairs, and that made me buy one too,' replied Biddy
rather vaguely.

'The young ladies met me after that in the street and asked me the way
here. I showed them. That was why I was in the shop,' explained
Celestina, on whose brow a little wrinkle of uneasiness had remained
till she could tell her mother the reason of her moment's lingering.

'I see,' said Mrs. Fairchild, who would indeed have found it difficult
to believe that Celestina had been careless or disobedient; and at the
words Celestina's face recovered its usual quiet, thoughtful, but
peaceful expression.

Bridget pressed up a little closer to Mrs. Fairchild.

'You're not vexed with her then,' she said. 'She was quite good.
I thought at first you were going to be rather a cross mamma.'

'_Bridget_,' said Rosalys, colouring, and in an awful tone. When Alie
said 'Bridget' like that it meant a great deal.

'I didn't mean,' began Biddy as usual.

Celestina's mother turned to Rosalys.

'Please do not be vexed with her, miss,' she said, with again that
winning smile. And the smile that stole over Alie's face in response
made Mrs. Fairchild's gaze linger on the lovely child. 'No, my dear,'
she went on, speaking now to Biddy, 'it was quite right of Celestina to
show you the way; and I am glad you happened to meet her.'

During this time, which was really only a minute or so, for it takes
much longer to relate a little scene of this kind than for it actually
to pass, Mr. Fairchild had been busy with the contents of the envelope
Randolph had given him. It contained, besides a note, a list of some
books which Mr. Vane wished to have sent as soon as possible. After
knitting his brows over this for some moments, the bookseller came
forward.

'I find that Mr. Vane would like this order executed at once,' he said,
addressing Randolph.

'I don't know, I'm sure,' said Rough; and indeed how was he to know,
seeing that the letter had only been given over to his charge by Mr.
Redding?

Mr. Fairchild looked perplexed.

'Oh,' he said, 'I thought that possibly you could have explained a
little more fully'--then he considered again. 'I think perhaps I could
send specimens of some of the hymn-books, and I can make out a list of
the prices, etc., so that Mr. Vane would have no trouble in selecting
what he requires. It will only take me a few minutes, and it would save
time if----' he hesitated. 'My errand-boy has gone some distance away
this morning.'

'If you mean that it'll save trouble for me to carry the parcel, I don't
mind,' said Rough in his boyish way.

Mr. Fairchild thanked him.

'I will see to it at once,' he said, and turning to his desk he began
writing down the details of some books which he took down from the
shelves behind.

The four children, Mrs. Fairchild, and Jane Dodson stood together in the
middle of the shop; it was quite small, and with these six people it
seemed crowded. There was only one chair, pushed up in a corner by the
counter.

'It is draughty near the door, even when it is shut. Will you not come
farther in, Miss Vane? or,' with a little hesitation, 'would you step
into the parlour--there is a nice fire--and sit down for a few minutes?'
said Mrs. Fairchild to Rosalys.

Rosalys began to thank her, but before she had time to do more than
begin Bridget interrupted.

'Oh yes, Alie, please do,' she said eagerly. 'I do so want to see what a
parlour's like. But, please,' she went on to Mrs. Fairchild, 'would you
first tell me what that dear little peep-hole window up in the wall is
for? I would so like to look through it.'

Alie's face grew red again; she really felt ashamed of Biddy.

'And it's worse,' she said to herself, 'to be so forward to people who
are not quite the same as us, though I'm sure Mrs. Fairchild is as nice
as any lady.'

And Mrs. Fairchild confirmed this feeling of Alie's by coming again to
the rescue.

'Certainly, my dear,' she said, smiling. 'You shall look through the
window from the other side. There's pretty sure to be a chair in front
of it, if you are not tall enough. My little girl is very fond of
looking through that funny window.'

She led the way through another door--a door facing the street
entrance--into a very small passage, whence a narrow staircase ran up to
the first floor. The children could scarcely see where they were, for
the passage was dark, till Mrs. Fairchild opened another door leading
into the parlour, and even then it was not very light, for the parlour
window, as I think I said before, looked on to a little yard, and there
were the walls of other houses round this yard.

It was a very neat, but to the children's eyes a rather dreary-looking
little room.

Biddy turned to Celestina.

'I think I like droind-rooms better than parlours,' she said, returning
to their conversation in the street, 'except for the sweet little
window,' and in another instant she had mounted the chair and was
peering through. 'Oh, it _is_ nice,' she said. 'I can see Roughie'--for
Rough, had considered it more manly to stay in the shop--'and Mr.--your
papa, Celestina. It's like a magic-lantern; no, I mean a peep-show. I
wish we had one in our house. Alie, do look.'

[Illustration: 'It's like a magic-lantern; no, I mean a peep-show.'
P. 89.]

Rosalys came forward, not so eager to take advantage of Biddy's obliging
offer as to seize the chance of giving her a little private admonition.

'Biddy,' she whispered, 'I'm ashamed of you. I never knew you so free
and rude before.'

Bridget descended dolefully from the chair.

'I'm very sorry,' she said; 'please, ma'am,' and she turned to Mrs.
Fairchild, 'I didn't mean to be free and rude.'

The babyishness of her round fat face, and her brown eyes looking quite
ready to cry, touched Mrs. Fairchild, though it is fair to add that she
approved of Alie's checking the child. She would have been perfectly
shocked if Celestina even when younger than Biddy had behaved to
strangers as the little visitor was doing. Children were kept much more
in the background forty years ago than now. On the whole I don't know
that it was altogether a bad thing for them, though in some cases it was
carried too far, much farther than you, dear children of to-day, would
find at all pleasant, or than I should like to see.

'No, my dear, I am sure you did not mean any harm,' said Mrs. Fairchild.
'We all have to learn, but it is very nice for you to have a kind elder
sister to direct you.'

Biddy did not seem at that moment very keenly to appreciate this
privilege.

'I'd rather have a littler sister,' she said; but as she caught sight of
Celestina's astonished face, 'I don't mean for Alie to be away--Alie's
very kind--but I'd like a littler one too. It's very dull playing alone.
And oh, please,' as the word 'playing' recalled the bazaar and their
purchases, 'mayn't I see her dolls' house?' and she pointed to
Celestina.

Rosalys sighed. Bridget was incorrigible.

'It isn't a house,' said Celestina, 'it's only a room. May I get it,
mother? I do so want to see if the new chairs will do,' she went on, for
the first time disengaging the toys from her handkerchief. 'The others
are so big that when the dolls sit on them their legs go all over the
top of the table instead of underneath.'

'I know,' said Alie, 'that's how mine used to do when I was a little
girl and played with our doll-house. But mamma got some for me from
Germany all the proper size, on purpose. The doll-house was really very
pretty then.'

Celestina looked up with eager eyes.

'Oh, I would like to see it,' she said. 'It must be beautiful.'

'No' said Rosalys, 'it isn't now. Some of the furniture's broken, and
nearly all the chair-seats need new covers. But it might be made very
nice with a little trouble, only you see Bridget has never cared to play
with it.'

Biddy had drawn near and was standing listening.

'I daresay I would care if I had anybody to play with me,' she said.
'You know you're too big, Alie. I wish Celestina could come and play
with me. Won't you let her, if mamma says she may?' she went on, turning
to Mrs. Fairchild.

Celestina's eyes sparkled, but her mother looked rather grave.

'My dear young lady,' she said to Biddy, 'you are rather too young to
plan things of that kind till you have talked about them to your mamma.
Besides Celestina almost never goes anywhere.'

'I went to tea at Miss Bankes's once,' said Celestina. 'That's where I
used to go to school, but I didn't like it much--they played such noisy
games and they were all so smart. And once I went to Nelly Tasker's, and
that was nice, but they've left Seacove a long time ago.'

Mrs. Fairchild looked at Celestina in some surprise. It was seldom the
little girl was so communicative, especially to strangers. But then, as
she said to her husband afterwards--

'Miss Vane is a very sweet girl, and the little one chatters as if she'd
known you for years. They certainly have a very friendly way with them:
I couldn't exactly wonder at Celestina.'

'I'll ask mamma. You'll see if I don't,' said Biddy, nodding her head
with determination. 'And please, Celestina, do let me see your
doll-room, if that's what you call it?'

'May I fetch it, mother?' asked the child. But at that moment Randolph
put his head in at the door.

'We must be going,' he said. 'Come along, girls. I've got the parcel.
Thank you,' he added to Mrs. Fairchild, 'and good-morning.'

Alie and Biddy turned to follow him. But first they shook hands with
Celestina and her mother.

'I'm so sorry,' said Biddy, 'not to see the dolls' room. Wouldn't Rough
wait a minute, Alie?'

'No,' the elder sister replied. 'We've been out a good while and there's
no reason for waiting now the parcel's ready.'

'Well I'll come again. You'll let me, won't you?' said Bride, and not
content with shaking hands, she held up her round rosy mouth for a kiss.

'Bless you, love,' kind Mrs. Fairchild could not resist saying, as she
stooped to her.

'She is a very nice mamma, isn't she, Alie?' said Biddy with
satisfaction, when they found themselves out in the street again.

'Yes,' said Rosalys. But she spoke rather absently. She was wondering
what made Bridget so nice sometimes, and sometimes so very tiresome and
heedless.

'I wonder if it would have been better for her if she was more like that
little Celestina,' she thought. 'I'm sure they're very strict with her,
and yet I'm sure she's very fond of her mother and very obedient. But it
must be rather a dull life for a little girl, only she seems so womanly;
as if she really felt she was useful.'

It was almost dinner-time--their dinner-time, that is to say--when the
children reached the Rectory, and there was something of a scramble to
get hands washed, hair smoothed, and thick boots changed so as to be in
time and not keep papa and mamma waiting. Randolph came into the
dining-room, carrying the parcel of books.

'Papa,' he said, 'these are the books you told Redding to order for
you--at least there are some of them, and if they are right, or if
you'll mark down which of them are not right, Fairchild the bookseller
will order what you want at once.'

'I'll look at them immediately after luncheon,' Mr. Vane replied. 'But
how did they come into your hands, my boy? Has Redding been here again?'

'No,' Rough explained, 'we met him,' and then he went on to tell the
history of the morning.

'And she 'avited us--the little-girl-in-the-bazaar's mother, I mean,'
Biddy hastened to add, 'to step into the parlour. I never saw a parlour
before; it's not as nice as a droind-room, except for the dear little
window up in the wall. Couldn't we have a little window like that in our
schoolroom, mamma? And I'm to go another day to see the room; it's not a
proper doll-house, she says; only a room, and I said I was sure I might
ask her to come here, but she said I must ask my mamma first. I thought
at first she was going to be rather a cross sort of a mamma, but I don't
think she is--do you, Alie?'

Biddy ran off this long story so fast that Mrs. Vane could only stare at
her in amazement.

'My dear Biddy!' she said at last. 'Alie, you were there? You don't mean
to say that you let Bride run into the toy-shop people's house and make
friends with their children, and--and----' Mrs. Vane stopped short, at a
loss for words.

Mr. Vane looked up.

'My dear child,' he said too, to Bridget, 'you must be careful. And
here--where everybody is sure to know who you are, and when you should
set a good example of nice manners--you must not behave in this wild
sort of way.'

'I didn't mean,' began Biddy plaintively.

But this time she was not chidden for her doleful tone--both Alie and
Rough came to the rescue.

'Please, mamma, oh please, papa, you don't understand,' began Rosalys.

'It wasn't the bazaar people at all,' said Rough, chiming in; 'it was
all right. Only, Biddy, you are really too stupid, the muddley way you
tell things----'

'Yes,' agreed Alie, with natural vexation, 'you needn't make it seem as
if we had all gone out of our minds, really.'

'I didn't mean,' started Biddy again, and still more lugubriously.

'Stop, Bride,' said Mr. Vane authoritatively, laying down his knife and
fork as he spoke. 'Now, Rosalys, tell the whole story properly.'

Alie did so, and as Randolph had already explained about meeting Mr.
Redding, it was not long before his father and mother understood the
real facts clearly.

'We couldn't have refused to go into the parlour when Mrs. Fairchild
asked us like that--could we, mamma?' Rosalys wound up.

'And she asked us to step in so nicely. And there were no chairs in the
shop, 'cept only one. And I did so want to see a parlour,' added Biddy,
reviving under Alie's support.

'No, you did quite right,' said Mrs. Vane to the elder ones. 'But Biddy
must not begin making friends with every child she comes across and
inviting them to come here. You are not a baby now; you should have more
sense.'

The tears collected in Bridget's eyes; they were very obedient to her
summons, it must be allowed. Rosalys felt sorry for her.

'Mamma,' she said, 'of course Biddy shouldn't invite anybody without
your leave first, but still this little Celestina isn't _at all_ a
common child. She's so neat and quiet, and she speaks so nicely. And her
mother is _nearly_ as pretty as you, not quite of course.'

'She's awfully jolly,' put in Rough.

Mrs. Vane smiled.

'What an uncommon name,' she said. '"Célestine," did you say? It is
French.'

'No, mamma, not "Célestine,"' said Alie, '"Celestina." I suppose it's
the English of the other.'

'I never heard it in English before,' said Mrs. Vane, 'though I once had
a dear old friend in France called "Célestine"--you remember Madame
d'Ermont, Bernard? I've not heard from her for ever so long.'

'Celestina was going to tell us about her name, but something
interrupted her and then she forgot,' said Alie. 'Perhaps they've got
some French relations, mamma.'

'It isn't likely,' her mother replied. 'But some day when I am in the
village, or town--should we call it "town," Bernard?'

'It is a seaport, so it must be a town, I suppose,' said Mr. Vane.

'I should like to see the little girl and her mother,' Mrs. Vane
continued.

'And oh, mamma,' cried Biddy, jumping up and down in her chair as her
spirits rose again, 'when you do, _mayn't_ I go with you, and then
Celestina would show me her dolls' room?'

'We shall see, my dear,' her mother replied.

Biddy was not at all fond of the reply, 'We shall see.' 'It's only a
perlite way of saying "no,"' she once said, but she dared not tease her
mother any more.

'Nobody cares about what I like,' she said to herself disconsolately.

Perhaps she would not have thought so if she had heard what her mother
and Rosalys were talking about later that afternoon.



CHAPTER VII

ON THE SEASHORE

          'The sands of the sea stretch far and fine,
             The rocks start out of them sharp and slim.'
                                     _A Legend of the Sea._


'Oh dear,' exclaimed Mrs. Vane one morning at breakfast two or three
days after the children's walk in to Seacove. Everybody looked up--the
two girls and Rough were at table with their father and mother. Mrs.
Vane had just opened and begun to read a letter. What could be the
matter?

'It is from Miss Millet,' she said; 'her sister's children have got
scarlet fever, and she has got a bad sore throat herself from nursing
them. They had no idea what it was at first,' she went on reading from
the letter; 'but of course she cannot come back to us for ever so long
on account of the infection.'

'Poor Miss Millet,' said Rosalys.

'_I_ don't mind,' said Biddy; 'I like having holidays.'

Alie, who was sitting next her, gave her a little touch.

'Hush, Biddy,' she said, 'that's just one of the things you say that
sound _so_ unkind.'

She spoke in a whisper, and fortunately for Bridget her father and
mother were too much taken up with the letter to notice what she had
said.

'I didn't mean,' Biddy was beginning as usual, but Mrs. Vane was
speaking to Alie by this time, and no one listened to Biddy.

'I must write to Miss Millet at once,' their mother said, 'though I
shall ask her not to write often till the infection is gone--she says
this letter is disinfected. And, Alie, you had better put in a little
word, and Biddy too, if she likes. It would be kind.'

'Yes, mamma,' said Alie at once, but Bridget did not answer.

It was not usual for Mrs. Vane to discuss plans and arrangements for the
children before them, but this morning her mind was so full of the
unexpected turn of affairs that she could not help talking about them.

'It will be a question of several weeks--even months, I fear,' she said
to Mr. Vane; 'there are such a lot of those children, and Miss Millet
is sure to wish to nurse them all. We must think over what to do.'

'Perhaps you and I can manage the girls between us,' said Mr. Vane.

'Alie perhaps,' began Mrs. Vane doubtfully.

'Yes,' said Bridget suddenly, to every one's astonishment, 'if it was
only Alie. But it would never do for me. I'd be too much for you and
papa, mamma.'

She spoke quite gravely, but the others had hard work not to laugh.

'How do you mean, Biddy?' asked her father.

'I'm very tiresome to teach; often I'm very cross indeed,' replied the
child complacently.

'But you _need_ not be; you can help being so if you try,' said Mr.
Vane.

'Well, I don't like trying, I suppose it's that,' she answered.

For the moment her father thought it wiser to say no more.

Mr. Redding happened to call that morning, and at luncheon Mrs. Vane
told Alie and Bride that she was going to Seacove, and they might go
with her.

Alie's eyes sparkled.

'Are you going to----' she began, and her mother seemed to understand
her without any more words.

'Yes,' she said, 'I have got all the measures.'

'And oh, mamma,' asked Biddy, too full of her own ideas to notice
these mysterious sayings, '_will_ you go to Pier Street and let us
show you where Celestina lives. And if you _could_ think of something
you wanted to buy, just any little thing, a pencil or some envelopes
or anything--they've got _everything_--we might go into the shop, and
I _daresay_ if the nice mamma saw you, she'd ask you to step into the
parlour too.'

'We shall see,' mamma replied.

But 'We shall see' was this time accompanied by a little smile, which
made Bridget think that the 'We shall see' was perhaps a way of saying
'Yes.'

Mamma had several messages to do at Seacove, and though Biddy was in a
great hurry to get to Pier Street, she was rather interested in the
other shops also. At the draper's, Mrs. Vane made some small purchases,
as to which Alie showed great concern. One was of pretty pink glazed
calico and of some other shiny stuff called 'chintz'--white, with tiny
lines of different colours; she also bought some red cotton velvet and
neat-looking white spotted muslin, and several yards of very narrow
lace of a very small and dainty pattern, and other things, all of which
interested Alie very much indeed, though after a while Biddy got tired
of looking on, and went and stood at the doorway of the shop.

'I am sorry to give you the trouble of taking down so many things when
I only want such a short length of each,' said Mrs. Vane civilly to the
shopman--or shopwoman, I think it was. 'But the fact is I am buying all
these odds and ends for my little girl's'--and here she glanced round to
make sure that Bridget was out of hearing--'for my little girl's
doll-house, which needs doing up;' by which information Mrs. Cutter, the
draper's wife, was much edified, repeating it to her special cronies at
Seacove, together with her opinion that the new rector's wife was a most
pleasant-spoken lady.

One or two other shops Mrs. Vane and Rosalys went into; a paper-hanger's
for one, or rather a painter's, where wall-papers were sold; and an
iron-monger's, where she bought two or three different kinds of small
nails, tin tacks, and neat little brass-headed nails. Bridget stayed at
the door of both these shops: she thought them not at all interesting,
and mamma and Alie did not press her to come in. The little girl was in
a great fidget to get to Pier Street, and stood murmuring to herself
that she didn't believe they'd _ever_ come; Alie might make mamma be
quick, she knew how she, Biddy, wanted to see Celestina and her dolls'
room.

'But nobody cares about what _I_ want,' she added to herself, with the
discontented look on her face which so spoilt its round rosy
pleasantness.

Just then out came Mrs. Vane and Alie. They both looked pleased and
bright, and this made Biddy still crosser.

'Well, now,' said her mother consideringly, 'is that all, Alie? Yes--I
think it is. I must call at the grocer's on the way home, but I think we
pass that way. No--I don't remember anything else.'

At this Bridget could no longer keep silent.

'Oh, mamma,' she exclaimed, 'and you said you'd come to Celestina's
house. It's too bad.'

Mrs. Vane looked at her in surprise.

'I did not say so, Biddy; I said we should see. And we are going there
now. You have no reason to be so impatient and to look so cross,' and
she turned and walked on quickly.

'Biddy,' said Alie, 'you're too bad really. You spoil everything.'

Then she ran after her mother, and Bridget followed them at some little
distance.

They went directly down the street which a little farther on ran into
Pier Street, Biddy feeling more and more ashamed of herself. How she
wished she had been less hasty, and not spoken so rudely and crossly to
her mother. It did seem true, as Alie said, that she spoilt everything.
But she did not appear as sorry as she felt; indeed, her face had a
rather sulky look when at last she came up to the others, who were
waiting for her at the door of the shop.

'I am going in to see Mrs. Fairchild,' said her mother. 'I have
something to ask her. You may come in too, Biddy, and I will ask to see
the little girl too.'

A naughty spirit came over Biddy, even though in her heart she was
sorry.

'No,' she said. 'I don't want to see the little girl, and I don't want
to come in,' and her face grew still more sullen.

'Very well,' said her mother, 'stay there then.'

But as she entered the shop with Alie she whispered to her, 'I really
don't know what to do with Biddy. She has such a _very_ bad temper,
Alie. Just when I am doing everything I can for her too.'

'Only she doesn't know about it, you see, mamma,' Alie replied. 'Still
she is very cross, I know.'

Mrs. Fairchild was herself in the shop as well as her husband. As soon
as she caught sight of Rosalys she seemed to know who Mrs. Vane was, and
came forward with her gentle smile.

'I hope you will excuse my troubling you, Mrs. Fairchild,' said the
rector's wife, 'but Mr. Redding, whom I saw this morning, thought you
would be the best person to apply to about a little difficulty I am in.'

She half glanced round as if to see that no one was in the way, and with
quick understanding Celestina's mother turned towards the inner door.

'Will you please step into the parlour a moment?' she said. 'We should
be less interrupted.'

Bridget, standing by the half-open shop door, heard the words. She felt
almost inclined to run forward and beg leave to go in too. But she knew
she must first ask pardon of her mother for her naughtiness, and the
idea of doing so before Mrs. Fairchild was not pleasant.

'If Celestina would come out herself I could ask her to ask mamma to
speak to me,' thought Bridget. But no Celestina appeared.

'They will be so comfortable in that nice warm parlour,' thought Biddy;
'and I daresay Celestina will be showing Alie all her dolls and things,'
for she had not noticed that just as Mrs. Vane went into the parlour she
had said a word to Rosalys, who had stayed behind.

So Biddy stood outside, very much put out indeed. The ten minutes during
which she had to wait seemed to her like an hour; and when Celestina's
mother came to the door to show her visitors out, it was not difficult
for her to see that the little girl was not in at all a happy frame of
mind.

'Good-morning, Miss Bridget,' said Mrs. Fairchild.

'Good-morning,' Biddy could not but reply.

She did not even wonder how Mrs. Fairchild knew her name; she was so
taken up with her own thoughts. She would have been rather surprised had
she known that it was about her, poor little neglected, uncared for girl
as she chose to fancy herself, that the two mothers had been speaking
those long ten minutes in the parlour--'Mayn't I see Celestina at all?'
Biddy went on. 'I think Alie's very----'

'Very what?' said her mother. 'Alie has been quietly waiting in the shop
for me as I told her.'

Alie came forward as she spoke.

'And Celestina is not in this morning,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'She had a
headache, so I have sent her out a walk.'

Thus all Biddy's temper and jealousy had been thrown away. She felt
rather foolish as she followed her mother and Rosalys down the street.

After stopping for a moment at the grocer's, Mrs. Vane turned to go home
by the Parade, the same way by which the children had come to Seacove
that Saturday. It was a fine bright afternoon, still early--a little
breeze blew in from the sea--the tide was far out.

'Mayn't we go home by the shore, mamma?' Alie asked. 'It is nice firm
walking nearly all the way.'

Mrs. Vane consented: they all turned down a sort of short cart-track,
leading through the stony shingle to the smooth sands beyond. The sun
was still some height above the horizon, but the cold frosty air gave it
already the red evening look. Glancing upwards at it Biddy remembered
the day she had watched it setting and the good resolutions she had then
made. She almost felt as if the sun was looking at her and reminding
her of them, and a feeling of shame, not proud but humble, crept over
her. She went close up to her mother and slipped her hand through her
arm.

'Mamma,' she said very gently, 'I'm sorry for being so cross.'

'I am glad to hear you say so, Bride,' said her mother. She spoke very
gravely, and at first Bridget felt a little disappointed. But after a
moment's--less than a moment's--hesitation, the fat little hand felt
itself clasped and pressed with a kindly affection that, truth to tell,
Biddy was scarcely accustomed to. For there is no denying that she was a
very trying and tiresome little girl. And Mrs. Vane was quick and
sensitive, and of late she had had much anxiety and strain, and she was
not of a nature to take things calmly. Rosalys was of a much more even
and cheery temperament: she 'took after' her father, as the country-people
say. It was not without putting some slight force on herself that Biddy's
mother pressed the little hand; and that she did so was in great part
owing to a sudden remembrance of some words which Mrs. Fairchild had said
during their few minutes' conversation, which, as I told you, had been
principally about Bridget.

'Yes,' Celestina's mother had replied in answer to a remark of the
rector's wife, 'I can see that she must be a child who needs careful
management. Firmness of course--but also the greatest, the very greatest
gentleness, so as never to crush or repress any deeper feeling whenever
it comes.'

And the words had stayed in Biddy's mother's mind. Ah, children, _how_
much we may do for good, and, alas, for bad, by our simplest words
sometimes!

So in spite of still feeling irritated and sore against cross-grained
Biddy, her mother crushed down her own vexation and met the child's
better mind more than half-way.

A queer feeling came over the little girl; a sort of choke in her
throat, which she had never felt before.

'If mamma was always like that _how_ good I would be,' thought Biddy, as
she walked on quietly, her hand still on her mother's arm.

Suddenly she withdrew it with a little cry, and ran on a few steps. Some
way before them a small figure stood out dark against the sky, from time
to time stooping as if picking up something. Bridget had excellent eyes
when she chose to use them.

'It's Celestina, mamma,' she exclaimed, running back to her mother and
Alie. 'Mayn't I go and speak to her? She's all alone. Come,
Smuttie--it'll be a nice run for you. I may, mayn't I, mamma?'

'Very well,' said her mother, and almost before she said the words Biddy
was off.

'She must be a nice little girl,' said Mrs. Vane; 'her mother seems such
a sweet woman. But, Alie, did you ever see anything like Bride's
changeableness?' and she gave a little sigh.

'But, mamma dear, she did say she was sorry very nicely this time--very
_real_-ly,' said Rosalys.

'Yes, darling,' her mother agreed.

A minute or two brought them up to where the two children were standing
talking together, greatly to Bridget's satisfaction, though Celestina
looked very quiet and almost grave.

'How do you do, my dear?' said Mrs. Vane, shaking hands with her. 'I
have just seen your mother; she said you were out a walk, but we did not
know we should find you on the shore. Is it not rather lonely for you
here by yourself?'

'I was looking for shells, ma'am,' Celestina replied. 'There's very
pretty tiny ones just about here sometimes, though you have to look for
them a good deal; they're so buried in the sand.'

'But she has found such beauties, and she takes them home for her dolls
to use for dishes, and some of them for ornaments,' said Biddy. 'Do show
mamma how _sweet_ they are, Celestina. And oh, mamma, mayn't I stay a
little with Celestina and look for them too?'

Mrs. Vane hesitated.

'I'm afraid not, Biddy,' she said. 'I must be going in--and Alie too.
She must write to grandmamma to-day.'

'Oh, but mayn't _I_ stay?' asked Biddy entreatingly. 'It's quite safe
for me if it's safe for Celestina, and she says her mamma often lets her
come out on the shore alone.'

Mrs. Vane looked round; the seashore was perfectly quiet except for one
or two old fishermen mending their nets at some distance. One could have
thought it miles away from the little port and the ships and the
sailors. Then, too, the Rectory was a very short distance off, and
indeed from its upper windows this sheltered stretch of sand could be
clearly seen.

'Well, yes,' she said. 'You may stay for half an hour or so--not longer.
And indeed by then it will be quite time for you too to be going home,
will it not, my little girl?' she added to Celestina.

'Yes, ma'am. I must be home by half-past four, and it takes twenty
minutes from here. I can go past the Rectory and see Miss----' she
hesitated over the name, 'Miss Biddy in at the gate, if you please,'
said Celestina, in her womanly little way.

Mrs. Vane thanked her; then she and Rosalys walked on, and the two small
damsels were left alone.

'Why must you be in by half-past four?' asked Biddy.

'It's getting dark by then,' said Celestina. 'Besides there's things to
do. I get the tea ready very often. When mother's not very busy it waits
for her till she can leave the shop, but to-day I know she's busy, 'cos
father's got a great many letters to write. So I'll get the table all
ready.'

Bridget gazed at her.

'Do you like doing it?' she asked. 'You're such a little girl, you
see--not much bigger than me, and you play with dolls.'

'I like to be useful to mother,' said Celestina simply.

This was rather a new idea to Bridget, and she was sometimes very lazy
about thinking over new ideas.

'Alie's useful to mamma, I suppose,' she said, 'but then she's the
eldest. And you're the only one--that's why, I daresay. Is it nice to be
the only one?'

'Sometimes it's very alone,' said Celestina, 'some days when mother's
very busy and I scarcely see her, and I've nobody to show the dolls to.'

'I know,' said Biddy. 'I'm rather alone too, for Alie's so big, you see.
Oh, Celestina, do look, isn't this a beauty? Look, it's all pinky
inside. Now I've got six and this beauty. I think that'll do for to-day.
I'm tired of looking.'

'Sometimes I look for ever so long--a whole hour,' said Celestina,
rather taken aback by Biddy's fitfulness. 'But perhaps we'd better run
about a little to keep warm. It isn't like as if it was summer.'

'I'm not cold and I don't like running,' said Biddy. 'Let's just walk,
Celestina, and you tell me things. Oh, look at the sun--he's getting
redder and redder--and look at the lighthouse, it's shining red too. Is
it a fire burning inside, do you think, Celestina?'

'No, it's the sun's redness shining on the glass. The top room is all
windows--I've been there once,' she said. 'It's a good way to walk
though it looks so near, and there's some water too between. Father
took us once in a boat, mother and me, when the tide was in, and we
had dinner there; we took it with us, and there was a nice old man
father knew. And when the tide went out we came over a bit of water till
we got to the stones, in the boat, and then the boatman took it back,
and we walked home right along the stones--you see where I mean?'

She pointed to the rocky ridge which I told you ran out from the shore
to the lighthouse. Bridget listened with the greatest interest.

'How nice,' she said. 'Couldn't you have walked the whole way? I'm sure
there isn't any water between now--_I_ can't see it. It must have gone
away.'

'Oh no, it hasn't,' said Celestina. 'It's always there: it couldn't go
away. You couldn't ever get to the lighthouse without a boat; once one
of the men had to come in a hurry, and father said he had to wade to
over his waist.'

But Bridget was not convinced. She stood there gazing out seawards at
the lighthouse.

'I would like to go there,' she said. 'Can't you see a long way from the
top room that's all windows, Celestina? I should think you could see to
the--what do they call that thing at the top of the world--the north
stick, is it?'

[Illustration: 'I would like to go out there,' she said. P. 115.]

Celestina was not very much given to laughing, but this was too funny.

'The North Pole, you mean,' she said. 'Oh no, you couldn't see to
_there_, I'm quite sure. Besides, there isn't anything to see like
that--not a pole sticking up in the ground--it's just the name of a
place. Father's told me all about it. And so did the old man at the
lighthouse. Oh, I would like to go there--better than anywhere--just
think how strange it must be, all the snow and the ice mountains and
everything quite, _quite_ still!'



CHAPTER VIII

A NICE PLAN

          'Up where the world grows cold,
             Under the sharp north star.'
                       _A North Pole Story._


Biddy stared at Celestina. The little girl's face was quite flushed with
excitement.

'Go on,' said Biddy. 'Tell me some more. I never heard about it.'

'It's what they call the arctic regions,' said Celestina. 'The old
sailor at the lighthouse has been there. Once he was there in a ship
that got fastened into the ice, and they thought they'd never get out
again, and they'd scarcely nothing to eat. Oh, it was dreadful; but I
did so like to hear about it. And fancy, in the summer it never gets
night up there--the sun never goes away; and in the winter it never gets
day, the sun doesn't come up at all.'

'How very funny!' said Biddy. 'What makes it like that? Is it the same
sun as ours?'

'Oh yes, but I can't quite explain,' said Celestina, looking rather
puzzled. 'Father showed it me with the candle and a little round globe
we've got, but I'm afraid I couldn't tell you.'

'Could the old man tell it?' asked Biddy. 'I would so like to go to see
him. Don't you think we might some day?'

'Perhaps,' said Celestina. 'When the summer comes perhaps your papa
would take you in a boat. Lots of ladies go out to the lighthouse in the
summer. It's too cold in a boat in winter.'

'But I don't mean in a boat,' said Bridget; 'I mean walking. I'm quite
_sure_ we could jump over the little bit of water if we gave a great big
jump. I once jumped over a whole brook at grandmamma's--I did really.'

'It's much bigger than that--it is indeed. You don't understand,' said
Celestina. 'If you'd ask your papa he'd tell you, I daresay. But I think
we must be going home now. I'm sure it's time.'

'I'm sure it isn't,' said Biddy crossly. 'We haven't talked about the
dolls at all yet, and I want you to tell me more about that funny place
where the snow is.'

'I'll try to think of more to tell you if your mamma will let you go out
with me another time, and I'd like dearly to show you my dolls' room if
you could come to our house one day,' said Celestina. 'But we must go
home now, Miss Biddy.'

Bridget flounced about, looking very much put out.

'I'm not going yet. I don't want to go in,' she said.

Celestina began to look troubled. Then her face cleared.

'_I_ must go home,' she said, 'whether you do or not. I wouldn't for
anything have mother worrying about me. You wouldn't like your mamma to
be worrying about you, would you, Miss Biddy?'

'I daresay she wouldn't care; I'd only get a scolding, and I don't mind
much,' said Biddy, who had got on to a very high horse by this time.

Celestina stopped short and looked at her. She could not understand
Biddy at all.

'Mother never scolds me, but I'm very unhappy when she's not pleased
with me,' she said gently; 'and I'm sure your mamma's very kind and
good. I'm sure she does care about you a great deal.'

Her words reminded Bridget of what had happened that very afternoon.
Perhaps what Celestina said was true: mamma had pressed her hand when
she said she was sorry. With one of the quick changes of mood which
seemed so strange to Celestina she turned suddenly.

'I'll go home,' she said. 'Come on, Celestina, before I get naughty
again. But it isn't all for being good. It's a great deal that I want to
come out with you again, and perhaps I mightn't if I was late to-day.'

'No. Very likely your mamma would think I made you disobedient,'
Celestina replied; 'and I shouldn't like her to think so.'

'If I might go into the kitchen and get the tea ready for papa and mamma
like you do, I'd never want to stay out late,' said Bridget
thoughtfully.

Celestina considered.

'You don't need to do that,' she said. 'It wouldn't be any good to your
mamma, for she's got servants to do it. But there must be other things
you could do if you want to help her.'

'No,' said Biddy, shaking her head, 'there's nothing. And I don't think
I want very much; it's just sometimes. Alie helps mamma because she's
the eldest.'

Celestina scarcely knew how to answer this, though she felt there was
something wrong about her little companion's way of looking at things.
But Celestina had not much power of putting her thoughts and feelings
into words. Her solitary life had made her a very silent child, not
intentionally, but by habit. She found it difficult to express her
meaning even to herself. Just now she gazed at Biddy without speaking,
so that Biddy began to laugh.

'What are you looking at me so for?' asked the younger child.

'I don't know,' said Celestina. 'I was only thinking.'

'What?' asked Biddy again.

'You should help too, even though you're the youngest,' said Celestina
bluntly.

'Oh, bother,' was all Biddy's reply.

They were at the Rectory gate by this time.

'Good-bye, Miss Biddy,' said Celestina. 'I must run home fast. But
I don't think it's late.'

'Good-bye,' said Biddy. 'I've got my shells; have you got yours? Oh
yes,' as Celestina held up a tiny little basket she was carrying. 'How
dreadfully careful you are! Good-night. I'll ask mamma to let me come
and see you very soon.'

On her way up the short drive to the house Bridget came face to face
with Randolph.

'Oh, you're there, are you?' he said. 'Mamma was just asking if you'd
come in, so I came to look out for you.'

Biddy was silent. This did not seem very like mamma's 'not caring,' as
she had been saying to Celestina.

'It isn't late,' she remarked at last. 'Mamma said I might stay half an
hour.'

'She was beginning to worry about you a little, all the same,' said
Rough. 'Were you with the little Fairchild girl?'

'Yes,' said Biddy.

'Is she a nice little girl?' asked Rough.

'Yes,' said Biddy again.

'Then why don't you like her? Why are you so cross?' asked her brother.

'I'm not cross, and I never said I didn't like her,' replied Bridget
impatiently.

Rough began to whistle.

'I can't say I agree with you,' he said. 'Well, I'll run on and tell
mamma you're all right;' and off he set.

Biddy followed him slowly, feeling rather depressed.

'I didn't mean to be cross,' she said to herself in her usual way,
though she really did feel what she said this time. 'It was kind of
Roughie to come to meet me. They're all good 'acept me. Celestina's good
too. I'm made all the wrong way,' and she sighed deeply.

She brightened up again, however, when she met her mother at the door.

'That's right, Biddy dear,' said Mrs. Vane. 'You've not stayed too
late.'

Rough was there too; he had not told about her being cross evidently,
and Biddy felt grateful to him. It was very nice when mamma spoke like
that; it reminded her of the way her hand had been pressed that
afternoon. But a sudden thought rather chilled her satisfaction. Biddy
was beginning to be troubled with thoughts, and thoughts too that would
not be driven away and forgotten, as she had been accustomed to drive
away and forget anything that made her feel at all uncomfortable. This
thought teased and pricked her for a few seconds, and though she
wriggled herself about and stamped her feet down with hard thumps on the
gravel, it would not go.

'Biddy,' it said, 'Biddy, you know what you should do.'

So that at last, in sheer impatience of its teasing, she gave her
mother's sleeve a little tug.

'Mamma,' she said, 'it was _her_ that made me not stay longer than you'd
said. I wanted to. I wasn't very good, but she's good.'

Mrs. Vane turned with real pleasure in her face.

'I'm very glad you've told me, Biddy,' she said. 'Yes, it was nice and
good of Celestina to remind you. I think she must really be a very
conscientious child.'

'I don't know what that is,' said Bridget. 'At least, p'raps I do know,
but it's such a trouble to think. But Celestina _is_ good. I almost
think she's a little too good.'

Her tone was very melancholy. Rough burst out laughing, but Mrs. Vane
looked rather disappointed.

'It will be so vexing if Biddy takes a dislike to her just when I was
hoping it would be a good thing,' she thought to herself.

Still, the remembrance of the little talk with Mrs. Fairchild was in her
mind. She took no notice of Biddy's remark, only telling her cheerfully
to run in quickly and get ready for tea, as it was almost ready.

The children's mother went to Seacove again the next day, but this time
she did not take either of them with her. She went straight to Pier
Street, and as soon as Mrs. Fairchild saw her coming into the shop she
came forward with a smile and showed her into the parlour. There
Celestina was sitting quietly working at some new clothes for her little
dolls: she wanted them to be very smart indeed, in case the Rectory
young ladies came to see them. She rose from her seat at once when Mrs.
Vane came in, but a shadow of disappointment crossed her face when she
saw that the lady was alone.

'I have not brought Biddy this time,' said Mrs. Vane kindly. 'I have
come to see Mrs. Fairchild myself. But Biddy shall come some day soon.
I want you to show her your doll-house, for I should be glad for her to
get into the way of playing with one. She has always been a difficult
child to amuse,' she went on; 'she is so restless, and never seems to
get interested in her toys or games.'

Celestina opened her lips as if she were going to speak, but said
nothing.

'What is it, my dear?' said Mrs. Vane, seeing the look in the little
girl's eyes. Celestina grew pink.

'It was only,' she began. 'It's not so nice to play alone.'

'No, that is true,' said Biddy's mother, 'and true of other things as
well as play.' Then she turned to Mrs. Fairchild: 'Have you been able
to----' she was beginning, but with a little gesture of apology Mrs.
Fairchild glanced at her daughter.

'Go upstairs, Celestina, for a few minutes,' and in a moment Celestina
gathered together her small concerns and noiselessly left the room.

'How obedient she is,' said Mrs. Vane with a little sigh. 'I should have
had quite an argument with Biddy, or at least cross looks.'

'Children are very different,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'Still there is not
much you can do with them without obedience. And if they get the habit
of it quite young, it costs them so much less; they obey almost without
thinking about it.'

'And have you seen Miss Neale?' asked Mrs. Vane after a little pause.

'She came to see me yesterday, and I think it can be nicely arranged.
She is a very good girl: I feel sure you will be pleased with her. The
only difficulty would have been her promise about Celestina, which she
would not have liked to give up; but what you have so kindly proposed
puts this all right of course. It will be a great pleasure and interest
to Celestina to learn with a companion. I feel that I cannot thank you
enough.'

'On the contrary,' said Mrs. Vane, 'I have to thank you. I am in hopes
that your little daughter's companionship will be of great good to
Bridget.'

Mrs. Fairchild's gentle face grew a little red.

'I think I may at least assure you of this,' she said, 'little Miss
Bridget will learn no harm from Celestina.'

'I am sure of it,' said Mrs. Vane warmly. 'By the bye,' she added,
'Celestina is a very uncommon name. I have never heard it except in its
French form of "Célestine."'

'Celestina was named after a French lady,' said Mrs. Fairchild--'a lady
who was very kind to my sisters and me when we were young. She happened
to be living near the town where our home was for some years. Her
husband had an appointment there. They had only one child, a daughter
named Célestine like her mother, who died, and my mother helped to nurse
her in her last illness, which made Madame d'Ermont very fond of her.
Indeed, I think she was very fond of us all,' she added with a little
smile, 'and I think I was a special pet of hers. Through her kindness
I had many advantages in my education. But when she and Monsieur, as we
always called him, went back to France troublous times came on. We lost
sight of them altogether. Still, I have never forgotten the dear lady,
and I determined to give my little girl her name.'

Mrs. Vane listened with the greatest interest.

'"Madame d'Ermont," did you say?' she asked eagerly, and on Mrs.
Fairchild's answering 'Yes'--'It must be the same,' she went on; 'our
Madame d'Ermont's name was Célestine too. She was, or is, for I hope she
is still living, a great friend of ours too, Mrs. Fairchild. We spent
two winters in the south of France near her home, and we saw a great
deal of her. It is a pity for you not to have kept up writing to her;
she is very kind and very rich and childless--she might be a good friend
to her little name-daughter.'

Mrs. Fairchild's face flushed again: I rather think Biddy had inherited
something of her habit of hasty speech from her mother, kind-hearted and
good as Mrs. Vane was.

'It would not be from any motive of _that_ kind I should like to hear
from Madame d'Ermont again,' said Celestina's mother. 'It is true our
child has no one to look to but ourselves, and neither her father nor
I can boast of very strong health--but still----'

'Oh, I _beg_ your pardon,' interrupted Mrs. Vane impulsively; 'I quite
understand your feeling, and I did not mean to say anything you could
dislike. But still I will look out Madame d'Ermont's address, or get it
from my mother, and when I write to her I may tell her of you, may I
not?'

'I should be very grateful if you would do so,' Mrs. Fairchild replied.

Then they went on to speak of the details of the arrangement they had
been making, and soon after Mrs. Vane left.

That afternoon she called Bridget to her.

'Bride,' she said, 'I have something to say to you.'

'Yes, mamma,' Biddy replied, but without giving much attention. It was
probably, she thought, only to reprove her for her way of sitting at
table, or for having been cross to Jane, or for one of the hundred and
one little misdemeanours she was always being guilty of. And Biddy was
in a queerish mood just now: there was a good deal of battling and
pulling two ways going on in her baby heart. Was the lazy little _soul_
beginning to grow, I wonder?

'Yes, mamma,' she said indifferently, with her peevish 'I didn't mean,'
quite ready to trot out on the smallest provocation.

'You must give your attention, my dear,' said Mrs. Vane; 'it is
something rather particular I want to tell you about.'

'I _am_ giving my attention,' said Biddy, though it did not look very
like it.

'Well, then,' her mother went on, determined not to notice Bride's
evident wish to pick a quarrel, 'listen. You know that Miss Millet
cannot come back to us for a good long while. Alie's lessons do not
matter so much as yours, for she is very well on for her age and a
little rest will do her no harm; besides, she will have some lessons
with papa and some with me. But we have not time for you too.'

'And you couldn't manage me if you had,' said Biddy gloomily.

Mrs. Vane took no notice--'And besides, at your age it is most important
to be very regular. So I have engaged a daily governess for you, my dear
Biddy--that means a governess who will come every morning for three
hours, just to teach you. But she won't live in the house with us as
Miss Millet does.'

'Won't she take us walks?' demanded Biddy.

'Not every day, for some days she is engaged in the afternoons. But
twice a week she will come back in the afternoons and take you a walk
and stay to have tea with you. Her name is Miss Neale; she is very
nice, though she is younger and--less experienced than Miss Millet.
I hope you will be very good with her, Bride.'

Bride gave herself a little shake.

'No, mamma,' she said. 'I don't want to be naughty, but I can't help it.
I'm sure I shall be very naughty with her.'

Mrs. Vane kept her patience. She looked at Biddy quietly.

'Why, Biddy?' she asked. 'You are old enough to understand that I have
taken a good deal of trouble about this for you.'

'I needn't have lessons till Miss Millet comes back; I'd be quite good
without. I don't like having lessons quite alone without Alie or
nobody,' said Biddy.

'Would you like it better if you had some one to learn with you--some
one nearer your age than Alie, who would do the very same lessons?'
asked her mother.

Biddy's eyes sparkled.

'I should think I would,' she said, 'but there isn't nobody'--then she
gave a sort of gasp. 'Oh, if only--if Celestina could do lessons with
me,' she exclaimed. 'She knows lots, mamma, all about up at the top of
the world, where there isn't _really_ that stick I thought there was,
but lots of snow and always light--no, always dark, I forget which. I'll
ask her--the old lighthouse man told her. I'm sure she'd help me with my
jography, mamma, and she'd teach me to dress dolls and----' Biddy
stopped, quite out of breath.

Mrs. Vane smiled; she looked very pleased.

'I am very glad you have thought of it yourself, Biddy,' she said, 'for
it is the very thing I have planned. Celestina _is_ going to have
lessons with you. Her mother had already settled for Miss Neale to give
her lessons, as they don't care about Celestina going to school, so it
would not have been fair for Miss Neale to give her up to come to us.
And besides, both papa and I thought it would make our little girl
happier to have a companion--eh, Biddy?'

Mrs. Vane had hardly time to finish her sentence before she felt her
breath nearly taken away by a pair of fat little arms hugging her so
tightly that she could scarcely free her head.

'Mamma, mamma,' cried Biddy, 'I love you, I do really love you now. I
never thought I did so much. Oh, I am so glad. Thank you, dear mamma.'

Never in her life had Biddy been so affectionate; never, at least, had
she shown her affection so much. Mrs. Vane kissed her warmly.

'I am very pleased too, dear,' she said. 'I do think you will be a good
and happy little girl now.'

'I'll try to be good, mamma, I will really. But it would take me a
dreadfully long time to be as good as Celestina, I'm afraid.'



CHAPTER IX

A SECRET

          'If the sun could tell us half
             That he hears and sees,
           Sometimes he would make us laugh,
             Sometimes make us cry.'
                       CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.


'You must eat your breakfast properly, Celestina, my dear,' said Mrs.
Fairchild to her little daughter one morning in the following week. 'You
will be quite faint and tired before dinner-time if you don't, and that
would be a bad beginning.'

Celestina on this set to work once more on her bread and milk. She was
too excited to feel hungry; her pale cheeks had each a bright spot of
colour and her eyes were shining. It was the day on which she was to
begin her lessons at the Rectory. Miss Neale was to call for her on her
way there, and though she had three-quarters of an hour to wait till
Miss Neale came, the little girl was sure she would not be ready in
time.

'I never saw her so taken up with anything before,' said her mother; and
Mr. Fairchild, who was sometimes disposed to take rather a gloomy view
of things, said he hoped they should not regret having agreed to the
arrangement, and that it would not lead to disappointment, on which Mrs.
Fairchild set to work, as she always did, to cheer him up.

'It will give Celestina a little experience,' she said; 'and even if
there should be a little disappointment mixed up with it in any way, it
will do her no harm, and Celestina is a reasonable child.'

She was very quiet but very happy as she set off with Miss Neale. It was
a bright pleasant morning, 'quite spring-like,' said the young
governess, and a walk at that early hour was of itself a pleasure to
Celestina. She had not been inside the Rectory since the Vane family had
replaced old Dr. Bunton and his wife, and scarcely was the door open
when the little girl noticed a difference. The old, heavy, stuffy
furniture was gone, and though it was still plain, the house looked
lighter and brighter. The schoolroom was a nice little room looking
towards the sea; there was a good strong table with a black oil-cloth
cover and four hair-seated chairs, such as were much used at that time.
But there were two or three pretty pictures on the walls, and a cottage
piano, and in the bookcase were a few bright-coloured tempting volumes
as well as the graver-looking school-books. Everything was very neat,
and there was a bright fire burning, and in a pot on the window-sill a
geranium was growing and evidently flourishing. To Celestina it was a
perfect picture of a schoolroom, and she looked round with the greatest
interest as she took off her hat and jacket, according to Miss Neale's
directions, and hung them on a peg on the door.

'You must be very neat here, you know, my dear,' she said; to which
Celestina meekly replied, 'Oh yes,' quite agreeing with Miss Neale.

In a moment or two the door burst open and in came Biddy. A very
pleasant-looking Biddy, with a spotlessly clean apron, tidy hair, and
smiling face, and just behind her appeared her mother.

'Good-morning, Miss Neale,' said Mrs. Vane. 'Here is Bridget, whom, you
have not seen before. Good-morning, Celestina. I hope you will be two
very happy and good little girls, and that Miss Neale will have no
trouble with you.'

Then she went on to explain a little about the books Biddy used, saying
that Rosalys would look out any that might possibly be missing, and
after telling Miss Neale to keep up a good fire and one or two other
small directions of the kind, she left the schoolroom.

Everything went on most smoothly. Miss Neale could hardly believe that
Bridget was the child she had been warned that she would find 'tiresome
and trying and requiring great patience.' For, for once Biddy really did
her best. She was interested in finding out how much Celestina knew
'compared with me,' and anxious that neither her little friend nor her
new teacher should think her stupid or backward. And though Celestina's
habits of steady attention had made her memory better and her knowledge
more thorough than Biddy's, still Miss Neale could hardly feel that
either of her pupils was more satisfactory than the other; both were so
obedient and attentive and intelligent.

So the morning passed delightfully.

'And won't it be nice?' said Biddy, as she stood at the gate, whither
she had accompanied Miss Neale and Celestina on their way home; 'the day
after to-morrow Miss Neale will come back to take us a walk in the
afternoon, and you may come too, mamma says, and stay to tea if your
mamma will let you.'

How Celestina's eyes sparkled! To be invited to tea at the Rectory
seemed to her far more enchanting than if she had received an invitation
from the Queen of the Fairies to be present at one of her grandest
festivals. She was _so_ delighted that she forgot to speak, and Miss
Neale had to answer for her, and say that she would not forget to ask
Mrs. Fairchild's consent.

'And some day, Celestina,' Biddy went on, 'I want you to ask your mamma
to ask _me_ to tea, for I want to see your dolls.'

Celestina looked rather grave.

'I'll ask mother,' she said, but there was a little hesitation in her
manner. This did not come from any false shame--Celestina did not know
what false shame was--but from very serious doubts as to what her father
and mother would think of it. She had never had any friend to tea in her
life; father was always tired in the evening, and she was far from sure
that a chattering child like Biddy would not annoy him and make his head
ache. So poor Celestina was rather silent and grave on the way home;
Biddy's thoughtless proposal had taken the edge off her happiness.

On her way back to the house Bridget met Rosalys.

'Well,' said Alie, 'and how did you get on, Biddy? How do you like your
new governess?'

'_Ever_ so much better than Miss Millet,' Biddy replied. Her superhuman
exertions had somewhat tired her; she felt rather cross now, and half
inclined to quarrel. She knew that Alie was particularly fond of Miss
Millet, and she glanced at her curiously as she made her speech. But
Alie was a wise little woman.

'I'm so glad,' she said. 'So glad you like Miss Neale, I mean. Of course
I knew you'd like Celestina.'

'I don't like her so very much as all that,' said Biddy contradictorily.
'I like her well enough to do lessons with, but she's not very nice
about my going there to tea.'

'Going there to tea,' Alie repeated. 'What do you mean, Biddy?'

'Mean what I say. She's coming here to tea two times every week if it's
fine, so I think they might 'avite me sometimes, and when I said to her
just now I'd like to come, she looked quite funny and only said she'd
ask her mother. Not a bit as if she'd like it.'

Rosalys felt very vexed.

'Really, Biddy, you might know how to behave,' she said. 'People don't
offer themselves to other people like that.'

'They do,' Bride retorted. 'I've heard papa say he was going to "offer
himself to luncheon" to Aunt Mary's, and----'

'She's a relation,' Alie interrupted.

'Well, and once mamma offered herself to tea to old Lady Butler--I know
she did--just before we went away at Christmas.'

'That's quite different; she knows old Lady Butler so
well--and--and--mamma's grown up and knows what's right, and you're a
little girl, and you shouldn't do things like that without asking
leave,' said Rosalys decidedly.

'You're a cross unkind thing,' said Biddy; 'and if you speak like that
I'll not go on being good any more.'

Then she turned away from her sister and ran down a side-path of the
garden, leaving Rosalys looking after her in distress, and half inclined
to blame herself for having spoken sharply to Biddy. 'It will vex mamma
so if this new plan doesn't do,' she thought regretfully. 'But perhaps
Biddy will be good again when she comes in.'

The path down which the little girl had run led to a low wall from which
you overlooked the sea. The tide was in, and though at some little
distance from the Rectory, Biddy could clearly see the water shining in
the morning sunshine, which was yellower and richer in colour now, for
the season was getting on; the cold thin wintry look was giving place in
this sheltered spot to the warmer feeling of spring. The little waves
came lapping in softly; by listening intently and fancying a little,
Biddy could almost hear the delicate sound they made as they kissed the
shore.

'I wish it was warm enough to bathe,' thought Biddy. 'But if it was
_they'd_ be sure to say I mustn't, or that I was naughty or something,'
and in her anger at the imaginary cruelty of 'they,' she kicked the
little stones of the gravel at her feet as if it was their fault! But
the little stones were too meek to complain, and Biddy got tired of
kicking them, and seating herself astride on the wall, sat staring out
at the sea. Somehow it reminded her of her good resolutions, though it
was a quite different-looking sea from the evening tide, with the red
sun sinking below the horizon, like that first time on the shore.

What a pity it was that she had spoilt the fresh beginning of being so
nice and good at her new lessons by being cross to Alie! And in her
heart Biddy knew that her sister had not blamed her without reason--it
was her old fault of heedlessness; she _was_ quite old enough to
understand that she should not have asked Celestina to invite her, and
she knew too that Celestina had been right in answering as she did. But
all these 'knowings in her heart' did not make Biddy feel more amiable.

'It's no good trying,' she said to herself as she got slowly down off
the wall--Bridget was always deliberate in her movements--'I'll just not
bother. I'll do my lessons, 'cos I don't want them to say I'm stupid,
but I'm not going to try not to be cross and all that. I'm tired of
trying.'

Mrs. Vane noticed at luncheon that Biddy was quiet and silent and not
particularly amiable looking, but Alie whispered that it had nothing to
do with lessons, which had gone off well.

'Don't notice her, mamma; it was only that she was vexed with me for
something,' Alie added; so nothing was said to Biddy, and she was
allowed to nurse her grievances in silence.

She cheered up a little by tea-time, and told Randolph triumphantly that
she had done all her lessons for Miss Neale 'by myself, without asking
that nasty cross Alie or nobody to help me.' But she remained very surly
to her sister, though Alie tried to prevent her father and mother
noticing it.

Next day was rainy and blowy. Miss Neale and Celestina arrived smothered
up in waterproofs and goloshes, and there was quite a bustle to get them
unpacked from their wrappings and warmed at the schoolroom fire. Biddy
made herself very important, and forgot for the time about being vexed
with Rosalys.

Lessons went off well, thanks to Bridget's putting a good deal of
control on herself, though there _were_ moments that morning which made
the young governess say to herself that she could understand its being
_sometimes_ true that Biddy was tiresome and trying. When Celestina was
putting on her hat and jacket to go she gave Biddy a little touch on the
arm.

'I asked mother,' she whispered, 'about what you said, and mother says
perhaps some day you would come early in the afternoon, and we could
play with the dolls and have tea for ourselves out of mother's toy cups
that she had when she was a little girl. They are so pretty. It wouldn't
be quite a real tea, for we don't have real tea till past five, but I'm
sure mother would get us some little cakes, and we might make it a sort
of a feast.'

Biddy's eyes sparkled.

'Oh, that would be nice,' she exclaimed. 'Yes, please, tell your mother
I'd like to come very much. And just fancy, Celestina, that horrid Alie
said it was very rude of me to have asked you to ask me. I'm sure it
wasn't, now, was it?'

Celestina grew red and hesitated.

'I'm sure you didn't mean to be rude, Miss Biddy,' she said. 'Mother
said----' but here she stopped.

'What did she say?' demanded Biddy.

'I didn't mean to say that she said anything,' poor Celestina answered,
'only when you asked me----'

'_What_ did she say?' Biddy repeated, stamping her foot.

'She didn't say you were rude; she said you were only a child,'
Celestina answered quietly. Biddy's temper somehow calmed her. 'And
I think so too,' she added.

'Then, _I_ think you're very, very unkind, and I'll never come to your
house at all,' said Biddy.

And thus ended the second morning.

Bridget was a queer child. By the next day she seemed to have forgotten
all about it. She was just as usual with Rosalys, and met Celestina
quite graciously. But it was not that she was ashamed of her temper or
anxious to make amends for it. It was there still quite ready to break
out again. But she was lazy, and very often she seemed to give in when
it was really that keeping up any quarrel was too much trouble to her.
I think, however, that Celestina's perfect gentleness did make her a
little ashamed.

Lessons were on the whole satisfactory. Celestina worked so steadily
that she would soon have left Biddy behind had Biddy been as idle as had
often been the case under Miss Millet. And Mrs. Vane was pleased to
think that the plan had turned out so well.

One day, about a week after Miss Neale had begun to teach the children,
just as they were finishing lessons, Rosalys made her appearance in the
schoolroom. It was one of the days on which Miss Neale and Celestina
came back in the afternoon to take the girls a walk and to stay to tea
afterwards. Rosalys looked pleased and eager.

'Celestina,' she said, 'mamma has a little message for you. Please come
into the drawing-room before you go home this morning.'

Up started Biddy.

'What is it, Alie? Do tell me. Mayn't I come into the drawing-room with
Celestina?'

Alie shook her head, though smilingly.

'No,' she said; 'it's something quite private for Celestina.'

'I'll come,' said the little girl, but Bridget's face darkened.

'It's not fair,' she muttered, as Celestina, after carefully putting her
books away, left the room.

'Come now, my dear,' said Miss Neale, not very wisely, perhaps--she
scarcely knew Biddy as yet--'you shouldn't be jealous. It's a very
little thing for Celestina to have a message to do for your mamma. Some
other time there will be one for you to do, I have no doubt.'

Biddy wriggled impatiently.

'They've no business not to tell me,' she said, taking not the least
notice of Miss Neale's words. Then she banged down her books and ran out
of the room without saying good-morning to her governess.

Miss Neale did not see anything more of her till she and Celestina
returned that afternoon. It was a lovely day, and so as not to lose any
of the pleasant brightness of the afternoon, Mrs. Vane had made the
girls get ready early and go a little way down the sandy lane to meet
the two coming from Seacove. Bridget was gloomy, but Alie was
particularly cheerful, and after a while the younger sister's gloom gave
way before the sunshine and the fresh air and Alie's sweetness.

'There they are,' she exclaimed, as two figures came in sight; 'shall we
run, Biddy?' and almost without waiting for a reply off she set, Bridget
following more slowly.

When she got up to them Celestina and Alie were talking together
eagerly. They stopped short as Biddy ran up, but she heard Celestina's
last words, 'Mother says she'll be sure to get it by to-morrow or the
day after.'

'What are you talking about?' asked Bridget.

Celestina grew red but did not speak. Rosalys turned frankly to her
sister--

'It's a message of mamma's we can't tell you about,' she said, 'but
you'll know some time.'

Alas, the brightness of the afternoon was over, as far as Biddy was
concerned. She turned away scowling.

'Why should you know if I don't?' she said; 'and what business has
Celestina to know--she's as little as me nearly?'

[Illustration: A SECRET. P. 148.]

'Oh, Biddy,' said Alie reproachfully.

But that was all. She knew that argument or persuasion was lost on her
sister once she was started on her hobby-horse, ill-temper. She could
only hope that she would forget about it by degrees. And after a while
it almost seemed so. They went down to the shore, where it was so bright
and pleasant that it did not seem possible for the crossest person in
the world to resist the soft yet fresh breeze, the sunshine glancing on
the sands, the sparkling water in the distance. And Miss Neale was full
of such good ideas. She taught them a new play of trying to walk
blindfold, or at least with their eyes shut, in a straight line, which
_sounds_ very easy, does it not? but is, I assure you, very difficult;
then they had a capital game of puss-in-the-corner, though the corners
of course were only marks in the sand; and with all this it was time
to go home to tea almost before they knew where they were.

'How pretty it must be up in the lighthouse to-day,' said Celestina as
they were turning away.

This was the signal for Bridget's quarrelsomeness again.

'Miss Neale,' she said, shading her eyes from the sun, as she gazed out
towards the sea, 'Celestina does talk such nonsense. She says you can't
walk over the sands to the lighthouse. Now _can't_ you? I can _see_ sand
all the way.'

Miss Neale was anxious not to contradict Biddy just as she seemed to be
coming round again, and she was really not quite sure on the point.

'I can't say, my dear,' she replied. 'It does look as if you could--but
still----'

'There now,' said Biddy to Celestina contemptuously, 'Miss Neale's
bigger than you, and she thinks you _can_; don't you, Miss Neale?'

'Yes, yes, my dear,' Miss Neale, who was on some little way in front
with Alie, replied hastily; 'but come on--what does it matter?'

But Biddy's tone had roused Celestina, gentle as she was.

'I know you _can't_,' she said, 'and whether a big or a little person
says you can, I just _know_ you can't,' and she turned from Biddy and
walked on fast to join the others. Seeing her coming, Rosalys called to
her.

'Celestina, I want to ask you something,' and in a moment the two were
talking together busily.

'It's only the secret, Biddy,' said Alie laughingly; she did not know of
Biddy's new ill-humour. 'You mustn't mind.'

Down came the black curtain thicker and thicker over Bridget's rosy
face; firmly she settled herself on her unmanageable steed.

'I don't care,' she said to herself as she trudged along in silence
beside Miss Neale; 'they're horrid to me--_horrid_. And I'll be as
horrid as I can be to them. But I'll let that nasty Celestina see I'm
right and she's wrong. I _will_.'



CHAPTER X

BIDDY'S ESCAPADE

          'And Dick, though pale as any ghost,
            Had only said to me,
          "We're all right now, old lad."'
                  _Author of 'John Halifax.'_


Miss Neale was rather in a hurry to get home that afternoon, so she and
Celestina did not linger at the tea-table as they sometimes did. By
half-past four they had gone, for on Miss Neale's account tea had been
ordered half an hour earlier than usual.

Rosalys disappeared--mamma wanted her, she said. So Bridget was left
alone, for Rough had begun school some time ago. He rode over every
morning, and got home again about six.

'I wonder if papa is in,' thought Biddy idly, for a moment or two half
inclined to see if she might pay him a visit in the study. But then she
remembered that he had been out all day, and that he was not expected
home till dinner-time. There were not many very poor people at Seacove,
but there were a great many young men and boys always about the wharf,
and some fishermen and their families living half-way between the little
town and a fishing village called Portscale, some way along the coast.
At Portscale there was a beautiful old church, and a vicar younger and
much more active than Dr. Bunton. Mr. Vane and he had made friends at
once, and to-day they had arranged to visit some of these outlying
neighbours together, for even though Mr. Vane was not at all strong and
had come to Seacove for a rest, he was far too good and energetic not to
do all he possibly could.

Biddy felt very cross when she remembered that her father was out. She
strolled to the window; it was still bright and sunny--a sudden thought
struck her. She hurried upstairs to the room where her hat and jacket
were lying as she had just taken them off--her boots were still on her
feet, and in less time than it takes me to tell, for Biddy _could_ be
quick if she chose, a sturdy little figure might have been seen trotting
down the sandy path which led to the shore.

'If they leave me alone I'm forced to amuse myself and do things
alone,' she said to herself, as a sort of excuse to her own conscience,
which _was_ trying, poor thing, to make itself heard, reminding her too
that there were plenty of things she could have done comfortably at home
in the nursery, where Jane Dodson was not bad company when allowed to
talk in her own slow way. There were to-morrow's lessons in the first
place--pleasant, easy lessons to do alone, and not too much of them; and
there was the kettle-holder she was making for grandmamma's birthday!
But no, Biddy refused to listen. She was determined to carry out the
wild scheme she had got in her head--'It _will_ be nice to put Celestina
down,' she said to herself.

A very few minutes' quick walking, or running rather, for Biddy could
run too when she chose, brought her to the end, or the beginning,
whichever you like to call it, of the long rough road, so to speak, of
stones, stretching far out to sea. Biddy had gone some way along it two
or three times when out with the others; it was a very interesting place
to walk along, as the outgoing tide left dear little pools, which held
all sorts of treasures in the way of seaweed and tiny crabs and
jellyfish, besides which, the scrambling over the pools and picking
one's way was very exciting, especially when there was a merry party of
three or four together. Biddy found it amusing enough even by herself,
for some little time, that is to say. But after a while she got rather
tired of not being able to walk straight on, and once or twice sharp
stones cut and bruised her feet, and she wished she had some one's hand
to take to steady her. She was very eager to get to the other end of the
tongue, or ridge of stones, for once there she felt sure it would be but
easy walking over sand to the lighthouse. For the lighthouse as you will
have guessed, was her destination!

'I daresay the sand'll be rather wet,' she thought; 'it must be the
wetness that Celestina thought was water, for it shines just like water
sometimes. I'll run over it very quick and my boots are thick. What fun
it'll be to tell Celestina I've been to the lighthouse all by myself!'

But the stones grew rougher and rougher. The tongue was not really more
than half a mile long, but it seemed much more. Several times before she
got to the end of it Biddy looked back with a half acknowledged thought
that perhaps it would be best to give up the expedition after all--no
one need know she had tried it. But behind her by this time the rough
stones seemed a dreary way, and in front it did not now look far. She
felt as if she _could_ not go back, and she had a sort of vague hope
that somehow or other the nice old man Celestina had told her of would
help her to get home an easier way. Perhaps he would take her round in a
boat!

At last she got to the end of the stones, and then, oh joy! there lay
before her a beautiful smooth stretch of ripple-marked sand--how
delightful it was to run along it, so firm and pleasant it felt to her
tired little feet. The lighthouse seemed still a good way off--farther
than she had expected, but at first, in the relief of having got off the
stones, she almost felt as if she could fly. She did get over the ground
pretty quickly for some minutes, and even when she began to go more
slowly she kept up a pretty good pace. And at last she saw the queer
building--it reminded her a little of an old pigeon-house at
grandmamma's, for it was not a very high lighthouse--almost close to
her. But, Celestina had spoken truly, between it and her there lay a
good-sized piece of water, stretching up to the rocks, or great rough
stones round the base of the lighthouse--a sort of lake which evidently
was always there, filled up afresh by each visit of the tide.

Bridget gasped. But she was determined enough once she had made up her
mind. She went close up to the water; it did not look at all deep and
her skirts were very short. Down she sat on the sand, less dry than it
looked, and pulled off her shoes and stockings, tying them up into a
bundle as she had seen tramps do in the country. Then lifting her frock
as high as she could, in she plunged. _Oh_, how cold it was! But the
water did not come up very high, not over her knees, though now and then
a false step wetted her pretty badly. She was shivering all over, but on
she waded, till within a few yards only of the sort of little shore
surrounding the lighthouse, when--what was the matter with the sand,
what made it seem to go away from her all at once? She plunged about,
but on all sides it seemed to be sloping downwards; higher and higher
rose the water, till it was above her waist, and still every movement
made it rise.

'I'm drowning,' screamed Biddy. 'Oh, help me, help me! Man in the
lighthouse, can't you hear me? Oh, oh, oh!'

Biddy fortunately had good lungs and her screams carried well. But the
water kept rising, or rather she kept slipping farther down. She was
losing her head now, and had not the sense to stand still, and she was
partly stupefied by cold. It would have gone badly with her but
for--what I must now tell you about.

It was what would be called, I suppose, a curious coincidence, the sort
of chance, so to say--though 'chance' is a word without real
meaning--that many people think only happens in story-books, in which
I do not at all agree, for I have known in real life far stranger
coincidences than I ever read of--well, it was by a very fortunate
coincidence that that very afternoon Bridget's father happened to be at
the lighthouse. He had gone out there by a sudden thought of Mr.
Mildmay's, the Portscale clergyman I told you of, who had mentioned in
talking that he had not been there for some time.

'And it is a very fine mild day,' he said. 'It doesn't take twenty
minutes in a boat. If you don't think it would hurt you, Mr. Vane?'

Mr. Vane was delighted. There was a good deal of the boy about him
still; he loved anything in the shape of a bit of fun, and he loved
boating. So off the two came, and were most pleasantly welcomed by old
Tobias and his second-in-command at the lighthouse. And by another happy
chance, just as Biddy began to wade, Mr. Vane had come to the side of
the lantern-room looking over in her direction.

'What can that be, moving slowly through that bit of water?' he said to
Tobias. 'I am rather near-sighted. Is it a porpoise?'

'Nay, nay, sir, not at this season,' replied the old man; 'besides it's
far too shallow for anything like that, though there is a deepish hole
near the middle.'

He strolled across to where Mr. Vane was standing as he spoke, and
stared out where his visitor pointed to. Then suddenly he flung open one
of the glazed doors and stepped on to the round balcony--perhaps that is
not the right word to use for a lighthouse, but I do not know any
other--outside, followed by Mr. Vane. Just then Biddy's screams came
shrilly through the clear afternoon air, for it was a still day, and out
at the lighthouse, when there was no noise of wind and waves, there was
certainly nothing else to disturb the silence except perhaps the cry of
a sea-gull overhead, or now and then the sound of the fishermen's voices
as they passed by in their boats. And just now the waves were a long way
out and the winds were off I know not where--all the better for the poor
silly child, who, having got herself into this trouble, could do nothing
but scream shrilly and yet more shrilly in her terror.

Old Tobias turned and looked at Mr. Vane.

'It's a child, 'pon my soul, it's a child,' he exclaimed, and he sprang
inside again and made for the ladder leading downstairs. But quick as he
was, his visitor was before him. People talk of the miraculous quickness
of a mother's ears; a father's, I think, are sometimes quite as acute,
and Bridget's father loved dearly his self-willed, tiresome,
queer-tempered little girl. Long before he got to the top of the ladder
he knew more than old Tobias, more than any of them--Mr. Mildmay or
young Williams, the other lighthouse man--had any idea of. He knew that
the voice which had reached him was that of his own Biddy, and before
Tobias could give him a hint, or ever a word had been said as to what
was best to do, he had pulled off his coat, tossed away his hat, and was
up to his waist in the water. For though not _so_ deep close round the
lighthouse as at the dangerous place where Biddy had lost her head, this
salt-water lake even at low tide was never less than two or three feet
in depth at the farther side.

'I can swim,' was all Mr. Vane called out to the three hurrying after
him. But so could Mr. Mildmay, and so could, of course, Tobias and
Williams. And it was not so much the fear of his friend's drowning as
the thought of the mischief that might come to him, delicate as he was,
from the chill and exposure, that made Mr. Mildmay shout after him,
'Come back, I entreat you, Vane; you are not fit for it,' while he
struggled to drag off a very heavy pair of boots he had on--boots he had
on purpose for rough shingly walking, but which he knew would weight him
terribly in the water.

A touch on his arm made him start. It was Tobias.

'Stop you here, sir,' he said; 'Bill's off, and he's the youngest and
spryest,' and sure enough there was Williams already within a few yards
of Mr. Vane. 'I don't take it there's much danger of no drownding--and
Bill knows the deep part. But it's cold for the gentleman, so delicate
as he is--we two had best stay dry and be ready to give 'em a hand when
they get in. But it beats me, it do, to think what child could be such a
fool as to try to cross that there water--such a thing's ne'er happened
before.'

Mr. Mildmay did not like to give in, though he knew there was sense in
what Tobias said. He stood hesitating, one boot half off, but there was
not long to wait. Soon came a cheery cry from Williams, 'All right, sir,
all right,' and in almost less time than it takes to tell it, the two
men, half-swimming, half-wading, were seen returning, carrying between
them a little dripping figure, with streaming hair, white face, and
closed eyes.

[Illustration: '----carrying between them a little dripping figure, with
streaming hair, white face, and closed eyes.' P. 161.]

It was thus that Biddy paid her long thought-of visit to the lighthouse.

She was not drowned, nor anything approaching to it; she had only once,
or twice perhaps, been thoroughly under the water; the whole had in
reality passed very quickly, but not so had it seemed to Biddy. Unless
you have ever been, or thought yourself in danger of drowning, you could
not understand how in such a case seconds seem minutes, and minutes
hours; and the ducking and the cold and the terror all combined had made
things seem worse than they really were. Bridget was almost quite
unconscious by the time her father had got hold of her--perfectly
stupefied any way; her clothes were heavy too, and she was at no time a
light weight. Altogether it was a very good thing indeed that strong
hardy Bill was close behind Mr. Vane, whose powers would not have held
out very long. As it was, he was whiter even than Biddy, his teeth
chattering with cold and nervous excitement, when at last the whole
party found themselves safe in the living-room or kitchen of the
lighthouse.

Old Tobias had hot blankets down before the fire and a steaming tumbler
of brandy and water ready in no time. Biddy, deposited in front of the
grate, sat up and looked about her in a dazed sort of way. She felt as
if she were dreaming.

'Biddy,' said her father, 'you must take off the wettest of your things
at once.'

Biddy began to finger her garments.

'My frock's the worst,' she said; 'and oh, where's my hat gone?'

'Never mind your hat, child,' said Tobias. 'Here, step this way,' and he
led her to a sort of partition in the corner of the room, behind which
was his own bed; 'take off your things, my dear, and get into bed with
this blanket round you whiles I sees to the gentleman. You'll be none
the worse of your drenching: salt water's a deal better for not catching
cold. It's the gentleman we must see to. It's the new rector, and a
delicate gentleman he is.'

Biddy stared up at him.

'It's my papa,' she said.

It was the old man's turn to stare now.

'Your papa!' he exclaimed. He had never dreamt but that Biddy was a
Seacove child, tempted out too far by the fine afternoon--a fisherman's
or boatman's daughter. But however curious he was to hear more, he had
too much sense to cross-question her just then.

'Get into bed, missie, and get to sleep for a bit, while your things
dry.'

Biddy had had her share of weak brandy and water; she had never tasted
it before, and it soon sent her to sleep.

Tobias went back to Mr. Vane.

'She's all right, sir. I'd no notion as she was your young lady. Was she
awaitin' for you on the sands, or how?'

Mr. Vane shook his head.

'I know no more about it than you,' he said. But he still looked so
white and faint that the lighthouse man and the others gave all their
attention to getting him warmed and dried, and at last they got him to
look a little better, though he declared he could not go to sleep.

'You can stay quiet any way,' said Mr. Mildmay. But Mr. Vane looked up
anxiously.

'My wife,' he said. 'She will be getting frightened, not about me
merely, but the child.'

'I will take the boat back at once and tell her,' said Mr. Mildmay; 'if
Williams can come with me, it won't take long. I'll run up to the
Rectory, and then we'll bring another man out to help to row us all back
again. I'll bring some wraps too. You think you'll be fit to go home in
an hour or so?'

'Certainly,' said Mr. Vane decidedly. 'I could not stay here.'

Mr. Mildmay reached the Rectory to find poor Mrs. Vane in a sad state of
fright. Biddy's absence had not been discovered for some time, as
Rosalys was busy with her mother, and Rough had not come in from school,
and everybody, if they thought about her at all, naturally thought she
was with some one else. For a girl of seven or eight should surely be
sensible enough to be left to herself for an hour in her own nursery or
schoolroom! But once the hue and cry after her began, it really did seem
as if there were cause for alarm. Every one had some new idea to
suggest, ending by Rough, who, as he came riding in on his pony and
heard the news, declared she must be hiding out of mischief.

But no--a very short search dispelled that possibility, and the pony had
to be saddled again for Rough to set off as fast as he could to Seacove
to inquire if the truant had perhaps followed Celestina home.

'And your father not in yet either,' said Mrs. Vane. 'Oh, Alie, what
_can_ be the matter? Can something have happened to him that Biddy has
heard of, and that has made her run off to him--poor Biddy, she is very
fond of papa. But if she has run away out of mischief, Alie--oh, _could_
she be such a naughty, naughty girl?'

Mrs. Vane was dreadfully excited. Alie had hard work to keep back her
own tears.

'Just as we were _so_ happy about the doll-house for her too,' Mrs. Vane
went on.

Rosalys gave a little sob.

'I _think_ perhaps she's at Celestina's,' she said. But in less time
than could have been expected back dashed Rough. No, Biddy was not, had
not been at Pier Street, but Celestina and her mother were following him
as fast as they could to the Rectory--Celestina had an idea--she would
explain it all--but she begged Mrs. Vane to send down to the shore; the
sea was out, and it was still light enough to see any one there a good
way off.

A party was at once despatched to the sands, in vain, as we know, for
by this time Mr. Mildmay had landed from his boat and was hurrying along
to calm Mrs. Vane's anxiety. He arrived there a quarter of an hour or so
after Mrs. Fairchild and her daughter, so Celestina had had time to
explain the idea which had struck her--we know what it was, and that it
was the true one--and to relate to Mrs. Vane all her reasons for
imagining it possible that self-willed, obstinate Biddy had set out on
her own account to walk to the lighthouse.

So when Mr. Mildmay appeared and told his strange story, his hearers
were able to explain what to him and Mr. Vane had seemed a complete
mystery.

'How _could_ she be so naughty?' Mrs. Vane exclaimed. But Alie touched
her gently.

'Only, dear mamma,' she whispered, 'think; she might have been drowned.'

'And so might your father, and as it is, I tremble to think what the
consequences may be for him. I do feel as if I could not forgive
Bridget,' said Mrs. Vane excitedly.

Mrs. Fairchild was very, very sorry for her, but she was a brave woman.
She managed to draw Mrs. Vane aside.

'Dear madam,' she said, 'I do feel for you. But we must be just.
Remember the child had no idea of what would be the result of her folly.
It was really but a piece of childish folly or naughtiness. And it may
be a lesson for all her life; it may be the turning-point for
her--if--if only you would--if you can meet her--gently--if nothing is
said to harden her.'

'I will try. I promise you I will try,' said Mrs. Vane very softly. 'But
oh, Mrs. Fairchild, if it has made my husband ill!' and her voice broke.

'We must hope not--hope and pray,' said Celestina's mother in a low
voice.

'And there was something so interesting I wanted to tell you; I had a
letter to-day from Madame d'Ermont--such a nice letter. And now all this
has spoilt everything,' went on poor Mrs. Vane.

'Never mind. You will tell me about it another time,' said Mrs.
Fairchild soothingly. 'Would it--excuse my suggesting it--would I be in
the way if I stayed till they come? I have some experience as to chills
and accidents of all sorts--and I would like to see how they are.'

'Oh, thank you,' said Mrs. Vane fervently. 'I should be most grateful.
I have no one now with any head about me since my last maid left.'

And Mrs. Fairchild stayed--not that evening only, but all night, sending
Celestina home to explain matters to her father.



CHAPTER XI

AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

          '"Love will make the lesson light.
            ... Teach me how to learn it right,"
              Through her tears smiled Daisy.'--ANON.


For Mrs. Vane's troubles came thickly just then. Before night it was
evident that both Biddy and her father were not to escape all bad
results from the chill and wetting; and the Seacove doctor, who was sent
for at once, looked grave, shook his head as he murmured that it was no
doubt most unfortunate. He would say nothing decided beyond giving some
simple directions till he should see how the patients were the next day.
Biddy, after a violent fit of crying, which came on when she found her
father could not come 'to say good-night,' and begging, among her sobs,
to be forgiven, fell asleep, and slept heavily, to wake again in an hour
or two, feverish, restless, and slightly delirious. This, however, was
on the whole less alarming, for very little will make a child
light-headed, than Mr. Vane's condition. There was no sleep for him,
poor man; he was racked with pain and terribly awake--nervously anxious
to know the ins and outs of Biddy's escapade, and to soften it as much
as possible in her mother's eyes. Mrs. Vane kept her promise of being
very gentle with Biddy, and indeed, when in her room, and seeing the
poor little thing so ill, it was not difficult to be so. But once away
from her, and in sight of her husband's sufferings, the irritation
against Biddy grew almost too great to keep down. And Mrs. Vane was not
very good at keeping down or keeping in her feelings, and each time she
burst out it seemed to make Mr. Vane worse. There was no going to bed
for either her or Mrs. Fairchild that night; indeed, what she would have
done without Celestina's wise and gentle mother I do not know. It was
she who sensibly made the best of it all, soothing Mrs. Vane, who really
needed it almost as much as Biddy and her father; and the only snatches
of sleep Mr. Vane got were when her soft and pleasant voice had been
reading aloud to him.

'I don't know how to thank you,' said Biddy's mother tearfully the next
morning early, when she at last persuaded Mrs. Fairchild to lie down a
little. 'Can't you stay all day to rest?'

But Mrs. Fairchild shook her head, smiling.

'I must go home,' she said. 'At the latest I must go home by ten
o'clock. It will be all right till then. I can trust Celestina to see to
her father's breakfast and everything, and there's not much doing in the
shop before then. Celestina will have let Miss Neale know not to come.'

'How well you have brought your little girl up--how thoughtful and
womanly she is; and to think that she is only a year or two older than
Bridget!' said Mrs. Vane sadly.

'It has not been exactly my doing,' Celestina's mother replied. 'I often
think the very things I would have wished different for her have been
the best training. She has _had_ to be helpful and thoughtful; she has
had her own duties and share of responsibility almost all her life.'

'Biddy never feels responsible for anything--not even for learning her
lessons or being ready for meals,' said her mother.

'Well, that is just what wants awaking in her. This lesson may show her
that even a child is responsible, that a child may cause sad trouble.
One would rather she had learnt it the other way, but it may be what she
needed.'

Mrs. Vane sighed. She wanted to be patient, but she could hardly bring
herself to feel that a lesson which was to cost Biddy's father such
suffering, nay, even to risk his life perhaps, would not be too dearly
bought.

The doctor came, but he was not much more outspoken than the night
before. Biddy was to be kept very quiet, the more she could sleep the
better; as for Mr. Vane, he _hoped_ it would not be rheumatic fever, but
it was plain he feared it. And he advised Mrs. Vane to get a trained
nurse.

A trying time followed. For some days it seemed almost certain that Mr.
Vane was in for rheumatic fever; in the end he just managed to escape
it, but he was sadly weakened, and the cough, which had disappeared
since his coming to Seacove, began again. It would be weeks before he
could leave his room.

And Biddy, too, did not get well as had been expected. She lay there
white and silent as if she did not want to get better, only seeming
thoroughly to wake up when she asked, as she did at least every two
hours, how papa was, and sinking back again when the usual answer came
of 'No better,' or 'Very little better.' Her mother was very kind to
her, but she could not be much with Biddy, and perhaps it was as well,
for it would have been almost impossible for her to hide for long her
great unhappiness about Mr. Vane.

Mrs. Fairchild came to the Rectory as often as she could; sometimes she
sat with Biddy for an hour or more at a time, but Biddy scarcely spoke,
and Celestina's mother was both sorry for her and anxious about her.

'There seems no one able to pay much attention to her,' she said one
evening at home; 'poor Mrs. Vane is so taken up, and no wonder, with her
husband, and Rosalys is as busy as she can be, helping and seeing to
everything.'

There came a little voice from the other side of the table: the
Fairchilds were at tea.

'Mother, do you think I might go to see her?' it asked. 'I'd be very
quiet.'

'I'll ask,' Mrs. Fairchild answered. 'You might come with me to-morrow
and wait outside while I find out if it would do.'

Mrs. Vane had no objection--Biddy was really not ill now, she said. It
was just one of her queer ways to lie still and refuse to get up.
Perhaps Celestina would make her ashamed of herself. So Celestina was
brought upstairs, and tapped gently at the door.

'Come in,' said Bridget, though without looking up. But when the neat
little figure came forward, close to the bedside, and she glanced round
and saw who it was, a smile came over her face--the first for a long
time.

'Celestina!' she exclaimed joyfully. But then the smile died away again,
and a red flush covered her cheeks and forehead. 'No,' she said, turning
on the other side, 'I don't want to see you. Go away.'

Celestina felt very distressed. But she wanted to do Biddy good, so she
put back her own feelings.

'Please don't say that,' she said. 'I'll stay as quiet as anything, but
please don't send me away. I've been so wanting to see you.'

There was a slight turning towards her on this, and at last Biddy lifted
her head from the pillow a little.

'Did you truly want to see me?' she said.

'Of course I did. I've been very sorry about you being ill,' Celestina
replied.

Biddy did not speak. Then Celestina heard a faint sound, and going up a
little closer still, she saw that Biddy was crying.

'Dear Miss Biddy,' she whispered. Then a pair of hot little arms, not so
fat as they had been, were stretched out and thrown round her neck.

'Will you kiss me, Celestina?' whispered Bridget. 'Do you really love
me? If you do, you're the only one. I'm too naughty--I've been too
naughty. I've as good as killed papa--I know he's going to die. I heard
them saying the first night I'd as good as killed him, though I pretended
not to hear. And I've been trying to die myself; I thought p'raps if I
prayed a great, great lot to be forgiven, God would forgive me before I
died. But I want to die, because I'm so naughty I'm only a trouble. And
I _couldn't_ live without papa, knowing I'd as good as killed him. Oh,
Celestina,' and here the voice grew so low that Celestina could scarcely
hear it, 'are you quite sure that papa hasn't died already and they
won't tell me?' and Celestina felt her shiver.

'I heard him speaking as I came upstairs,' said Celestina, so quietly
that Biddy believed her perfectly; 'the door of his room was open.
I think he must be a little better to-day.'

'Oh,' said Biddy with a gasp, 'I do wonder if he is.'

'And----' Celestina began, then stopped again, 'I don't think you should
talk about trying to die like that,' she said. 'I--I think it would be
rather a lazy way of being sorry for what we'd done wrong just to try to
die.'

'I suppose it's because I'm lazy then. They all say I'm very lazy,'
Biddy replied. 'But I can't help it. I'm not going to try and be good
any more. I fixed that before--before that day. It's no use.'

Celestina considered a little.

'I should think,' she said at last--'I should think you would want to
get better to help to take care of your papa and make him better.'

Biddy started at this. It was a new idea.

'Do you think they'd let me?' she said in a half whisper. 'I thought I
was too little. Did you ever help to take care of your papa when he was
ill? But p'raps he's never been ill?'

'Oh yes, he has,' said Celestina, with a sigh. 'I think he's iller than
your papa very often. I do lots of things for him then: I make his tea
always, and tidy his room. And sometimes when he's getting better and
comes downstairs to the parlour I read aloud to him. For when he's ill,
mother has all the more to be in the shop, you know.'

Bridget listened intently. At last--

'Celestina,' she said, 'I do wish I could see papa. It would make me
_quite_ sure he's alive, you know, for it all seems so muddled in my
head since the day I was so naughty. And if he'd forgive me, and if he'd
get better, I think, _perhaps_, I'd ask God to make me better too, so
that I might make papa's tea and read aloud to him like you do.'

'Perhaps it wouldn't be exactly that,' said Celestina, a little afraid
of the responsibility of putting anything into Bridget's head, 'but I'm
sure you could do _something_. And why shouldn't you see him? Miss Alie
was in his room just now.'

Bridget would have hung her head if she had not been lying down. As it
was, she looked ashamed.

'He mustn't get up at all, you know,' she said. 'And one day when they
offered me to go to see him, I wouldn't.'

'You wouldn't?' exclaimed Celestina.

'No,' said Biddy; 'I didn't want to see him looking like he did that
day.'

'But you'd like to see him now, wouldn't you?'

'Yes,' said Biddy. 'If you were to get me my dressing-gown, Celestina,
don't you think I might just run down the passage and the little stair
and go to see him? He lies on the sofa in his room, Alie said one day.'

Celestina looked frightened.

'Don't you think you should ask your mamma first?' she said. 'Besides,
I thought you were too ill to walk.'

'Oh no,' said Bridget; 'I think I could walk if I tried. But you may go
and ask mamma if you like; I'm sure she'll say I may.'

Off flew Celestina. She too felt pretty sure that Mrs. Vane would be
pleased to hear of Biddy's wish. But when she got to the room where she
had left her mother with Mrs. Vane, they were not there, and Alie, who
came in a moment afterwards, said they were walking up and down the
garden; if Celestina would go out she would be sure to meet them. 'And
mamma will be very pleased to hear that Biddy wants to go to see papa.
He has asked for her several times, but he said she wasn't to be forced,
not till she felt inclined. Papa _is_ so good and patient, and he is
really a little bit better to-day,' said Rosalys brightly.

Upstairs Bridget was eagerly waiting for Celestina's return. She had got
out of bed and reached down her dressing-gown for herself, feeling
rather surprised at finding how well she could walk; she had found her
slippers too, and stood there leaning against the bed, quite ready for
her little expedition.

After a while she crept to the door and peeped out. Sounds, cheerful
sounds of the usual morning stir in a well-managed house came up the
stairs; she heard faint clatter from the kitchen, and now and then a
little laugh or a few words of the servants talking together. But no one
was about upstairs.

'Papa must be a little better,' thought Bridget, 'else they wouldn't
seem like that. I do wish Celestina would come back. I wonder if she's
forgotten?'

She edged herself a tiny bit into the passage. It did not seem far, only
along by the balusters and down the little stair to papa's room; and
just then came a sound which seemed to go straight to Biddy's heart. It
was papa's cough--not a very bad one, just his usual little cough. It
seemed to waken her up--till now she had felt almost as if in a sort of
dream; it was so queer to feel and hear all the house-life going on the
same as ever when she had been out of it so long, for ten or twelve days
is a long time to a child--but the sound of papa's cough seemed to make
everything real, to join the past and the present together again, still
more, to touch a spring in Biddy which I think she had scarcely known
was there. And without stopping to think any more, off she set, along
the passage and down the stair, till she found herself, breathless and
rather giddy, but full of eagerness, at her father's door.

It was open, as Celestina had said, and half shy now, Biddy peeped in.
He was lying on a couch between the fire and the window; it was a bright
spring-like morning--he had a book in his hand, but he did not seem to
be reading; he was quite still, his eyes were gazing out to the clear
blue sky, and the look in his face was very sweet. Then again came the
little cough. That was the signal. In rushed Biddy.

'Papa, dear papa,' she cried, as she half threw herself, half tumbled
upon him, for she felt giddy again with moving so fast. 'Dear papa, are
you getting better? Please don't die, dear papa, and I _will_ try to be
good. And oh, please forgive me, and don't say I as good as killed you.'

'My poor little Biddy,' said Mr. Vane, raising himself so as to see her,
and drawing her tenderly on to the couch beside him,--'my poor little
Biddy. So you've come to see me at last! And are you getting better,
dear?'

'Yes, yes, papa, but please tell me you're not going to die because of
me,' and Biddy began to cry, but gently, not in her old way.

Mr. Vane tried to speak, but his cough was troublesome.

'I think I'm a little better, dear,' he said, 'and, please God, I hope
to be better yet. And it will be a great help to me if I see you quite
well again, and trying to be of use to mamma, Biddy, and to Alie. You
can help to nurse me, you know.'

Biddy looked up. The very things Celestina had said!

'Papa!' she said, 'might I really? Would mamma let me? Will everybody
forgive me?'

Was it Biddy speaking? Even her father could scarcely believe it.

Just at that moment Mrs. Vane came hurriedly into the room: she had been
to Biddy's, on receiving Celestina's message, and finding the bird
flown, had naturally taken alarm.

'_Biddy!_' she exclaimed, as she caught sight of the child beside her
father, his arm round her, her eager flushed face looking up at him--and
her tone was rather anxious and annoyed. But Mr. Vane glanced at his
wife with a little sign which she understood. She came quickly towards
them.

'Biddy,' whispered her father, 'here is mamma.'

Bridget's face worked for a moment, then she flung her arms round her
mother's neck.

'Mamma, mamma,' she whispered, 'I'm going to try to be good--if only
you'll forgive me. I don't want to die if I can be good and help to
nurse papa. Mamma, there was something _very_ sorry came into my heart
when papa got me out of the water and I saw how white he was. But I
wouldn't listen to it, and it got hard and horrid. But now it's come
again--Celestina began it, and I _will_ be good--and _don't_ you think
God will make papa better?'

I don't think Mrs. Vane had ever kissed Biddy as she kissed her then.

       *       *       *       *       *

Doctors say that _wishing_ to get better has a good deal to do with it.
It did seem so in Mr. Vane's case; he was not afraid to die, but he was
still young, and it seemed to him that if he were spared to live there
were many good and useful things he could do. And he was a happy and
cheerful man; he loved being alive, and he loved this beautiful world,
and longed to make other people as happy as he was himself. Most of all
he loved his wife and children, and his great wish to get well was for
their sake more than for any other reason. And never during the several
illnesses he had had did he wish _quite_ so much to get well as now. For
he had a feeling that if he did not recover a sad shadow would be cast
over Biddy's life--a shadow that would not grow lighter but darker, he
feared, as she came more fully to understand that her folly or childish
naughtiness had been the cause of his illness and death.

'It would leave a sore memory in her mother's heart too,' Mr. Vane said
to himself, 'however much she tried not to let it come between her and
the child.'

And I fear it would have done so.

So Biddy's father did his best to get well. Not by fidgeting and
worrying and thinking of nothing but his own symptoms, but by cheerful
patience. He obeyed the doctor's orders exactly, and forced himself to
believe that the work he would fain have been doing would get done, by
God's help, even though _he_ might not do it; he kept up his interest in
all going on about him, watching with the keenest interest the pretty,
shy approaches of the spring from his window; he read as much as he was
allowed, and helped Rough with his lessons in the evening, and had a
bright smile for everybody at all times.

'I almost feel as if he were too good to live,' said Mrs. Fairchild one
evening to Celestina and her father, when she had returned from a visit
to the rectory. But this time it was Mr. Fairchild's turn to speak
cheerily, for he too had been spending an hour or two with the invalid
that day.

'I saw a decided improvement to-day,' he said. 'I do think Mr. Vane's
patience is wonderful, but I have a strong feeling that he is really
beginning to gain ground.'

Celestina's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and so did her mother's. The
two families had grown very much attached to each other in these few
weeks.

'_Won't_ they all be happy when he gets well?' said the little girl.
'And oh, mother, isn't dear little Biddy different from what she was?
She is so gentle and thoughtful, and she's hardly _never_ cross. She
does so many little things to help.'

Mrs. Fairchild smiled. In her heart she thought that Celestina had
certainly had a hand in this pleasant change, but she would not say so.
Children got less praised '_then_-a-days,' as a little friend of mine
calls long ago, for their parents were exceedingly afraid of spoiling
them, and the thought of taking any credit to herself had never entered
the child's mind.

'I do hope,' she went on, 'that Biddy's papa will be nearly quite well
by her birthday. It'll come in a month, you know, mother, and the
doll-house is almost quite ready. Mrs. Vane has begun working at it
again the last few days, and Rosalys and I and Miss Neale have all been
helping. It _will_ be so lovely, mother,' and Celestina's face lighted
up with pleasure quite as great as if it was all for herself.

Truly, selfish people have _no_ idea what happiness they miss!



CHAPTER XII

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY

          'Rare as is true love, true friendship is still rarer.'
                                       LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.


Bridget's birthday came in May--the middle of May. From the time I have
told you about in the last chapter Mr. Vane went on getting slowly
better; at least he got no worse. But it did seem very slow. At last
there came a day on which the doctor gave him leave to go downstairs.

'I want to see what he can do,' the doctor explained. 'At this rate we
might go on for months and gain little ground. Perhaps he is stronger
than he seems.'

They were all very eager and excited about this great step. It was an
'afternoon' day, as the little girls called those days on which
Celestina and Miss Neale came back again, and this afternoon Mrs.
Fairchild came with them. Mrs. Vane was thankful to have her at hand in
case of any help being needed. And all the children were sent out for a
walk, with the promise of finding papa in the drawing-room when they
came in again.

But as they were coming home they were met by Rough at the Rectory gate.
It was one of his occasional half-days. He ran out to meet them, but he
looked rather grave.

'Is papa down? Is he in the drawing-room?' cried Rosalys and Biddy.

'Yes,' said Rough; 'but mamma's been rather frightened about him. He
seems so weak. She's sent me for the doctor, and he's there now. So you
must not go in to see papa. That's why I came to meet you.'

Alie's face fell and Biddy's grew very red.

'I'm sure _we_ shouldn't hurt him,' she said. 'It's all that nasty
doctor,' and she almost looked as if she were going to get into one of
her old tempers.

Celestina took hold of her hand gently.

'Don't, Biddy dear,' she whispered. 'Perhaps when the doctor goes you'll
see him;' which did Bridget far more good than if she had overheard, as
she luckily did not, Rough's remark to Alie: 'I don't think _she's_ any
right to grumble when it's all her doing.'

It was not a kind thing to say, but then Rough's heart was sore and
anxious, and when one feels so it is difficult not to be cross and
sharp. All their hearts were sore, I think. Children jump on so fast in
their minds. Bride and Rough, and Alie too, I daresay, had fancied to
themselves that once 'downstairs' again papa would seem directly like
himself, and this news was a great disappointment. So the little party
went in rather sadly, Miss Neale telling them in a low voice to take off
their things and come down to tea in the schoolroom as quietly as
possible, Rough, over whom her authority did not extend, stationing
himself at the front door to watch for the doctor's departure.

He stayed some time, and when he had gone Mr. Vane asked for the
children.

'In a little,' Mrs. Vane answered. Then she turned to Celestina's
mother. 'This idea has rather taken my breath away,' she said, but her
voice was pretty cheerful.

'I hardly see how it is to be managed,' said Mr. Vane, for once rather
despondently.

'We will talk it all over afterwards,' said Mrs. Vane, at a little sign
from Celestina's mother; 'and now we will leave you to rest a while.'

'Oh dear, Mrs. Fairchild,' she said, when they were alone in the next
room, 'I wonder what we can do. It is dreadful to think of going
abroad--to be alone among strangers, and my husband so ill. And then
leaving the children. I cannot send them to my mother. Her house is full
with my eldest brother's family home from India.'

'I think they would get on very well here,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'And
your own governess will be back in a fortnight. Of course Miss Neale
would be too young for such a charge; besides, she cannot leave her
mother. And--you must excuse my suggesting it--but is not Madame
d'Ermont's home somewhere in the south?'

'To be sure,' exclaimed Mrs. Vane, starting up joyfully; 'how stupid of
me not to have thought of it! Thank you so much for reminding me. I have
her last letter here. You have written to her yourself, have you not?'

'Yes, indeed. I wrote to thank her very much for her kindness,' said
Mrs. Fairchild. 'It may be of the greatest advantage to Celestina some
day.'

For I have been so busy with the story of Biddy's escapade and its
consequences, that I have put off too long telling of the French lady's
kind letter to Mrs. Vane about her old friend Mrs. Fairchild and her
little name-daughter Celestina.

'It has touched me very much,' she wrote, 'to find I was still
remembered; and if ever I can be of use to little Célestine and her
mother I hope she or you will let me know.'

Well, the doctor had ordered Mr. Vane to go abroad, as I daresay you
will have guessed.

It was a sad disappointment, just when they had come to Seacove and he
seemed so well, and though no one reproached her, Bridget felt that the
consequences of her self-will were not to be soon forgotten.

It was all settled very quickly; and from the time it was settled Mr.
Vane, 'out of contradiction,' he said laughing, really seemed to improve
faster than hitherto. So that he was looking a good deal more like 'a
proper papa,' as Alie said, the day he and Mrs. Vane started on their
long journey.

'I am so glad you are going to be near that nice old lady,' said Alie,
amidst her tears; 'and oh, mamma dear, I will try to do everything you
would like.'

'I am sure you will, darling, and it is a great comfort to feel so much
happier about Biddy now. You will try to make a nice birthday for her,
I know.'

'There'll be the surprise--that's something nice to look forward to. And
we may have Celestina as often as we like, mayn't we?'

'As often as her mother can spare her, of course,' Mrs. Vane answered.

Then came Biddy. She was not crying, though she winked her eyes a good
deal.

'Mamma, I'll try to be good,' she said bluntly; 'and if papa gets quite
well again'--here her voice broke. 'Oh, mamma, if only it was the day
for you and papa to come back, and him quite, _quite_ well. Mamma, I
think I'd never be naughty again.'

This was a great, great deal from Biddy!

That day _did_ come, but a good many other days had to pass before it
came, and some of these were rather sad and anxious ones. For the first
letters from abroad were not as cheerful as Mrs. Vane would have liked
to make them for the little party so eagerly awaiting them at Seacove
Rectory. Mr. Vane was very tired by the journey, and had it not been for
the kindness of Madame d'Ermont, who would not hear of them staying
anywhere but in her house, at any rate till he grew stronger, Mrs. Vane
said she felt as if she would have lost heart altogether. But after a
little things brightened up again. 'Papa really seems to get stronger
every day,' she wrote; and on Bridget's birthday morning there came a
letter from papa himself, all scented with the sweet violets he had
slipped into it--for that was long before the days of parcel posts, by
which flowers reach us from the south of France and Italy as fresh as if
we had just gathered them in our own gardens--and telling of quite a
long walk he had been able to take without feeling too tired. The letter
ended up with wishing Biddy a truly happy birthday, and hopes that it
might be bright and sunny at Seacove. 'I only wish I could pack up some
of the sunshine here to send you,' wrote Mr. Vane, 'for we have enough
and to spare of it. But after all, the best sunshine of all is that of
happy and contented and loving hearts--is it not, my Biddy?'

There was sunshine of both kinds that day at the Rectory. Celestina came
early, almost immediately after breakfast indeed, so as to be present at
the great 'surprise.' She was to spend the whole day for once with her
friends, which was a great treat, though she saw them regularly once or
twice a week when she came to have a French lesson from Miss Millet.
Mrs. Vane had arranged this before she left, for little Miss Neale, who
now gave Celestina lessons every day at Pier Street, could not teach
French, and it was a great pleasure, and help too, to Biddy to have
industrious, attentive Celestina still her companion in something.

But to-day, of course, there was no question of lessons of any kind.

They had breakfast extra early, which some children I know, would not,
I fear, consider a treat. Indeed, I once heard of some young people,
scarcely to be called children, and by no means overworked young people
either, who chose for a holiday pleasure that they should stay in bed
for breakfast, and not get up till the middle of the day, which, I must
say, I did not at all admire. The great reason for the extra early
breakfast on Biddy's birthday was not that the Vane children were so
_very_ fond of being up betimes, but that Rough wanted to be there at
the great scene, and with some difficulty he had got an hour's 'grace'
from school that morning.

To begin at the beginning--for I know that when I was a child I liked to
be told all about everything--the first pleasure of the day, after the
reading of papa's nice letter, was the sight of the breakfast-table.
Kind Miss Millet and Alie had dressed it up with cowslips after Biddy
had gone to bed the night before, for there were cowslips, and very
pretty ones, to be had in some woods a mile or two inland from Seacove.
And May birthdays always make one think of cowslips.

The breakfast itself was very nice too--extra nice; for there was no
bread and milk for once, but only 'grown-up' things--a tempting dish of
ham and eggs, and delicious hot rolls and tea-cakes, and strawberry jam
and honey to eat with them as a finish up. And besides the letter from
papa--which had _really_ come the day before and been kept till this
morning, as, in his fear of being too late, Mr. Vane had sent it off
rather too soon--there was a neat little packet for Biddy from
grandmamma, containing a story-book called _The Christmas Stocking_, and
a lovely scarf worked in all kinds of marvellous Eastern colours,
'making one think of the Arabian nights,' as Alie said, from the Indian
cousins. So that it was with a sigh of deep content that Biddy sat down
to breakfast, knowing that something still more delightful and wonderful
was in store.

Celestina arrived before breakfast was quite over, and Rough ran out and
brought her into the dining-room, where she had to eat a roll and
strawberry jam to refresh her after her early walk. And then when every
one had finished and Rough had said grace, they all set off to the
schoolroom.

'Shut your eyes, Biddy,' said Rough. 'I'll lead you in, and mind you
don't open them till I tell you.'

There stood Biddy, as quiet as a mouse, though her heart was beating
fast, till, after one or two whispered directions--'That isn't quite
straight,' 'Put the chairs by the fire, Celestina,' and so on--came
Rough's voice--

'Now, Biddy. Open your eyes.'

[Illustration: 'Now, Biddy. Open your eyes.' P. 195.]

And 'open her eyes' she did, though she half shut them again the next
minute, and then had to rub them to make sure they were not tricking
her. For there in front of her, on the schoolroom table, stood, its two
big doors flung wide open, the very nicest, most complete doll-house
that, in those days at least, could have been imagined. There were six
good-sized rooms: drawing-room, dining-room, two bedrooms, nursery, and
kitchen--the last, perhaps, the most fascinating of all, with its little
kitchen-range, its rows of brightly shining pots and pans, some black,
some tin, and some copper; its dresser and shelves, and charming dinner
service, and ever so many other things it would take me a very long time
to describe. And the dining-room, with its brown and gold papered walls,
and red velvet carpet and little stuffed chairs; and the drawing-room,
with sofas covered in dainty chintz and blue carpet and gilt-framed
mirrors; and the bedrooms, one white and one pink; and the nursery, with
the _sweet_ little cradle and rocking-chair and baths and wash-hand
stands and I don't know all what--truly it was a very pretty sight.
Biddy gasped; she could not speak.

'And only think, Biddy,' said Rosalys; 'it is our own old doll-house
done up. The one mamma had herself when she was a little girl, you know.
Doesn't that make it all the nicer? You _can't_ think how we've all
worked at it. We'd begun it before--before papa and you got ill; that
was our secret that Celestina and I were always whispering about.'

And in her delight even staid Alie gave two or three jumps up into the
air! But as she came down again she felt herself caught round the neck
and hugged and squeezed. Oh, how she _was_ hugged and squeezed!

And '_Oh_, Alie,' whispered Biddy, 'you are too good to me; for you
don't know how naughty I felt about your having a secret.'

'Never mind, never mind. I daresay it was my fault. Mamma says it's very
teasing to talk about secrets, but it's all right now, and we are all
going to be so happy with the doll-house, aren't we? Now you must kiss
Celestina too; you don't know what a lot she's done. She hemmed the
sheets of the beds and the table-cloths and ever so many things, and her
mamma dressed the dolls--and--oh yes, Roughie papered nearly all the
rooms, and----'

But here Rosalys, who seemed to be turning all of a sudden into a
regular chatterbox, was interrupted by more huggings and squeezings, as
Rough rather objected to much of this sort of thing, and Biddy had still
a great deal to spare even after she had bestowed a full share upon
Celestina. She quieted down, however, when Miss Millet suggested that
unless they set to work to go all over the house and admire all its
numberless treasures, it would be getting too late for the nice walk
they wanted to have before dinner. But in the midst of the showing
everything Celestina made them all laugh by calmly taking a little
parcel from her pocket, from which she drew out three or four little
dolls, announcing that they were Eleanor and Amy and one or two new
ones, all in grand clothes for the occasion, who had come to spend the
day with the Rectory doll party.

'You did invite them, Alie, you remember, don't you?' she said, looking
a little bit aggrieved. 'They would never have come without being
invited.'

'Oh yes, I know I did,' Rosalys replied. 'It was only the funny way you
pulled them out of your pocket.'

'And some day, Biddy, mother says, perhaps you'll bring yours to drink
tea with mine,' said Celestina, quite pleased again. 'We might pretend
that mine were some cousins they had in the country who were not very
rich, you know,' she went on simply. 'And I'd make their parlour as
smart as I could. I'd try to dress it up with flowers and green, so that
it would be like an arbour.'

'Yes,' said Biddy, 'that _would_ be nice. And _we_ might have tea as
well as the dolls, mightn't we, Celestina? You know once you told me
about some little cups you have that we might have tea out of.'

'Oh yes,' Celestina replied hospitably, '_of course_ we'd have real tea
too. Mother would make some cakes and----'

'My dears,' said Miss Millet, 'I think we must be going out. You will
have all the rest of the day to play with the doll-house, but it is such
a lovely morning, and I think it's always so nice to have a good walk on
a holiday.'

The little girls were quite of their governess's opinion, only sorry
that Randolph could not make one of the party. He came home, however, in
good time in the afternoon, and they all had a very merry tea together.

'What a nice birthday it's been!' said Bride, as she and Alie kissed
Celestina, whose mother managed to spare an hour to come to fetch her
and at the same time to wish Biddy 'many happy returns.' 'How good of
you to dress the dolls for me, Mrs. Fairchild!' she went on. 'I think
I shall love the doll-house more and more every day, for, you see, it's
full of kind things you've all done for me. And I'm going to keep it
_so_ neat. Mamma will be quite surprised when she comes home to find how
neat I've learnt to be.'

'And only think, Mrs. Fairchild,' added Rosalys; 'do you know that papa
and mamma will most likely be home in one month? Just fancy, how nice!'

The 'most likely' came true. One month saw Mr. and Mrs. Vane safe back
at Seacove; 'papa' so bright and well, so bronzed and ruddy too, that it
was difficult to believe he was the same feeble-looking invalid who had
started on his long journey nine weeks before.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is not often--very seldom, indeed--that I am able to tell my readers
'what became of' the children they have come to know, and sometimes, I
hope, to care for in these simple stories. But as it is now many years
ago since the Vane family came to Seacove Rectory, and as Randolph and
his sisters and Celestina Fairchild have long ago been grown-up people,
I can give you another peep of them some eight or ten years after the
birthday I have been telling you about.

The curtain rises again on a different scene.

It is a lovely, old-fashioned garden, exquisitely neat and filled with
plants and flowers, showing at their best in the bright soft light of a
midsummer afternoon. A rectory garden, but not Seacove. Poor Seacove,
with its sandy soil and near neighbourhood to the sea, could not have
produced the velvety grass of that old bowling-green, now (for we are
still speaking of a good many years ago) a croquet-ground, or the
luxuriant 'rose hedge' bordering one end. Two girls were walking slowly
up and down the wide terrace walk in front of the low windows, talking
as they walked. One was tall and slight, with a fair sweet face--a very
lovely face, and one that no one loved and admired more heartily than
did her younger sister.

'Alie dear, I do hope you've had a happy birthday,' said
Bridget--sixteen-years-old Bridget!--for Rosalys was twenty-one to-day.
'There are some birthdays one should remember more than others. A
twenty-first birthday is a _very_ particular one, isn't it?'

'Yes indeed, Biddy, it is,' Alie replied. 'I can scarcely believe it.
And fancy, in five years more _you_ will be twenty-one!'

'I hope I shall go on growing till then,' said Biddy, whose great
ambition was to be as tall as her sister. 'Some girls do, don't they?
And I have grown a good deal this year. I don't look as stumpy as I did,
do I?' and Biddy looked up in her sister's face with a pleasant
smile--a smile that showed her pretty white teeth and shone out of her
nice brown eyes. She was not lovely like Alie, but she had a dear honest
face--though she was still rather freckled, and her dark wavy hair gave
her a somewhat gipsy look.

'You aren't a bit stumpy--you're just nice,' said Rosalys, 'though I
daresay you will grow some more. Just think what a little roundabout you
once were, and how you've grown since then.'

'Yes indeed,' laughed Biddy. 'Talking of birthdays, Alie, do you
remember my eighth birthday? The one at Seacove, when papa and mamma
were away after his being so ill, and when you all gave me the
doll-house--the dear old doll-house; do you know I really sometimes play
with it still? I often think of Seacove.'

'So do I,' said Alie. 'Of course I didn't like it _as much_ as this, for
this garden is so sweet and the country all about here is so beautiful,
and then it's so nice to be near grandmamma. But Seacove had a great
charm about it too.'

'The sea,' said Biddy--'the sea and the sunsets,' she went on half
dreamily; 'I always think when I see a red sunset----' but then she
stopped. There are some thoughts that one keeps _quite_ in one's own
mind!

'I always feel grateful to Seacove,' she said after a moment's pause.
'Mamma is quite sure that the three years we lived there did more than
anything to make papa strong again. What a blessing it is that he is so
well now!'

'And quite able for all his work here, though he could never stand
London again,' said Alie. 'I wish Rough had gone into the Church too,
Bride--that is to say, I wish _he_ had wished it. Then we should have
had him somewhere near us, instead of far away in India,' and she gave a
little sigh.

'But he's getting on so well--he was just _made_ to be a soldier,' said
Biddy. 'And papa says it is like that. Some people just _feel_ what
they're meant to be. And Rough is a great comfort, even though he has to
be away--and you know, Alie,' she went on quite gravely, 'I don't think
there _could_ have been another as good as papa, not in the same way:
he's just nearly an angel.' Alie did not disagree. 'And Roughie will be
home before your next birthday, you know.'

'I hope so indeed,' said Rosalys.

'Talking about long ago,' went on Bride, to whom eight or nine years
were still a _very_ 'long ago,' 'reminds me of dear little Celestina.
What ages it is since we have heard of her--not since the year her
father died, and we were afraid they were left rather badly off. How
strange it seems, Alie, doesn't it? that poor Mr. Fairchild should have
died and papa got well, when you think how ill papa was and that he
seemed quite well then.'

'He was always delicate--Mr. Fairchild, I mean,' said Rosalys. 'But it
was very sad; they were so very fond of him. But, Biddy, we have heard
of Celestina since then--don't you remember, mamma wrote to tell Madame
d'Ermont of their trouble, and she wrote to Mrs. Fairchild inviting them
to visit her? They couldn't go--not then--but mamma had another letter,
thanking her and telling us where they were going to live. Still all
that is a good while ago, and when mamma wrote again her letter was
returned.'

'How kind they were to us at Seacove!' said Bridget. 'I would love to
see Celestina again--fancy, she must be grown up.'

What I am now going to tell you will seem to some people 'too strange to
be true,' but begging these wise people's pardon, I cannot agree with
them. Strange things of the kind--coincidences, they are sometimes
called--have happened to me myself, too often, for me not to believe
that 'there is something in it.' In plain words, I believe that our
spirits are sometimes conscious of each other's nearness much sooner
than our clumsy bodies are. How very often is one met with the remark,
'Why, we were just speaking of you!' How often does the thought of some
distant friend suddenly start into our memories an hour or two before
the post brings us a letter penned by the dear far-away fingers!

Something of this kind was what happened now. A young man-servant came
out of the house and made his way to where the girls were.

'If you please, miss,' he said, 'a young lady is in the library waiting
to see you. My mistress is out. The lady asked for both you and Miss
Bridget.'

'Who can it be?' said Rosalys.

'How tiresome!' said Biddy.

But they were accustomed to see visitors that had to be seen when their
mother was out, and they went together to the library.

Alie went in first, but she stood perplexed and a little confused as a
slight tall figure rose from a chair and came forward to meet her.

'I am afraid,' the stranger began, but before she could say another
word, or before Alie had time to do more than think to herself, much
more quickly than it takes to tell it, that surely she _should_ know
that sweet pale face and bright though gentle eyes, Biddy had darted
forward and was throwing her arms round the young girl's neck. 'Don't
you know her, Alie?' she cried. '_I_ do. It's dear little Celestina,
grown up, and oh, how nice and pretty and good you look! And we've been
speaking of you all this morning. It's Alie's birthday; she's
twenty-one, just fancy! And where have you been, and where's your
mother, and----'

Her breathlessness gave Rosalys time to come forward and warmly kiss
Celestina in her turn. Then they made her sit down; she was looking
rather tired, for she had had a long walk in the sun--and by degrees she
told them all her news. There was a good deal to tell. The last four
years had been spent by her mother and herself in France, not far from
Madame d'Ermont, whom Celestina described as having been more than kind.

'She paid for all my schooling and lessons,' the girl said simply, 'so
that mother could afford to stay with me all the time. Mother gave some
English lessons herself too. And I was able to learn French _quite_
well, which will be such an advantage to me. The last two years I taught
English at the school, so the expenses were not so great. And we spent
the summer holidays at Madame d'Ermont's château. Oh, she was _so_
kind!'

'But why have you not written to us all this time?' asked her friends.

'We have--two or three times, but the address must have been wrong, for
one letter was returned to us. I remember I put all rightly except the
county, for I did not think that necessary; and now--the other day, I
mean--when, we had answered the advertisement and were inquiring about
Calton, we found that there are actually three or four places of the
name in England. And oh, we were so delighted when we found on getting
there that Laneverel Rectory was only two miles off.'

'Are you living at Calton then? What do you mean about an advertisement?
Is your mother at Calton?'

Celestina laughed and blushed at her own confused way of explaining.

'I am so pleased at seeing you that I am losing my head,' she said.
'Yes, we have come to live at Calton. We have got the dearest little
house there. And I am French teacher at the large girls' school just
outside the town. I get sixty pounds a year--is it not delightful? So we
are quite rich. If only--you don't know how I wish poor father could
have enjoyed it too--if he could but have had a few years of the
pleasant life and rest.'

She smiled through the tears in her eyes. Biddy stroked her hand gently.

'But you yourself--it isn't all rest for you?' said Alie, thinking as
she spoke that it was 'Celestina all over,' never giving a thought to
herself.

'Oh no, I have to work of course. But I like it. And some of my pupils
are very nice and intelligent. Besides--I should be miserable if I were
idle,' she added brightly.

'Yes, indeed,' both the girls heartily agreed. 'We are very busy too,
Celestina. We have lots and lots of things to do at home to help papa
and mamma, and all the village people to look after, and the schools and
the choir and the church. You must see the church, Celestina.'

'It is just--almost, at least--perfect,' added Biddy enthusiastically,
'compared with poor old Seacove! Oh, do you remember the high pews with
curtains round, and the old clerk, and the pulpit like a Queen Elizabeth
bedstead.'

'Only _without_ curtains,' said Celestina, at which they all laughed.
They were so happy they would have laughed at anything!

Then Celestina had to be told about Rough, and how well he was getting
on, though so far away, alas! And _then_ she had to be taken out into
the garden to see its beauties, and have promises of unlimited cuttings
and seeds and I don't know all what for her own little garden. There was
poor old Smuttie's grave to show her too, in one corner, for Smut had
lived to enjoy a year or two of peaceful and slumberous old age on the
sunny doorstep in summer and the library hearthrug in winter at
Laneverel Rectory. And _then_ came the sounds of wheels, and the pony
carriage turned in at the gate with Mr. and Mrs. Vane, and all the story
of the joyful surprise had to be told over again.

The rector and his wife welcomed their old young friend as heartily as
their daughters had done, you may be sure. They pressed her to stay to
dinner, promising to drive her home in the cool of the evening, but
this, Celestina, unselfish as ever, would not do, for 'mother' might be
uneasy. So they had a very delightful 'afternoon tea' in the garden, for
afternoon teas were just coming into fashion, and Rosalys and Bride
walked half-way home with Celestina, parting with invitations and
promises on both sides. Celestina was to spend at least _half_ of her
half-holidays at the Rectory, and Alie was to drive to Calton to fetch
Mrs. Fairchild the very next Saturday, and the sisters were to pay
Celestina a long visit the following week, to see the dear little house
and all her treasures.

'You shall have tea in the sweet little French tea-cups Madame d'Ermont
gave me,' said she joyfully. 'They are a _little_ bigger than my doll
ones long ago.'

'Oh dear,' said Biddy, 'that reminds me of the time I invited myself to
tea to your house, and Alie was so shocked at me. I _was_ a horrid
little girl.'

'No, you _weren't_', said both the others. 'And any way,' added Alie
fondly, 'isn't she nice now, Celestina?'

'I've never had any friends, if I may call you so,' was Celestina's
indirect reply, 'that I have cared for as for you two,' and there was a
dewy look in her gentle eyes which said even more than her words.

       *       *       *       *       *

A _real_ friendship--a friendship to last through the changes that
_must_ come; a friendship too firmly based to be influenced by the fact
that none of us, not even the sweetest and truest, are 'perfect,' that
we _must_ 'bear and forbear,' and gently judge each other while in this
world--such friendships are very rare. We are not _bound_ to our
friends, not obliged to make the best of them, as with relations, and
so, too often, we throw each other off hastily, take offence in some
foolish way, and the dear old friendship is a thing of the past, one of
those 'used to be's' that are so sad to come across in our memory. But
it is not always so. Some friendships wear well, sending down their
roots ever deeper and more firmly as the years go on, spreading out
their gracious branches ever more widely overhead for us to find shelter
and rest beneath them in the stormy as in the sunny days of life. And
oh, dear children, such friendship is something to thank God for!

My little girls, whose friendship began in the old back parlour at
Seacove, are not even young women now--they are getting down into the
afternoon of life--but they are still friends, true and tried. Friends
whom sorrow and trials only join together still more closely; whose love
for and trust in each other even death cannot destroy.


THE END



_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.

       *       *       *       *       *


Transcriber's Notes:

Punctuation errors have been repaired.

The original text had a frontispiece that the list of illustrations
recorded as being on page 89. It has been moved from the front to
the text it refers to.

Page 180, "springlike" changed to "spring-like".

Page 169, "beggings" changed to "begging".

Illustration that begins "----carrying" original read P. 162. Actual
text is on page 161 and the table of illustrations reads 161.

All illustration captions but one were mixed case. This was retained.





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