THE GIRLS 
 
 AND I 
 
 MRS. MOLESWORTH 
 
 Chicago 
 
 M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 He w^s spoilt—deplorably, absurdly spoilt. But* 
 so far, that was perhaps the worst that could fairly be 
 said against him. There was genuine manliness still, 
 
 some chivalry even, yet struggling spasmodically to 
 
 % 
 
 make itself felt, and—what was practically, perhaps, 
 of more account as a preservative—some small amount 
 of originality in his character. He had still a good 
 deal to learn, and something too to unlearn before he 
 could take rank as past-master in the stupid worldli¬ 
 ness of his class and time. For he was neither so 
 blase nor so cynical as he flattered himself, but young 
 enough to affect being both to the extent of believing 
 his own affectations real. 
 
 He was popular ; his position and income were fair 
 
 enough to have secured this to a considerable extent 
 
 in these, socially speaking, easy-going days, even had 
 
 he been without the further advantages of good looks 
 * 
 
 and a certain arrogance, not to say insolence of bearing, 
 
 which, though nothing can be acquired with gyeate* 
 
 3 
 
4 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 facility and at less expenditure of brain tissue, ap¬ 
 pears to be the one not-to-be-disputed hall-mark of 
 the period 
 
 Why he went to Mrs. Englewood's reception that 
 evening he could scarcely • have told, or perhaps he 
 would have vaguely shrunk from owning even to 
 himself the r6al motives—of sincere though feeble 
 loyalty to old associations, of faintly stirring gratitude 
 for much kindness in the past—which had prompted 
 the effort. For Mrs. Englewood was neither very 
 rich, nor very beautiful, nor—worst of ‘ nors'—very 
 fashionable ; scarcely, indeed, to be reckoned as of 
 notre monde in any very exclusive sense of the words, 
 though kindly, and fairly refined, irreproachable as 
 wife knd mother, and so satisfied with her lot as to be 
 uninterestingly free from social ambition. 
 
 But her house was commonplace, she herself not 
 
 * v 
 
 specially amusing. 
 
 V 
 
 “If she’d be content to ask me there when they're 
 alone—I like talking to her herself well enough," 
 thought Despard, as he dressed. In his heart, how¬ 
 ever, he knew that would not do. He was more or 
 less of a lion from Mrs. Englewood's point of view; 
 she was not above a certain, pride in knowing that for 
 “old sake's sake/' she could count upon him for her 
 one party of the season. And for this, as she retained 
 a real affection for the man she had known as that 
 delightful thing—a Wight, intelligent, and unspoilt 
 
5 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 n. 
 
 boy, and as she thought of him still far more highly 
 than he deserved to be thought of, her conscience left 
 her unrebuked. 
 
 Year after year, it is true, her husband wet- 
 blanketed her innocent pleasure in seeing the youftg 
 man's name on her invitation list. 
 
 “That fellow ! In your place, my dear Gertrude ! " 
 and an expressive raising of the eyebrows said the rest. 
 
 “But, Harry," she would mildly expostulate, “you 
 forget. I knew him when he was-•" 
 
 “So high—at Whipmore. Oh, yes; I know all 
 about it. Well, well, take your way of it; it doesn't 
 hurt me if you invite people who don't want to 
 come." 
 
 * 
 
 “But who always do come, you must allow," she 
 
 « 
 
 would reply triumphantly. 
 
 “And think themselves mighty condescending for 
 doing so," Mr. Englewood put in. 
 
 “You don't do Despard justice. It's always the 
 way with men, I suppose." 
 
 “Come now, don’t be down upon me about it," he 
 would say good-naturedly. “ I don't stop your asking 
 him. It isn’t as if we had daughters.’ In that 
 case . but the rest was left to the imagination. 
 
 And this particular year Mrs. Englewood had 
 Smiled to herself at this point of the discussion. 
 
 “One can make plans even though one hasn't 
 daughters," she reflected. “If Harry would let me 
 
6 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 ask him to dinner now—but I know there's no chance 
 of that. And, after all, a good deal may be done at 
 an evening party. I should like to do Despard a 
 good turn, and give him a start before any other. 
 If I could give him a hint! But then there's my 
 promise to her father,—and Despard is sure to be 
 sensitive on those points. I might spoil it all. No ; 
 I shall appeal to his kind-heartedness ; that is the best 
 How tender he used to be to poor Lily when she was 
 a tiny child ! How he used to mount her up on his 
 shoulders when she couldn't see the fireworks ! I 
 will tell Maisie that story! It is the sort of thing 
 she will appreciate." 
 
 It was a hot, close evening. Though only May, 
 there was thunder in the air, people said. Despard's 
 inward dissatisfaction increased. 
 
 “Upon my soul it's too bad," he ejaculated while 
 examining the flowers in his buttonhole. “Why, 
 when one's made up one's mind to do a disagreeable 
 thing, should everything conspire to make it more 
 odious than it need be, I wonder! I have really— 
 more than half a mind—not to-" 
 
 Poor Gertrude Englewood, at that moment smil¬ 
 ingly receiving her guests! She little knew how her 
 great interest in the evening was trembling in the 
 balance! 
 
 It was late when he arrived. Not that he had 
 specially intended this. He cared too little about it 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 7 
 
 to have considered whether he should be late or early, 
 and, as he slowly made his way through the crowd at 
 the doorway, he was conscious of but one wish—to 
 get himself at once seen by his hostess, and then to 
 
 make his escape as soon as possible. As to the first 
 
 0 
 
 part of this little programme there was no difficulty. 
 Scarcely did the first syllables of his name, “Mr. 
 Despard Norreys,” fall on the ear, before Mrs. Engle¬ 
 wood’s outstretched hand was in his, her pleasant 
 face smiling up at him, her pleasant voice bidding 
 him welcome. Yes, there was something difficult to 
 resist about her ; it was refreshing, somehow, and— 
 there lay the secret—it brought back other days, 
 when poor Jack's big sister, Gertrude, had welcomed 
 the orphan schoolboy just as heartily, and when he 
 had glowed with pride and gratification at her notice 
 of him. 
 
 Despard’s resigned, not to say sulky, expression 
 cleared; it was no wonder Mrs. Englewood's old 
 liking for him had suffered no diminution ; he did 
 show at his best with her. 
 
 “So pleased you've come, so good of you," she was 
 saying simply. 
 
 Her words made the young man feel vaguely ashamed 
 of himself. 
 
 “Good of me!" he repeated, flushing a little, 
 though the same or a much more fervent greeting 
 from infinitely more exalted personages than Gertrude 
 
8 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 had often failed to disturb his composure. 
 indeed, very much the reverse. Fm sorry/' with a 
 glance round, “ to be so late, especially as-” 
 
 “No, no, you're not to begin saying you can't stay 
 long, the very moment you've come. Listen, Despard,” 
 and she drew him aside a little ; “I want you to do 
 something to please me to-night. I have a little 
 friend here—a Miss Fforde—that I want you to be 
 very good to. Poor little thing, she's quite a stranger, 
 knows nobody, never been out. But she's a nice little 
 thing. Will you ask her to dance? or—" for the 
 shadow of a frown on her favorite's forehead became 
 evident even to Mrs. Englewood's partial eyes—“if 
 you don't care to dance, will you talk to her a little? 
 Anything, you know, just to please her." 
 
 Despard bowed. What else could he do ? Ger¬ 
 trude slid her hand through his arm. 
 
 “ There she is, she said. “That girl in black over 
 there by the fireplace. “ Maisie, my dear," for a step 
 or two had brought them to the indicated spot, “I 
 want to introduce my old friend, Mr. Despard Norreys, 
 to you. Mr. Norreys—Miss Fforde;" and as she 
 pronounced the names she drew her hand quietly 
 away, and turned back towards her post at the door. 
 
 Despard bowed and, with the very slightest possible 
 instinct of curiosity, glanced at the girl before him. 
 She was of middle height, rather indeed under than 
 above it; she was neither very fair nor very dark ; 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 9 
 
 there was nothing very special or striking in hef 
 appearance. She was dresfeed in black; there was 
 
 p 
 
 nothing remarkable about her attire, rather, as Despard 
 saw in an instant, an absence of style, of finish, which 
 found its epithet at once in his thoughts—“ countrified, 
 of course,” he said to himself. But before he had time 
 to decide on his next movement she raised her eyes, 
 and for half an instant his attention deepened. The 
 eyes were strikingly fine; they were very blue, but 
 redeemed from the shallowness of very blue eyes by 
 the depth of the eyelashes, both upper and lower. 
 And just now there was a brightness, an expectancy 
 in the eyes which was by no means their constant ex¬ 
 pression. For, lashes notwithstanding, Miss Fforde’s 
 blue eyes could look cold enough when she chose. 
 
 “Good eyes,” thought Despard. But just as he 
 allowed the words to shape themselves in his brain, 
 he noticed that over the girl's clear, pale face a glow 
 of color was quickly spreading. 
 
 “Good gracious ! '' he ejaculated mentally, “she is 
 blushing! What a bread-and-butter miss she must 
 be—to blush because a man's introduced to her. And 
 I am to draw her out! It is really too bad of Mrs. 
 Ejiglewood ; ” and he half began to turn away with a 
 sensation of indignation and almost of disgust. 
 
 But positive rudeness where a woman was con¬ 
 cerned did not come easy to him. He stopped, and 
 muttered something: indistinctly enough about “the 
 
10 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 pleasure of a dance." The girl had grown pale again 
 by this time, and in her eyes a half startled, almost 
 pained expression was replacing the glad expectancy. 
 As he spoke, however, something of the former look 
 returned to them. 
 
 “I—I shall be very pleased," she said. I am not 
 engaged for anything." 
 
 “ I should think not," he said to himself. “ I am 
 quite sure you dance atrociously." 
 
 But aloud he said with the slow, impassive tone in 
 which some of his admirers considered him so to excel 
 that “ Despard’s drawl " had its school of followers—. 
 
 “Shall we say the—the tenth waltz? I fear it is the 
 first I can propose." 
 
 “Thank you," Miss Fforde replied. She looked as 
 if she would have been ready to say more had he in the 
 least encouraged it, but he, feeling that he had done 
 his duty, turned away—the more eagerly as at that 
 moment he caught sight in the crowd of a lady he 
 knew. 
 
 “ Mrs. Marrinder ! What a godsend ! " he ex¬ 
 claimed. 
 
 He did not see Miss Fforde's face as he left her, and, 
 had he done so, it would have taken far more than his 
 very average modicum of discernment to have rightly 
 interpreted the varying and curiously intermingling 
 expressions which rapidly crossed it, like cloud shadows 
 alternating with dashes of sunshine on an April morn- 
 
11 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 % 
 
 jng. She stood for a moment or two where she was* 
 then glancing round and seeing a vacant seat in a cor¬ 
 ner she quietly appropriated it. 
 
 “The tenth waltz,” she repeated to herself with the 
 ghost of a smile. “I wonder-” but that was all. 
 
 The evening wore on. Miss Fforde had danced once 
 -—but only once. It was with a man whom her host 
 himself introduced to her, and, though good-natured 
 and unaffected, he was boyish and commonplace ; and 
 she had to put some force on herself to reply with any 
 show of interest to his attempts at conversation. She 
 was engaged for one or two other dances, but it was 
 hot, and the rooms were crowded, and with a scarcely 
 acknowledged reflection—for Miss Fforde was young 
 and inexperienced enough to think it hardly fair to 
 make an engagement even for but a dance, to break it 
 deliberately—that if her partners did not find her it 
 would not much matter, the girl withdrew quietly into 
 a corner, where a friendly curtain all but screened her 
 from observation, and allowed her to enjoy in peace 
 the dangerous but delightful refreshment of an open 
 window hard by. 
 
 The draught betrayed its source, however. She 
 was scarcely seated when voices approaching caught 
 her ears. 
 
 “ Here you are—there must be a window open, it is 
 ever so much cooler in this corner. Are you afraid of 
 the draught ? ” said a voice she thought she recognized. 
 

 12 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 “No—o—at least—oh, this corner will do beauti¬ 
 fully. The curtain will protect me. What a blessing 
 to get a little air ! " replied a second speaker—a lady 
 evidently. 
 
 “People have no business to cram their rooms so. 
 And these rooms are—well, not spacious. How in the 
 world did you get Marrinder to come ? " 
 
 The second speaker laughed. “It was quite the 
 other way,” she replied. “How did he get me to 
 come ? you might ask. He has something or other to 
 do with our host, and made a personal matter of my 
 coming, so, of course, I gave in. " 
 
 “ How angelic ! ” 
 
 “ It is a penance ; but we're going immediately/' 
 
 “I shall disappear with you." 
 
 “You ! Why you told me a moment ago that you 
 were obliged to dance with some protegee of Mrs. 
 Englewood's—that she had made a point of it. And 
 you haven't danced with her yet, to my certain knowl¬ 
 edge," said the woman's voice again. 
 
 A sort of groan was the reply. 
 
 “Why, what’s the matter? " with a light laugh. 
 
 “ I had forgotten ; you might have let me forget and 
 go off with a clear conscience." 
 
 “ What is there so dreadful about it ? " 
 
 “It is that girl in black I have to dance with for 
 my sins. Such a little dowdy. I am convinced she 
 can't waltz. It was truly putting old friendship to the 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 13 
 
 test to expect it of me. And of all things I do detest a 
 bread-and-butter miss. You can see at a glance that this 
 one has never left a country village before. She-” 
 
 But his further confidences were interrupted by the 
 arrival of Mr. Marrinder in search of his wife. 
 
 “You don’t care to stay any longer, I suppose?” 
 said the new-comer. 
 
 “ Oh, no; I am quite ready. I was engaged for this 
 dance—the tenth, isn’t it? But I am tired, and it 
 doesn’t matter. My partner, whoever he was, can find 
 some one else. Good night, Mr. Norreys.” 
 
 “Let me go with you to the door at least,” he replied. 
 “ I’ll look about for that girl in black on my way, so 
 that if I don’t see her I can honestly feel I have done 
 my duty.” 
 
 Then there came a flutter and rustling, and Miss 
 Fforde knew that her neighbors had taken their de¬ 
 parture. 
 
 She waited an instant, and then came out of her 
 corner. 
 
 “He is not likely to come back to look for me in 
 this room,” she thought; “but in case he possibly 
 should, I—I shall not hide myself.” 
 
 She had had a moment’s sharp conflict with herself 
 before arriving at this decision ; and her usually pale 
 face was still faintly flushed when, slowly making his 
 way in the direction of the sofa where she had now 
 conspicuously placed herself, she descried Mr. Norreys. 
 
14 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 “Our dance—the tenth—I believe/' he said, with an 
 exaggeration of indifference, sounding almost as if he 
 wished to irritate her into making some excuse to 
 escape. 
 
 In her place nine girls out of ten would have done 
 so, and without troubling themselves to hide their in¬ 
 dignation. But Maisie Fforde was not one of those 
 nine. She rose quietly from her seat and took his 
 arm. 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, “it is our dance.” 
 
 Something in her voice, or tone, made him glance 
 at her with a shade more attention than he had hitherto 
 condescended to bestow on “Mrs. Englewood's pro* 
 ttgee” She was looking straight before her ; her feat¬ 
 ures, which he now discovered to be delicate in out¬ 
 line, and almost faultlessly regular in their proportions, 
 wore an expression of perfect composure ; only the 
 slight, very slight, roseflush on her cheeks would have 
 
 told to one who knew her well of some inward excite- 
 
 ■% 
 
 ment. v 
 
 “By Jove!” thought Despard, “she's almost 
 pretty—no, pretty's not the word. I never saw a face 
 quite like it before. I suppose I didn't look at her, 
 she’s so badly, at least so desperately plainly dressed. 
 I don't, however, suppose she can talk, and I'd bet 
 any money she can't dance.” 
 
 As regarded the first of his predictions, she gave 
 him at present no opportunity of judging. She 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 15 
 
 neither spoke nor looked at him. He hazarded some 
 commonplace remark about the heat of the rooms ; 
 she replied by a monosyllable. Despard began to get 
 angry. 
 
 “ Won't talk, whether she can or not,” he said to 
 himself, when a second observation had met with no 
 better luck. He glanced round the room ; all the 
 other couples were either dancing, or smiling and talk¬ 
 ing. He became conscious of a curious sensation as 
 disagreeable as novel—he felt as if he were looking 
 ridiculous. 
 
 He turned again to his partner in a sort of desper¬ 
 ation. 
 
 “ Will you dance ? ” he said, and his tone was al¬ 
 most rough ; it had entirely lost its usual calm, half- 
 insolent indifference. 
 
 “ Certainly,” she said, while a scarcely perceptible 
 smile faintly curved her lips. “ It is, I suppose, what 
 we are standing up here for, is it not ? ” 
 
 Despard grew furious. “She is laughing at me,” 
 he thought. “Impertinent little nobody. Where in 
 Heaven's name has Gertrude Englewood unearthed 
 her from? Upon my soul, it is the very last time she 
 will see me at her dances ! ” 
 
 i 
 
 And somehow his discomfiture was not decreased 
 by a glance, an almost involuntary glance, at Miss 
 Fforde as they began to dance. She was certainly 
 not striking in appearance; she was middle-sized, 
 
16 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 barely that indeed ; her dress was now, he began to 
 perceive, plain with the plainness of intention, not of 
 ignorance or economy. But yet, with it all—no, he 
 could not honestly feel that he was right; she did not 
 look like “a nobody.'’ 
 
 There was a further discovery in store for him. 
 The girl danced beautifully. Mr. Norreys imagined 
 himself to have outlived all enthusiasm on such 
 subjects, but now and then, in spite of the role which 
 was becoming second nature to him, a bit of the old 
 Despard—the hearty, unspoilt boy—cropped out, so to 
 speak, unawares. This happened just now—his sur¬ 
 prise had to do with it. 
 
 “You dance perfectly—exquisitely ! ” he burst out 
 when at last they stopped. It was his second dance 
 that evening only; neither he nor Miss Fforde was 
 the least tired, and the room was no longer so 
 crowded. 
 
 She looked up. There was no flush of gratification 
 on her face, only a very slight—the slightest possible- 
 sparkle in the beautiful eyes. 
 
 “Yes,” she said quietly; “I believe I can dance 
 well. ” ' 
 
 Despard bit his lips. For once in his life he felt 
 absolutely at a loss what to say. Yet remain silent 
 he would not, for by so doing it seemed to him as if 
 he would be playing into the girl's hands. 
 
 “I will make her talk,” he vowed internally. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 17 
 
 It was not often he cared to exert himself, but be 
 could talk, both intelligently and agreeably, when he 
 chose to take the trouble. And gradually, though 
 very gradually only, Miss Fforde began to thaw. 
 She, too, could talk; though her words were never 
 many, they struck him as remarkably well chosen and 
 to the point. Yet more, they incited him to further 
 effort. There was the restraint of power about them ; 
 not her words only, but her tone and expression, the 
 quick play of her features, the half-veiled glances of 
 her eyes, were full of a curious fascination, seeming 
 
 to tell how charming, how responsive a companion 
 
 / 
 
 she might be if she chose. 
 
 But the fascination reacted as an irritant on Mr. 
 Norreys. He could not get rid of a mortifying sensa¬ 
 tion that he was being sounded, and his measure 
 taken by this presumptuous little girl. Yet he glanced 
 at her. No; “presumptuous” was not the word to 
 apply to her. He grew almost angry at last, to the 
 extent of nearly losing his self-control. 
 
 “You are drawing me out, Miss Fforde," he said, 
 “ in hopes of my displaying my ignorance. You know 
 much more about the book in question, and the 
 subject, than I do. If you will be so good as to tell 
 me all about it, I-” 
 
 She glanced up quickly with, for the lirbt time, a per¬ 
 fectly natural and unconstrained expression on her face. 
 
 4 Indeed—indeed, no," she said. “I am very 
 
 t 
 
18 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 ignorant In some ways I have had little opportunity 
 of learning.” 
 
 Despard's face cleared There was no question of 
 her sincerity. 
 
 “I thought you were playing me off,” he said 
 boyishly. 
 
 Miss Fforde burst out laughing, but she instantly 
 checked herself. 
 
 “What a pity,” thought Mr. Norreys. “I never 
 heard a prettier laugh.” “ I did, indeed,” he repeated, 
 exaggerating his tone in hopes of making her laugh 
 again. 
 
 But it was no use. Her face had regained the 
 calm, formal composure it had worn at the beginning 
 of the dance. 
 
 V 
 
 “She is like three girls rolled into one,” thought 
 Despard. “The shy, country-bred miss she seemed 
 at first,” and a feeling of shame shot through him at 
 the recollection of his stupid judgment, “ then this 
 cold, impassive, princess-like damsel, and by fitful 
 glimpses yet another, with nothing in common with 
 either. And, notwithstanding the role she has chosen 
 to play, I—I strongly suspect it is but a role” he 
 decided hastily. 
 
 The riddle interested him. 
 
 “May I—will you not give me another dance?' 
 he said deferentially. For the tenth waltz had come 
 to an end. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 19 
 
 “I am sorry I cannot,” she replied. The words 
 were simple and girlish, but the tone was regal. 
 “ Good-night, Mr. Norreys. I congratulate you on 
 your self-sacrifice at the altar of friendship. You may 
 now take your departure with a clear conscience." 
 
 He stared. She was repeating some of his own 
 words. Miss Fforde bowed coldly, and turned away. 
 And Despard, bewildered, mortified even, though he 
 would not own it, yet strangely attracted, and dis¬ 
 gusted with himself for being so, after a passing word 
 or two with his hostess, left the house. 
 
 An hour or two later Gertrude Englewood was bid¬ 
 ding her young guest good-night. 
 
 “And oh, Maisie ! ” she exclaimed, “how did you 
 get on with Despard ? Is he not delightful ? ” 
 
 Miss Fforde smiled quietly. They were standing in 
 
 i 
 
 her room, for she was to spend a night or two with her 
 friend. 
 
 “ I—to tell you the truth, I would much rather not 
 speak about him," she said. “ He is very good look¬ 
 ing, and—well, not stupid, I dare say. But I am not 
 used to men, you know, Gertrude—not to men of the 
 day, at least, of which I suppose he is a type. I can¬ 
 not say that I care to see more of them. I am hap¬ 
 pier at home with papa." 
 
 She turned away quickly. Gertrude did not see the 
 tears that rose to the girl's eyes, or the rush of color 
 that overspread her face at certain recollections of that 
 
20 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 evening. She was nineteen, but it was her first “real” 
 dance, and she felt as if years had passed since the 
 afternoon only two days ago when she had arrived. 
 
 Mrs. Englewood looked and felt sadly disappointed. 
 She had been so pleased with her own diplomacy. 
 
 “ It will be different when you are a little more in 
 the way of it,” she said. “And—I really don’t think 
 your father should insist on your dressing quite so 
 plainly. It will do the very thing he wants to avoid— 
 it will make you remarkable/’ 
 
 “No, no,” said Maisie, shaking her head. “Papa 
 is quite right. You must allow it had not that effect 
 this evening. No one asked to be introduced to me.” 
 
 “There was such a crowd-” Gertrude began, but 
 
 this time Maisie’s smile was quite a hearty one as she 
 interrupted her. 
 
 “Never mind about that,” she said. “But do tell 
 me one thing. I saw Mr. Norreys speaking to you for 
 a moment as he went out. You didn’t say anything 
 about me to him, I hope ? ” 
 
 “No,” said Mrs. Englewood, “I did not. I would 
 have liked to do so,” she added honestly, “ but some¬ 
 how he looked queer—not exactly bored, but not en¬ 
 couraging. So I just let him go.” 
 
 “ That’s right,” said Maisie ; “ thank you. I am so 
 glad you didn’t. I do hope I shall never see him again,” 
 she added to herself. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 21 
 
 PART II. 
 
 A hope not destined to be fulfilled. 
 
 For though Maisievyrote home to “papa” the morn* 
 Ing after Mrs. Englewood's dance, earnestly begging 
 for leave to return to the country at once instead of 
 going on to her next visit, and assuring him that she 
 felt she would never be happy in fashionable society, 
 never be happy anywhere , indeed, away from him and 
 everything she cared for, papa was inexorable. It was 
 natural she should be homesick at first, he replied; 
 natural, and indeed unavoidable, that she should feel 
 strange and lonely ; and, as she well knew, she could 
 not possibly long more to be with him again, than he 
 longed to have her ; but there were all the reasons she 
 knew full well why she should stay in town as had 
 been arranged ; the very reasons which had made him 
 send her now made him say she must remain. Her 
 own good sense would show her the soundness of his 
 motives, and she must behave like his own brave 
 Maisie. And the girl never knew what this letter had 
 cost her invalid father, nor how he shrank from, oppos¬ 
 ing her wishes. 
 
 4 ‘ She set off so cheerfully,” he said to himself, “ and 
 
22 
 
 TEAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 she has only been there three days. And she seemed 
 rather to have enjoyed her first dinner party and the 
 concert, or whatever it was, that Gertrude Englewood 
 took her to. What can have happened at the evening 
 party? She dances well, I know ; and she is not the 
 sort of girl to expect or care much about ball-room 
 admiration/' 
 
 Poor man ! it was, so far a disappointment to him. 
 He would have liked to get a merry, happy letter that 
 morning as he sat at his solitary breakfast. For he 
 had no fear, no shadow of a fear, that his Maisie’s 
 head ever could be turned. 
 
 “I have guarded against any dangers of that kind 
 for her, at least,” he said to himself, “ provided I have 
 not gone too far and made her too sober-minded. But 
 no ; after all, it is erring on the safe side—considering 
 everything. ” 
 
 Three or four evenings after Mrs. Englewood’s dance 
 Despard found himself at a musical party. He was in 
 his own milieu this time, and proportionately affable— 
 with the cool, condescending affability which was the 
 nearest approach to making himself agreeable that he 
 recognized. He had been smiled at by the beauty of 
 the evening, much enjoying her discomfiture when he 
 did 7iot remain many minutes by her side ; he had been 
 all but abjectly entreated by the most important of the 
 dowagers, a very great lady indeed, in every sense of 
 the word, to promise his assistance at her intended 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 23 
 
 theatricals ; he had, in short, received the appreciation 
 •Which was due him, and was now resting on his oars, 
 -comfortably installed in an easy-chair, debating within 
 himself whether it was worth while to give Mrs. Bel¬ 
 mont a fright by engrossing her pretty daughter, and 
 thus causing to retire from her side in the sulks Sir 
 Henry Gayburn, to whom the girl was talking. For* 
 Sir Henry was rich, and was known to be looking out 
 for a wife, and Despard had long since been erased 
 from the maternal list of desirable possibilities. 
 
 ‘‘Shall I ? ” he was saying to himself as he lay back 
 with a smile, when a voice beside him made him look 
 up. It was that of the son of the house, a friend of his 
 -own ; the young man seemed annoyed and perplexed. 
 
 “ Norreys ! oh, do me a good turn, will you ? I have 
 •to look after the lady who has just been singing, and 
 my mother is fussing about a girl who has been sitting 
 all the evening alone. She's a stranger. Will you be 
 so awfully good as to take her down for an ice or some¬ 
 thing ?" 
 
 Despard looked round. He could scarcely refuse a 
 
 i 
 
 request so couched, but he was far from pleased. 
 
 “Where is she? Who is she? he asked, beginning 
 languidly to show signs of moving. 
 
 “There—over by the window—that girl in black,” 
 his friend replied. “Who she is I can't say. My 
 
 mother told me her name was Ford. Come along, and 
 
 « 
 
 Til introduce you, that's a good fellow.” 
 
24 
 
 TEAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 Despard by this time had risen to his feet 
 
 “Upon my soul! ” he ejaculated. 
 
 But Mr. Leslie was in too a great a hurry to notice 
 the unusual emphasis with which he spoke. 
 
 And in half a second he found himself standing in 
 front of the girl, who, the last time they met, had 
 aroused in him such unwonted emotions. 
 
 “Miss Ford,” murmured young Leslie, “may I in¬ 
 troduce Mr. Norreys ? ” and then Mr. Leslie turned on 
 his heel and disappeared. 
 
 Despard stood there perfectly grave. He would 
 hazard no repulse ; he waited for her. 
 
 She looked up, but there was no smile on her face— 
 
 m 
 
 only the calm self-composedness which it seemed to 
 him he knew so well. How was it so ? Had he met 
 her before in some former existence? Why did all 
 about her seem at once strange and yet familiar? He 
 had never experienced the like before. 
 
 These thoughts—scarcely thoughts indeed—flickered 
 through his brain as he looked at her. They served one 
 purpose at least, they prevented his feeling or looking 
 awkward, could such a state of things have been con¬ 
 ceived possible. 
 
 Seeing that he was not going to speak, remember¬ 
 ing, perhaps, that if he remembered the last words she 
 had honored him with, he could scarcely be expected 
 to do so, she at last opened her lips. 
 
 “That,” she said quietly, slightly inclining her head 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 25 
 
 in the direction where young Leslie had stood, “ was* 
 under the circumstances, unnecessary/' 
 
 “ He did not know,” said Despard. 
 
 “ I suppose not; though I don’t know. Perhaps you 
 told him you had forgotten my name/’ 
 
 “No,” he replied, “I did not. It would not have 
 been true.” 
 
 She smiled very slightly. 
 
 “There is no dancing to-night,” she said. “ May I 
 ask-? ” and she hesitated. 
 
 “Why I ventured to disturb you? ” he interrupted. 
 “ I was requested to take you downstairs for an ice or 
 whatever you may prefer to that. The farce did not 
 originate with me, I assure you.” 
 
 “Do you mean by that that you will not take me 
 downstairs ? ” she said, smiling again as she got up 
 bom her seat. “ I should like an ice very much.” 
 
 Despard bowed without speaking, and offered her 
 his arm. 
 
 But when he had piloted her through the crowd, and 
 she was standing quietly with her ice, he broke the 
 silence. 
 
 “Miss Ford,” he began, “as the fates have again 
 forced me on your notice, I should like to ask you a 
 question. ” 
 
 She raised her eyes inquiringly. No—he had not 
 exaggerated their beauty. 
 
 “I should like to know the meaning of the strange 
 
26 
 
 TEAT CIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 words you honored me with as I was leaving Mrs. 
 Englewoods the other evening. I do not think you 
 have forgotten them. ” 
 
 “No,” she replied, “ I have not forgotten them, and 
 I meant them, and I still mean them. But I will not 
 talk about them or explain anything I said.” 
 
 There was nothing the least flippant in her tone 
 —only quiet determination. But Despard, watching 
 keenly, saw that her lips quivered a little as she 
 spoke. 
 
 “As you choose,” he said. “Of course, in the face 
 of such a very uncompromising refusal, I can say noth¬ 
 ing more.” 
 
 “Then shall we go upstairs again?” proposed Miss 
 Fforde. 
 
 Mr. Norreys acquiesced. But he had laid his plans, 
 and he was a more diplomatic adversary than Miss 
 Fforde was prepared to cope with. 
 
 “I finished reading the book we were speaking of 
 the other evening,” he began in a matter-of-fact voice; 
 
 “I mean-” and he named the book. “At least, I 
 
 fancy it was you I was discussing it with. The last 
 volume falls off greatly.” 
 
 “Oh, do you think so?” said the girl in a tone of 
 half-indignant disappointment, falling blindly into the 
 trap. “ I, on the contrary, felt that the last volume 
 made amends for all that was unsatisfactory in the 
 Others. You see by it what he was driving at all the 
 
THAT GIRL IX BLACK. 
 
 2 ? 
 
 time, and that the persiflage and apparent cynicism 
 were only means to an end. I do hate cynicism— 
 it is so easy, and such a little makes such a great 
 effect" 
 
 Something in her tone made Despard feel irritated. 
 “ Is she hitting at me again?” he thought. And the 
 idea threw him, in his turn, off his guard. 
 
 The natural result was that both forgot themselves 
 in the interest of the discussion. And Despard, when 
 he, as it were, awoke to the realization of this, took 
 care not to throw away the advantage he had gained. 
 He drew her out, ha* talked as he but seldom exerted 
 himself to do, and when, at the end of half-an-hour or 
 so, an elderly lady, whom he knew by name only, was 
 seen approaching them, and Miss Fforde sprang to her 
 feet, exclaiming, 
 
 “ Have you been looking for me ? I hope not ”—he 
 smiled quietly as he prepared to withdraw—he had 
 succeeded! 
 
 “ Good-night, Mr. Norreys,” said Maisie simply. 
 
 “Two evenings ago she would not say good-night 
 at all,” he thought. But he made no attempt to do 
 more than bow quietly. 
 
 “You are very—cold, grim—no, I don't know what 
 to call it, Maisie, dear,” said the lady, her cousin and 
 present chaperone, as they drove away, “in your 
 manner to men ; and that man in particular—Despard 
 Norreyk It is not often he is so civil to any girl. ” 
 
28 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 “I detest all men—all young men,” replied Maisie 
 irritably. 
 
 “But, my dear, you should be commonly civil. 
 And he had been giving himself, for him, unusual 
 trouble to entertain you.” “Can he know about her? 
 Oh, no, it is impossible,” she added to herself. 
 
 Miss Fforde closed her lips firmly. But in a moment 
 or two she opened them again. 
 
 “ Cousin Agnes,” she said, half smiling, “ I am afraid 
 you are quite mistaken. If I had not been what you 
 call ‘commonly civil/ would he have gone on talking 
 to me ? On the contrary, I am sadly afraid I was far 
 too civil.” 
 
 “My dear child,” ejaculated her cousin, “what do 
 you mean ? ” * 
 
 “ Oh,” said Maisie, 4 1 don’t know. Never mind the 
 silly things I shy. I like being with you, Cousin Agnes, 
 but I don't like London. I am much happier at home 
 in the country.” 
 
 “But, my dear child, when I saw you at home a 
 few months ago you were looking forward with pleas¬ 
 ure to coming. What has changed you ? What has 
 disappointed you ? ” 
 
 “I am not suited for anything but a quiet country 
 life—that is all,” said Miss Fforde. 
 
 “But, then, Maisie, afterwards, you know, you will 
 have to come to town and have a house of your own 
 
 f 
 
 and all that sort of thing. It is necessary for you to 
 see something of the world to prepare you for—” 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 29 
 
 “Afterwards isn’t now , Cousin Agnes. And I am 
 doing my best, as papa wished,” said the girl weariedly. 
 “ Do let us talk of something else. Really sometimes 
 I do wish I were any one but myself. ” 
 
 r ‘ Maisie, ” said her cousin reproachfully, “ you know, 
 dear, that isn’t right. You must take the cares and 
 responsibilities of a position like yours along with the 
 advantages and privileges of it.” 
 
 “I know,” Miss Fforde replied meekly enough; 
 “but, Cousin Agnes, do tell me who was that very 
 funny-looking man with the long fluffy beard whom 
 you were talking to for some time. 99 
 
 “Oh, that, my dear, was Count Dalmiati, the cele¬ 
 brated ” so-and-so, and once launched in her descrip¬ 
 tions Cousin Agnes left Maisie in peace. 
 
 Two days later came the afternoon of Lady Valence's 
 garden party. It was one of the garden parties to 
 which “everybody” went—Despard Norreys for one, 
 as a matter of course. He had got more gratification 
 and less annoyance out of his second meeting with 
 Miss Fforde ; for he flattered himself he knew how to 
 manage her now—“ that little girl in black, who thinks 
 herself so wonderfully wise, forsooth ! ” Yet the sting 
 was there still; the very persistence with which he re¬ 
 peated to himself that he had mastered her showed it 
 His thoughts recurred to her more than they were in 
 the habit of doing to any one or anything but his own 
 immediate concerns. Out of curiosity, merely, no 
 
30 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 doubt; curiosity increased by the apparent improbabil¬ 
 ity of satisfying it. For no one seemed to know any¬ 
 thing about her. She might have dropped from the 
 skies. He had indeed some difficulty in recalling her 
 personality to the two or three people to whom he ap¬ 
 plied for information. 
 
 “A girl in black—at the Leslies' musical party? 
 Why, my dear fellow, there were probably a dozen 
 girls in black there. There usually is a good sprinkling 
 of black frocks at evening parties," said one of the 
 knowers of everybody whom he had selected to honor 
 with his inquiries. “ What was there remarkable about 
 her? There must have been something to attract your 
 notice." 
 
 “No, on the contrary,” Despard replied, “ she was 
 remarkably zmremarkable ;" and he laughed lightly. 
 “ It was only rather absurd. I have seemed haunted 
 by her once or twice lately, and yet nobody knows 
 anything about her, except that her name is Ford." 
 
 “Ford," said his companion: “that does not tell 
 much. And not pretty, you say ? " 
 
 “Pretty, oh, yes. No, not exactly pretty," and a 
 vision of Maisie's clear cold profile and—yes, there 
 was no denying it —most lovely eyes, rose before him. 
 “ More than pretty, "he would have said had he not 
 been afraid of being laughed at. “I don’t really know 
 how to describe her, and it is of less than no conse¬ 
 quence. I don't suppose I shall ever see her again,” 
 and he went on to talk of other matters. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLA.CK. 
 
 •A 
 
 He did see her again, however, and it was, as will 
 
 have already been supposed, at Lady Valence’s garden 
 
 % 
 
 party that he did so. It was a cold day, of course. 
 The weather, with its usual consideration, had changed 
 that very morning, after having been, for May, really 
 decently mild and agreeable. The wind had veered 
 round to the east, and it seemed not improbable that 
 the rain would look in, an uninvited guest, in the 
 course of the afternoon. 
 
 Lady Valence declared herself in despair, but as 
 nobody could remember the weather ever being any¬ 
 thing but highly detestable the day of her garden 
 party, it is to be hoped that she in reality took it more 
 philosophically than she allowed. Despard strode 
 about feeling very cold, and wondering why he had 
 come, and why, having come, he stayed. There was 
 a long row of conservatories and ferneries, and glass¬ 
 houses of every degree of temperature not far from the 
 lawn, where at one end the band was playing, and at 
 the other some deluded beings were eating ices. 
 Despard shivered ; the whole was too ghastly. A 
 
 i 
 
 door in the centre house stood invitingly open, and he 
 turned in. Voices near at hand, female voices, warned 
 him off at one side, for he was not feeling amiable, and 
 he hastened in the opposite direction. By degrees the 
 pleasant warmth, the extreme beauty of the plants and 
 flowers amidst which he found himself, the solitariness* 
 too, soothed and subdued his irritation. 
 
32 
 
 TEAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 “ If I could smoke/’ he began to say to himself^ 
 when, looking round with a half-formed idea of so 
 doing, he caught sight amidst the ferns of feminine 
 drapery. Some one was there before him—but a very 
 quiet, mouse-like somebody. A somebody who was 
 standing there motionless, gazing at the tall tropical 
 plants, enjoying, apparently, the warmth and the quiet 
 like himself. 
 
 ‘ 4 That girl in black, that sphinx of a girl again—by 
 Jove ! ” murmured Despard under his breath, and as he 
 did so, she turned and saw him. 
 
 Her first glance was of annoyance; he saw her 
 clearly from where he stood, there was no mistaking 
 the fact. But, so quickly, that it was difficult to be¬ 
 lieve it had been there, the expression of vexation 
 passed. The sharply contracted brows smoothed ; the 
 graceful head bent slightly forward ; the lips parted. 
 
 “How do you do, Mr. Norreys ? ” she said. “We 
 are always running against each other unexpectedly, 
 are we not ? ” 
 
 Her tone was perfectly natural, her manner expressed 
 simple pleasure and gratification. She was again the 
 third, the rarest of her three selves—the personality 
 which Despard, in his heart of hearts, believed to be 
 herself. 
 
 He smiled—a slightly amused, almost a slightly 
 condescending smile, but a very pleasant one all the 
 same. He could afford to be pleasant now. Poor 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 33 
 
 silly little girl—she had given in with a good grace a 
 truce to her nonsense of regal airs and dignity ; a truce, 
 too, to the timid self-consciousness of her first in¬ 
 troduction. 
 
 “She understands better now, I .see, ” he thought 
 “Understands that a little country girl is but-—ah, 
 Well—but a little country girl. Still, I must allow— 
 and he hesitated as his glance fell on her ; it was the 
 first time he had seen her by daylight, and the words 
 he had mentally used did not quite “ fit ”—I must 
 allow that she has brains, and some character of her 
 own.” 
 
 “I can imagine its seeming so to you,” he said 
 aloud. “You have, I think you told me, lived always 
 in the country. Of course, in the country one's ac¬ 
 quaintances stand out distinctly, and one remembers 
 every day whom one has and has not seen. In town 
 it is quite different. I find myself constantly forget¬ 
 ting people, and doing all sorts of stupid things, imagin¬ 
 ing I have seen some one last week when it was six 
 months ago, and so on. But people are really very 
 good-natured. ” 
 
 She listened attentively. 
 
 “How difficult it must be to remember all the 
 people you know!” she said, with the greatest ap¬ 
 parent simplic ; ty ; indeed, with a tone of almost awe* 
 struck reverence. 
 
 “ I simply don't attempt it,” he replied. 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 TEAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 “ How—dear me, I hardly know how to say it-~-hoW 
 very good and kind of you it is to remember me,” sha 
 said. 
 
 Mr. Norreys glanced at her sharply. 
 
 Was she playing him off? For an instant the appall* 
 ing suggestion all but took his breath away, but it 
 was quickly dismissed. Its utter absurdity was too 
 self-evident; and the expression on her face reassured 
 him. She seemed so innocent as she stood there, 
 her eyes hidden for the moment by their well-fringed 
 lids, for she was looking down. A faint, the very 
 faintest, suspicion of a blush colored her cheeks, there 
 was a tiny little trembling about the corners of her 
 mouth. But somehow these small evidences of con* 
 fusion did not irritate him as they had done when he 
 first met her. On the contrary. “Poor little girl,” he 
 said to himself. “ I see I must be careful. Still, she 
 will live to get over it, and one cannot be positively 
 brutal. ” 
 
 For an instant or two he did not speak. 
 
 Then : “I never pay compliments, Miss Ford,” he 
 said, “but what I am going to say may sound to 
 you like one. However, I trust you will not dislike 
 it.” 
 
 And again he unaccountably hesitated—what was 
 the matter with him ? He meant to be kindly en¬ 
 couraging to the girl, but as she stood beside him, look¬ 
 ing up with a half-curious, half-deprecating expression 
 
TEA T GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 85 
 
 in her eyes, he was conscious of his face slightly flush- 
 ing ; the words he wanted refused to come, he felt as 
 if he were bewitched. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Won't you tell me what you were going to say ? ” 
 she said at last. “ I should so like to hear it. ” 
 
 44 It's not worth saying," he blurted out. “Indeed, / 
 though I know what I mean, I cannot express it. You 
 —you are quite different from other girls, Miss Ford. 
 
 It would be impossible to confuse you with the crowd. 
 That's about the sum of what I was thinking, though 
 —I meant to express it differently. Certainly, in the 
 way I have said it, no one by any possibility could take 
 it for a compliment. " 
 
 To his surprise she looked up at him with a bright 
 smile, a smile of pleasure, and—of something else. 
 
 “On the contrary, I do take it as a compliment, as 
 a very distinct compliment," she said, “considering 
 whom it comes from. Though, after all, it is scarcely 
 / that should accept it. The—the circumstances of 
 my life may have made me different—my having been 
 so little in town, for instance. I suppose there are 
 some advantages in everything, even in apparent dis¬ 
 advantages. ” 
 
 Her extreme gentleness and deference put him at his 
 ease again. 
 
 “ Oh, certainly," he said, “For my part, I often 
 wish I had never been anywhere or seen anything/ 
 Life would, in such a case, seem so much more in- 
 
36 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 teresting. There would be still things left to dream 
 about. " 
 
 He sighed, and there was something genuine in 
 his sigh. “I envy people who have never travelled 
 sometimes/' he added. 
 
 “Have you travelled much ? ” she asked. 
 
 “Oh, dear, yes—been everywhere—the usual 
 round. " 
 
 “But the usual round is just what with me counts 
 for nothing, " she said sharply. * ‘ Real travelling means 
 living in other countries, leading the life of their 
 peoples, not rushing round the capitals of Europe from 
 one cosmopolitan hotel to another." 
 
 He smiled a superior smile. “When you have 
 rushed round the capitals of Europe you may give an 
 opinion," his smile seemed to say. 
 
 “That sort of thing is impossible, except for 
 Bohemians," he said languidly. “I detest talking 
 about travels." 
 
 “Do you really ? " she said, with a very distinct ac¬ 
 cent of contempt. “Then I suppose you have not 
 
 read-" and she named a book on everybody's table 
 
 at the moment. 
 
 Despard’s face lighted up. 
 
 “Oh, indeed, yes," he said. “That is not an ordi¬ 
 nary book of travels ; " and he went on to speak of the 
 volume in question in a manner which showed that 
 he had read it intelligently, while Miss Fforde, forget- 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 37 
 
 ting herself and her companion in the interest of what 
 he said, responded sympathetically. 
 
 Half unconsciously, as they talked they strolled up 
 and down the wide open space in front of the ferns. 
 Suddenly voices, apparently approaching them, caught 
 the girl’s ear. 
 
 “Oh, dear,” she said, “ my friends will be wonder¬ 
 ing what has become of me ! I must go. Good-bye, 
 Mr. Norreys,” and she held out her hand. There was 
 something simple and perfectly natural in her manner 
 as she did so, which struck him. It was almost as if 
 she were throwing off impulsively a part which she 
 was tired of playing. 
 
 He held her hand for a quarter of an instant longer 
 than was actually necessary. 
 
 “I—I hope we may meet again, Miss Ford,” he 
 said, simply but cordially—something in her present 
 manner was infectious—“ and continue our talk.” 
 
 She glanced up at him. 
 
 “I hope so, too,” she said quickly. But then her 
 brows contracted again a little. “At least—I don’t 
 know that it is very probable,” she added disconnect¬ 
 edly, as she hastened away in the direction whence 
 came the voices. 
 
 “Hasn’t many invitations, I dare say,” he said to 
 himself as he looked after her. “If she had been still 
 with Gertrude Englewood I might, perhaps, have got 
 
 one or two people to be civil to them. But I daresay 
 
38 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 it would have been Quixotic, and it's the sort of thing 
 I dislike doing—putting one's self under obligation for 
 no real reason. ” 
 
 If he had heard what Maisie Fforde was thinking to 
 herself as she made her way quickly to her cousin ! 
 
 “What a pity!” she thought. “What a real pity 
 that a man who must have had good material in him 
 should have so sunk—to what I can’t help thinking 
 vulgarity of feeling , if not of externals—to such con¬ 
 temptible self-conceit and affectations ! I can under¬ 
 stand, however, that he may have been a nice boy 
 once, as Gertrude maintains. Poor Gertrude—how 
 her hero has turned out ! I must never let her know 
 how impossible I find it to resist drawing him out—it 
 surely is not wrong ? Oh, how I should love to see him 
 thoroughly humbled ! The worst of it is, that when he 
 becomes a reasonable being, as he does now and then 
 he can be so nice—interesting even—and I forget whom 
 I am talking to. But not for long! No, indeed— 
 ‘Mrs. Englewood's dowdy protigie* the ‘bread-and- 
 
 butter miss,' for whom the tenth waltz was too much 
 
 • . * 1 
 
 condescension, hasn't such a bad memory. And when 
 I had looked forward to my first dance so, and fancied 
 the world was a good and kind place ! Oh /'' and she 
 clinched her hands as the hot mortification, the scath¬ 
 ing desillusionnement , of that evening recurred to her 
 in its full force. “ Oh, I hope it is not wicked and un- 
 Christian, but I should love to see him humbled 1 I 
 
THAT GIRL 1 BLACK. 
 
 39 
 
 wonder if I shall meet him again. I hope not—and 
 yet I hope I shall/' 
 
 The “again" came next at a dinner-party, to which 
 she accompanied her cousin. Mrs. Maberly was old- 
 fashioned in some of her ideas. Nothing for instance, 
 would persuade-her that it was courteous to be more 
 than twenty minutes later than the dinner-hour named, 
 in consequence of which she not unfrequently found 
 herself the first arrival. This in no way annoyed 
 Maisie, as it might have done a less simple-minded 
 maiden ; indeed, on the contrary, it rather added to 
 her enjoyment. She liked to get into a quiet corner 
 and watch the various guests as they came in ; she 
 felt amused by, and yet sorry for, the little perturba¬ 
 tions she sometimes discerned on the part of the 
 hostess, especially if the latter happened to young 
 and at all anxious-minded. This was the case on the 
 evening in question, when fully half an hour had been 
 spent by Miss Fforde in her comer before dinner was 
 announced. 
 
 “It is too bad/’ Maisie overheard the young chate - 
 laine whisper to a friend, “such affectation really 
 amounts to rudeness. But yet it is so awkward to go 
 
 down-” then followed some words too low for her 
 
 to understand, succeeded by a joyful exclamation— 
 “Ah, there he is at last," as again the door opened, 
 and “Mr. Norreys ” was announced. 
 
 And Maisie’s ears must surely have been pretemat- 
 
40 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 urally sharp, for through the buzz of voices, through the 
 hostess's amiably expressed reproaches, they caught 
 the sound of her own name, and the fatal words “that 
 girl in black/' 
 
 “You must think me a sort of Frankenstein's night¬ 
 mare, ” she could not help saying with a smile, as Des- 
 pard approached to take her down to dinner. 
 
 But she was scarcely prepared for the rejoinder. 
 
 “I won't contradict you, Miss Ford, if you like to 
 call yourselves names. No, I should have been both 
 
 surprised and disappointed had you not been here. I 
 
 * 
 
 have felt sure all day I was going to meet you." 
 
 Maisie felt herself blush, felt too that his eyes were 
 upon her, and blushed more, in fury at herself. 
 
 “Fool that I am," she thought. “He is going to 
 play now at making me fall in love with him, is he? 
 How contemptible, how absurd! Does he really im¬ 
 agine he can take me in ? " 
 
 She raised her head proudly and looked at him, to 
 show him that she was not afraid to do so. But the 
 expression on his face surprised her again. It was 
 serious, gentle, and almost deprecating, yet with an 
 honest light in the eyes such as she had never seen 
 there before. 
 
 “What an actor he would make/' she thought. 
 But a little quiver of some curious inexplicable sympa^ 
 thy which shot through her as she caught those eyes, 
 belied the unspoken words. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 41 
 
 €t I am giving far more thought to the man and his 
 moods than he is worth,” was the decision she had 
 arrived at by the time they reached the dining-room 
 door. ‘‘After all, the wisest philosophy is to take the 
 goods the gods send us and enjoy them. I shall forget 
 it all for the present, and speak to him as to any other 
 pleasant man I happen to meet.” 
 
 And for that evening, and whenever they met, 
 which was not unfrequently in the course of the next 
 few weeks, Maisie Fforde kept to this determination. 
 It was not difficult, for when he chose, Despard Norreys 
 could be more than pleasant. And—“Miss Ford” in 
 her third personality was not hard to be pleasant to; 
 and—another “and”—they were both young, both— 
 in certain directions—deplorably mistaken in their es¬ 
 timates of themselves ; and, lastly, human nature is 
 \ 
 
 human nature still, through all the changes of philos¬ 
 ophies, fashions, and customs. 
 
 The girl was no longer acting a part; had she been 
 doing so, indeed, she could not so perfectly have car¬ 
 ried out the end she had, in the first fire of her indig¬ 
 nation, vaguely proposed to herself. For the time 
 being she was, so to speak, “ letting herself go ” with 
 the pleasant insidious current of circumstances. 
 
 Yet the memory of that first evening was still there 
 She had not forgotten. 
 
 And Despard ? 
 
42 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 The London season was over. Mr. Norreys had 
 been longing for its. close ; so, at least, he had repeated 
 to his friends, and with even more insistence to him¬ 
 self, a great many, indeed a very great many, times, 
 during the last hot, dusty weeks of the poor season’s 
 existence. He wanted to get off to Norway in a friend s 
 yacht for some fishing, he said ; he seemed for once 
 really eager about it, so eager as to make more than 
 one of his companions smile, and ask themselves what 
 had come to Norreys, he who always took things with 
 such imperturbable equanimity, what had given him this 
 mania for northern fishing ? 
 
 And now the fishing and the trip were things of the 
 past. They had not turned out as delightful in reality as 
 in anticipation somehow, and yet what had gone wrong, 
 Despard, on looking back, found it hard to say. That 
 nothing had gone wrong was the truth of the matter. 
 The weather had been fine and favorable ; the party 
 had been well chosen ; Lennox-Brown, the yacht’s 
 owner, was the perfection of a host. 
 
 “ It was a case of the workman, not of the tools, I 
 
TEAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 43 
 
 suspect/' Despard said to himself one morning, when, 
 strolling slowly up and down the smooth bit of gravel 
 path outside the drawing-room windows at Markerslea 
 Vicarage, he allowed his thoughts to wander backwards 
 some little way. “I am sick of it all,” he went on, 
 with an impatient shake, testifying to inward discom¬ 
 posure. “I'm a fool after all, no wiser, indeed a very 
 great deal more foolish, than my neighbors. And I’ve 
 been hard enough upon other fellows in my time. 
 Little I knew ! I cannot throw it off, and what to do 
 I know not.” 
 
 He was staying with his sister, his only near relation. 
 She was older than he, had been married for several 
 years, and had but one trouble in life. She was child¬ 
 less. Naturally, therefore, she lavished on Despard an 
 altogether undue amount of sisterly devotion. But 
 she was by no means an entirely foolish woman. She 
 had helped to spoil him, and she was beginning to re¬ 
 gret it. 
 
 “ He is terribly, quite terribly blask ,” she was saying 
 to herself as she watched him this morning, herself un¬ 
 observed. “I have never seen it so plainly as this 
 autumn,” and she sighed. “ He is changed, too; he 
 is moody and irritable, and that is new. He has 
 always been so sweet-tempered. Surely he has not 
 got into money difficulties—I can scarcely think so. 
 He is too sensible. Though, after all, as Charles often 
 says, perhaps the best thing that could befall the poor 
 
44 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK 
 
 boy would be to have to work hard for his living” — a 
 
 t 
 
 most natural remark on the part of “Charles,” seeing 
 that he himself had always enjoyed a thoroughly com¬ 
 fortable sufficiency—and again Mrs. Selby sighed 
 
 Her sigh was echoed; she started slightly, then, 
 glancing round, she saw that the glass door by which 
 she stood was ajar, and that her brother had arrrested 
 his steps for a moment or two, and was within a couple 
 of yards of her. It was his sigh that she had heard. 
 Her face clouded over still more; it is even probable 
 that a tear or two rose unbidden to her eyes. She was 
 a calm, considering woman as a rule ; for once she 
 yielded to impulse, and, stepping out, quickly slipped 
 her hand through Mr. Norreys’ arm. 
 
 “ My dear Despard,” she said, “ what a sigh ! It 
 sounded as if from the very depths of your heart, if,” 
 she went on, trying to speak lightly, “if you have one 
 that is to say, which I have sometimes doubted. ” 
 
 But he threw back no joke in return. 
 
 “ I have never given you reason to doubt it, surely, 
 Maddie ? ” he said half reproachfully. 
 
 “ No, no, dear. Fm in fun, of course. But seri¬ 
 ously-” 
 
 “ I’m serious enough.” 
 
 “Yes, that you are— too serious. What’S the 
 matter, Despard, for that there is something the 
 matter I am convinced.” 
 
 He did not attempt to deny it 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 45 
 
 “Yes, Madeline/' he said slowly, 4 ‘ I’m altogether 
 upset. I’ve been false to all my own theories. I’ve 
 been a selfish enough brute always, I know, but at 
 least I think I’ve been consistent. I’ve chosen my own 
 line, and lived the life, and among the people that suited 
 me, and-” 
 
 “ Been dreadfully, miserably spoilt, Despard.” 
 
 He glanced up at her sharply. No, she was not 
 
 smiling. His face clouded over still more. 
 
 * 
 
 “ And that’s the best even you can say of me? ” he 
 asked. 
 
 Mrs. Selby hardly let him finish. 
 
 “ No, no. I am blaming myself more than you,* 
 she said quickly. “ You are much—much better than 
 you know, Despard. You are not selfish really. 
 Think of what you have done for others ; how con¬ 
 sistently you have given up those evenings to that 
 night school. 
 
 “ Once a week—what’s that ? And there’s no credit 
 in doing a thing one likes. I enjoy those evenings, and 
 it’s more than I can say for the average of my days.” 
 
 But his face cleared a very little as he spoke. 
 
 “ Well,” she went on, “that shows you are not at 
 heart an altogether selfish brute,” and now she smiled 
 a little. “And all the more does it show how much 
 better you might still be if you chose. I am very glad, 
 delighted, Despard, that you are discontented and dis¬ 
 satisfied ; I knew it would come sooner or later.” 
 
46 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 Mr. Norreys looked rather embanassed. 
 
 “ Maddie," he began again, “you haven't quite un¬ 
 derstood me. I didn’t finish my sentence. I was going 
 on to say that at least I had done no harm to any one 
 else ; if no one's any better through me, at least no ones 
 the worse for my selfishness—oh, yes, don’t interrupt," 
 he went on. “I know what you’d like to say—‘No 
 man liveth to himself/ the high-flown sort of thing. I 
 don’t go in for that. But now —I have not even kept 
 my consistency. You’d never guess what I’ve gone 
 and done—at least, Maddie, can you guess? ’’ 
 
 And his at all times sweet voice sweetened and 
 softened as he spoke, and into his eyes stole a look 
 Madeline had never seen there before. 
 
 “ Despard," she exclaimed breathlessly, “haveyou, 
 can you, have fallen in love ? 99 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 “ Oh, dear Despard,’’ she exclaimed, “ I am so very 
 glad. It will be the making of you. That’s to say, if 
 —but it must be somebody very nice." 
 
 “ Nice enough in herself—nice," he repeated, and he 
 smiled. “Yes, if by nice you mean everything sweet 
 and womanly, and original and delightful, and—oh, 
 you mustn’t tempt me to talk about her. But what she 
 is herself is not the only thing, my poor Maddie." 
 
 Mrs. Selby gave a start. 
 
 “Oh, Despard, she exclaimed, “you don’t maun 
 that she’s a married woman. ” 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 47 
 
 “No, no." 
 
 44 Or, or any one very decidedly beneath you?" she 
 continued, with some relief, but anxiously still. 
 
 Despard hesitated. 
 
 44 That's exactly what I can't quite say/' he replied. 
 “She's a lady by birth, that I'm sure of. But she has 
 seen very little. Lived always in a village apparently 
 —she has been in some ways unusually well and care¬ 
 fully educated. But I'm quite positive she's poor, really 
 with nothing of her own, I fancy. I’m not sure—it has 
 struck me once or twice that perhaps she had been in¬ 
 tended for a governess." 
 
 Mrs. Selby gasped, but checked herself. 
 
 44 She has friends who are kind to her. I met her at 
 some good houses. It was at Mrs. Englewood's first of 
 all, but since then I've seen her at much better places." 
 
 4 4 But why do you speak so doubtfully—you keep 
 saying 4 1 fancy'— 4 1 suppose.' It must be easy to 
 find out all about her." 
 
 44 No; that's just it. She's curiously, no—not re¬ 
 served—she's too nice and well-bred for that sort of 
 thing—but, if you can understand, she’s frankly back¬ 
 ward in speaking of herself. She'll talk of anything 
 but herself. She has an old invalid father whom she 
 adores—and—upon my soul, that's about all she has 
 ever told me." 
 
 44 You can ask Mrs. Englewood, surely. * 
 
 Despard frowned. 
 
48 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 “ I can, and I have ; at least, I tried it But it was 
 not easy. She's been rather queer to me lately. She 
 would volunteer no information, and of course—you 
 see—I didn't want to seem interested on the subject 
 It's only just lately, since I came here in fact, that I've 
 really owned it to myself," and his face flushed. “I 
 went yachting and fishing to put it out of my head, 
 but—it's been no use—I won't laugh at all that sort of 
 thing again as I have done, I can tell you. " 
 
 “He’s very much in earnest," thought Mrs. Selby. 
 “What—you don't mind telling me—what is hei 
 name ? " 
 
 “ Ford—Miss Ford. I fancy her first name is Mary, 
 There's a pet name they call her by, but he did not 
 tell it." 
 
 “ Mary Ford—that does not sound aristocratic," 
 mused Mrs. Selby. “Despard, tell me—Mrs. Engle¬ 
 wood is really fond of you. Do you think she knows 
 anything against the girl, or her family, or anything 
 like that, and that she was afraid of it for you? " 
 
 “Oh, dear, no ! Quite the contrary, Mai—Miss Ford 
 is a great pet of hers. Gertrude was angry with me 
 for not being civil to her," and he laughed. 
 
 “ Not being civil to her," she repeated. “ And yon 
 were falling in love with her? How do you mean ? " 
 “That was afterwards. I was brutally uncivil to 
 tier at first That's how it began somehow," he said, 
 disconnectedly. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 49 
 
 Mrs* Selby felt utterly perplexed Was he being 
 taken in by a designing girl? It all sounded very 
 Inconsistent 
 
 " Despard,” she said after a little silence, " shall I 
 try to find out all about her from Mrs. Englewood ? 
 She would not refuse any information if it was for 
 your sake. ” 
 
 He considered. 
 
 " Well, yes,” he said, " perhaps you’d better.” 
 
 44 And—” she went on, " if all is satisfactory—* 
 
 "Well?” 
 
 "You will go through with it ? ” 
 
 "I—suppose so. Altogether satisfactory it can’t 
 be. I'm fairly well off as a bachelor, but that's a 
 very different matter. And—Maddie—I should hate 
 poverty. ” 
 
 " You would have no need to call it poverty,” she 
 Said rather coldly. 
 
 “ Well—well—I’m speaking comparatively of course,” 
 he replied, impatiently. " It would be what / call 
 poverty. And I am selfish, I know. The best of me 
 won't come out under those circumstances. I've no 
 right to marry, you see—that's what's been tormenting 
 
 _ ft 
 
 me. 
 
 " But if she likes to face it—would not that bring 
 out the best of you?” said Mrs. Selby hopefully, 
 though in her heart rather shocked by his way of 
 
 Speaking. 
 
 4 
 
5 © 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 “Perhaps— I can't say. But of course if she 
 did-” 
 
 “And you are sure she would?” asked Madeline, 
 suddenly awaking to the fact that Miss Ford's feel¬ 
 ings in the matter had been entirely left out of the 
 question. 
 
 Despard smiled. 
 
 “Do you mean am I sure she cares for me ? ” he 
 said. “Oh, yes—as for that-” 
 
 “Idon't like a girl who—who lets it be seen if she 
 cares for a man,” she said. 
 
 Mr. Norreys turned upon her. 
 
 “ Lets it be seen,” he repeated angrily. “Maddie, 
 you put things very disagreeably. Would I—tell me, 
 is it likely that / would take to a girl so utterly devoid 
 of delicacy as your words sound ? And is it so im¬ 
 probable that a girl would care for me? ” He smiled 
 in spite of himself, and Mrs. Selby’s answering smile 
 as she murmured : “I did not mean that, you know,” 
 helped to smooth him down. ‘ ‘ She did her best to make 
 me think she detested me,” he added. “ But-” 
 
 “Ah, yes, but—” said his sister fondly. “Then it is 
 settled, Despard,” she went on. “I shall tackle Mrs. 
 Englewood in my own way. You can trust me. 
 You don't know where Miss Ford is at present?” she 
 added. 
 
 He shook his head despondently. 
 
 “Not the ghost of an idea. I didn't try to hear. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 51 
 
 I thought I didn't want to know, you see. But-»» 
 Maddie," he added, half timidly, “you'll write a* 
 once ?" 
 
 “As soon as I possibly can," she replied kindly, 
 for glancing at him she saw that he looked really ill 
 and worn. “ And," she went on, “ as my reward, you 
 will go with me to the Densters' garden-party this 
 afternoon. Charles can't, and I hate going alone. I 
 don't know them—it is their first year here, though 
 everybody says they are very nice people." 
 
 “Oh, dear," said Despard. “Very well, Maddie. 
 I must, I suppose." 
 
 ‘ 4 Then be ready at a quarter to four. I'll drive 
 you in the pony-carriage," and Madeline disappeared 
 through the glass door whence she had emerged. 
 
 “I wonder if she will write to-day," thought Mr. 
 Norreys, though he would have been ashamed to ask 
 it “I should like to know it's done—a sort of cross¬ 
 ing the Rubicon. And it's a good while now since 
 that last day I saw her. She was never quite so 
 sweet as that day. Supposing I heard she was 
 married ? " 
 
 His heart seemed to stop beating at the thought, 
 and he grew white, though there was no one to see. 
 But he reassured himself. Few things were less 
 likely. Portionless girls, however charming, don't 
 marry so quickly nowadays. 
 
 Madeline's feelings were mingled. She was honestly 
 
52 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 and unselfishly glad of what she believed might be a 
 real turning-point towards good for Despard. Yet— 
 “if only he had not chosen a girl quite so denuded of 
 worldly advantages as she evidently is,” she reflected. 
 “For of course if she had either money or connection 
 Mrs. Englewood would not have kept it a secret. She 
 is far too outspoken. I must beg her to tell everything 
 she knows, not to be afraid of my mixing her name up 
 in the matter in any way. When she sees that Charles 
 and I do not disapprove she will feel less respon¬ 
 sibility.” 
 
 And it was with a comfortable sense of her own and 
 “Charles’s” unworldliness that Mrs. Selby prepared to 
 indite the important letter. 
 
 She saw little of her brother till the afternoon. He 
 did not appear at luncheon, having left word that he 
 had gone for a long walk. 
 
 \ 
 
 “Provided only that he is not too late for the 
 Densters’,” thought Madeline, with a little sigh over the 
 perversity of ratmkind. 
 
 But her fears were unfounded. At ten minutes to 
 four Mr. Norreys made his appearance in the hall, 
 faultlessly attired, apologizing with his usual courtesy, 
 in which to his sister he never failed, for his five 
 minutes’ delay, and Mrs. Selby, feeling pleased with 
 herself outwardly and inwardly, for she was conscious 
 both of looking well in a very pretty new bonnet, and 
 of acting a truly high-minded part as a sister, seated 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 53 
 
 herself in her place, with a glance of satisfaction at 
 her companion. 
 
 “ Everybody will be envying me,” she said to her¬ 
 self, with a tiny sigh as she remembered former air- 
 castles in Despard’s behoof. “The Flores-Carter girls 
 and Edith and Bertha Ryder, indeed all the neigh¬ 
 borhood get quite excited if they know he's here. 
 He might have had his choice, of the best matches in 
 this county, to my own knowledge, and there are 
 several girls with money. Ah, well ! ” 
 
 The grounds seemed already full of guests when 
 the brother and sister drove up to the Densters’ door. 
 Mrs. Selby was at once seized upon by some of her 
 special cronies, and for half an hour or so Despard 
 kept dutifully beside her, allowing himself to be intro¬ 
 duced to any extent, doing his best to please his sister 
 by responding graciously to the various attentions 
 which were showered upon him. But he grew very 
 tired of it all in a little while—a curious dreamy feeling 
 began to come over him, born no doubt of the un¬ 
 wonted excitement of his conversation with Madeline 
 that morning. He had gone a long walk in hopes of 
 recovering his usual equanimity, but had only sue* 
 ceeded in tiring himself physically. The mere fact ot 
 having put in words to another the conflict of the last 
 few months seemed to have given actual existence to 
 that which he had by fits and starts been trying to 
 persuade himself was but a passing fancy. And even 
 
54 
 
 TEAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 to himself he could not have told whether he was glad 
 or sorry that the matter had come to a point—had, as 
 it were, been taken out of his own hands. For that 
 Madeline had already written to Mrs. Englewood he 
 felt little doubt. 
 
 “ Women are always in such a desperate hurry,” he 
 said to himself, which, all things considered, was 
 surely most unreasonable. Nor could he have denied 
 that it was so, for even as he made the reflection he 
 began to calculate in how many, or how few rather, 
 days they might look for an answer, and to speculate 
 on the chances of Mrs. Englewood’s being acquainted 
 with Maisie’s present whereabouts. 
 
 “Maisie,” he called her to himself, though he had 
 somehow shrunk from telling the name to his sister. 
 It was so sweet—so like her, he repeated softly, though, 
 truth to tell, sweetness was not the most conspicuous 
 quality in our heroine. But Despard was honestly in 
 love after all, as many better and many worse men 
 have been before him, and will be again. And love of 
 the best kind, which on the whole his was, is clairvoy¬ 
 ant—he was not wrong about Maisie’s real sweet¬ 
 ness. 
 
 “ I do care for her, as deeply, as thoroughly as ever 
 a man cared for a woman. But I don’t want to marry ; 
 it’s against all my plans and ideas. I didn’t want to 
 fall in love either, for that matter. The whole affair 
 upsets everything I had ever dreamt of/’ 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 55 
 
 He felt dreaming now—he had managed to leave 
 his sister and her friends, absorbed in the excitement 
 of watching a game of lawn tennis between the best 
 players of the county, and had stolen by himself 
 down some shady walks away from the sparkle and 
 chatter of the garden party. The quiet and dimness 
 soothed him, but increased the strange unreal feeling, 
 of which he had been conscious since the morning. 
 He felt as if nothing that could happen would surprise 
 him—he was actually, in point of fact, not surprised, 
 when at a turn in the path he saw suddenly before 
 him, advancing towards him, her cloudy black drapery 
 —for she was in black as ever—scarcely distinguish¬ 
 able from the dark shrubs at each side, the very person 
 around whom all his thoughts were centering—Maisie 
 —Maisie Ford herself! 
 
 He did not start, he made no exclamation. A 
 strange intent look came into his eyes, as he walked 
 on towards her. Long afterwards he remembered, 
 and it helped to explain things, that she too had testi¬ 
 fied no surprise. But her face flushed a little, and the 
 first expression he caught sight of was one of pleasure 
 —afterwards, long afterwards, he remembered this 
 coo. 
 
 They met—their hands touched. But for a moment 
 
 t 
 
 he did not speak. 
 
 ‘‘How do you do, Mr. Norreys ? ” she said then. 
 “ It is hot and glaring on the lawn, is it not? I have 
 
56 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 I 
 
 just been seeing my father off. He was too tired to 
 stay longer, and I was glad to wander about here in 
 the shade a little. ” 
 
 “Your father? ” he repeated half mechanically. 
 
 “ Yes—we are staying, he and I, for a few days at 
 Laxter's Hill. I am so sorry he has gone—I would so 
 have liked you to see him.” 
 
 She spoke eagerly, and with the peculiar, bright 
 girlishness really natural to her, which was one of her 
 greatest charms. 
 
 Despard looked at her; her voice and manner helped 
 him a little to throw off the curious sensation of un¬ 
 reality. But he was, though he scarcely knew it, be¬ 
 coming inwardly more and more wrought up. 
 
 “I should have liked to see him exceedingly,” he 
 began, “ any one so dear to you. I may hope some 
 other time, perhaps, to do so ? I—I was thinking of 
 you when I first caught sight of you just now, Miss 
 Ford—indeed, I have done nothing—upon my word, 
 you may believe me—I have done little else than think 
 of you since we last met.” 
 
 The girl's face grew strangely still and intent, yet 
 with a wistful look in the eyes telling of feelings not 
 to be easily read. It was as if she were listening, in 
 spite of herself, for something she still vaguely hoped 
 she was mistaken in expecting. 
 
 “Indeed,” she began to say, but he interrupted 
 
 her. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 57 
 
 “No,” he said, “do not speak till you have heard 
 me. I had made up my mind to it before I met you 
 just now. I was just wondering how and when it 
 could be. . But now that this opportunity has come so 
 quickly I will not lose it. I love you—I have loved 
 you for longer than I knew myself, than I would own 
 to myself-” 
 
 “From the very first, from that evening at Mrs. 
 Englewood's ? ” she said, and but for his intense pre¬ 
 occupation, he would have been startled by her tone. 
 
 “Yes,” he said simply, yet with a strain of retro¬ 
 spection in his eyes, as if determined to control him¬ 
 self and speak nothing but the unexaggerated truth— 
 “yes, I almost think it began that first evening, rude, 
 brutally rude as I was to you. I would not own it— 
 I struggled against it* for I did not want to marry. I 
 had no thought of it. I am selfish, very selfish, I fear, 
 and I preferred to keep clear of all ties and responsi¬ 
 bilities, which too often become terribly galling on 
 small means. I am no hero—but now—you will for¬ 
 give my hesitation and—and reluctance, will you not ? 
 You are generous I know, and my frankness will not 
 injure me with you, will it ? You will believe that I 
 loved you almost from the first, though I could not all 
 at once make up my mind to marrying on small 
 means? And now—now that I understand—that— 
 that all seems different to me—that nothing seems of 
 eonsequence except to hear you say you love me, as— 
 
58 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 as I have thought sometimes—Maisie—you will not b* 
 hard on me ?-” 
 
 He stopped ; he could have gone on much longer, and 
 there was nothing now outwardly to interrupt him. 
 She had stood there motionless, listening. Her face 
 he could scarcely see, it was half turned away, but 
 that seemed not unnatural. What then caused his 
 sudden misgiving ? 
 
 “Maisie,” he repeated more timidly. 
 
 Then she turned—there was a burning spot of red 
 on each cheek, her eyes were flaming. Yet her voice 
 was low and quiet. 
 
 “ Hard on you ! ” she repeated. “ I am too sorry 
 for myself to think or care much about you. I am— 
 yes, I may own it, I am so horribly disappointed. I 
 had really allowed myself to tiling of you as sincere, 
 
 as, in spite of your unmanly affectations, your con- 
 
 * 
 
 temptible conceit, an honest man, a possible friend. 
 I was beginning to forgive your ill-bred insolence to 
 me as a stranger at the first, thinking there was some¬ 
 thing worthy of respect about you after all. But—oh, 
 dear ! And to try to humbug me by this sham honesty 
 —to dare to say you did not think you could have 
 cared for me enough to risk curtailing your #wn self- 
 indulgence, but that now—it is too pitiful. But, oh, 
 dear—it is too horribly disappointing ! ” 
 
 And as she looked at him again, he saw that her 
 eyes were actually full of tears. 
 
THA I GIRL IN BLACK. 59 
 
 His brain was in a whirl of bewilderment bitterest 
 mortification and indignation. For the m< ment the 
 last had the best of it. 
 
 “You have a right to refuse me, to despise my 
 weakness if you choose—whether it is generous to 
 take advantage of my misplaced confidence in you in 
 having told you all—yes, all , is another matter. But 
 one thing you shall not accuse me of, and that is, of 
 lying to you. I have not said one untruthful word. 
 I did—yes, I did love you, Mary Ford—what I feel to 
 you now is something more like-” 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 “ Hate, I suppose, ” she suggested mockingly. “ All 
 the better. It cannot be a pleasant feeling to hate 
 any one, and I do not wish you anything pleasant. 
 If I could believe/’she went on slowly, “if I could 
 believe you had loved me, I think I should be glad, 
 for it would be what you deserve. I would have liked 
 to make you love me from that very first evening if I 
 
 could—just to-but unluckily I am not the sort of 
 
 woman to succeed in anything of that kind. How- 
 ever- 
 
 She stopped ; steps approaching them were heard 
 through the stillness. Maisie turned. “ I have noth¬ 
 ing more to say, and I do not suppose you wish to 
 continue this conversation. Good-bye, Mr. Norreys. ” 
 
 And almost before he knew she had gone, she had 
 quite disappeared. 
 
60 
 
 TEAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 Despard was a strong man, but for a moment or 
 two he really thought he was going to faint. He had 
 grown deathly white while Maisie’s hard, bitter words 
 rained down upon him like hailstones; now that 
 she had left him he grew so giddy that, had he not 
 suddenly caught hold of a tree, he would have fallen. 
 
 “It feels like a sunstroke/' he said vaguely to him¬ 
 self, as he realized that his senses were deserting him, 
 not knowing that he spoke aloud. 
 
 He did not know either that some one had seen him 
 stagger, and almost fall. A slightly uneasy feeling 
 had made Maisie stop as she hurried off and glance 
 back, herself unobserved. 
 
 “He looked so fearfully white," she said ; “ do—do 
 men always look like that when girls refuse them, I 
 wonder ? ” 
 
 For Maisie’s experience of such things actually com¬ 
 ing to the point, was, as should be the case with all 
 true women, but small. 
 
 “I thought—I used to think I would enjoy seeing 
 him humbled. But he did seem in earnest. ” 
 
 And then came the glimpse of the young fellow’s 
 physical discomfiture. Maisie was horribly fright¬ 
 ened ; throwing all considerations but those of 
 humanity to the winds she rushed back again. 
 
 “ Perhaps he has heart-disease, though he looks so 
 strong, ” she thought, ‘ ‘ and if so—oh, perhaps I have 
 killed him. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 61 
 
 She was beside him in an instant A rustic bench, 
 which Despard was too dizzy to see, stood near. The 
 girl seized hold of his arm and half drew it round her 
 shoulder. He let her do so unresistingly. 
 
 “Try to walk a step or two, Mr. Norreys,” she said, 
 “I am very strong. There, now/' as he obeyed her 
 mechanically, “here is a seat,” and she somehow half 
 pushed, half drew him on to it. “Please smell this,” 
 and she took out a little silver vinaigrette, of strong 
 and pungent contents. “ I am never without this, for 
 papa is so delicate, you know. ” 
 
 Despard tried to open his eyes, tried to speak, but 
 the attempt was not very successful. Maisie held the 
 vinaigrette close to his nose ; he started back, the 
 Strong essence revived him almost at once. He took 
 it into his own hand and smelt it again. Then his 
 face grew crimson. 
 
 “ I beg your pardon a thousand times. I am most 
 ashamed, utterly ashamed of myself,” he began. 
 
 But Maisie was too practically interested in his 
 recovery to feel embarrassed. 
 
 “Keep sniffing at that thing,” she said ; “you will 
 soon be all right. Only just tell me—” she added 
 anxiously, “ there isn't anything wrong with your 
 heart, is there ? ” 
 
 u For if so,” she added to herself, “I must at all 
 costs run and see if there is a doctor to be had.” 
 
 Despard smiled—a successfully bitter smile. 
 
62 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 “No, thank you/' he said. “Iam surprised that 
 you credit me with possessing one/’ he could not 
 resist adding. “ The real cause of this absurd faintness 
 is a very prosaic one, I fancy. I went a long walk in 
 the hot sun this morning. ” 
 
 “Oh, indeed, that quite explains it,” said Maisie, 
 slightly nettled. “Good-bye again then/'and for the 
 second time she ran off. 
 
 “All the same, I will get Conrad or somebody to 
 come round that way,” she said to herself. “I will 
 just say I saw a man looking as if he was fainting. 
 He won't be likely to tell.” 
 
 And Despard sat there looking at the little silver 
 toy in his hands. 
 
 “I did not thank her,” he said to himself. “ I sup¬ 
 pose I should have done so, though she would have 
 done as much, or more, for a starving tramp on the 
 road.” 
 
 Then he heard again steps coming nearer like those 
 which had startled Maisie away. 
 
 They had apparently turned off elsewhere the first 
 time—this time they came steadily on. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 as 
 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 as Despard heard the steps coming nearer he looked 
 round uneasily, with a vague idea of hurrying off so as 
 to escape observation. But when he tried to stand up 
 and walk, he found that anything like quick movement 
 was beyond him still. So he sat down again, en¬ 
 deavoring to look as if nothing were the matter, and 
 that he was merely resting. 
 
 Another moment or two, and a young man ap¬ 
 peared, coming hastily along the path by which 
 Despard had himself made his way into the shrubbery. 
 He was quite young, two or three and twenty at most, 
 fair, slight, and boyish-looking. He passed by Mr. 
 Norreys with but the slightest glance in his direction, 
 but just as Despard was congratulating himself on 
 this, the new-comer stopped short, hesitated, and 
 then, turning round and lifting his hat, came up to 
 him. 
 
 “Excuse me," he said, “do you know Lady 
 Margaret-by sight ? Has she passed this way ? ” 
 
 He spoke quickly, and Mr. Norreys did not catch 
 the surname. 
 
64 
 
 TEAT GIRL IN Sr^ACK. 
 
 “No,” he replied, “I have not the honor of the 
 lady’s acquaintance.” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon,” said the other. “I’ve been 
 sent to look for her, and I can’t find her anywhere.” 
 Then he turned, but again hesitated. 
 
 “There’s nothing the matter, is there? You’ve not 
 hurt yourself—or anything? You look rather —as if a 
 cricket ball had hit you, you know.” 
 
 Mr. Norreys smiled. 
 
 “Thank you,” he said. “I have got a frightful 
 pain in my head. I was out too long in the sun this 
 morning.” 
 
 The boyish-looking man shook his head. 
 
 “Touch of sunstroke—eh? Stupid thing to do, 
 standing in the sun this weather. Should take a 
 parasol; I always do. Then I can’t be of any 
 service ? ” 
 
 “Yes,” said Despard, as a sudden idea struck him. 
 “ If you happen to know my sister, Mrs. Selby, by 
 sight, I’d be eternally grateful to you if you would tell 
 her I’m going home. I’ll wait for her at the old 
 church, would you say ? ” 
 
 “ Don’t know her, but I’ll find her out Mrs. Selby, 
 of Markerslea, I suppose ? Well, take my advice, and 
 keep on the shady side of the road. ” 
 
 “I shall go through the woods, thank you. My 
 lister will understand.” 
 
 With a friendly nod the young fellow went ofE 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 65 
 
 Despard had been roused by the talk with him. 
 He got up now and went slowly round to the back of 
 the house—it was a place he had known in old days— 
 thus avoiding all risk of coming across any of the 
 guests. By a path behmd the stables he made his 
 way slowly into the woods, and in about half an 
 hour’s time he found himself where these ended at the 
 high-road, along which his sister must pass. There was 
 a stile near, over which, through a field, lay a footpath 
 to the church, known thereabouts as the old church, 
 and here on the stile Mr. Norreys seated himself to 
 await Mrs. Selby. 
 
 “I've managed that pretty neatly/' he said, trying 
 to imagine he was feeling as usual. 44 1 wonder who 
 that fellow was. He seemed to have heard Maddie's 
 name though he did not know her." 
 
 He was perfectly clear in his head now, but the 
 pain in it was racking. He tried not to think, but in 
 vain. Clearer, and yet more clearly, stood out before 
 his mind's eye the strange drama of that afternoon. 
 And the more he thought of it, the more he looked 
 at it, approaching it from every side, the more in¬ 
 capable he became of explaining Miss Ford's extraor¬ 
 dinary conduct. The indignation which had at first 
 blotted out almost all other feeling gradually gave way 
 
 i 
 
 to his extreme perplexity. 
 
 “ She had no sort of grounds for speaking to me as 
 
 she did," he reflected. “ Accusing me vaguely of un- 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 worthy motives—what could she mean ?" Then a 
 new idea struck him. “Some one has been making 
 
 mischief/' he thought : “that must be it, though what 
 
 * 
 
 and how, I cannot conceive. Gertrude Englewood 
 would not do it intentionally—but still—I saw that she 
 was changed to me. I shall have it out with her. 
 After all, I hope Madeline's letter has gone." 
 
 And a vague, very faint hope began to make itselt 
 felt, that perhaps, after all, all was nol lost. If she 
 had been utterly misled about him—if- 
 
 He drew a deep breath, and looked round. It was 
 the very sweetest moment of a summer's day existence, 
 that at which late afternoon begins softly and silently 
 to fade into early evening. There was an almost 
 Sabbath stillness in the air, a tender suggestion of 
 night's reluctant approach, and from where Despard 
 sat the white headstones of some graves in the ancient 
 churchyard were to be seen among the grass. The 
 man felt strangely moved and humbled. 
 
 “If I could hope ever to win her," he thought, “I 
 feel as if I had it in me to be a better man—I am not 
 all selfish and worldly, Maisie—surely not ? But what 
 has made her judge me so cruelly ? It is awful to re¬ 
 member what she said, and to imagine what sort of an 
 opinion sne must have of me to have been able to say 
 it For—no, that was not my contemptible conceit"— 
 and his face flushed. “She was beginning to care 
 for me. She is too generous to have remembered 
 
THAT GIBL IN BLACK . 
 
 67 
 
 vindictively my insolence, for insolence it was, at the 
 first. Besides, she said herself that she had been 
 getting to like and trust me as a friend. Till to-day— 
 has the change in her all come from what I said to¬ 
 day ? No girl can despise a man for the fact of his 
 caring for her—what can it be ? Good heavens, I feel 
 as if I should go mad ! " 
 
 And he wished that the pain in his head, which had 
 somewhat subsided, would get worse again, if only it 
 would stop his thinking. 
 
 But just then came the sound of wheels. In another 
 moment Mrs. Selby's pony-carriage was in sight 
 Despard got off his stile, and walked slowly down the 
 road to meet her. 
 
 4 4 So you faithless-” she began—for to tell the 
 
 truth, she had not attached much credence to the story 
 which had reached her of the frightful headache—but 
 she changed her tone the moment she caught sight of 
 his face. “My poor boy, you do look ill ! " she ex¬ 
 claimed. “I am so sorry. I would have come away 
 at once if I had known." 
 
 “ It doesn’t matter," Despard replied, as he got into 
 the carriage ; “ but did you not get my message ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes ; but I thought it was just that you were 
 tired and bored. What is the matter, dear Despard f 
 You don't look the least like yourself." 
 
 “ I fancy it was the sun this morning," he said. 
 “But it’s passing off, I think." 
 
68 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 . Madeline leii by no means sure that it was so. 
 
 “ I am so sorry/' she repeateu, “ and so vexed with 
 myself. Do you know who the young man was that 
 gave me your message ? ” 
 
 Despard shook his head. 
 
 “It was Mr. Conrad Fforde, Lord Southwold's 
 nephew and heir—heir at least to the title, but to little 
 else.” 
 
 “So I should suppose,” said Norreys indifferently, 
 “The South wolds are very poor.” 
 
 “ How queer that he knew your name if you have 
 never met him before,” said Mrs. Selby. “But I dare 
 say it’s through the Flores-Carters ; they're such great 
 friends of mine, you know, and they are staying at 
 Laxter's Hill as well as the Southwold party. ” 
 
 “Yes,” Despard agreed, “he had evidently heard of 
 
 •J s t 
 
 you. 
 
 “ And of you too in that case. People do so chatter 
 in the country. The Carters are dying to get you there. 
 They have got the South wolds to promise to go to 
 them next week. They—the Carter girls—are perfectly 
 wild about Lady Margaret. I think it would be better 
 taste not to make up to her so much ; it does look as if 
 it was because she was what she is, though I know it 
 isn't really that. They get up these fits of enthusiasm. 
 And she is very nice—not very pretty, you know, but 
 wonderfully nice and unspoilt, considering. '* 
 
 “Unspoilt,” repeated Despard. He was glad to 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 69 
 
 keep his sister talking about indifferent matters. “ I 
 don't see that poor Lord South wold's daughter has any 
 reason to be spoilt. ” 
 
 “Oh, dear, yes—didn't you know? I thought you 
 knew everything of that kind. It appears that she is a 
 tremendous heiress ; I forget the figures. The fortune 
 comes from her aunt’s husband. Her mother's elder 
 sister married an enormously wealthy man, and as 
 they had no children or near relations on his side, he 
 left all to this girl. Of course she and her father have 
 always known it, but it has been kept very quiet 
 They have lived in the country six months of the year, 
 and travelled the other six. She has been most care* 
 fully brought up and splendidly educated. But she 
 has never been ‘out' in society at all till this year." 
 
 “I never remember hearing of them in town," said 
 Despard. 
 
 “Oh, Lord Southwold himself never goes out He 
 is dreadfully delicate—heart-disease, I think. But 
 she—Lady Margaret—will be heard of now. It has all 
 come out about her fortune now that he has come 
 into the title. His cousin, the last earl, only died two 
 months ago." 
 
 “And," said Despard, with a strange sensation, as 
 it he were listening to some one else speaking rather 
 than speaking himself, “till he came into the title, 
 what was he called ? He was the last man's cousin, 
 you say ? w 
 
70 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 “Yes, of course; he was Mr. Fforde—Fferde with 
 two ‘fVandan ‘e/ you know. It’s the family name 
 of the South wolds. That young man—the one you 
 spoke to-^-is Mr. Conrad Fforde, as I told you. They 
 $ay that-’' 
 
 But a glance at her brother made her hesitate. 
 
 “ Despard, is your head worse ? ” she asked anx* 
 iously. 
 
 “It comes on by fits and starts,” he replied. “ But 
 don’t mind; go on speaking. What were you going 
 to say ? ” 
 
 “Oh, only about young Mr. Fforde. They say he 
 is to marry Lady Margaret; they are only second 
 cousins. But I don’t think he looks good enough for 
 her. She seems such a womanly, nice-feeling girL 
 We had just been introduced when Mr. Fforde came 
 up with your message, and she wanted him to go back 
 to you at once. But he said you would . be gone 
 already, and I—well, I didn’t quite believe about your 
 head being so bad, and perhaps I seemed very cool 
 about it, for Lady Margaret really looked quite vexed. 
 Wash’t it nice of her? The Carters had been telling 
 her about us evidently. I think she was rather dis¬ 
 appointed not to see the famous Despard Norreys, do 
 you know ? I rather wonder you never met her this 
 summer in town, though perhaps you would scarcely 
 have remarked her just as Miss Fforde, for she 
 
THAT GIBL IN BLACK. 
 
 71 
 
 But an exclamation from Despard startled her. 
 
 ’•Maddie,” he said, ‘ ‘ don't you understand? It 
 mast be she—she, this Lady Margaret —the great h*ir* 
 
 ess ! Good heavens ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Selby almost screamed. 
 
 “ Despard ! ” was all she could say. But she quickly 
 recovered herself. “Well, after all,” she went on, “I 
 don't see that there’s any harm done. She will know 
 that you were absolutely disinterested, and surely that 
 will go a long way. But—just to think of it! Oh, 
 Despard, fane y your saying that you half thought she 
 was going to ue a governess ! Oh, dear, how extraor^ 
 dinary! And I that was so regretting that you had 
 not met her ! What a good thing you did not—I mean 
 what a good th ng that my letter showing your ignor- 
 ance was written and sent before you knew who she 
 was ! Don't you see how lucky it was ? ” 
 
 She turned round, her eyes sparkling with excitement 
 and eagerness. But there was no response in Mr. 
 Norreys* face ; < «n the contrary, its expression was such 
 that Mrs. Selby's own face grew pale with dread. 
 
 “Despard,’' she said, “ why do you look like that? 
 You are not going to say that now, because she is an 
 heiress—just because of money” with a tone of 
 supreme contempt, “that you will ^ive it ujp? You 
 surely-" 
 
 But Mr. Norreys \ iterrupted her. 
 
 “ Has the letter geyne, Maddie? ” 
 
72 
 
 'THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 “Then I must write again at once—myself— to Ger¬ 
 trude Englewood to make her promise on her honor 
 never to tell what you wrote. Even if I thought she 
 would believe it—and I am not sure that she would—I 
 could never allow myself to be cleared in her eyes now / 
 
 Madeline stared at him. Had the sunstroke affected 
 his brain ? 
 
 “Despard,” she said, “what do you mean?” 
 
 He turned his haggard face towards her. 
 
 “I don’t know how to tell you,” he said. “I wish 
 I need not, but as you know so much I must I did 
 see her, Madeline. I met her when I was strolling 
 about the shrubbery over there. She was quite alone 
 and no one near. It seemed to have happened on 
 purpose, and—I told her all.” 
 
 “You proposed to her?” 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 “As—as Miss Fforde, or as-” began Mrs. Selby. 
 
 “As Miss Ford, of course, without the two *fs* 
 and the ‘ed at the end,” he said bitterly. “I didn’t 
 know till this moment either that her father was an earl, 
 or, which is much worse, that she was a great heiress.” 
 
 “ And what is wrong, then ? ” 
 
 “Just that she refused me—refused me with the 
 most biting contempt—the—the bitterest scorn—no, I 
 cannot speak of it. She thought I knew, had found out 
 about her—and now I see that my misplaced honesty. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 78 
 
 Che way I spoke, must have given color to it. She 
 taunted me with my insolence at the first—good Godl. 
 whai an instrument of torture a woman's tongue can 
 be 1 There is only one thing to do—to stop Gertrude’s 
 ever telling of that letter. ” 
 
 “Oh, Despard!” exclaimed Mrs. Selby, and her 
 eyes filled with tears. “ What a horrid girl she must 
 be \ And I thought she looked so sweet and nica 
 She seemed so sorry when her cousin told me about 
 you. Tell me, was that after? Oh, yes, of course, it 
 must have been. Despard, I believe she was already 
 repenting her cruelty. ” 
 
 “Hush, Madeline/’said Mr. Norreys sternly. “You 
 mean it well, but—you must promise me never to al¬ 
 lude to all this again. You will show me Mrs. Engle¬ 
 wood’s letter when it comes—that you must do. And 
 I will write to her. But there is no more to be said. 
 Let to-day be between us as if it had never been. 
 Promise me, deAr.” 
 
 He laid his hand on her arm. Madeline turned her 
 tearful eyes towards him. 
 
 “ Very well,” she said. “ I must, I suppose. But, 
 
 oh, what a dreadful pity it all seems. You to have 
 fallen in love with her for herself—you that have never 
 really cared for any one before—when you thought her 
 only a governess; and now for it to have all gone 
 wrong ! It would have bfcen so nice and delightful.” 
 
 “A sort of Lord Burleigh business, with the char* 
 
74 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 acters reversed—yes, quite idyllic, ” said Despard 
 sneeringly. 
 
 44 Despard, don't. It does so pain me," Mrs. Selby 
 said with real feeling. 4 4 There is one person I am 
 furious with," she went on in a very different tone, 
 “ and that is Mrs. Englewood. She had no business 
 to play that sort of trick." 
 
 44 Perhaps she could not help herself. You say the 
 father—Mr. Fforde as he then was—did not wish her 
 to be known as an heiress," said Mr. Norreys. 
 
 44 She might have made an exception for you," said 
 
 * 
 
 Madeline. 
 
 Despard's brows contracted. Mrs. Selby thought 
 jt was from the pain in his head, but it was more than 
 that. A vision rose before him of a sweet flushed 
 girlish face, with gentle pleasure and appeal in the 
 eyes—and of Gertrude's voice, 44 If you don't dance, 
 will you talk to her? Anything to please her a little, 
 you know." 
 
 44 1 think Gertrude did all she could. I believe she 
 
 % 
 
 is a perfectly loyal and faithful friend," he said ; 44 but 
 for heaven's sake, Maddie, let us drop it forever. I 
 will Write this evening to Gertrude myself, and that 
 will be the last act in the drama." 
 
 No letter, however, was written to Mrs. Englewood 
 that evening—nor the next day, nor for that matter 
 during the rosi of the time that saw Despard Norreys 
 at guest a Markerslea Rectory. 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 ?5 
 
 And several days passed after the morning that 
 brought her reply to Mrs. Selby's letter of inquiry, 
 before the person it chiefly concerned was able to see 
 it. For the pain in his head, the result of slight sun¬ 
 stroke in the first place, aggravated by unusual ex¬ 
 citement, had culminated in a sharp attack which at 
 one time was not many degrees removed from brain 
 fever. The risk was tided over, however, and at no 
 time was the young man in very serious danger. But 
 
 Mrs. Selby suffered quite as much as if he had been 
 
 » 
 
 dying. She made up her mind that he would not 
 recover, and as her special friends received direct 
 information to that effect, it is not to be wondered at 
 that the bad news flew fast. 
 
 It reached Laxter’s Hill one morning in the week 
 following Lady Denster’s garden-party. It was the 
 day which was to see the breaking-up of the party 
 assembled there to meet Lord Southwold and his 
 daughter, and it came in a letter to Edith Flores-Carter 
 from Mrs. Selby herself. 
 
 “Oh, dear,” the girl ejaculated, her usually bright, 
 not to say jolly-looking countenance clouding over as 
 she spoke, “oh, dear, I’m so sorry for the Selbys—for 
 Mrs. Selby particularly. Just fancy, doesn’t it seem 
 awful—her brother’s dying. ” 
 
 She glanced round the breakfast-table for sympathy : 
 various expressions of it reached her. 
 
 i 
 
 “That fellow I found in the grounds at that place, 
 
76 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 is it? ^ inquired Mr. Fforde. “I'm not surprised, he 
 Jid look pretty bad, and he would walk home, and he 
 hadn't even a parasol.” 
 
 “ Conrad, how can you be so unfeeling ? I perfectly 
 detest that horrid trick of joking about everything/’ 
 said in sharp, indignant tones a young lady seated 
 opposite him. It was Lady Margaret. Several people 
 looked up in surprise. 
 
 “ Beginning in good time,” murmured a man near 
 the end of the table. 
 
 “Why, do you believe in that? I don't,” replied his 
 Companion in the same low tone. 
 
 Conrad looked across the table at his cousin in 
 surprise. 1 
 
 “Come now, Maisie,” he said, “ you make me feel 
 quite shy, scolding me so in company. And I’m sure 
 I didn't mean to say anything witty at the poor chap’s 
 expense. If I did, it was quite by mistake I assure 
 you. ” 
 
 “Anything ‘witty'from you would be that, I can 
 quite believe,” Lady Margaret replied, smiling a little. 
 But the smile was a feeble and forced one. Conrad 
 saw, if no one else did, that his cousin was thoroughly 
 put out, and he felt repentant, though he scarcely knew 
 why. 
 
 Half an hour later Lord Southwold and his daughter 
 
 were talking together in the sitting-room where the 
 
 former had been breakfasting in invalid fashion alone. 
 
 t 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 n 
 
 * € I would promise to be home to-morrow, or the 
 day after at latest, papa/’ Lady Margaret was saying; 
 “Mrs. Englewood will be very pleased to have me, I 
 know, even at the shortest notice, for last week when 
 I wrote saying I feared it would be impossible, she 
 was very disappointed." 
 
 “ Very well, my dear, only don’t stay with her longer 
 than that, for you know we have engagements," and 
 Lord Southwold sighed a little. 
 
 Margaret sighed too. 
 
 “My darling," said her father, “don’t look so de 
 • pressed. I didn’t mean to grumble." 
 
 “Oh no, papa. It isn’t you at all. I shall be glad 
 to be at home again ; won’t you ? Thank you very 
 much for letting me go round by town." 
 
 • * • • • i 
 
 Mrs. Englewood’s drawing-room—but looking very 
 different from the last time we saw it. Mrs. Engle¬ 
 wood herself with a more anxious expression than 
 usual on her pleasant face, was sitting by the open 
 window, through which, however, but little air found 
 its way, for it was hot, almost stifling weather. 
 
 “ It is really a trial to have to come back to town 
 before it is cooler, ’’ she was saying to herself, as the 
 door opened and Lady Margaret, in summer travelling 
 gear, came in. 
 
78 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 “So you are really going, dear Maisie,” said het 
 hostess. ‘ ‘ I do wish you could have waited another 
 day. ” 
 
 “But/' said Maisie, “ you will let me know at once 
 what you hear from Mrs. Selby. I cannot help being 
 unhappy, Gertrude, and, of course, what you have told 
 me has made me still more self-reproachful, and— and 
 ashamed. ” 
 
 She was very pale, but a sudden burning blush over¬ 
 spread her face as she said the last words. 
 
 “I do so hope he will recover,” she added, trying to 
 speak lightly, “though if he does I earnestly hope I 
 shall never meet him again.” 
 
 “Even if I succeed in making him understand your 
 side, and showing him how generously you regret 
 having misjudged him?” said Mrs. Englewood. “I 
 don’t see that there need be any enmity between 
 you. ” 
 
 “Not enmity , oh no ; but still less, friendship,” said 
 Maisie. “I just trust we shall never meet again. 
 Good-bye, dear Gertruue. I am so glad to have told 
 you all. You will let me know what you hear? ” and 
 she kissed Mrs. Englewood affectionately. 
 
 “Good-bye, dear child. I am glad you have not a 
 long journey before you. Stretham will take good care 
 of you. You quite understand that I can do nothing 
 indirectly—it will only be when I see him himself that 
 I can tell him how sorry you have been. ” 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 79 
 
 “Sorry and ashamed , be sure to say ‘ashamed/” 
 said Lady Margaret: “ yes, of course, it can only be if 
 —if he gets better or you see him yourself." 
 
 Two or three days later came a letter to Lady Mar¬ 
 garet from Mrs. Englewood, inclosing one which that 
 lady had just received from Mrs. Selby. Her brother, 
 she allowed for the first time, was out of danger, but 
 “terribly weak." And at intervals during the next 
 few weeks the girl heard news of Mr. Norreys’ recovery. 
 And “I wonder/’ she began to say to herself, “I 
 wonder if Gertrude has seen him, or will be seeing him 
 soon. ” 
 
 But this hope, if hope it should be called, was 
 doomed to disappointment. Late in October came 
 another letter from her friend. 
 
 “Iam sorry," wrote Mrs. Englewood, “that I see 
 no probability of my meeting Mr. Norreys for a long 
 time. He is going abroad. After all, your paths in 
 life are not likely to cross each other again. Perhaps 
 
 it is best to leave things." 
 
 _ » 
 
 But the tears filled Maisie’s eyes as she read. “ I 
 should have liked him to know I had come to do him 
 justice," she thought. 
 
 She did not understand Mrs. Englewood’s view of 
 the matter. 
 
 * 1 It would be cruel, ” Gertrude had said to herself, ‘ ‘ to 
 tell him how she blames herself, and how my show¬ 
 ing her Mrs. Selby’s letter had cleared him. It would 
 
80 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 only bring it all up again when he has doubtless begun 
 to forget it.” 
 
 Nevertheless, Despard did not leave England with¬ 
 out knowing how completely Lady Margaret had re¬ 
 tracted her cruel words, and how bitterly she regretted 
 
 § 
 
 them. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Time passes quickly, we are told, when we are hard 
 at work. And doubtless this is true while the time 
 in question is the present. But to look back upon 
 
 time of which every day and every hour have been 
 
 ♦ 
 
 fully occupied, give somewhat the feeling of a closely- 
 printed volume when one has finished reading it 
 It seems even longer than in anticipation. To Despard 
 Norreys, when at the end of two busy years he found 
 himself again in England, it appeared as if he had 
 been absent five or six times as long as was really the 
 case. 
 
 He had been a week in England, and was still de¬ 
 tained in town by details connected with the work he 
 had successfully accomplished. He was under promise 
 to his sister to run down to Markerslea the first day it 
 should be possible, and time meanwhile hung some¬ 
 what heavily on his hands. The waters had already 
 closed over his former place in society, and he did not 
 regret it. Still there were friends whom he was glad 
 to meet again, and so he not unwillingly accepted 
 some of the invitations that began to find him out 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 81 
 
 One evening after dining at the house of the friend 
 whose influence had obtained for him the appointment 
 which had just expired, he accompanied the ladies of 
 the family to an evening party in the neighborhood. 
 He had never been in the house before ; the faces about 
 him were unfamiliar. Feeling a little “out of it,” he 
 strolled into a small room where a select quartette was 
 absorbed in whist, and seated himself in a corner some¬ 
 what out of the glare of light, which, since his illness, 
 rather painfully affected his eyes. 
 
 Suddenly the thought of Maisie Fforde as he had 
 last seen her seemed to rise before him as in a vision. 
 
 “I wonder if she is married/' he said to himself 
 u Sure to be so, I should think. Yet I should proba¬ 
 bly have heard of it ” 
 
 And even as the words formed themselves in his 
 mind, a still familiar voice caught his ear. 
 
 “Thank you. Yes, this will do nicely. I will wait 
 here till Mabel is ready to go. ” 
 
 And a lady—a girl, he soon saw—came forward into 
 the room towards the corner where he was sitting. 
 He rose at once ; she approached him quickly, then 
 with a sudden, incoherent exclamation, made as if she 
 would have drawn back. But it was too late; she 
 could not, if she wished, have pretended she did not 
 see him. 
 
 “ Mr. Norreys,” she began ; “I had no idea-” 
 
 “That I was in England," he said. “No, I have 
 
82 
 
 TEAT GIRL IN BLACK . 
 
 only just returned. Pardon me for having startled you, 
 Miss Fforde—Lady Margaret, I mean. I on my side 
 had no idea of meeting you here or-” 
 
 “Or you would not have come/’ she in her turn in¬ 
 terrupted him with. " Thank you; you are frank at 
 all events, ” she added haughtily. 
 
 He turned away. There was perhaps some involun- 
 
 / 
 
 tary suggestion of reproach in his manner, for hers 
 changed. 
 
 "No,” she said. "I am very wrong. Please stay 
 for two minutes, and listen to me. I have hoped and 
 prayed that I might never meet you again, but at the 
 same time I made a vow—a real vow,” she went on 
 girlishly, “that if l did so I would swallow my pride, 
 and—and r.z k you to forgive me. There now—I have 
 said it. That is all. Will you, Mr. Norreys ? ” 
 
 He glanced round; the whist party was all uncon- 
 
 •v . / 
 
 scious of the rest of the world still. 
 
 4 ‘Will you not sit down for a moment, Lady Mar¬ 
 garet? ” he said, and as she did so he too drew a chair 
 nearer to hers. “It is disagreeable to be overheard,” 
 he went on in a tone of half apology. “You ask me 
 what I cannot now do,” he added. 
 
 The girl reared her head, and the softness of her 
 manner hardened at once. 
 
 "Then,” she said, “we are quits. It does just as 
 well. My conscience is clear now.” 
 
 "So is mine, as to that particular of—of what you call 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 83 
 
 fbrgiving you,” he said, and his voice was a degree less 
 calm. “ I cannot do so now, for—I forgave you long, 
 long ago.” 
 
 “You have seen Mrs. Englewood? She has told 
 you at last that all was explained to me—your sister's 
 letter and all,” she went on confusedly, “that I saw 
 how horrid, how low and mean and suspicious and 
 everything I had been ? ” 
 
 “I knew all you refer to before I left England,” he 
 said simply. “But I asked Mrs. Englewood to leave 
 it as it was, unless she was absolutely forced to tell 
 you. I knew you must hate the sound of my name, 
 and she promised to drop the subject.” 
 
 “And I have scarcely seen her for a longtime,” said 
 Maisie. “I saw she did avoid it, and I suppose she 
 
 4 
 
 thought it no use talking about it” 
 
 “I did not need her explanation,” Despard went on 
 gently. “ I had—if you will have the word—I had for¬ 
 given you long before. Indeed, I think I did so almost 
 at once. It was all natural on your part. What had I 
 done, what was I that you should have thought any 
 good of me ? When you remembered the way I be- 
 haved to you at first," and here his voice grew very 
 low. “ I have never been able to—I shall never be 
 able to forgive myself .” 
 
 “ Mr. Norreys! ” said Maisie in a very contrite tone. 
 But Despard kept silence. 
 
 •• Are you going to stay at home now, or are you 
 
84 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 going away again ? ” she asked presently, trying t© 
 speak in a matter-of-fact way. 
 
 “I hardly know. I am waiting to see what I can 
 get to do. I don’t much mind what, but I shall never 
 again be able to be idle,” he said, smiling a little for 
 the first time. “ It is my own fault entirely—the fault 
 of my own past folly—that I am not now well on in 
 the profession I was intended for. So I must not 
 grumble if I have to take what work I can get in any 
 part of the world. I would rather stay in England fot 
 some reasons." 
 
 “ Why ? ” she asked. 
 
 “I cannot stand heat very well,” he said. “My 
 little sunstroke left some Weak points—my eyes are 
 not strong. ” 
 
 She did not answer at once. 
 
 Then, “How crooked things are,” she said at last 
 suddenly ; “ you want work, and I —oh, I am so busy 
 and worried. Papa impressed upon me that I must 
 look after things myself, and accept the responsibilities, 
 but—I don’t think he quite saw how difficult it would 
 be,” and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 “But—” said Despard, puzzled by her manner, “he 
 is surely able to help you ? ” 
 
 She turned to him more fully—the tears came more 
 quickly, but she did not mind his seeing them. 
 
 “Didn’t you know?” she said; “papa is dead—® 
 more than a year ago now. Just before I came of age 
 
THAT GIRL IN BLACK, 
 
 8 & 
 
 I am quite alone. That silly—I shouldn't say that, he 
 is kind and good—Conrad is Lord Southwold now. 
 
 * i , , 
 
 But I don’t want to marry him, though he is almost the 
 only man who, I know , cares for me for myself. How 
 strange you did. not know about my being all alone! 
 Didn’t you notice this ? ” and she touched her black skirt 
 “ I have never seen you except in black,” said Des- 
 pard. “No—I had no idea. I am so grieved." 
 
 “If—if you stay in England,” she began,again half 
 timidly, “and you say you have forgiven me ”—he 
 made a little gesture of deprecation of the w r ord—“can't 
 we be friends, Mr. Norreys ? " 
 
 Despard rose to his feet. The whist party had dis¬ 
 persed. The little room was empty. 
 
 “No," he said, “I am afraid that could never be. 
 Lady Margaret. The one reason why I wish to leave 
 England again is that I know now, I cannot—I must 
 not risk seeing you. 
 
 Maisie looked up, the tears were still glimmering 
 about her eyes and cheeks ; was it their soft glistening 
 that made her face look so bright and almost radiant? 
 
 “Oh, do say it again—don't think me not nice, oh, 
 don't!” she entreated. “But why—oh, why, if you 
 care for me, though I can scarcely believe it, why let 
 my horrible money come between us? /shall never 
 care for anybody else—there now, I have said it! " 
 And she tri^d to hide her face, but he would not let 
 iter. » , 
 
86 
 
 THAT GIRL IN BLACK. 
 
 “Do you really mean it, dear?" he said. “If you 
 do, I—I will swallow my pride, too; shall I ? * 
 
 She looked up, half laughing now. 
 
 “Quits again, you see. Oh, dear, how dreadfully 
 happy I am! And you know, as you are so fond of 
 work now, you will have lots to do. All manner of 
 things for poor people that I want to manage, and 
 don't know how—and all our own—I won't say ‘ my 9 
 any more—tenants to look after—and—and ” 
 
 “ ‘That girl in black' herself to take care of, and 
 make as happy as all my love and my strength, and 
 my life's devotion can," said Despard. “ Maisie, my 
 darling, God grant that you may never regret your 
 generosity and goodness." 
 
 “No, no," she murmured, “yours are far greater, 
 far, far greater." 
 
 t. • 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then suddenly 
 Despard put his hand into his pocket and held ouA 
 something to Maisie. 
 
 “Look," he said, “do you remember? I should 
 
 have returned it to you, but I could not make up my 
 
 ♦ 
 
 mind to it. I have never parted with it night or day, 
 all these years." 
 
 It was the little silver vinaigrette. 
 
 • • • . • • .# 
 
 This all happened several years ago, and, by what 
 I can gather, there are few happier people than 
 pard Norreys and Lady Margaret, his wife. 
 
THE GIRLS AND 
 
THE GIRLS AND I 
 
 CHAPTER t 
 
 « 
 
 OURSELVES. 
 
 I'm Jack. I've always been Jack, ever since t cat 
 remember at least, though I suppose I must have been 
 called “Baby” for a bit before Serena came. But 
 she's only a year and a half younger than me, and 
 Maud's only a year and a quarter behind her, so I can 
 scarcely remember even Serena being “Baby;” and 
 Maud's always been so very grown up for her age that 
 you couldn't fancy her anything but Maud. 
 
 My real name isn't John though, as you might fancy. 
 
 It's a much queerer name, but there's always been one 
 
 of it in our family ever since some grandfather or other 
 
 married a German girl, who called her eldest son after 
 
 her ,own father. So we're accustomed to it, and it 
 
 doesn't seem so queer to us as to other people. It's 
 
 “Joachim.” “Jock” seems a better short for it than 
 
 “Jack,” doesn't it? and I believe mother once meant 
 
 i 89 
 
90 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 to call me “Jock.” But when Serry and Maud camel 
 had to be Jack, for with Anne and Hebe in front of me, 
 and the two others behind, of course I was “Jack-in- 
 the-middle. ” There’s never been any more of us, and 
 even if there had I’d have stayed Jack, once I’d got 
 settled into it, you see. 
 
 I’m eleven. I’m writing this in the holidays ; and if 
 I don’t get it finished before they’re done I’ll keep add¬ 
 ing on to it till I’ve told all there is to tell. 
 
 It’s a sort of comfort to me to write about everything, 
 for one way and another I’ve had a good deal to put up 
 with, all because of— girls . And I have to be good- 
 tempered and nice just because they are girls. And 
 besides that, I’m really very fond of them ; and they’re 
 not bad. But no one who hasn’t tried it knows in the 
 least what it is to be one boy among a lot of girls, 
 ’specially when some of them are rather boy-ey girls, 
 and when you yourself are just a little perhaps—just a 
 very little—the other way. 
 
 I don’t think I’m a baby. Honestly I don’t, and I’m not 
 going to write down anything I don’t quite think. But 
 I do like to be quiet, and I like to have things tidy and 
 regular. I like rules and keeping to them ; and I hate 
 racket and mess. Anne, now, drives me nearly wild 
 with her rushy, helter-skelter ways. You wouldn’t 
 think it, would you, considering that she’s fourteen, 
 and the eldest, and that she’s been the eldest all her 
 life? —eldests should be steady and good examples. 
 
TEE GIRLS AND L 
 
 91 
 
 And her name sounds steady and neat, doesn't it? 
 and yet of all the untidy, unpunctual—no, I mustn't 
 let myself go like that. Besides, it's quite true, as Hebe 
 says, Anne has got a very good heart, and she's very 
 particular in some mind ways ; she never says a word 
 that isn’t quite true—she doesn't even exaggerate. I 
 have noticed that rather tiresome, careless people often 
 have very good hearts. I wish they could see how 
 much nicer it would be for other people if they'd 
 put some of their good hearts into their tiresome 
 ways. 
 
 On the whole, it's Hebe that suits the best with me. 
 She's particular —much more particular than Anne, 
 though not quite as particular as I'd like her to be, and 
 then she is really awfully sweet. That makes her a little 
 worrying sometimes, for she will take sides. If I am 
 in a great state at finding our postage stamps all mud¬ 
 dled, for instance—Anne and Hebe and I have a col¬ 
 lection together, I am sorry to say—and / know who's 
 been at them and say something—who could help say¬ 
 ing something if they found a lot of carefully-sorted 
 ones ready to gum in, all pitched into the unsorted box 
 with Uncle Brian's last envelopeful that I haven't looked 
 over?—up flies Hebe in Anne's defence. 
 
 “ Poor Anne, she was in such a hurry, she never 
 meant it ; " or “ she only wanted to help you, Jack; 
 she didn't know you had sorted these." 
 
 Now, isn't that rather trying ? For it makes me feel 
 
92 
 
 TEE GIRLS AND I . 
 
 as if I was horrid ; and if Hebe would just say, “ Yes, 
 it is awfully tiresome, '’ I’d feel I had a sort of right to 
 be vexed, and when you feel that, the vexedness often 
 goes away. 
 
 Still, there’s no doubt Hebe is sweet, and I daresay 
 she flies up for me just as she does for the others when 
 I am the one not there. 
 
 We re all very fond of Hebe. She and Serena are 
 rather like each other; they have fair fluffy* hair and 
 rosy cheeks, but they’re not a bit like each other in 
 themselves. Serena is a terrible tomboy—worse than 
 
 Anne, for she really never thinks at all. Anne does 
 
 » 
 
 mean to think, but she does it the wrong way ; she getfs 
 he^head so full of some one thing that she forgets every¬ 
 thing else, and then she’s awfully sorry. But Serry 
 just doesn’t think at all, though she’s very good-natured, 
 and, of course, when it comes to really vexing or hurt- 
 ing any one, she’s sorry too—for about a minute and 
 
 
 a half! 
 
 Andthere’s Maud. It is very funny about 
 Maud, uie oddest thing about us, though we are rather 
 a topsy-turvy family. Maud is only eight and a half, 
 but she's the oldest of us all. 
 
 “ She’s that terrible old-fashioned,” mother’s old 
 
 nurse said when she : g^me to pay us a visit once, “ she’s 
 
 „ * 
 
 scarce canny. 
 
 They call me old-fashioned sometimes, but I’m 
 nothing to Maud. Why, bless you (I learnt that from 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 98 
 
 Old nurse, and I like it, and nobody can say it's naughty 
 to bless anybody), compared to Maud I'm careless, and 
 untidy, and unpunctual, and heedless, and everything 
 of these kinds that I shouldn’t be. And yet she and 
 I don’t get on as well as Hebe and I do, and in some 
 ways even not as well as Anne and I do. But Maud 
 and Anne get on very well—I never saw anything like 
 it. She tidies for Anne ; she reminds her of things 
 she’s going to forget; she seems to think she was sent 
 into the world to take care of her big sister. Anne is 
 big—at least she’s tall—tall and thin, and with rather 
 smooth dark hair. My goodness! if she’d had fluffy 
 hair like us three middle ones—for even mine is rather 
 a bother, it grows so fast and is so curly—what woi$d 
 she hciV 2 looked like? She seems meant to be neat, 
 and till you know her, and go her all over pretty closely, 
 yo/’d never guess how untidy she is—pins ajl over, 
 even though Sophy is always mending her frocks and 
 Ihings. And Maud is dark too, though her hair is curly 
 like ours ; she’s like a gipsy, people say, bjjt^^’s not 
 a bit gipsy in her ways —oh dear, no ! 
 
 We live in London—mostly, that’s to say. We’ve 
 got a big dark old house that really belongs to grand* 
 father, but he’s so little there that he lets us use it, for 
 father has to be in London a lot. We’re always there 
 in winter ; that’s the time grandfather’s generally in 
 France or Egypt, or somewhere warm. Now and then, 
 if he's later of going away than usual, or sooner of 
 
94 
 
 TEE GIRLS AND L 
 
 Coming back, he's with us a while in London. We 
 don't like it much. 
 
 That sounds unkind. I don't mean to be unkind. 
 Pm just writing everything down because I want to 
 practise myself at it. Father writes books—very clever 
 ones, though they're stories. I've read bits, but I didn't 
 understand them much, only I know they're very clever 
 by the fuss that's made about them. And people won¬ 
 der how ever he gets time to write them with all the 
 Government things he does too. He must be very 
 clever ; that’s what put it in my head that perhaps some 
 day I might be clever that way too. For I don't want 
 to be either a soldier or a sailor, or a lawyer like father 
 was before he got into Government things, and I'm sure 
 I'm not good enough to be a parson, though I think I'd 
 rather like it • and so sometimes I really get frightened 
 that I'll be no good at anything at all, and a boy must 
 be something. 
 
 I think father and mother would be pleased if I were 
 a great writer. 
 
 And then we really have had some adventures : that 
 makes it more interesting to make out a story about our¬ 
 selves, for I think a book just about getting up and go* 
 ing to bed, and breakfast, and dinner, and tea, would 
 be very stupid—though, all the same, in story-books I 
 do like rather to know what the children have to eat, 
 and something about the place they live in too. 
 
 To go back about grandfather. The reason we dont 
 
TEE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 95 
 
 much like his being with us isn’t exactly that we don't 
 care for him. He’s not bad. But father’s his only 
 child, and our grandmother died a good while ago, and 
 I think she must have been a very giving-in sort of per¬ 
 son, and that's bad training for any one. When I'm 
 grown up, if ever I marry, I shall settle with my 
 wife before we start that she mustn't give in to me too 
 much, and I'll stick to it once it’s settled. For I’ve 
 got rather a nasty temper, and I feel in me that if I was 
 to get too much of my own way it would get horrid. 
 Its perhaps because of that that it's been a good thing 
 for me to have four sisters, for they're nearly as bad as 
 four wives sometimes. I don't get too much of my 
 own way at present, I can tell you. 
 
 I often think I'm rather like grandfather. P'raps if 
 he'd had four sisters or a not-too-giving-in wife he'd have 
 been better. Now, I hope that's not rude ? I don't 
 mean it to be; I'm rather excusing him. And I can't 
 put down what isn't true, even though nobody should 
 ever see this “ veracious history "—that's what I'm go¬ 
 ing to put on the title-page—except myself. And the 
 truth is that grandfather expects everybody and every¬ 
 thing to give in to him. Not always father, for he does 
 see how grand and clever father is, and that he can't 
 be expected to come and go, and do things, and give 
 up things, just like a baby. But oh, as for poor little 
 mums !— that's mother—her life's not her own when 
 gran's with us. And it isn't that she's silly a bit She's 
 
96 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 awfully sensible; something like Hebe and Maud 
 mixed together, though to look at her she's more like 
 Anne. It’s real goodness makes her give in. 
 
 “He’s getting old, dears, you know,” she says, 
 “ and practically he’s so very good to us.” 
 
 I’m not quite sure that I understand quite what 
 tl practically ” means. I think it’s to do with the house 
 —or the houses, for we’ve got two—and money. For 
 father, though he's so clever, wouldn’t be rich without 
 grandfather, I don’t think. Perhaps it means presents 
 too. He—grandfather—isn’t bad about presents. He 
 never forgets birthdays or Christmases—oh, dear, no, 
 he’s got an ayj/ully good memory. Sometimes some 
 of us would almost rather be worse off for presents if 
 only he’d forget some other things. 
 
 I’m like him about remembering too. I think my 
 mind is rather tidy, as well as my outside ways. I’ve 
 got things very neat inside; I often feel as if it was a 
 cupboard, and I like to know exactly which shelf to 
 goto for anything I want. Mums says, “That’s all 
 very well so far as it goes, Jack, but don’t stop short 
 at that, or you will be in danger of growing narrow¬ 
 minded and self-satisfied.” 
 
 And I think I know what she means. There are 
 some things now about Anne, for all her tiresome 
 ways, that I know are grander than about me, or even 
 perhaps than about Hebe, only Hebe's sweetness 
 makes up for everything. But Anne would give any- 
 
THE GIRLS AND 1. 
 
 97 
 
 thing in a moment to do any one a good turn. And I 
 —well, I'd think about it. I didn't at all like having to 
 tear up my nice pocket-handkerchief even the day we 
 found the poor little boy with his leg bleeding so dread¬ 
 fully in the Park, and Anne had hers in strips in a 
 moment. And she'll lend her very best things to any 
 one of us. And she's got feelings I don't understand. 
 Beautiful church music makes her want so dreadfully 
 to be good, she says. I like it very much, but I don't 
 think I feel it that way. I just feel nice and quiet, and 
 almost a little sleepy if it goes on a good while. 
 
 I was telling about our house in London. It’s big, 
 and rather grand in a dull sort of way, but dark and 
 gloomy. Long ago, when they built big houses, I 
 think they fancied it was the proper thing to make them 
 dark. It's nice in winter when it's shut up for the 
 night, and the gas lighted in the hall and on the stair¬ 
 cases, and with the lamps in the dining-room and draw¬ 
 ing-room and library—it is very warm and comfortable 
 then, and though the furniture's old-fashioned, and not 
 a pretty kind of old-fashioned, it looks grand in a way. 
 But when the spring comes, and thd bright days show 
 ap all the dinginess, poor mother, how she does sigh ! 
 
 “ I would so like to have a pretty house," she says. 
 
 The curtains are all so dark, you can scarcely see 
 they’re any color at all, and those dreadful heavy gilt 
 frames to the mirrors in the drawing-rooms ! Oh, Alan,” 
 —Alan is father—“don't you think gran would let us 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 refurnish even the third drawing-room ? I could make 
 it a sort of boudoir, you know, and I could have my 
 own friends in there in the daytime The rooms don't 
 look so bad at night." 
 
 But father shakes his head 
 
 “ I'm afraid he wouldn't like it," he says. 
 
 So I suppose even father gives in a good deal to 
 gran. 
 
 Mums isn’t a bit selfish. The brightest rooms in the 
 house have always been ours. They're two floors over 
 the drawing-rooms, which are really very big rooms. 
 We have a nursey, and on one side of it a dressing-room 
 —that's mine—and two other rooms, with two beds 
 each for the girls. We do our lessons in the study—a 
 little room in front of the dining-room, very jolly, for 
 it looks to the front, and the street is wide, and we can 
 see all the barrel-organs and monkeys, and Punch and 
 Judys, and bands, when we're doing our lessons. I 
 don't mean when we’re having our lessons ; that's 
 ‘ different. My goodness ! I'd like to see even Serry 
 try to look out of the window when Miss Stirling is 
 there! Miss Stirling's our governess. She comes, 
 you know ; she's not a living-in-the-house one, and she's 
 pretty strict, so we like her best the way she is. But 
 
 doing our lessons is when we're learning them. Most 
 
 # 
 
 days, in winter anyway, we go a walk till four, or a 
 quarter to, and then we learn for an hour, and then 
 we have tea ; and if we're not finished, we come down 
 
TEE GIRLS AND L 
 
 99 
 
 again till half-past six or so, and then we dress to go 
 into the drawing-room to mums. 
 
 She nearly always dresses for dinner early, so we 
 have an hour with her. The little ones, Serena and 
 Maud, never have much to learn. It's Anne and Hebe 
 and me. We all do Latin—I mean we three do. And 
 twice a week Miss Stirling takes Anne and Hebe to 
 French and German classes for “ advanced pupils / 1 
 I’m not an advanced pupil, so those mornings I work 
 alone for two hours, and then Tve not much to do in 
 the evening those days. And Miss Stirling gives me 
 French and German the days that the girls are at their 
 music with Mrs. Meux, their music-teacher. 
 
 That’s how we’ve done for a long time—ages. But 
 next year I’m going to school. 
 
 I’m to go when I’m twelve. My birthday comes in 
 November. It’s just been; that’s how I said 4 ‘Fm 
 eleven,” not eleven and a quarter, or eleven and a half 
 —just eleven. And I’m to go at the end of the Christ¬ 
 mas holidays after that. I don’t much mind ; at least 
 I don’t think I do. I’ll have more lessons and more 
 games in a regular way, and I’ll have less worries, any¬ 
 way at first. For I shall be counted a small boy, of 
 course, and I shan’t have to look after others and be 
 blamed for them, the way I have to look after the girls 
 at home. It’ll really be a sort of rest. I’ve had such 
 a lot of looking after other people. I really have. 
 
 Mums says so herself sometimes. She even says 1 
 
100 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 have to look after her. And it's true. She's awfully 
 good—she’s almost an angel—but she's a tiny bit like 
 Anne. She's rather untidy. Not to look at, ever. 
 She's as neat as a pin, and then she's very pretty ; 
 but she’s careless—she says so herself. She so often 
 loses things, because she's got a trick of putting them 
 down anywhere she happens to be. Often and often 
 I go to her room when she’s dressing, and tap at the 
 door and say— 
 
 “ Have you lost something, mums ? " 
 
 And ten to one she'll call back— 
 
 “ Yes, my dear town-crier, I have." (“ My gloves , n 
 or “ my card-case," or “ my keys," or, oh ! almost any¬ 
 thing.) “But I wasn't worrying about it; I knew 
 you’d find it, Jack." 
 
 And Maud does finder for Anne, just the same way, 
 only her finding sometimes gets me into trouble. Just 
 fancy that. If Anne loses something, and Maud Is 
 hunting away and doesn't find it all at once, they'll 
 turn upon me—they truly will—and say— 
 
 “You might help her, Jack, you really might, poor 
 little thing ! It's no trouble to you to run up and down 
 stairs, and she’s so little." 
 
 When that sort of thing happens, I do feel that I've 
 got a rather nasty temper. 
 
 I've begun about losing things, because our adven¬ 
 tures had to do with a very big losing. The first adven¬ 
 ture came straight from it, and the rest had to do with it 
 
THE GIRLS AND 1. 
 
 101 
 
 It’s funny how things hang together like that. You 
 think of something that’s come, and you remember 
 what made it happen, and then you go back to the 
 beginning of that , and you see it came from something 
 else ; and you go on feeling it out like, till you’re quite 
 astonished to find what a perfectly different thing had 
 started it all from what you would have thought 
 
 I think this will be a good place for ending the first 
 
 ♦ 
 
 chapter, which isn’t really like a story—only an ex* 
 planation of us. 
 
 And in the next I’ll begin about our adventures. 
 
 
 
 
102 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 THE DIAMOND ORNAMENT. 
 
 It was two years ago nearly ; it was the end of 
 February—no, I think it was a little way on in March. 
 So I was only nine and a quarter, and Anne was about 
 twelve, and all the others in proportion younger than 
 
 they are now, of course. You can count their ages, 
 
 % ' • 1 ' r 
 
 if you like, though I don't know who “you” are, or if 
 there's ever going to be any “you” at all. But it's 
 the sort of thing I like to do myself when I read a story. 
 I count all the people’s ages, and the times they did 
 things, and that things are said to have happened, and 
 I can tell you that very often I find that authors make 
 very stupid mistakes. I told father of this once, and I 
 said I'd like to write and tell them. He laughed, but 
 he called me a prig, which I didn't like, so I never have 
 written to any of them. 
 
 That winter began early, and was very cold, but it 
 went early too. So grandfather took it into his head 
 to come back to England the end of February, for a 
 bit, meaning to go on somewhere else—to Ireland, I 
 think, where we have some relations — after he'd been 
 in London, a fortnight or so. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 103 
 
 It all came—all that I’ve got to tell—of gran's re¬ 
 turning from the hot place he’d been at, whichever it 
 was, so much sooner than usual. 
 
 There was going to be a Drawing-room just about 
 the end of the fortnight he was to be with us, and mums 
 was going to it. She had fixed it a good while ago, 
 because she was going to take some friends—a girl 
 who’d got married to a cousin of father’s, and another 
 girl—to be presented. They were both rather pretty. 
 We saw them in the morning, when they came for 
 mums to take them. I thought the married one pret¬ 
 tiest ; she had nice laughing eyes. If ever I marry, 
 I’d like a girl with laughing eyes ; they look so jolly. 
 The other one was rather cross, I thought, and so did 
 Maud. But Anne said she was interesting-looking, as 
 if she had a hidden sorrow, like in poetry. And after 
 that, none of us quite dared to say she was only cross- 
 looking. And she wasn’t really cross ; we found that 
 out afterwards. It was only the way her face was 
 made. 
 
 Her name was Judith, and the married one Was 
 Dorothea. We always call her that, as she’s our 
 cousin. 
 
 They were prettily dressed, both of them. All white. 
 But Dorothea’s dress went rather in creases. It iooked 
 too loose. I went all round her, ever so many times, 
 peeping at it, though she didn’t know, of course. I 
 can tell when a dress fits, as well as anybody, because 
 
104 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 of helping to dress mums so often. Sometimes, for a 
 change from the town-crier, mums calls me a man- 
 milliner. I don't mind. 
 
 Judith's dress was all right. It was of silk, a soft 
 kind, not near so liney as satin. I like it better. 
 They were both very neat. No pins or hairpins stick¬ 
 ing out. 
 
 But mums looked prettiest. I can tell you how she 
 was dressed, because she's not been at a Drawing-room 
 since, for last spring and summer she got a cold or 
 something both times she meant to go. By rights she 
 should go every year, because of what father is. I 
 hope she'll go next spring, for after that I shall be at 
 school, and never able to see her, and I do love to look 
 at her all grand like that. She says she doesn’t know 
 how she’ll do without me for seeing she’s all right. 
 
 Well, her dress was blue and pale pink, the train 
 blue—a flowery pattern—and she had blue and pink 
 
 bunches of feathers all sticking about it ; no flowers 
 
 % 
 
 except her nosegay, which was blushing roses tied 
 with blue streamers. 
 
 She did look nice. 
 
 Her hair looked grander than usual, because of some¬ 
 thing she had never had in it before, and that was a 
 beautiful diamond twisty-twirly thing. I have never 
 seen a diamond brooch or pin quite like it, though I 
 often look in the jewellers' windows. 
 
 She was very proud of it, though she’d only got the 
 
THE GIRLS AND 1 . 105 
 
 loan of it. I must go back a bit to tell you how she 
 had got it. 
 
 A day or two before grandfather left, mums told him 
 about the Drawing-room. If she had known he was 
 going to be with us then, she wouldn’t have fixed to go 
 to it ; for, as I have said, he takes up nearly all her 
 time, especially when he’s only there for a short visit. 
 I suppose I shouldn’t call it a visit, as it’s his own house, 
 but it seems the best word. And for her to be a whole 
 day out, not in at luncheon, and a train-show at after¬ 
 noon tea-time, would have been just what he doesn't 
 like. But it couldn’t be helped now, as others were 
 counting on her, especially Mrs. Chasserton, our cous¬ 
 in’s wife—that’s Dorothea. 
 
 We were there—Anne, Hebe, and I—when mother 
 told gran about it We really felt rather frightened, 
 but she said it so sweetly, I felt sure he couldn't be 
 vexed. And he wasn’t. He did frudge up his eye¬ 
 brows— “ frudge ” is a word we’ve made ourselves, it 
 does do so well; we’ve made several—and they are 
 very thick. Anne opened her mouth in a silly way she 
 has, just enough to make him say, “What are you 
 gaping at, Miss Anne, may I ask?” but luckily he 
 didn’t notice. And Hebe squeezed my hand under the 
 table-cloth. It was breakfast-time. But in a minute he 
 unfrudged his eyebrows, and then we knew it was over. 
 
 “ Quite right, my dear Valeria,” he said. Valeria is 
 mums’ name; isn’t it pretty? “I am very glad for 
 
106 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 you to show attention to Dick's wife—quite right, as 
 you are at the head of the family. As for Judith Merthyr 
 —h-m—h-m—she's a strong-minded young woman, 
 I'm told—don’t care about strong-minded young women 
 —wonder she condescends to such frivolity. And thank 
 you, my dear, for your consideration for me. But it 
 won't be needed I must leave for Holyhead on Tues¬ 
 day. They are expecting me at Tilly' something or 
 other (I don't mean that gran said that, but I can't re¬ 
 member these long Irish names). 
 
 Tuesday was the day before the Drawing-room. I'm 
 sure mums clapped her inside hands—that's another of 
 our makings up—I know we did. For if gran had been 
 there I don't believe we'd have got in to the train-show 
 at all. And of course it's much jollier to be in the 
 
 drawing-room in the afternoon, waiting for them to 
 
 • 
 
 come back, and speaking to the people that are there, 
 and getting a good many extra teas and sandwiches 
 and cakes and ices, than just to see mums start in the 
 morning, however pretty she looks. 
 
 Grandfather was really rather wonderful that day. 
 
 “ What are you going to wear, my dear Valeria ?" 
 he asked mother. 
 
 She told him. 
 
 “H-m, h-m," he said. He has different ways of 
 h-ming. This time it was all right, not like when he 
 spoke of Judy Merthyr. And actually a smile broke 
 over his face. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 107 
 
 The night before he was leaving he came into the 
 drawing-room just before dinner-time looking very 
 smiley. He was holding something in his hand—a 
 dark leather case. 
 
 j 
 
 “My dear child,” he said, and though we were all 
 five there we knew he was speaking to^mother. I like 
 to hear mother called “my dear child”—father does it 
 sometimes—it makes her seem so nice and young. 
 “ My dear child,” he said, “I have got something here 
 that I want you to wear in your hair at the Drawing- 
 room. I cannot give it to you out and out, though I 
 mean you to have it some day, but I want to lend it 
 you for as long as you like. ” 
 
 And then he opened the case, mother standing close 
 *>y, and all of us trying to peep too. It was the twisty- 
 twirly diamond ornament. A sort of knot—big dia¬ 
 monds in the middle and littler ones in and out. It is 
 awful pretty. I never saw diamonds sparkle so—you 
 can see every color in them when you look close, like 
 thousands of prisms, you know. It had a case on pur¬ 
 pose for it, and there were pins of different shapes and 
 sizes, so that it could be a brooch, or a hair-pin, or a 
 hanging thing without a pin at all 
 Mums was pleased. 
 
 “ Oh, thank you, dear gran,” she said. “ It is good 
 of you. Yes, indeed, I shall be proud to have such a 
 lovely, splendid ornament in my hair. ” 
 
 Then grandfather took it out of the case, and showed 
 
108 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 her all the different ways of fastening in the pins. They 
 had little screws at their ends, and they all fitted in so 
 neatly, it was quite interesting to see. 
 
 “You will wear it in your hair on Wednesday, no 
 doubt,” he said. “So I will fasten in the hair-pin— 
 there, you see it screws quite firmly.” 
 
 And then he gave it to mother, and she took it up¬ 
 stairs and put it away. 
 
 The next night—grandfather had left that morning— 
 father and mother were going out to dinner. Mother 
 dresses rather early generally, so that she can be with 
 us a little, but that night she had been busy, and she 
 was rather late. She called us into her room when she 
 was nearly ready, not to disappoint us, and because 
 we always like to see her dressed. She had on a red 
 dress that night, I remember. 
 
 Her maid, Rowley, had put out all the things on the 
 toilet-table. When mums isn’t in a hurry I often choose 
 for her what she’s going to wear—we spread all the 
 cases out and then we settle. But to-night there wasn't 
 time for that. Rowley had got out a lot of things, be¬ 
 cause she didn’t know which mother would choose, and 
 among them the new, grand, diamond thing of grand¬ 
 father’s. 
 
 “ Oh,” said Anne—she and I were first at the toilet- 
 table,— “ are you going to wear gran’s ornament, 
 mother ? ” 
 
 “No, of course not,” said mums. “It’s only for 
 
THE GIRLS AND I . 
 
 109 
 
 very grand occasions, and to-night is quite a small 
 dinner. I’ve got on all the jewelry I need. But, Jack, 
 do help me to fasten this bracelet, there’s a good boy. ” 
 Rowley was fussing away at something that wasn't 
 quite right in mother’s skirt. Mother was rather im¬ 
 patient, and the bracelet was fidgety. 
 
 But at last I got it done, and Rowley stood up with 
 rather a red face from tacking the sweepy, lacey thing 
 that had come undone. Mums flew off. 
 
 “ Good-night, dears,” she said. “ I haven’t even 
 time to kiss you. Father has gone down, and the 
 carriage has been there ever so long. ” 
 
 The girls called out “good-night,” and Hebe and I 
 ran to the top of the staircase to watch her go down. 
 Then we went straight back to the nursery, and in a 
 minute or two the three others came in. Maud was 
 
 „ f 
 
 saying something to Anne, and Anne was laughing 
 at her. 
 
 “Did you ever hear such a little prig as Maud?” 
 she said. “ She’s actually scolding me because I was 
 looking at mums’ jewels.” 
 
 “ Anne made them all untidy,” said Maud. 
 
 “ Well, Rowley’ll tidy them again. She came back 
 
 on purpose; she’d only gone down to put mother’* 
 
 % 
 
 cloak on,” said Anne carelessly. 
 
 “Anne,” said I rather sharply. You see I knew 
 her ways, and mums often leaves me in charge. 
 “Were you playing with mother’s jewels ? ” 
 
110 
 
 TEE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 “I was doing no harm,” said Anne; “I was only 
 looking at the way the pins fasten in to that big 
 diamond thing. It's quite right, Jack, you needn't 
 fuss. Rowley's putting them all away.” 
 
 So I didn’t say any more. 
 
 And to-morrow was the Drawing-room day. 
 
 Mother looked beautiful, as I said. We watched her 
 start with the two others, Cousin Dorothea and Miss 
 Merthyr. It was rather a cold day ; they took lots 
 of warm cloaks in the carriage. I remember hearing 
 Judy—we call her Judy now—say, 
 
 “You must take plenty of wraps, Mrs. Warwick,” 
 —that’s mother. “ My aunt made me bring a fur cape 
 that I thought I should not wear again this year; it 
 would never do for you to catch cold.” 
 
 Mums does look rather delicate, but she isn’t delicate 
 really. She’s never ill. But Judith looked at her so 
 nicely when she said that about not catching cold, that 
 the cross look went quite out of her face, and I saw it 
 was only something about her eyebrows. And I began 
 to think she must be rather nice. 
 
 But we didn’t see her again. She did not get out 
 of the carriage when they came back in the afternoon, 
 but went straight home to her own house. Some¬ 
 body of hers was ill there. Cousin Dorothea came 
 back with mother, and three other ladies in trains 
 came too, >so there was rather a good show. 
 
 And everybody was laughing and talking, and we’d 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. Ill 
 
 all had two or three little teas and several ices, and it 
 was all very jolly when a dreadful thing happened. 
 
 I was standing by mother. I had brought her a cup 
 of tea from the end drawing-room where Rowley and 
 
 i 
 
 the others were pouring it out, and she was just drink¬ 
 ing it, when I happened to look up at her head. 
 
 “ Mums/' I said, “why have you taken out gran’s 
 diamond thing? It looked so nice.” 
 
 Mums put her hand to her head—to the place where 
 she knew she had put in the pin : of course it wasn’t 
 there, I wouldn’t have made such a mistake. 
 
 Mums grew white—really white. I never saw her like 
 that except once when father was thrown from his horse. 
 
 “Oh, Jack,” she said, “are you sure?” and she 
 kept feeling all over her hair among the feathers and 
 hanging lacey things, as if she thought it must be stick¬ 
 ing about somewhere. 
 
 “Stoop down, mums,” I said, “and I’ll have a good 
 look.” 
 
 There weren’t many people there just then—several 
 had gone, and several were having tea. So mums sat 
 down on a low chair, and I poked all over her 
 hair. But of course the pin was gone—no, I shouldn’t 
 say the pin , for it was there ; its top, with the screwy 
 end, was sticking up, but the beautiful diamond thing 
 was gone ! 
 
 I drew out the pin, and mother gave a little cry of 
 joy as she felt me. 
 
112 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 “Oh, it’s there/' she said, “ there after all- ” 
 
 “No, dear/' I said quickly, “it isn't. Look—it’s 
 only the pin." 
 
 Mother seized it, and looked at it with great puzzle 
 as well as trouble in her eyes. 
 
 “It's come undone," she said, “yet how could it 
 have done ? Gran fixed it on himself, and he's so very 
 particular. There's a little catch that fastens it to the 
 pin as well as the screw—see here, Jack," and she 
 showed me the catch, ‘ ‘ that couldn't have come undone 
 if it was fastened when I put it on. And I know gran 
 clicked it, as well as screwing the head in." 
 
 She stared at me, as if she thought it couldn't be 
 true, and as if explaining about it would make it come 
 
 back somehow. 
 
 * 
 
 Several ladies came up, and she began telling them 
 about it. Cousin Dorothea had gone, but these other 
 ladies were all very sorry for her, and indeed any one 
 woufd have been, poor little mother looked so dread¬ 
 fully troubled. 
 
 One of them took up the pin and examined it 
 closely. 
 
 “There's one comfort," she said, “ it hasn’t been 
 stolen. You see it's not been cut off, and that's what 
 very clever thieves do sometimes. They nip off a jewel 
 in a crowd, quite noiselessly and in half a second. I've 
 been told. No, Mrs. Warwick, it's dropped off, and by 
 advertising and offering a good reward you may very 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 113 
 
 likely get it back. But—excuse me—it was very care¬ 
 less of your maid not to see that it was properly 
 fastened. A very valuable thing, I suppose it is ? " 
 “It's more than valuable," said poor mother. “It's 
 an heirloom, quite irreplaceable. I do not know how I 
 shall ever have courage to tell my father-in-law. No, I 
 can't blame my maid. I told her not to touch it, as the 
 
 General had fastened it himself all ready. But how 
 
 * 
 
 can it have come undone ? ” . 
 
 At that moment Anne and Hebe, who had been hav* 
 ing a little refreshment no doubt, came into the front 
 
 4 
 
 drawing-room where we were. They saw there was 
 something the matter, and when they got close to 
 mother and saw what she was holding in her hand, for 
 the lady had given it back to her, they seemed to know 
 in a moment what had happened. And Anne's mputh 
 opened, the way it does when she's startled or fright¬ 
 ened, and she stood staring. 
 
 Then I knew what it meant 
 
114 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WORK FOR THE TOWN-CRIER, 
 
 “Oh, those girls,” I thought to myself; “why did 
 I leave them alone in mother's room with all her things 
 about ?” 
 
 But Anne's face made me feel as if I couldn't say 
 anything—not before all those people ; though of course 
 I knew that as soon as she could see mother alone she 
 would tell, herself. I was turning away, thinking it 
 would be better to wait—for, you see, mother was not 
 blaming any one else—when all of a sudden Maud ran 
 up. She was all dressed up very nicely, of course; 
 and she's a pretty little thing, everybody says, and 
 then she's the youngest. So a lot of people had been 
 petting her and making a fuss about her. Maud doesn't 
 like that at all. She's not the least bit conceited or 
 spoilt, and she really is so sensible that I think it teases 
 her to be spoken to as if she was only a baby. Her 
 face was rather red, I remember; she had been trying 
 to get away from those ladies without being at all rude, 
 for she's far too “ ladylike " to be rude ever. And now 
 she ran up, in a hurry to get to her dear Anne as 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 115 
 
 i » 
 
 usual. But the moment she saw Anne's face she knew 
 that something was wrong. For one thing, Anne's 
 mouth was wide open, and I have told you about 
 Anne's mouth. Then there was the pin in mother's 
 hand, the hairpin, and no top to it! And mums look¬ 
 ing so troubled, and all the ladies round her. 
 
 4 4 What is it? ” said Maud in her quick way. “Oh—. 
 is mums' brooch broken ? Oh, Anne, you shouldn't 
 have touched it! " 
 
 Everybody—mother and everybody—turned to 
 Anne; I was sorry for her. It wasn't like Maud to 
 have called it out, she is generally so careful; but you 
 see she was startled, and she only thought the diamond 
 thing was broken or loosened. 
 
 Anne's face grew scarlet. 
 
 “What do you mean, Maudie?" said mother. 
 “ Anne, what does she mean ?" 
 
 It was hard upon Anne, for it looked as if she hadn't 
 been going to tell, and that wasn't at all her way. In 
 another moment I daresay she would have blurted it 
 out; but then, you see, she had hardly had time to 
 take in that most likely she had caused the mischief, 
 for she knew she hadn't meant to, and she quite 
 thought she had left the pin just as firmly fastened as 
 she had found it. 
 
 “Oh, mother," she cried, “I didn't think—I never 
 meant—I'm sure I screwed it in again quite the 
 
 same. 
 
116 
 
 THE GIRLS AND J. 
 
 “ When did you touch it ? I don’t understand any¬ 
 thing about it. Jack, what do Anne and Maud mean ? 99 
 said poor mums, turning to me. 
 
 It was my fault,” I said. “I shouldn’t have left 
 any one in your room, with all your things about, and 
 Rowley even not there.” 
 
 4 ‘And I did tell Anne not to touch the diamond 
 brooch,” said Maud. For once she really seemed quite 
 angry with Anne. 
 
 Then we told mother all there was to tell—at least 
 Anne did, for she knew the most of course. She had 
 been fiddling at the diamond thing all the time she was 
 standing by the table, but no one had noticed her ex¬ 
 cept Maud. For you remember mums was in a great 
 hurry, and I was helping her to fasten her bracelet, 
 and Rowley was fussing at her skirt, and then Hebe 
 and I went half-way downstairs to see mother start 
 Oh, dear, I did feel vexed with myself! Anne said 
 she wanted to see how the ornament could be turned 
 into different things ; she had unscrewed the pin and 
 unclicked the little catch, and then she had fixed in the 
 other kind of pin to make it into a brooch, and she 
 wanted to try the screw with a ring to it, to make it, a 
 hanging ornament, but Maud wouldn’t let her stay. 
 So she screwed in the hairpin again—the one that gran 
 had fastened in himself. She meant to do it quite tight, 
 but she couldn’t remember if she clicked the little catch. 
 And she was in a hurry, so no doubt she did it carelessly. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 117 
 
 That was really about all Anne had to tell. 
 
 But it was plain that it had been her fault that the 
 beautiful ornament was lost. It had dropped off. 
 Mums didn't say very much to her: it wouldn't have 
 
 done before all the visitors. They were very good- 
 
 « 
 
 natured, and very sorry for mother. And several 
 people said again what a good thing it was it was only 
 lost, not stolen, for that gave ever so much more 
 chance of finding it. 
 
 * 
 
 When all the people had gone, father came in. 
 Mother had still her dress on, but she was looking 
 very white and tired, and in a moment, like Maud, 
 he saw that there was something the matter. 
 
 He was very vexed, dreadfully vexed, only he was 
 too good to scold Anne very much. And indeed it 
 would have been difficult to do so, she looked such a 
 miserable creature, her eyes nearly swollen out of her 
 head with crying. And we were all pretty bad—even 
 Serry, who never troubles herself much about any¬ 
 thing, looked solemn. And as for me, I just couldn't 
 forgive myself for not having stayed in mother's room 
 and seen to putting away her jewel-cases, as I gen¬ 
 erally do. 
 
 Father set to work at once. First he made mother 
 stand up in the middle of the room, and he called 
 Rowley, and he and Rowley and I and Hebe shook 
 out her train and poked into every little fluthery ruffle 
 —there was a lot of fustled-up net inside the edge, just 
 
118 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 the place for the diamond thing to get caught in, and 
 we made her shake herself and turn out her pocket and 
 everything. But it was no use. Then—the poor little 
 thing was nearly dead, she was so tired !—father made 
 her go to take off her finery, telling Rowley to look 
 over all the dress again when mother had got out of it 
 Then he and I went out together to the coach-house, 
 first telling all the servants of the loss, and making 
 them hunt over the hall and up and down the stairs ; 
 it was really quite exciting, though it was horrid too, 
 knowing that father and mother were so vexed and 
 Anne so miserable. 
 
 We found the coachman just washing the carriage. 
 We got into it, and poked into every corner, and shook 
 out the rugs, and just did everything, even to looking 
 on the front door-steps behind the scraper, and in the 
 gutter, and shaking out the roll of carpet that had been 
 laid down. For father is splendid at anything like 
 that; he’s so practical, and I think I take after him. 
 (I don’t know but what I’d like best of all to be a pri¬ 
 vate detective when I grow up. I’ll speak to father 
 about it some day.) 
 
 But all was no use, and when we came up to the 
 drawing-room again there was mums in her crimson 
 tea-gown, looking so anxious. It went to my heart 
 to have to shake my head, especially when poor 
 Anne came out of a comer looking like a dozen 
 ghosts. 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 119 
 
 Still, we had rather a nice evening after all, though 
 it seems odd. It was all thanks to father. He made 
 us three come down to dinner with mums and him, 
 “To cheer your mother up a little,” he said, though I 
 shouldn't have thought there was much cheering to be 
 got out of Anne. In reality I think he did it as much 
 for Anne's sake as for mums'. And Hebe was very 
 sweet to Anne, for they don't always get on so very 
 well. Hebe sometimes does elder sister too much, 
 which is bad enough when one is elder sister, but 
 rather too bad when one isn't, even if it is the real 
 elder sister's own fault But to-night Hebe sat close 
 to Anne, holding her hand under the tablecloth, and 
 trying to make her eat some pudding. (It was 
 chocolate pudding, I remember, and mother gave us 
 each some.) And when dessert was on the table, and 
 the servants had gone, father called Anne to him, and 
 put his arm round her. 
 
 “My dear little girl," he said, “you must try to 
 leave off crying. It only makes mother more troubled. 
 I can't deny that this loss is a great vexation : it will 
 annoy grandfather, and—well, there's no use telling 
 you what you know already. But of course it isn’t as 
 bad as some troubles, and even though I'm afraid 
 I can't deny that it has come through your fault, it 
 isn't as bad as if your fault had been a worse one 
 ^-unkindness, or untruthfulness, or some piece of 
 «Nflshness.” 
 
120 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 Anne hid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed and 
 choked, and said something we couldn’t hear. 
 
 ‘ ‘ But still carelessness is a great fault, and causes trou¬ 
 bles without end,” father went on. “ And in this case 
 it was meddlesomeness too. I do hope-” 
 
 “ Oh, father,” said Anne, looking up, “ I know what 
 you’re going to say. Yes, it will be a lesson to me : 
 you’ll see. I shall be quite different, and ever so much 
 more thoughtful and careful from now.” 
 
 And of course she meant what she said. 
 
 But father looked grave still. 
 
 “ My dear child, don’t be too confident. You won’t 
 find that you can cure yourself all at once. The force 
 of bad habit is almost harder to overcome in small 
 things than in great; it is so unconscious. ” 
 
 “ Yes, father,” said Anne. 
 
 She understood what he said better than I did then ; 
 for she is really clever—much cleverer than I am about 
 poetry and thinking sort of cleverness, though I have 
 such a good memory. So I remembered what father 
 said, and now I understand it. 
 
 After dinner we went up to the littlest drawing-room 
 —the one mother wanted for so long to refurnish 
 prettily. There was a fire, for it was only March and 
 mums sat in one of the big old armchairs close to it, 
 and Anne and Hebe beside her. And father drew a 
 chair to mum’s writing-table, and wrote out several 
 advertisements for the next morning’s papers, which 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 121 
 
 he sent off to the offices that very evening. Some were 
 
 I ' 
 
 in the next morning, and some weren’t ; but it didn't 
 much matter, for none of them did any good. Before 
 he sent them he inquired of all the servants if they 
 had looked everywhere he had told them to. 
 
 “ There is just a chance of daylight showing it in 
 some corner," he said, when he had done all this, and 
 come to sit down beside mums. 
 
 “ I don't know that," she said. “ This house is so 
 dark by day. But, after all, the chance of its being 
 here is very small." 
 
 “ Yes," father said, “ I have more hope in the ad¬ 
 vertisements." 
 
 44 And, " mother went on, her voice sounding almost 
 as if she was going to cry—I believe she kept it back a 
 good deal for Anne's sake—“ if—if they don't bring 
 anything, what about telling your father, Alan ? " 
 
 <( Alan " is father's name—“ Alan Joachim," and 
 mine is “ Joachim Gerald." 
 
 Father considered. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 <£ We must wait a little. It will be a good while 
 before I quite give up hopes of it. And there's no use 
 in spoiling gran's time in Ireland ; for there's no doubt 
 the news would spoil it—he's the sort of person to fret 
 tremendously over a thing of the kind." 
 
 “ I'm afraid he is," said mother, and she sighed 
 deeply. 
 
 But hearing a faint sob from Anne, father gave mothef 
 
122 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 a tiny sign, and then he asked us if we’d like him to 
 
 read aloud a little sort of fairy story he'd been writing 
 
 • 
 
 for some magazine. Of course we all said “ Yes;" 
 we're very proud if ever he offers to read us anything, 
 even though we mayn't understand it very well; but 
 this time we did understand it—Anne best of all, I ex¬ 
 pect. And when he had finished, it was time for us to 
 go to bed. 
 
 We had had, as I told you, rather an extra nice even¬ 
 ing after all, and father had managed to make poor 
 mums more cheerful and hopeful. 
 
 It got worse again, however, the next day, when the 
 hours went on, and there came no letter or telegram 
 or anything about the lost treasure. For mother had 
 got to feel almost sure the advertisements would bring 
 some news of it. And father was very late of coming 
 home. It was a dreadfully busy time for him just then. 
 We were all in bed before he came in, both that night 
 and the next, I remember, for I know he looked in to say 
 good-night to me, and to say he hoped we were all 
 being as good as we could be to mums. 
 
 I think we were, and to Anne too, for we were nearly 
 as sorry for her. I had never known her mind about 
 anything so much, or for so long. Serry began to be 
 rather tired of it. 
 
 “ It's so awfully dull to see Anne going about with 
 such a long face," she said the second evening, when 
 we were all sitting with mother. “ Mums herself 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 123 
 
 doesn't look half so gloomy. Mums, do tell Anne not 
 to be so cross ; it can’t be as bad for her as for you.” 
 
 “ You’re very unkind, Serry,” said Maud, bristling 
 up for Anne ; 44 and, after all, I think you might feel a 
 little sorry too. You joined Anne in looking overall 
 mothers things that night, you know you did, and 
 you only laughed when I said you’d left them in a 
 mess. ” 
 
 Serry only laughed now. She tossed back her fluffy 
 hair—it’s a way of hers, and I must say she looks very 
 pretty when she does it. 
 
 “ It's not my nature to fuss about things,” she said, 
 “ It wouldn’t suit my name if I did ; would it, mums? 
 And you are such a little preacher, Maud.” 
 
 It was funny to hear Maud. It’s funny still, for she 
 looks such a mite, but two years ago it was even fun¬ 
 nier. For she was only six and a half then, though she 
 spoke just as well as she does now. I can’t remember 
 ever hearing Maud talk babyishly. 
 
 44 Don’t begin quarrelling about it, my dear children, ” 
 said mother. 44 That certainly won’t do any good. 
 And, Anne, you must just try to put it off your mind a 
 little, as I am doing.” 
 
 44 I can’t” said Anne. 44 I’ve never been so long 
 sorry about anything in my life. I didn’t know any 
 one could, be. I dream about it all night, too— the 
 most provoking dreams of finding it in all sorts of places. 
 Last night I dreamt I found it in my teacup, when I 
 
124 
 
 TEE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 had finished drinking my tea, and it seemed so dread¬ 
 fully real ’ you don't know. I could scarcely help 
 thinking it would be in my cup this morning at break¬ 
 fast." 
 
 “ Oh," said Serena, “ that was why you were staring 
 at the dregs so, and sighing so dolefully. ” 
 
 But Anne didn't pay any attention to her. 
 
 “ Mother," she said, “ you don't think it could mea?i 
 anything—my dream, I mean ? Could it be that we 
 are to look all through the teacups in the pantry, for 
 you know there were a great lot in the drawing-room 
 that day, and it might have dropped into one that wasn't 
 used, and got put away without being washed." 
 
 Mums smiled a little. 
 
 “ I'm afraid that's wildly improbable," she said; 
 
 but if you like to go downstairs and tell Barstow 
 about your dream, you may. It may inspirit them all 
 to go on looking, for I'm afraid they have given up 
 hopes." 
 
 Barstow is the butler. He's very nice, and he was 
 with father since he—I mean, father—was a baby ; he's 
 been always with gran, or what he calls “ in the fam¬ 
 ily.” He's .only got one fault, and that is, he can't 
 keep a footman. We've just had shoals , and now father 
 and mother say they really can't help it, and Barstow 
 must settle them for himself. Since they’ve said that 
 the last two have stayed rather longer. 
 
 But he’s most exceedingly jolly to us. Mums says 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 125 
 
 he spoils us, but I don’t think he does, for hes very 
 
 particular. Lots of footmen, have been sent away 
 
 * * 
 
 because he didn’t think they spoke properly for us to 
 hear. He was terribly shocked one day when Serry 
 said something- was “ like blazes, ” and still worse when 
 he caught me pretending to smoke. He was sure 
 James or Thomas had taught me, say what I would, 
 and of course I was only humbugging. 
 
 I think mums sent Anne down to talk to old Barstow 
 a bit, partly to cheer her up. Anne was away about ten 
 minutes. When she came back she did look rather 
 brighter, though she shook her head. She was holding 
 a note in her hand. 
 
 '■'v 
 
 “No,” she said; “Barstow was very nice, and he 
 made Alfred climb up to look at some cups on a high 
 shelf that hadn’t been used the Drawing-room day— 
 they’d just been brought up in case the others ran 
 short. But there was nothing there. At least—look, 
 mother,” she went on, holding out the letter. “Fancy, 
 Alfred found this on the shelf. Barstow is so angry, 
 and Alfred s dreadfully sorry, and I said I’d ask you to 
 forgive him. It came that evening, when we were all 
 in such a fuss, and he forgot to give it you. He was 
 carrying down a tray and put the note on it, meaning 
 to take it up to the drawing-room. And somehow it 
 got among the extra cups. ” 
 
 Mums took the note and began to open it. 
 
 “ I haven’t the heart to scold any one for being care- 
 
126 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 less just now/'she said, and then she unfolded the 
 letter and read it. 
 
 “I'm rather glad of this,” she said, looking up. 
 “And it is a good thing it was found, Anne, otherwise 
 Mrs. Liddell would have thought me very rude. It is 
 from her to say that the dancing-class begins again 
 on—let me see—yes, it’s to-morrow, Saturday, and she 
 wants to know how many of you are coming. It's to 
 be at her house, like last year. I must send her a word 
 at once. ” 
 
 Mrs. Liddell's house isn't far from ours, and it's very 
 big. There's a room with no carpet on, where we 
 dance. She likes to have the class at her house, 
 because her children are awfully delicate, or, anyway, 
 she thinks they are; and if it's the least cold or wet, 
 she's afraid to let them go out. They come up to 
 town early in the spring, and it suits very well for us 
 to go to their class, as it's so near. 
 
 We rather like it. There's more girls than boys, of 
 course—a lot—but I don't mind, because there are two 
 or three about my size, and one a bit bigger, though 
 he’s younger. 
 
 We were not sorry to hear it was to begin again, and 
 we all said to mums that she should let Maud come 
 too. Maud had never been yet, and Serry had only 
 been one year. Mums wasn’t sure. Dancing is 
 rather expensive, you know, but she said she v d ask 
 father. 
 
rHE GIRLS. AND L 127 
 
 “The class is to be every Saturday afternoon, like 
 last year,” she said. “That will do very well/' 
 
 “ But do persuade father to let Maud come too/’ we 
 all said. 
 
 It wasn't till afterwards that I thought to myself 
 that I would look absurder than ever—the only boy to 
 four sisters ! It was bad enough the year before with 
 three, 
 
128 
 
 TEE GIRLS AND L 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AT THE DANCING-CLASS. 
 
 % » 
 
 It’s funny to think what came of our going to that 
 Qrst dancing-class. If Anne hadn't run down to the 
 pantry, the note wouldn't have been found—perhaps 
 not for months, if ever. And though Mrs. Liddell 
 would have written again the next week most likely, it 
 wouldn't have been in time for us to go to the first 
 class, and everything would have come different. 
 
 We did go—all five of us. Father was quite willing 
 for Maud to come too. I think he would have said 
 yes to anything mother asked just then, he was so sorry 
 for her ; and he was beginning himself, as the days 
 went on, to feel less hopeful about the diamand orna¬ 
 ment being found. And you see mums couldn’t put it 
 off her mind, as she kept telling Anne she should do, 
 for it was quite dreadful to her to think of grandfather’s 
 
 r ^ 
 
 having to hear about it. She was so really sorry for 
 him to be vexed, for she had thought it so kind of him 
 to lend it to her. 
 
 There were several children we knew at the dancing- 
 class. Some, like the little Liddells themselves, that 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 129 
 
 we hadn't seen for a good long while, as they always 
 stayed in the country till after Christmas, and some 
 that we didn't know as friends, only just at ;he dancing, 
 you see. 
 
 It was rather fun. We always found time tor a good 
 deal of talking and laughing between the exercises and 
 the dances, for they took us* in turns—the little ones, 
 like Serena and Maud, who were just beginning, and 
 the older ones who could dance pretty well, and one 
 or two dances at the end for the biggest of all or the 
 furthest on ones. Anne and Hebe were among these, 
 but Hebe danced much better than Anne. Most of 
 the Exercises and the marching we did all together. 
 And the mammas or governeses sat at the other end 
 of the room from all of us. 
 
 There were some children there called Barry that we 
 
 * 
 
 didn't know except meeting them there. But I was 
 
 glad to see them again, because two of them were 
 
 boys, one a little O-d^r and the other a little younger 
 
 than me. And they had a sister who was a twin to 
 
 the younger *one. They were nice children, and I 
 
 * 
 
 liked talking to them, and the girl—her name was 
 Flossy—was nLe to dance with. I could manage 
 much better with hex than with our girls somehow. 
 
 They put me to dance the polka with Flossy. She’s 
 not at all a shy girl, and I'm not shy either, so we 
 talked a good deal between times, and after the polka 
 
 was done we sat down beside Anne and Hebe, and I 
 
 9 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 130 . 
 
 0 K 
 
 Went on talking. I was telling Flossy about losing ctw, 
 
 • 
 
 diamond thing, and she was so interested.* It wasn't 
 a secret, you see. Father said the more we told it the 
 better; there was no saying how it*might be traced 
 through talking about it. 
 
 Only I was sorry for Anne. I had rather forgotten 
 about her when I begun about it to Flossy, and 1 
 
 hadn't told|about Anne's haying meddled with the pin ; 
 
 4 t * 
 
 and when Flossy went on talking, I felt as if Anne 
 
 « 
 
 w&uld think me unkind. 
 
 w 
 
 X- But Anne's not like that. She only sat looking very 
 grave, and when I had answered Flossy's questions, 
 she just said— . 
 
 “Isn't it dreadful to have lost it ? I'd give anything, 
 I'd almost give myself, to find it." 
 
 That's the queer sort of way Anne talks sometimes 
 when she’s very tremendously in earnest 
 Flossy looked rather surprised. 
 
 “What a funny girl you are," she said. “I don't 
 think your mother would agree to give you , even to 
 get back her brooch ! But, do you know, there’s 
 something running in my head about losings and 
 findings that I've been hearing. What can it be? 
 Oh yes; it was some of our cousins yesterday— 
 Ludo," and she called her brother, the twin one,— 
 “Ludo, do you remember what the little Nearns were 
 telling us, about something they'd found ? ” 
 
 “It wasn’t they that found it It was lying or. 
 
THE GIBLS AND 1. 
 
 , 131 
 
 their doorstep the day of the Drawing-room ; they’d 
 had a arid it must have dropped off some lady’s 
 
 dress. But their mother had sent to all the ladies 
 that had been there, and it wasn’t theirs.” 
 
 Anne was listening so eagerly that her eyes almost 
 looked as if they were going to jump out of her head. 
 
 “ What is it like—the brooch, I mean—didn’t you 
 say it was a brooch ? ” she asked in a p'antfng sort of 
 voice. 
 
 Ludovic Barry stared at her. * 
 
 “ It’s because they’ve‘lost one,” said Flossy quickly*^ 
 “at least their mother has, and they would give any¬ 
 thing to find it. It’s a—I forget the word—a family 
 treasure, you know.” 
 
 “ An heirloom,” I said. “ Yes, that’s the worst of 
 
 ■* » 
 
 it. But, Anne, don’t look so wild about it,” I went 
 on, laughingly. „ “ What is the brooch like, that your 
 
 cousins have found? Is it diamonds?” I went on to 
 
 * 
 
 the Barrys. 
 
 • “ I think so,” said Ludo. “ It’s some kind of jewels. 
 But the Nearns are quite small children ; they wouldn’t 
 know, and I don’t suppose they’ve seen it. They’d 
 only heard their mother and the servants talking about 
 it. We can easily find out, though. I’ll run round 
 there—they live in our Square—when we go home. ” 
 “No, Ludo, I’m afraid you can’t, for mamma heard 
 . this morning that-” 
 
 At that very moment we were interrupted by another 
 
132f 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 dance beginning. And when it was over it was time 
 for us all to go. Flossy Barry didn't finish her sen¬ 
 tence. I saw her saying something to her brother, 
 and then she came up to us. 
 
 “I'll find out about the found brooch/’ she said. 
 “I won't forget. And if it's the least likely to be 
 yours, I'll ask mamma to write to your mamma. 
 That'll be the best. ” 
 
 “ Thank you," I said. She was a nice, kind little 
 girl, and I was sure she wouldn’t forget. But Anne 
 looked disappointed. 
 
 “I don't see why she tried to stop her brother going 
 about it at once," she said. 
 
 “ Perhaps there was some reason," I said. “And 
 Anne, if I were you, I wouldn't say anything about 
 it to mums. Raising her hopes, you know, very 
 likely for nothing, for it's such a chance that it’s our 
 brooch—ours has been advertised so, these people 
 would have seen the notices." 
 
 Anne did not answer. 
 
 Flossy had a reason, and a good one, for what she 
 
 « 
 
 said to her brother. But she had been told not to 
 speak of what her mother had heard, as Mrs. Barry 
 said it was not certain. The “it" was that these 
 little cousins of theirs had got the whooping-cough, 
 or rather Lady Nearn, their mother, was afraid they 
 had, and so she had told the Barrys they mustn’t 
 come to the house. 
 
TEE GIBLS AND 1. 
 
 133 
 
 Of course we only heard all that afterwards. 
 
 We walked home from the dancing with Miss Stir- 
 ling. She came with us sometimes, and sometimes 
 mother, and now and then only nurse. For as the 
 class was on- Saturday afternoon, it wouldn't have 
 done for Miss Stirling always to take us, as it was giv¬ 
 ing up part of her holiday. That first day mother was 
 busy or engaged, otherwise she would have come 
 herself. 
 
 It was getting dusk already as we went home; it 
 was a dull afternoon, looking as if if was going to 
 rain. 
 
 “Ido hope it's not going to be wet to-morrow,” 
 said Hebe. “I like it to be fine on Sunday.” 
 
 i 
 
 Anne started at this. She had been walking very 
 silently, scarcely talking at all. 
 
 “Is to-morrow Sunday?” she said. “I’d quite 
 forgotten. Oh, I do wish it wasn't. There's no post 
 on Sunday, you know, Jack.” 
 
 She was next me, and I don't think any one else 
 heard what she said. 
 
 “ What do you mean ? '' I said. “ There's never any 
 post on Sunday in London. What does it matter? ” 
 
 “About the brooch, of course,” she answered 
 “You see, if Flossy tells her mother what ’we said, 
 and they send to find out, perhaps Mrs. Barry would 
 write to mums to-night; and if it wasn't Sunday, the 
 letter would come to-morrow morning.” 
 

 £34 the GIRLS AND I. 
 
 I felt quite provoked with her. 
 
 “Anne,” I said, and I daresay I spoke rather crossly, 
 “ you’re really silly. Its just as unlikely as it can be 
 that it's mums’ thing, and you’d much better put out of 
 your head that it could be. You’ll get yourself into a 
 fidget, and then mums will think there’s something 
 new the matter, and--” 
 
 “I’m not going to tell her anything about it, I’ve 
 said so already,” interrupted Anne, rather crossly too. 
 “I'm always being told to put things out of my head 
 now ; it would have been better if they hadn’t been 
 so much put in my head. I wouldn’t have been half 
 so miserable all this time if you hadn’t all gone on so 
 about it’s being my fault that the horrid thing was 
 lost, ” and she gave a little sob, half of anger, half of 
 unhappiness. 
 
 I was very sorry for her, and I was vexed with 
 myself for having begun about it at the dancing-class 
 just when Anne might have forgotten it a little. 
 
 “ If—just supposing Mrs. Barry thought it was it, 
 she’d very likely send a note round to say ; Rodney 
 Square is quite near us,” said Hebe, who always 
 thought of something cheering to say. 
 
 “Rodney Square,” Anne repeated, “yes, that’s close 
 to here. ” 
 
 For by this time we were almost at our own house. 
 
 Miss Stirling said good-bye to us as soon as the 
 door was opened, and we all five went in together. 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 135 
 
 Mother was out ; we knew she was, but yet it 
 seemed rather dull to be told she hadn’t come in. I 
 always think it’s dreadfully dull to come home and 
 find one’s mother out. 
 
 I didn’t go upstairs. I had some lessons to finish, 
 though it was Saturday afternoon, and so had Hebe, 
 because you see we’d been longer at the dancing than 
 if we’d just gone a walk. So we two went straight 
 into the schoolroom, and Hebe took off her hat and 
 jacket and put them down on a chair. The other 
 three went on upstairs, and we didn’t think any more 
 about them. 
 
 What happened when they got up to the nursery we 
 heard afterwards. Nurse was not there, and the room 
 was rather dark. 
 
 “Why isn’t the gas lighted?” said Maud. “It 
 looks so dull,” and she ran out of the room and down 
 the passage to nurse’s own room, calling out, “Nurse, 
 nurse, where are you ? We’ve come in.” 
 
 Maud was very fond of nurse and of course being 
 the youngest she was nurse’s pet. She’s married now 
 —our old nurse, I mean. She left us last Christmas, and 
 we’ve got a schoolroom-maid instead, who doesn’t pet 
 Maud at all, of course, but I don’t think Maud minds. 
 
 “ Nurse, where are you? ” she called out. 
 
 Nurse was in her room ; she had a fire, and she was 
 froning some things. 
 
 “Come in here, dearie,” she answered. “I didn’t 
 
136 the GIRLS AND I. 
 
 think it was so late. I'll have done in a moment, and 
 then I'll light the gas and see about tea.” 
 
 So Maud went in to nurse’s room and began telling 
 her about the dancing. And thus Anne and Serena 
 were left by themselves in the half-dark nursery. 
 
 Anne stood staring in the fire for a minute without 
 speaking. All this, you understand, they told us after¬ 
 wards. 
 
 “ Won't you come and take your things off, Anne ? ” 
 said Serry. 
 
 But, instead of answering, Anne asked her another 
 question. 
 
 Do you know the number of the Barrys’ house in 
 Rodney Square ? ” it was. 
 
 “ No,” said Serena. “ But I know the house. It is 
 a corner one, and it has blue and white flower-boxes. 
 What do you want to know about it for?” 
 
 Anne looked round—no, there was no sign of nurse ; 
 she and Serena were alone. 
 
 “ Serry,” she said in a whisper, “I've thought of 
 something,” and then she went on to tell Serry what 
 it was. 
 
 That's all I'll tell just now ; the rest will come soon. 
 Till you try, you’ve no idea how difficult it is to tell a 
 story—or even not a regular story, just an account of 
 simple things that really happened—at all properly. 
 The bits of it get so mixed. It's like a tangle of thread 
 —the ends you don't want keep coming up the wrong 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 137 
 
 way, and putting themselves in front of the others. I 
 must just go on as well as I can, and put down the 
 things as straight as they’ll come. 
 
 Well, Hebe and I had about finished the lessons we 
 wanted to get done. It was partly that Monday was 
 going to be mother’s birthday, and we wanted to have 
 a clear evening. Hebe and I always agree about things 
 like that; we like to look forward and arrange comfort- 
 ably. Well, we had just about finished, and I was get¬ 
 ting up to begin putting away the books, when the door 
 opened and nurse came in looking just the least little 
 bit vexed. For she is good-natured. 
 
 She glanced round the room before she spoke, as if 
 she was looking for some one not there. 
 
 “ The child’s right,” she said, as if speaking to her¬ 
 self. “ I must say she generally is. Master Jack,” she 
 went on, “ and Miss Hebe, my dears, tea’s ready. But 
 where are Miss Warwick and Miss Serry ? ” 
 
 We stared. 
 
 “ Anne and Serry,” I said. “ I’m sure I don’t know. 
 Upstairs, I suppose. They went straight up with 
 Maudie when we came in, ever so long ago.” 
 
 “ But indeed they’re not upstairs,” said nurse, her 
 face growing very uneasy. “ That’s what Miss Maud 
 said too. She saw them go into the nursery when she 
 ran along to my room. But they are not there, nor in 
 any of the bedrooms; I’ve looked everywhere, and 
 Called too. ” 
 
188 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 “ They may be reading in the little drawing-room, ’* 
 I said, and both Hebe and I jumped up to go and help 
 nurse in her search. She had not thought of the draw¬ 
 ing-room, knowing mother had not come in. 
 
 “ Have they taken off their hats and jackets? ” asked 
 Hebe. 
 
 Nurse shook her head. 
 
 “ I've not seen them anywhere about, and Miss Anne 
 and Miss Serry are not young ladies that ever think of 
 putting away their out-door things as you do some 
 times, Miss Hebe.” 
 
 Hebe hung back a little. We were following nurse 
 upstairs. 
 
 44 Jack,” she whispered, “do you know, while you 
 and I were busy in the school-room, I am sure I heard 
 the front door shut. I hadn't heard the bell ring, and 
 I wondered for a moment why Alfred was opening 
 when no one had rung. But, you see, it may have 
 been some one going out. Jack, do you think Anne 
 and Serry can have gone out by themselves ? ” 
 
 “They'd never do such a thing,” I said. “Why, 
 it's almost quite dark, and they know mother would be 
 really very angry if they did ! ” 
 
 But Hebe did not seem satisfied. 
 
 “ The door was shut very softly,” she said. 
 
 We were at the drawing-room by this time. There 
 was no light in the two big rooms, but there were two 
 
 i 
 
 lamps in the little one where mums sits when she's 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 139 
 
 alooie. No sign of Anne or Serena, however. And no 
 sign of them in the other rooms either. Alfred brought 
 up a candle, and we called to them to come out if they 
 were hiding, and said we were really frightened ; but 
 there was no answer. 
 
 “ They can't be there," said nurse ; “ Miss Anne has 
 far too kind a heart not to come out, even if they had 
 begun by playing a trick on me. Come up to the nur¬ 
 sery, my dears, and have your tea. I’11 go down and 
 speak to Mr. Barstow. Maybe he can throw some 
 light on it. ” 
 
 “ They must have gone out, nurse," I said boldly. 
 There was no use not telling her all we knew. 
 
 She turned upon me quite sharply. 
 
 “Gone out , Master Jack? Nonsense, Miss Anne 
 is far too good and obedient to do such a wild thing, 
 knowing how it would displease your dear mamma too." 
 
 But Maud, whom we met on the staircase, suddenly 
 thought of an explanation of the mystery. 
 
 “ Come in here," she said, pulling us all three into 
 the nursery and closing the door. “ Listen, I do believe 
 I know where they’ve gone. It’s about the diamond 
 
 N. . 
 
 brooch. I believe Anne's gone to those children's 
 house where they’ve found a brooch that might be it" 
 
 Hebe and I jumped. 
 
 “ I believe you’re right, Maud," I said. 
 
 ** How stupid of us not to have thought of it 1" ex¬ 
 claimed Hebe. 
 
 4 
 
140 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 But nurse, of cou;*-e, only stared. 
 
 Then we explained to her what Maud meant. Even 
 then she could scarcely believe Anne had really done 
 such a thing. 
 
 44 It would have been so much better to wait till 
 your mamma came in,” she said. 4 ‘ Alfred could have 
 been sent with a note in a minute. ” 
 
 44 Anne didn’t want mother to know about it. At 
 l£ast, I said to her it would be a pity to raise mothers 
 hopes, and it was all nicely settled that Flossy Barry 
 was to find out and ask her mother to write if it seemed 
 possible it was our diamond thing,” I said. 44 It is aU 
 Anne’s impatience, and you see, nurse, she knew she 
 shouldn’t have gone alone with Serry, or she wouldn’t 
 have crept out that way without telling any one. ” 
 
 44 I don’t know how they can have gone to those* 
 people’s house,” said Hebe. 44 I’m not even sure o t 
 the name, though I heard it, and I’ve a better memory 
 than Anne. I only know it’s in Rodney Square.” 
 
 44 They’ll have gone to Flossy Barry’s to ask for the 
 Tedress,” said Maud. 
 
 We couldn’t help smiling; it is so funny when Maud 
 says words wrong, for she is so wonderfully clever and 
 sensible. 
 
 44 Yes,” exclaimed Hebe. 44 I’m sure they’ll have 
 done that. Maud always thinks of the right thing. ” 
 
 But what were we to do. 
 
 Every moment we hoped to hear the front-door bell 
 
 i 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 14\ 
 
 ring, followed by our sisters' pattering steps running 
 upstairs. We didn't seem to care much about the dia¬ 
 mond brooch. Even if I had heard Anne’s voice call¬ 
 ing out, "It is it. We’ve got it!” I think my first 
 words would have been, "Oh, Anne, how could you 
 go out and frighten us so ? ” 
 
 And of course, even if it had been the brooch, they 
 would never have given it to two children to bring 
 back. Mums would have had to vow it was hers, and 
 all sorts of fuss, I daresay. 
 
 Nurse poured out our three cups of tea. She was 
 very sensible ; I think she wanted to stop us getting 
 too excited, though she told me afterwards she had 
 been as frightened as frightened : it had been all she 
 could do to keep quiet and not go off just as she was 
 to look for them. 
 
 "I’ll just go down and have a word with Mr. 
 Barstow,” she said. " I daresay he’ll send round to 
 Mrs. Barry’s to see if the young ladies have been there, 
 as Miss Maudie says, dear child. We’ll find Mrs. 
 Barry’s number in the red book. And you don’t know 
 the other family's name ? ” 
 
 "It’s Lady something,” said Hebe. "Not Mrs., 
 
 and not Lady Mary, or Lady Catharine, but Lady- 
 
 the name straight off.” 
 
 "That won’t help so very much, I’m afraid,” said 
 nurse. "Not in Rodney Square. But they’ll be sure 
 to know the name at Mrs. Barry’s. I shouldn’t wonder 
 
'A 
 
 142 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 t } S 
 
 If Mr. Barstow steps round himself. Now go on with 
 your tea, my dears, while I go downstairs for a minute. 
 Of course there's nothing at all to be really frightened 
 about. ” 
 
 We pretended to go on with our tea, but we were 
 very unhappy. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 143 
 
 ■N 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RODNEY SQUARE. 
 
 It seemed a long time till nurse came back again. 
 We had finished our tea—it was really rather a pre¬ 
 tence one, as I said—when we thought we heard her 
 coming upstairs, and ran out to meet her. 
 
 It was her : she was comiug up the big front stair¬ 
 case, for she still, as she told me afterwards, had a 
 half-silly idea that perhaps the two girls were still 
 hiding somewhere in the drawing-rooms, and might 
 be goingto jump out to surprise her. When we looked 
 over the balusters and saw it was nurse, we ran down 
 to the first landing towards her. 
 
 “Mr. Barstow has gone himself, ” she said. “We’ve 
 been looking out Rodney Square in the red book; we 
 found Mr. Barry's—it’s No. 37—fast enough, but we 
 can’t say which is the other lady’s, as you’ve no idea 
 of the name. There’s ever so many might do for it ; 
 the very next door is a Sir Herbert Mortimer’s.” 
 
 “ No, it was a short name, I’m sure of that. Aren’t 
 you, Hebe?” I said. 
 
 “Now, my dears, why didn't you say so before?” 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 144 
 
 said nurse. “A short name would have been some 
 guide. ” 
 
 “ But it was far the best to go straight to the Barrys, ” 
 said Maud, which was certainly quite true. 
 
 Just then the front bell rang. 
 
 “ Oh,” said nurse, “ if only it could be the young 
 ladies before your mamma comes in ! ” 
 
 But no, it was not Anne and Serena. It was mums 
 herself. 
 
 She seemed to know by instinct that there was some¬ 
 thing wrong. She glanced up and saw our heads all 
 looking over the railing. 
 
 “What is it?” she said. “Are you all there, 
 dears ? ” 
 
 Nurse and we three looked at each other. It was no 
 use hiding it. So we went on downstairs to the hall. 
 
 “It’s nothing really wrong, mums, darling,” I said. 
 “It's only-,” but nurse interrupted me. 
 
 “It’s Miss Warwick and Miss Serena, ma’am, haven't 
 come in yet,” she said. “We hoped it was them when 
 the bell rang. ” 
 
 Mother looked bewildered. 
 
 “Anne and Serry,” she said. “What do you mean ? 
 Didn’t they go to the dancing with the rest of you? ” 
 
 “ Yes, of course; they’ve been in since then,” said 
 Hebe. “Miss Stirling brought us all to the door. 
 But they’ve gone out again, we're afraid; ” and seeing 
 mother looking more and more puzzled, she turned to 
 
THE GIRLS AND I 
 
 145 
 
 Maud. “You tell mums, Maud," she said. “You 
 know most." 
 
 Mother sat down on a chair in the hall. She seemed 
 quite shaky and frightened. Nurse ran off to get a 
 glass of water, and Maud told her all we knew or 
 guessed in her quiet little particular way. She told all 
 —about the ornament that had been found, and every¬ 
 thing—it was no use hiding anything. 
 
 “Oh,” said poor mums at the end, “ I do wish gran 
 had never thought of lending me his diamonds,” and 
 
 4 
 
 she gave a great sigh. “ But after all,” she went On, 
 “I don’t think we need be very frightened, though it 
 was exceedingly, really very wrong of Anne to go, 
 whatever her motive was. I only hope the Barrys 
 sent some one with them to these cousins of theirs ; 
 they must have thought it extraordinary for two little 
 girls to be out alone so late.” 
 
 Still, on the whole, she did not seem so very fright¬ 
 ened now. She drank the water nurse brought, and 
 went into the library, where the lamp was lit, and the 
 fire burning cheerfully. 
 
 “Barstow will be back immediately, no doubt? ” she 
 said to nurse. 
 
 “ He’ll be as quick as he can, I'm sure,” said nurse. 
 “But perhaps—if he has gone on to the other house— 
 it may be some little time.” 
 
 At that moment, however, we heard the area bell 
 
 ring, and almost immediately Barstow appeared. His 
 io 
 
146 
 
 TEE GIRLS AND L 
 
 face was rather red, and he seemed out of breath—poor 
 Barstow is getting pretty fat. 
 
 “Are they back?” he exclaimed. Then seeing 
 mother, “ I beg your pardon, ma'am. I just ran in to 
 see if the young ladies were returned, for they've not 
 been at Mrs. Barry’s—no one there has heard anything 
 of them. I got the address of the other lady’s—Lady 
 Neam's-” 
 
 “Oh yes,” Hebe and I interrupted; “that's the 
 name.” 
 
 -“Just in case,” Barstow continued, “they hadn't 
 
 come in. But I really begin to think we're on the 
 wrong tack. Perhaps Miss Anne has only gone to 
 some shop, and it seemed making such a hue and cry 
 to go round to another house, and not of our own 
 acquaintances, you see, ma'am,” he went on, “ and 
 asking for the young ladies. I quite hoped to find 
 they were home. ” 
 
 Mother considered. She kept her presence of mind, 
 but I could see she was growing really frightened. 
 
 “Could they have gone to get cakes for tea, for a 
 surprise,” she said suddenly, “ and have lost their way 
 
 coming back? There's that German shop in-Street, 
 
 where there are such nice cakes.” 
 
 It was possible, but after all-Street was not very 
 
 far off, and Anne had sense enough to ask the way. 
 And as the minutes went on, and no ring came to the 
 bell, we all looked at each other in increasing trouble. 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 147 
 
 “You’d better go to Lady Nearn’s, Barstow,” said 
 mums at last, ‘ ‘ though it seems such a mere chance. 
 Ho w could they have known what house it was, 
 scarcely having heard the name, and certainly not 
 having been told the number! ” 
 
 That was what we all thought. 
 
 But Barstow was off—like a shot, I was going to 
 say, but it wouldn’t be a very good description,—as 
 like a shot as a stout elderly butler could be, we’ll say. 
 
 And poor mums began walking up and down the 
 room, squeezing her hands together in a way she has 
 when she’s awfully worried. 
 
 “If only Alan were at home,” I heard her say. 
 “Oh dear! is it a punishment to me for having made 
 too much of the loss of that unlucky brooch? It 
 would seem less, far less than nothing, in comparison 
 with any harm to the children. Oh, if only Anne 
 were less thoughtless and impulsive, what a comfort 
 it would be ! ” 
 
 And I must say, when I saw the poor, dear little 
 thing—I can’t help calling mums a little thing some¬ 
 times, though of course she’s twice as tall as I am, 
 but she’s so sweet and soft, and seems to need to be 
 taken care of—when I saw her, I say, so dreadfully 
 upset, it was all I could do not to feel very angry with 
 Anne ; and yet, you understand, till I could see with 
 my own eyes that she and Serry were all right, I didn’t 
 dare to feel angry. 
 
148 
 
 TEE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 And all sorts of things began to come into my head, 
 and I am sure they were in mother s already. The one 
 that seemed the plainest was that they had been run 
 ©ve r : the streets are not at all well lighted about 
 where we live ; there are no shops, and the London 
 gas is horribly dull. Still, it wasn't likely that they’d 
 both been run over and hurt so badly that they couldn’t 
 speak to tell who they were or where they lived 
 There was some comfort in that. But—I looked at 
 the library clock, which always keeps good time : 
 father sees to it himself—it was getting on for two 
 hours since they had been out! Where could they be ? 
 
 Suddenly there came a ring at the bell—rather a sharp 
 ring—and as Alfred flew to open the door, we heard 
 the sort of little bustle that there always is if it is a car¬ 
 riage or cab arriving—tiny clickings of the harness and 
 the coachman’s voice. Yes, it was a carriage. We ran 
 out into the hall and saw a footman in a buff greatcoat 
 standing on the steps, up which came two little dark 
 figures, who ran in past him. Then the door was shut, 
 the carriage drove off, and we saw that it was Anne 
 and Serry. 
 
 “Oh, children! oh, Anne!” cried mother. “Where 
 have you been ? ” 
 
 And we all called out in different voice, “ Oh , Anne l 
 oh , Serry ! " 
 
 But before she said anything else Anne rushed up to 
 
 mother. 
 
THE GIELS AND I. 
 
 149 
 
 “Oh, mum, it wasn't it after all. It was a star 
 with a pearl in the middle. I was so disappointed ! ” 
 
 That shows how silly Anne is. She had planned, 
 you know, to say nothing about it to mother, and then 
 she bursts out as if mums had sent her to find out about 
 
 4 « 
 
 it! Indeed, for that matter, it was only thanks to 
 clever little Maud that any of us knew where they had 
 been, or had any idea rather. For as to knowing , we 
 had not known ; we had only guessed. 
 
 “Then you were there, after all/' said Maud. “ I 
 thought so. ” 
 
 “But how did you get the address without going to 
 the Barrys for it?” said Hebe. “We sent there. 
 Barstow went himself. Oh, Anne, you have frightened 
 us so, especially poor darling mums 1 ” 
 
 Then at last Anne and Serry began to look rather 
 ashamed of themselves. Mother, after the first ex¬ 
 clamation, had not spoken. She went back into the 
 library, looking whiter than before almost, and I felt 
 too disgusted with Anne's thoughtlessness io ask any 
 questions. Still, I was very curious to know all about 
 it, and so were we all. 
 
 Anne followed mums into the library—she was 
 really frightened by this time, I think. 
 
 “Tell me all about it,” said mother. 
 
 So they did—Anne first, of course, and Serena 
 putting in her word now and then. It was just as we 
 bad thought about the first part of it They had gone 
 
150 
 
 TEE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 to find out about the brooch. Rodney Square wasn't 
 far off, and Anne was sure she knew the way there, 
 and would be back directly. But after all, it wasn't 
 so easy to find as she expected. It makes a great 
 difference when it's dark—the turnings are so like each 
 other, especially where there are no shops. They did 
 get to Rodney Square at last, but they must have gone 
 a very roundabout way, and when they were there # 
 there was a new difficulty: they knew the Barrys* 
 house by sight, or they thought they did, but they 
 didn't know the number, only that it was a corner one. 
 They came to one corner, one that looked something 
 like it, and Anne thought they’d better try. So they went 
 up the steps and rang the bell, and a footman opened 
 
 “Does Mrs. Barry live here?" asked Anne. 
 
 “No," he said, “ that's not our name." But he must 
 have been good-natured, for he went on to say he'd 
 get the red book if they liked and look for it. 
 
 “Bury—was that the name ? " he said when he had 
 got the book. 
 
 “Barry ” Anne was just going to say, when a ne\V 
 thought struck her. It was no good going to two 
 houses when she might get the information she wanted 
 at one. “It isn't really Mrs. Barry's house I need,” 
 she said. “ I was only going to ask there for another 
 address—Lady Nem, or some name like that." 
 
 “Oh," said the man, “Lady Neam's !—that's next 
 door, miss. I don't need to look it up." 
 
1 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 151 
 
 They thanked him and set off again, thinking they 
 had been very lucky, though / thought if Anne had 
 remembered the name as close as that, she might have 
 looked it up in our own red book at home before start¬ 
 ing. 
 
 They rang again next door, and again a footman 
 opened; but he wasn't so good-natured as the other, 
 and he was stupid too. 
 
 “Is Lady Nearn at home? Can I see her ? ” asked 
 Anne quite coolly. Anne is as cool as anything when 
 she's full of some idea. Nothing puts her out or fright¬ 
 ens her. 
 
 It was rather dark, and of course no one expects little 
 ladies to be walking about alone so late. So it wasn’t 
 much wonder the man thought they were errand girls, 
 or beggars of some kind possibly. 
 
 “ No," he said, “ my lady’s not at home ; and if she 
 was she wouldn't be to no tiresome children like you.” 
 (We made Anne and Serry tell us exactly all that was 
 said.) “She leaves word if she's expecting any of her 
 school brats, but she's said nothing this time, so it's 
 no use your teasing." 
 
 If l 3 d been Anne I'd have been in a fury, but Serry 
 said she didn't seem to mind. / 
 
 “Oh, please," she said, “we're not school-children, 
 and we've come about something very particular 
 indeed. Don't you think Lady Neam will be in 
 «oon ?" 
 
152 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 That was Anne all over. She'd no intention of giv* 
 ing up now she had got so far. 
 
 I suppose the footman heard by her voice that she 
 wasn't a common child. 
 
 4 ‘Can't you leave a message? " he said rather more 
 civilly. 
 
 44 No," said Anne. 4 4 It's something I must see Lady 
 Nearn herself about." 
 
 She had the sense not to speak of the found orna¬ 
 ment to him. Of course it would have been no use, 
 as Lady Nearn wouldn't have left it with a servant. 
 
 44 We're friends of—at least we know Mrs. Barry’s 
 children," Anne went on. 44 Can't you let us come in 
 and wait, if Lady Nearn will be in soon ?" 
 
 For it was very chilly on the doorstep, and indeed 
 both Anne and Serry were very tired by this time— 
 coming straight from the dancing, and losing their way 
 to Rodney Square, and it being past tea-time and 
 all. 
 
 The footman seemed to consider. 
 
 4 4 Step inside, "he said at last; 4 4 I'll see what—some¬ 
 body—says." They didn't catch the name. 
 
 It wasn't nearly such a grand house as the one next 
 door. The hall was quite small, and there was no 
 fireplace in it. 
 
 44 You can take a seat," said the man, and he went 
 off. 44 Somebody" must have taken a good while to 
 find, for he didn't come back for ever so long. I sup- 
 
THE GIB 8 Xk lVD I. 153 
 
 pose once he saw them ii\ the iight, he was satisfied 
 they weren’t beggars or anything like that. 
 
 They were glad to sit dowr v and it felt warm in the 
 hall compared to outside. Thc/e was a door close to 
 where they were. It was one of those houses that 
 have the dining-room at the back and the library to the 
 front, you know, and the door was the library door. 
 
 After a moment it opened, very slowly and softly, 
 and some one peeped out; then Anne and Serena 
 heard some whispering, and the door opened a little 
 wider, and two faces appeared. It was two children 
 —a boy and a girl, though their heads looked much 
 the same, as they had both short, dark, curly hair, and 
 they both wore sailor tops. They gradually opened 
 the door still more till they could be seen quite well. 
 They were about six or seven, and they stood smiling 
 at the girls, half shy and half pleased. 
 
 “ Won’t you come in here ? ” said one of them. “ It 
 must be so cold out there. We’re having tea in here all 
 by ourselves. It’s such fun. ” 
 
 “We’re to stay here till mamma comes home,” said 
 the other. “Wev’e been by ourselves all day, because 
 Lily and Tom are ill—we mustn’t be in the nursery to 
 disturb them. ” 
 
 Anne and Serry walked in. “They didn’t see why 
 they shouldn’t,” said Serry, and these dear little children 
 were so kind and polite. They handed them the cake 
 and bread-and-butter, and they would have given them 
 
154 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 tea, only they hadn’t cups enough, and they didn't 
 seem quite sure about ringing for more. 
 
 George, the footman, was rather cross sometimes, 
 they said. But it wasn't often he was so rude as to 
 leave any one in the cold hall. They’d tell mamma 
 when she came in. 
 
 She did come in very soon. The bell rang, and the 
 children ran to the door to peep out, and when Lady 
 Nearn hurried in, there she found the four as happy as 
 could be—Anne and Serry so amused by the children 
 that they had quite forgotten all about how frightened 
 nurse and all of us would be getting; indeed, they’d 
 almost forgotten what they had come to this strange 
 house about at all. 
 
 Lady Nearn did look astonished. For half a minute 
 she took Serena for Flossy Barry. 
 
 “Flossy,” she said, “I wrote to your-” but 
 
 then she stopped, and just stared in surprise. 
 
 ¥ 
 
 Anne had got back her wits by then, and she ex* 
 plained it all—how it was partly, anyway, her fault 
 about the brooch being lost, and how pleased she’d be 
 to find it, and all about what Flossy had told them, 
 and how she and Serry had come off by themselves, 
 not even knowing the name, or the number of the 
 house. 
 
 Lady Nearn was very kind, but I don’t think she 
 quite took in that it was really naughty of them to have 
 come out without leave. You see, Anne hadn’t got to 
 
THE GIRLS AXD L 
 
 156 
 
 think it naughty herself, yet. She fetched the brooch 
 just to show Anne—though, indeed, from the way 
 Anne spoke of it, she was sure it wasn't it, and oi 
 course it wasn’t! 
 
 Anne could nearly have cried with disappointment. 
 
 Then it did strike Lady Nearn to ask how they were 
 going home again. It was quite dark by now. She 
 couldn't send a servant with them, for the house was 
 rather upset—three of the children were ill. 
 
 Indeed," she said, “I must write to Mrs. Warwick 
 to explain. I hope no harm will come of it, as you 
 have only seen the twins, who are quite well, so far, 
 and separated from the others." 
 
 But all the same sne seemed anxious to get them 
 away, and she suddenly rang the bell and told George 
 —who must have looked rather astonished to see the 
 ‘‘school brats ” such friends with his mistress—to run 
 round to the stables and tell the coachman to call at 
 the house on his way to fetch Lord Nearn from some¬ 
 where or other. That was how Anne and Serry came 
 # 
 
 home in a carriage. 
 
 We didn’t hear the whole ins and outs of the story 
 at once, but we made the girls tell it us over after¬ 
 wards. 
 
 Just now Anne could hardly get through with 
 
 it; for she began crying when she understood how 
 
 « 
 
 frightened mums had been, and begging her to forgive 
 her. 
 
156 
 
 THE GIBLS AND I. 
 
 Mums did, of course—she always does. And then 
 she sent us upstairs to finish our tea. But as we left 
 the library I heard her say to herself— 
 
 “I wonder what Lady Neam can be going to write 
 to me about. ” 
 
 Serena was quite jolly, and as hungry as anything. 
 
 “All is well that ends well,” she said, tossing her 
 hair. 
 
 Anne turned upon her pretty sharply. I wasn’t 
 sorry. 
 
 “Serry,” she said, “I know you’re not to blame 
 like me, for I made you come. But you might see 
 now how wrong it was, as I do. And ‘ends well* 
 indeed ! Why, we’ve given mums and all of them a 
 dreadful fright, and we haven’t found the brooch.” 
 
 And—but I must tell that in a new chapter. No, it 
 wasn’t “ends well ”yet, by a long way. 
 
 “If only you’d asked me> Anne,” said Miss Maud 
 Wisdom. 
 
TEE GIRLS AND L 
 
 157 
 
 ’ CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 
 
 I was alone with mums in her room the next mom- 
 
 I 
 
 ing when her letters were brought up. The poor little 
 thing had a headache and was very tired, and, for 
 once, she hadn't got up to breakfast. She had not 
 been able to go to sleep the night before—really she 
 had had a lot of worries lately—and then when she 
 did, it was so nearly morning that she slept on ever so 
 much longer than usual. For she's not a bit lazy, like 
 some mothers I know. , 
 
 When she does have breakfast in bed, she lets me 
 look after her. It’s awfully jolly. Father is sure to 
 say as he goes off, “You'll see to your mother, 
 Jack,/' 
 
 The girls don't mind. A’ ne would'nt be much good 
 at anything like that—at least, she wouldn't have been 
 then , though she's ever so much better now about for¬ 
 getting things, and spilling things, and seeming as if 
 all her fingers were thumbs, you know. Hebe is very 
 handy, and she always was. But she never put herself 
 before Anne, and so we got in the way of me being 
 
158 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 the one to do most for muins. I told you at the be¬ 
 ginning—didn't I ?—that some people might think me 
 rather a girly-boy, but I don’t mind one scrap of an 
 atom if they do. I have my own ideas. I know the 
 splendidest cricketer and footballer you ever saw is a 
 fellow whose sister’s a cripple, and she can’t bear any 
 one to lift her but him, because he’s so gentle. And 
 I’ve seen a young doctor in our village doing up a 
 baby that was burnt nearly to death, as if his fingers 
 were fairy’s, and afterwards I heard that he’d been 
 the bravest of the brave in some awful battles in 
 Burmah, or somewhere like that. Indeed, he got so 
 wounded with cutting in to carry out the men as they 
 dropped—it was what they call a skirmish, I think, not 
 a proper battle where they have ambulances and 
 carrying people and everything ready, I suppose— 
 that he’s had to leave off being a soldier-doctor for 
 good. 
 
 And now that the girls know it can’t be for long, ex¬ 
 cept in holidays, that I can look after mums, they're 
 very good about letting me be with her as much as 
 I can. And I’ve got them into pretty good ways. I 
 don’t think she’ll miss me so very much when I go. 
 
 Well, I settled the breakfast tray with Rowley, and 
 nothing was forgotten. I let Rowley carry it up, be¬ 
 cause I knew it was safer for her to do it, and there’s 
 no sense in bragging you’re bigger than you are, and 
 can carry things that need long arms when you know 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 158 
 
 you can’t. But I walked beside her, opening the doors 
 and watching that the things didn’t slide about; that’s 
 how I always do. And then when the tray was safe 
 on the bed, and I had arranged the “ courses,” first 
 the roll and butter and ham and egg—I cracked the top 
 of the egg and got it ready—and then the muffin and 
 marmalade, my nice time began. I squatted at the 
 foot of the bed, near enough to reach mums anything 
 she wanted, and then we talked. 
 
 We talk of lots of things when we’re alone like that. 
 Mums tells me of anything that’s on her mind, and I 
 comfort her up a bit. Of course we talked about the 
 unlucky brooch, and about Anne, and how easily she 
 and Serry might have been run over, or something like 
 that. 
 
 “Yes, indeed,’’ said mums, “I often think we’re 
 not half thankful enough for the misfortunes that don't 
 happen. ” 
 
 Just then there came a knock at the door. 
 
 “Bother!” thought I. I don’t think I said it, for 
 mums thinks it’s such an ugly word. 
 
 It was Rowley again. 
 
 <c Your letters, ma’am,” she said. “They were for¬ 
 gotten when I brought up the tray. ” 
 
 There were only three. Two were nothing particular 
 —"accounts or something. But the third was in a 
 strange handwriting, and mums opened it quickly. 
 
 “ It’s from Lady Nearn,” she said. “ I think it ws<s 
 
I 
 
 160 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 rather me to write to her. It's very kind of her, 
 but—” 
 
 She began reading it, and her face got very grave. 
 
 “ Do leave it till you’ve finished your breakfast, 
 ' mums,” I said. “ You’ve not even finished the first 
 course. ” 
 
 But she scarcely listened to me. 
 
 “ Oh, Jack ! ” she said, “Pm afraid we haven’t got 
 to the end of the troubles caused by poor gran’s dia¬ 
 monds yet. Oh dear, I shall be so uneasy for some 
 days to come ! ” 
 
 I couldn’t make out what she meant, and when she 
 saw my puzzled face she went on to explain. Lady 
 Nearn’s letter was very kind, but she thought it right to 
 tell mother that Anne and Serena had run into some 
 risk by coming to her house the night before, for it was 
 quite decided that three of her children had got whoop¬ 
 ing-cough. Not the two they had seen ; at least she 
 still hoped they—the twins—wouldn’t get it, for they 
 were very delicate, and they had been separated from 
 the others. But still there was no telling how infection 
 might be caught, and she advised mother to be pre¬ 
 pared for her little girls having perhaps got the illness. 
 
 Mums did look worried. 
 
 ‘ 4 It’s a most tiresome and trying thing,” she said; 
 iC and neither Hebe nor Maud is very strong. Perhaps 
 I shouldn’t have told you, Jack. You must be sure 
 not to speak of it to any of them.” 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 161 
 
 I promised, of course. And then poor mums, instead 
 of having a nice rest, declared she must get up at once, 
 and go off to catch the doctor before he went out 
 Wasn't it too bad? She wanted to know what to do— 
 whether it was any good trying to separate Anne and 
 Serry from the rest of us, and how soon it would show, 
 and a lot of things like that. For mother was an only 
 child herself, and she always says she isn't at all ex¬ 
 perienced about children. She's had to learn every¬ 
 thing by us, you see. 
 
 Well, she did catch the doctor, and came back look¬ 
 ing rather jollier. He had comforted her up. There 
 were ten chances to one against the girls having got it, 
 he said ; and as for separating them, now they had 
 been with us all, it would be nonsense. 
 
 Ah, well ! doctors don't know everything. I'd have 
 separated them fast enough, I know; and it would 
 have been a good punishment for Anne and Serena to 
 have been shut up for a day or two ; perhaps it would 
 have made them think twice before doing some wild, 
 silly thing again. 
 
 So mums and I kept our own counsel. She told 
 father, of course, but no one else, not even nurse—it 
 would only have / made her nervous. We sent round 
 once or twice to ask how the little Nearns were—mums 
 wrote notes, I think, as she didn't want the servants 
 chattering. And we were very sorry to hear that the 
 
 poor twins had got it after all, and rather badly. 
 
 ii 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 
 *<J2 
 
 “So you see, Jack,” said mother, “it wasn’t any 
 good separating them. Dr. Marshall must know.” 
 
 I think this was rather a comfort to her. If the doctor 
 had been right about one thing, there was more chane 
 of his being right about another. 
 
 And for two or three days we all kept quite well, and 
 mother began to breathe freely. 
 
 But alas ! I think it was about the fourth morning 
 after that evening, when I ran into the nursery on my 
 way down to prayers, I found mother there, talking to 
 nurse. Mother looked very grave, much worse than 
 nurse, who didn't seem particularly put out. 
 
 “It's only a cold, ma'am, I'm sure,” she was saying. 
 “A cold soon makes a child feverish and heavy. I 
 don't think, indeed, there's any need for the doctor; 
 but it's just as you like, of course.” 
 
 Then “it” had come. Poor mums! I stole up to 
 her and slipped my hand into hers. I understood, 
 though nurse didn't. It was rather nice to feel that I 
 
 was mother's sort of confi-I'm not sure of the word. 
 
 But who was it that was ill ? My heart did go down 
 when I heard it was not Anne or Serry—really, I think 
 I'd have said they deserved it—but poor old Maudie ! 
 Sensible, good little Maud, who never did naughty, 
 silly things, or teased anybody. It did seem too bad. 
 
 “May I run in to see her?” I asked. 
 
 Nurse would have said, “Yes, of course, Master 
 Jack,” in a moment, but mother shook her head. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 163 
 
 “Not till Dr. Marshall has been, dear,’’ she said; 
 and she gave my hand a little squeeze. I'm afraid she 
 began to wish she had separated the girls after all. 
 
 I could see that nurse thought mums very funny, as 
 she went on asking ever so many questions about Maud 
 —above all, was she coughing ? 
 
 “A little/' said nurse ; “rather a croupy, odd-sound¬ 
 ing sort of cough." But she was too old for croup, of 
 course. It was just cold. 
 
 “I must go down to prayers now," said mother. “I 
 will come up immediately after breakfast, and I will 
 send for Dr. Marshall. I am sure it will be best. ” 
 
 Just then there came the sound of a cough from 
 Maud's room—a queer, croaky sort of cough—and we 
 heard the poor little thing call out— 
 
 “Oh, mums, is that you? Do come to see me. I 
 does feel so funny." 
 
 “Yes, darling, I will come very soon," said mother. 
 It was so queer to hear Maudie talking babyishly—she 
 always did if she was at all ill. As we went downstairs 
 I was sure mums was crying a little. 
 
 Well, that was the beginning of it all. When the 
 doctor came, of course he looked very owly, and said 
 he couldn't say for a day or two; and pretended to be 
 jolly, and told mother she wasn't to be so silly, and all 
 that kind of talk. But after his “ day or two "—no, in« 
 deed, before they were over—he had to allow there was 
 some cause for grave looks. For by then they'd all got 
 
164 
 
 THE GIRLS AND 1. 
 
 it—all except me ! Just fancy, all four of them ! The 
 nursery was like a menagerie, for no sooner did one 
 cough than all the others started too, and they all 
 coughed different ways. If it hadn’t been really horrid 
 it would have been rather absurd—something like the 
 mumps, you know. It’s all you can do not to laugh 
 at each other when you’ve got the mumps. I’ll never 
 forget Serry’s face,—never, as long as I live, and she’s 
 the prettiest of us, I suppose. I saw my own once in 
 the glass, but I wouldn’t look again. And yet it’s 
 awfully horrid. It hurts—my goodness ! doesn’t it 
 
 i 
 
 just ? 
 
 There was no good separating me. I made mums 
 see that, and I promised her I’d do my very best not 
 to get the whooping-cough ; and I didn’t! That was 
 something to be proud of, now, wasn’t it ? You mightn’t 
 think so, but it was ; for I really believe I stopped my¬ 
 self having it. Ever so often, when I heard them a 1 
 crowing and choking, and holding on to the table, and 
 scolding—how Serry did scold sometimes !—over it, I 
 felt as if I was going to start coughing and whooping 
 too—I did, I give you my word. But I just wouldn't. 
 I said to myself it was all fancy and nonsense—though 
 I don’t a bit believe it was—and I drank some water, 
 and got all right again. And after a week or two, the 
 catchy feeling in my throat went off. 
 
 It was a good thing I kept well, for mums did need 
 some comfort. The worst of it didn’t come for a good 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 165 
 
 while—that’s the tiresome part of the whooping-cough, 
 you never know where you are with it, it lasts such a 
 time ; and when you think it’s about over, very often 
 you find children have got some other illness from it 
 —I mean something the matter with their chests or 
 throats, or bothers like that. 
 
 It was Maud that ^ot it first, and seemed the worst 
 for a good while ; but then she took a turn and got 
 hungry again, and the doctor began to speak of our 
 soon going away somewhere for change of air ; and 
 we were getting jollier, and mums looking less worried, 
 when all at once Hebe got very bad indeed. It was 
 partly her own fault, though she hadn’t meant it. She 
 had been feeling very ill indeed, but she didn’t like t<7 
 say so, for she thought most likely the others felt just 
 as bad, and you know she’s dreadfully unselfish. Often 
 and often she’d get up in the middle of the night if Serry 
 called out she was thirsty or anything—very often it was 
 only that she fancied the clothes were slipping off, or 
 some nonsense like that—and Hebe may have caught 
 cold by that. Anyway, there came one morning that 
 poor Hebe couldn’t get up at all ; indeed, she could 
 scarcely speak. We all ran in to see what was the 
 matter, and she just smiled a tiny little smile, and put 
 out her poor little hand—it was burning hot—and whis¬ 
 pered, “I daresay I’ll be better soon.” 
 
 Nurse was frightened; but she’s very good and 
 sensible. She just told me to go down to mother’s 
 
166 
 
 THE GIRLS AND 1. 
 
 room and ask her to come up, as Hebe had had a bad 
 night, and perhaps we’d better send for the doctor to 
 come early. And, of course, I knew how to do it 
 without startling mums more than could be helped. 
 
 All the same, if she had been dreadfully startled it 
 couldn’t have been worse than had to be. For it was 
 
 4 
 
 the beginning of Hebe’s being awfully ill. I can’t tell 
 you properly what it was ; it was something about her 
 lungs, so bad that she was wrapped in blankets and 
 carried down to a room beside mother’s where she 
 could be perfectly quiet. And a strange nurse came— 
 one with a cap and an apron, like you see in pictures 
 of children in hospitals ; she was rather pretty and not 
 old at all, and she and mums took turns of watching 
 Hebe; and the air of the room had to be kept exactly 
 the same hotness, like a vinery, you know. And there 
 was a queer, strange, solemn feeling all about, that I 
 can’t explain. We all felt it, even though they didn’t 
 tell us—not even me —how bad the poor little sweet 
 was. The angel of death came very near us that time, 
 mums told us afterwards, and I know it was true. 
 One night I almost felt it myself. I woke all of a 
 sudden, and sat bolt up in bed. I had thought I heard 
 Hebe calling me—I was sure I did—and then I remem¬ 
 bered I’d been dreaming about her. I thought \re 
 were walking in a wood. It was evening, or aftei- 
 noon, and it seemed to be getting dark, and I fancied 
 we were looking for the others—it was muddled up 
 
THE GIRLS AND 1 . 167 
 
 with their having gone out that night, you see—and 1 
 felt very worried and unhappy. 
 
 “Hebe,” I said, “it's getting very dark.” 
 
 “Yes,” she said, “ it is, darker and darker, Jack;" 
 and her voice sounded strange. “Jack,” she went on, 
 “hold my hand, I’m rather frightened;” and I felt 
 that she was shivering. 
 
 I think I was rather frightened myself, but I tried to 
 comfort her up. 
 
 “Perhaps it’ll get lighter again after a bit,” I said. 
 “I don’t think the sun’s set yet.” 
 
 “ Hasn’t it ? ” she said. “I think it’s just going to, 
 though. Jack, can you say that verse about the 
 shadows or the darkness ? I can’t remember it.” 
 
 But I couldn’t remember it properly either ; however 
 I tried. I could only say, “ ‘I will be with thee’—is 
 it that, Hebe?—‘I will be with thee.’” And she 
 squeezed my hand tighter, and I thought she said, 
 “Yes, that’s it, Jack.” 
 
 And then again I fancied she pulled her hand out of 
 mine, and ran on in front quite fast, calling joyfully, 
 “ I see them, Jack. Come on quick—Jack, Jack.” 
 
 It was then I awoke, and I found I had been sqeez- 
 ing my own hand quite tight. But I felt sure Hebe 
 had been calling me. 
 
 I sat up and listened, but there was no sound. I 
 began to cry ; I thought Hebe was dead, and then I 
 remembered that the verse I couldn’t get right in my 
 
168 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 dream was about the valley of the shadow of death, 
 and at first that made me feel worse, till all of a sudden 
 it came into my head that it wasn't “the valley of 
 death” but only “the valley of the shadow of death.” 
 And that seemed to mean that Hebe had been near it 
 —near death, I mean, — “ near enough for the shadow 
 of his wings to fall over her,” was the way mums said 
 it when I told her my dream afterwards. That com¬ 
 forted me. I got out of bed very softly in the dark¬ 
 ness and crept to the landing, where the balusters run 
 round, and listened. 
 
 The gas lamp was burning faintly down below, and 
 I heard a slight rustling as if people were moving 
 about. And after a while the door of a room opened 
 softly, and two men came out. It was father and the 
 doctor. I couldn't have believed big men could have 
 moved so quietly, and I listened as if I was all ears. 
 
 “I think, now-” was the most I could catch of 
 
 what Dr. Marshall said. 
 
 But then came much plainer—of course I know his 
 voice so well—from father, “ Thank God 
 
 And I knew Hebe was better. 
 
 I shall always think of that night, always, even 
 when I'm quite old, when I read that verse. After¬ 
 wards mother explained to me more about it. She 
 said she thought that to good people—you know what 
 I mean by “good people”— Christians —it should 
 always seem as if, after all, even when they really do 
 
THE GIRLS AND 1. 
 
 169 
 
 have to die, it is only the shadow that they have to go 
 through—“the valley of the shadow of death ; ” that 
 Death itself in any dreadful lasting way is not really 
 there, because of the presence that is promised to us— 
 “I will be with thee.” 
 
 I can’t say it anything like as nicely as mums did. 
 but I do understand it pretty well all the same; and it 
 ever I feel frightened of death in a wrong way, I think 
 about it. Mother said we’re meant to be afraid of death 
 in one way, just as we would be afraid and are meant 
 to be afraid of anything dark and unknown and very 
 solemn. But that’s different. 
 
 And dear little Hebe had really been some way into 
 the valley of the shadow. When she got quite well, 
 she told me about it—of the feelings and thoughts she 
 had had that night when for some hours they thought 
 she was going far away from us, out of this world alto¬ 
 gether. For she had had all her senses. She thought 
 about us all, and wished she could see us, and she 
 wished she could hold my hand—“your dear, rough, 
 brown hand, Jack,” she said. (I’m not quite as par¬ 
 ticular to keep my hands very nice as I should be, I’m 
 * afraid !) 
 
 Wasn’t it queer ? I’m sure her feelings had come up 
 to me through the floor and made me dream. 
 
170 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FOUR “If’s” AND A COINCIDENCE. 
 
 Now what happened next was this—in one way it 
 was almost the nicest thing that we had ever had; 
 that is to say, it would have been but for the pull-backs 
 to it. Very jolly things generally do have pull-backs, 
 I think. 
 
 This was it. Everybody who knows anything about 
 children’s illnesses knows that when they’re getting 
 better they should have change of air, especially after 
 whooping-cough. Indeed, even before they’re much 
 better of whooping-cough they’re often sent away, for 
 change of air helps actually to cure it. And a week or 
 two after Hebe had been so very bad, the doctor began 
 to talk of the others going away. 
 
 It was the end of April now, and it was nice, fine 
 weather, and promised to be a mild spring and early 
 summer. Anne and Serry had really not been very ill 
 in themselves, though they had been noisy enough with 
 their coughing. Maud had been the worst next to Hebe, 
 but as she had begun first she got better first. And she 
 got better in a very sensible way. She did everything 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 171 
 
 in a sensible way, you know. She never fussed or 
 fidgeted, and was very patient and cheerful. She took 
 all her medicines, and even if nurse or mums forgot 
 anything the doctor had said, you may be sure, if Maud 
 herself had heard it, she wouldn't let it be forgotten. 
 Yes, really, she was too “old-fashioned” for anything, 
 as old nurse said. She wasn't quite as sweet as Hebe 
 —Hebe looked like a little crushed flower when she 
 first began to be better ; you could scarcely help kiss¬ 
 ing her every minute. She isn’t so what people call 
 “ clinging ” as Hebe, but still she’s a good, kind little 
 girl, and it’s not hard to get on with her. My life 
 would be a very different affair if I had four sisters all 
 like Hebe and Maud—wouldn’t it just? 
 
 So Maud was pretty well again in herself, and the 
 other two hadn’t much the matter with them, and I of 
 course was all right, though dear old mums said I was 
 looking pale, and that I’d been such a comfort to her 
 and knocked myself up. I think she said it partly to 
 show that she wasn’t thinking less of me than of the 
 girls because I hadn’t been ill. 
 
 And just as things were like that, Dr. Marshall said 
 we should go away for change of air. 
 
 But unluckily “we” only meant Anne and Serena 
 and Maudie and I. Not Hebe—no, indeed. That was 
 quite another story. We wanted “ bracing, ” the doctor 
 said—nice fresh hill or moor air, but for Hebe anything 
 like cold or strong air was out of the question. In the 
 
172 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 first place she couldn't be moved for some time yet, 
 and when she did go it must be to somewhere mild. 
 He spoke of somewhere abroad at first, but then he 
 
 thought it would be getting too hot at the warm 
 
 « 
 
 places, and as far as the others were concerned, there 
 were just as good in England. So in a sort of away it 
 came to be settled that when Hebe did go, it should 
 be to the Isle of Wight. 
 
 That didn’t fix anything about the rest of us, how¬ 
 ever. And there were a good many thing: to think of. 
 
 X knew all about them. You see mums has always 
 told me everything. She knows she can trust me. 
 It's with it being so that I have anything to write. 
 I’m behind the scenes. I don't see how children who 
 are just told things straight off like, “ You're going to 
 the seaside on Tuesday," or “ Nurse is leaving to be 
 married, and you're not going to have a regular nurse 
 any more now you're so big"—I don't see how they 
 could have anything interesting to write. It's the way 
 things work out that I think makes life interesting, and 
 children don't pften look at things that way. But I 
 couldn't have helped it, for I knew all about how 
 things happened, and how mother planned and thought 
 them over, and when she was happy and when she was 
 anxious. It was all like pictures moving along—one 
 leading into another. 
 
 Just now mother was anxions. I've said already 
 that we're not rich—not as rich as we look. That's to 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 173 
 
 say it‘s not father s and mother's money, but gran's. 
 Of course you might say that's the same thing—father 
 being an only child and gran so fond of him being so 
 clever and distinguished, though not in ways that 
 make much money. But it isn't the same, however 
 kind gran is. 
 
 And just now it was specially not the same. For, of 
 course, long before this, gran had had to be told about 
 
 i 
 
 the sad loss of the diamond ornament, and it wasn’t in 
 nature for him to be pleased about it, now was it? 
 
 He'd very likely have been still more vexed if it 
 hadn't been for the whooping-cough coming so soon 
 upon the top of it. He didn't know that the one had 
 brought the other, both thanks to Anne. Father and 
 mother thought there was no need to tell him that part 
 of it, for he was always ready to be down upon Anne. 
 Her careless, thoughtless ways were just what worried 
 him particularly. 
 
 But he was kind and loving in his own way. He 
 never wrote another word cf reproach about the dia¬ 
 mond thing after he heard of the trouble we were in. 
 He was very glad I didn't get the illness. I don’t 
 know that I am a special pet of his, but I’m the only 
 boy and named after him. I daresay it's that, though, 
 as far as real favorites go, I think it's Hebe he cares 
 most for. He was terribly sorry about her, and wrote 
 that if she needed anything expensive, mother wasn't 
 to give two thoughts to the cost. That letter came 
 
174 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 just about the time Dr. Marshall said we should all go 
 away, and mums and I had a talk over it. 
 
 “ It's very good of gran,” said mums. “I do think 
 he's been wonderfully good. But still it doesn’t show 
 me what to do. You see, Jack, when Hebe goes away 
 I must go with her—I think Rowley and I could manage 
 without nurse—and that would be pretty expensive to 
 begin with. Still, I shouldn’t so much mind writing 
 to him about that, but it’s for the rest of you. I don’t 
 see how I’m to manage it, and I don’t want to worry 
 your father just now. He is so ,busy with his new 
 book, and he’s been so put back with *the anxiety and 
 bad nights while Hebe was so ill.” 
 
 For you know it isn’t only writing books father does. 
 He’s busy all day with his other work. I don’t think I 
 should say exactly what his appointment is, for then 
 you’d know who he was, but it’s to do with Parliament 
 and the Government. 
 
 “ Why can’t we go to Furzely?” I said stupidly. 
 For I had been told all about it having been let for six 
 months. Furzely is our—at least gran’s—country house. 
 It’s not bad, but we’re rather tired of it, and the house¬ 
 keeper is grumpy. “That wouldn’t cost much, would 
 it ? ” 
 
 “ My dear boy, you forget, the Wilmingtons are to 
 be there till August. ” 
 
 “ Oh, of course,” I said. 
 
 ** And besides, Furzely isn’t the sort of air Dr. Mar* 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 175 
 
 shall wants for you all just now,” she went on. “ It’s 
 healthy, but it's nothing particular ; its not hill air or 
 moor air. Besides, it's out of the question. Strayling 
 or Fewforest—those were the places he said, or some¬ 
 where in their neighborhood. And I don’t know either 
 of them in the least. Fve no idea if there are lodgings 
 or houses to be got; besides a house would cost far too 
 much, and I should have to send two or three servants. 
 Oh dear, what troubles have come with grans lending 
 me that unlucky ornament ! ” 
 
 “ I don’t think that’s quite fair, mums,” I couldn’t 
 help saying. “ The troubles have come through Anne’s 
 fault. I wish she would see it that way, but I don’t 
 believe she thinks about it much now.” 
 
 “ I hope she does,” said mother. “ And of course,” 
 she went on, “it’s wrong of me to grumble so. 77/- 
 nesses come through nobody’s fault ! And I should be 
 so thankful that Hebe is getting better that nothing else 
 should seem anything. But it is real practical difficulty 
 about money just now that I mind the most. You see, 
 dear, I have to pay all your teachers just the same. It 
 wouldn’t be fair to Miss Stirling or any of them to stop 
 just because the girls have got ill.” 
 
 I felt very sorry, and I didn't really know what to 
 propose. 
 
 “ Isn’t there any one you could ask about those 
 places ?” I said. “ Mightn’t we perhaps get lodgings 
 at a farm-house, where it wouldn’t be at all dear? Not 
 
176 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 grand ones, you know, mums. And we'd all wait on 
 ourselves a good deal, so that nurse could help the 
 farmer's wife to cook for us if she needed. Nurse loves 
 cooking." 
 
 Mums face cleared a little. She does worry some¬ 
 times more than she needs to. 
 
 “That would be very nice, Jack/’ she said. “I 
 wonder if there's anybody who could tell us about 
 
 t 
 
 where such a place is likely to be found." 
 
 “We'd live quite plainly," I went on. “It would 
 be fun to be almost like poor children for a while. I 
 don't mean poor , poor children, but like rather well-of 
 cottage children." 
 
 “ H-m," said mother. “ I don't think you’d find it 
 as amusing as you think. However, you would of 
 course have to live plainly in some ways, but still it 
 must be a comfortable sort of place. It would not do 
 to run any risks for the girls after their illness." 
 
 Just at that moment Alfred brought in a note that 
 had come, and “they," he said—why do servants 
 always say “they" for a messenger when there's only 
 one?—“were waiting for an answer." 
 
 The note was from young Mrs. Chasserton, Cousin 
 Dorothea. She had just come back to London, she 
 said, and she was so sorry to hear how ill “ ‘the chil¬ 
 dren ' had all been "—thank you, all but one, if you 
 please. And would mother come to see her ? She had 
 got a horrid cold, and couldn't go out, but she wasn't 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 177 
 
 a bit afraid of whooping-cough—she'd had it. “ Please 
 come to tea this afternoon, and bring an child that's 
 well enough to go out.'’ 
 
 “ Oh, I can't,'' said mother. 4 'I’ve too much on my 
 mind!" • 
 
 “ Oh, do go," I said, “it'll do you good. You’ve 
 not had the least little change for ever so long. And 
 let me come with you, mums, as the others mayn't go 
 out yet. I like Cousin Dorothea ; and perhaps she could 
 tell us of some farm-house, as she always lived in the 
 country." 
 
 So mother wrote a word to say she'd go. 
 
 And that afternoon we did go. I had never been in 
 the Chassertons' house before. It was a nice little 
 place, and it was all decked out like a doll's house 
 with Dorothea's wedding presents. I amused myself 
 very well by walking round the room looking at them 
 all. They weren't very well arranged. There was a 
 corner cupboard with glass doors, filled with china, 
 and it was all mixty-maxty. Blue or plain-colored 
 china on the same shelf as many-colored Dresden or 
 oriental. (I know something about china, and I mean 
 to know more before I've done with it.) The key was 
 in the lock, and I couldn't resist opening the doors and 
 moving one or two pieces to see how much better they 
 might look. 
 
 But just then Dorothea called me over to tea. She 
 
 was a sensible girl. She'd had some bread-and-butter 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 and jam ready spread, thicker than those silly wafer 
 slices ladies eat, and the jam was my favorite—straw¬ 
 berry. I felt very comfortable. I was glad I'd made 
 mother come. She looked brighter. 
 
 I spoke to Cousin Dorothea about the bad way her 
 china was arranged. 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, “ I know it is.” 
 
 She spoke quite gravely, but still I thought I saw a 
 smile go round the corners of her mouth. I suppose 
 she was thinking it was very funny for a boy to care 
 how china was arranged. I don't see why. Boys have 
 got eyes, and some of them had got good taste—more 
 than some girls. 
 
 “ It was washed while we were away,” she said, 
 “and the housemaid put it all in, according to the size 
 of the things, I suppose. Nothing to do with the color 
 or kinds.” 
 
 “ I’ve moved a few of them,” I said; “they look 
 better already. You’ve got some nice bits ; there are 
 one or two very old ; I think I saw some Worcester.” 
 
 “ How learned you are, Jack ! ” said Dorothea. 
 
 But I didn’t see it. Nothing’s easier than to pick up 
 a smattering—just enough to tell one cup from another, 
 and to seem very wise about it. I didn’t mean to do 
 that. 
 
 “No,” I said; “I’m not. There’s one cup I can’t 
 make out at all.” 
 
 “Do you mean the one with the deep purplish 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 179 
 
 flowers ? ” said she. “Oh, it is sharp of you to have 
 spotted that one ! No one knows for certain what it is ; 
 it was given me by an old servant of ours who married 
 and went to live up in Yorkshire ; and once when we 
 were at Harrogate we went to see her. She said there 
 were a few old pieces of it in the cottage her husband 
 and she lived at when they were first married, and she 
 gave us each one for a keepsake/' 
 
 “Was she your nurse? ” asked mother. 
 
 “No, only a housemaid; but she was a particularly 
 nice woman, superior to her station. And she and her 
 husband have got on very well. He was under-bailiff 
 to Lord Uxfort up in the north, and then an uncle died 
 and left him a small farm near—oh, where is it near? 
 I forget,—but it's not so very far from London. I've 
 always promised to go to see her some day.” 
 
 “That reminds me,” said mums. “I haven't told 
 you our present difficulty. ” 
 
 Till now Dorothea had been hearing about the 
 whooping-cough, and asking all about the diamond 
 brooch losing. She had known about it, for father had 
 written to Mr. Chasserton to ask if Cousin Dorothea 
 could possibly throw any light upon it,—had she 
 noticed it on their way home, or had she only noticed 
 it going there, or when ?—but she hadn't been able to 
 remember anything at all. 
 
 She was sorry about it; she's very sweet, very sweet 
 indeed, and nice to tell troubles to ; she looks so sorry 
 
180 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 with her kind blue eyes, though I don't think she's a 
 very clever girl. 
 
 “I feel quite guilty about it all,”' she said ; “for it 
 was for my sake you went to that unlucky Drawing¬ 
 room, and that all these troubles came. But what was 
 the new one you were going to tell me about, dear 
 Valeria ? ” 
 
 “Oh, that isn't exactly a trouble, only a difficulty," 
 said mums. And she went on to explain about the 
 change to the country and my idea of a farmhouse. 
 
 Cousin Dorothea listened, and tried to look very 
 wise. 
 
 “ I'm afraid nowhere near my home would be any 
 good,” she said. “Devonshire's not bracing at all.” 
 
 Suddenly a thought jumped into my head. 
 
 “ That nice woman,” I said, “ the one who gave you 
 the cup, is it bracing where she lives ? ” ' 
 
 Dorothea gave a little jump. 
 
 “Oh,” she said, “she'd be the very person to take 
 care of the children if she had rooms, and if her hus¬ 
 band would let her take lodgers, and if the place is 
 bracing, and if I could remember where it is ! ” 
 
 We couldn't help laughing. 
 
 “ Four ‘ifs ' indeed,” said mother. 
 
 But Dorothea didn't laugh ; she was too busy cudg¬ 
 elling her brains. 
 
 u I've a feeling,” she said, “ that it is a bracing place; 
 that Hppier—isn't it a funny name for a woman, it was 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 181 
 
 her surname, and the boys used to call her all manner 
 of nonsense because of it—‘ Iliad’ and ‘ Odyssey' of 
 course,—I’ve a feeling that Homer wrote something 
 about moors and fresh air. If I could but remember! ” 
 “ Would you know it if you heard it ? ” I said. 
 “Suppose we got a railway guide and looked at 
 some names ? ” said mother. 
 
 ‘ * Is there a railway station there ? ” I asked. 
 
 “ Oh yes, I know there is one near, for Homer wrote 
 all that when she asked us to go down for a day. Stay, 
 there's something about English history mixed up with 
 it in my mind. I do believe it’s coming. Ring the 
 bell, Jack, dear, and we’ll look through an A B C. It’s 
 something about putting the fires out at night, you 
 know—the old law. ” 
 
 “Curfew ? ” said mother. 
 
 “Ye-es, but it’s not quite that. But-” 
 
 Just then the servant came, and we got the railway 
 guide. 
 
 “Look at ‘f’s,’ Jack,” said Dorothea. 
 
 I read some “ fs,” but she shook her head. Then I 
 said to mother— 
 
 “ Here’s one of the places Dr. Marshall was speaking 
 
 about ‘ Fewforest,’ it-” 
 
 Cousin Dorothea clapped her hands. 
 
 “That's it,” she said joyfully. 
 
 44 What a coincidence ! ” said mother. * 
 
 44 I remember about it now,” said Dorothea. 94 They 
 
182 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 were so afraid of fire there, because the village stands 
 close to a thick wood—at least it did then—that the 
 Curfew bell was rung there long after it had been given 
 up in many places. And so it got from Curfew Forest 
 to Fewforest.” 
 
 “ It must be a jolly old place, mums,” I said “ Do 
 let's find out about it/' 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 183 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MOSSMOOR FARM. 
 
 And so we did. Dorothea wrote to her home, and 
 got Mrs. Parsley’s proper address. Mrs. Parsley was 
 the farmers wife who used to be “Homer”—rather a 
 come-down from “ Homer ’'to “ Parsley/' wasn't it? 
 and it was near Fewforest. Then she wrote to Mrs. 
 Parsley, “ sounding ” her a little, and the day she got the 
 answer she brought it straight off to us. 
 
 Mums and I were in the little drawing-room by our¬ 
 selves, for the girls were still kept rather out of the way, 
 as they coughed a good deal now and then. Hebe by 
 this time was able to get up a little and lie on a sofa 
 
 t 
 
 in her room, and the others used to go in and sit with 
 her in turns,—Anne the most, of course, for she reads 
 aloud nicely, and she’s not at all stupid, and Hebe’s 
 very fond of her. I used to sit with her too a good 
 deal, but really that spring I was very busy. I had 
 some of my lessons. I went to Miss Stirling’s house 
 when the girls began to get better, instead of her coming 
 to us, just for fear of infection, as she’d never had the 
 
184 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 whooping-cough. And I had heaps to do for mother, 
 besides helping to amuse the two little ones. 
 
 My greatest rest was to be alone with mums some¬ 
 times for a bit in the afternoon. Now and then I had 
 tea with her. 
 
 We were having tea that day when Cousin Dorothea 
 came in, all in a fuss and quite eager. She had just 
 got the letter. 
 
 “Such a nice answer from dear old Homer, ” she said. 
 “She’ll be delighted to do anything for relations of 
 mine, and she doesn’t think you could find a healthier 
 place. It’s as bracing as anything, and yet not cold. 
 She says there’s a small convalescent Home not far 
 from the farm, and that the place was chosen out of 
 ever so many by some rich people who built it, just 
 because of its healthiness. Now I come to think of it, 
 I’m sure I’ve heard of that Home before, but I can't 
 think from whom.” 
 
 “That’s all very satisfactory indeed, and thank you 
 very much, dear,” said mother. “But—what about 
 the possibility of lodgings ? ” 
 
 “ I was coming to that,” said Dorothea, and indeed 
 she was almost out of breath with such a lot to tell. 
 “ Homer says there are really none to be had-” 
 
 “ Oh dear ! ” exclaimed mums and I. 
 
 “But,” Dorothea went on, “they have some spare 
 rooms at the farm, and occasionally they have had 
 thoughts of letting them—I mean, of taking lodgers* 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 185 
 
 But they're very plainly furnished, and she's always 
 busy, so her husband was rather afraid of beginning it 
 She wouldn t exactly like to offer them, but she says if 
 my friends would go down to see the rooms, and 
 thought they’d do, she would be pleased to do her 
 best. I can guarantee they’d be beautifully clean” 
 
 Dorothea looked quite excited about it. She was so 
 proud of being able to help mums. 
 
 “I think it sounds charming,” said mother. “ How 
 many rooms are there ? ” 
 
 “Two big bedrooms, and a tiny one, and a sort of 
 best kitchen that could be made comfortable in a plain 
 way as a sitting-room,” said Dorothea consulting the 
 letter. “You could take down a few sofa rugs, and 
 fwo or three folding chairs and so on, I daresay ? ” 
 
 “Oh yes, easily,” said mother. “ But I quite agree 
 with Mrs. Parsley that I had better see the rooms. 
 How long does it take by train, and how far is the 
 farm—what's the name of it, by the bye?—from the 
 station ? ” , 
 
 “About a mile and a half. But they have a pony- 
 cart of some kind and could meet you. The name is 
 Mossmoor—Mossmoor Farm, Fewforest.” 
 
 It seemed wonderfully lucky. We were all three as 
 pleased as anything. There was only one thing I 
 wanted to make sure of. 
 
 “Mums,” I whispered. I was just giving her her 
 second cup of tea. I always make her tea when we're 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 186 
 
 alone. “Mums, if you do go down one day to see the 
 farm, you’ll take me with you, won’t you?” 
 
 Cousin Dorothea has quick ears. She overheard. 
 “Oh yes, Valeria,” she said, “you must take him. 
 I consider it’s more than half thanks to him that we've 
 thought of it. ” 
 
 I do like Dorothea. 
 
 Mums smiled. 
 
 “We must see what father says,” she answered. 
 “ Of course there’s the railway fare.” 
 
 “But you couldn’t go alone, mums,” I reminded her ; 
 “and you know I’m only half, still. Father would 
 never have time to go, and if you took Rowley she’d 
 cost full fare.” 
 
 “ Oh, you old-fashioned child ! ” said Cousin 
 Dorothea, laughing. “Dear, you must take him.” 
 
 I felt sure mums would, after that. 
 
 “I know I could help you about the rooms and 
 everything better than anybody,” I said. 
 
 And I knew I could. 
 
 I did go. Father laughed and said I was the proper 
 person to take his place, as he couldn’t possibly go. 
 So it was settled, and one fine morning off we set. 
 
 It was really a fine morning,—I don't mean it only 
 as an expression. It was really a lovely morning. 
 Let me see, it must have been May by then. I’ll look 
 it up in my diary of that year, and fill in the exact date 
 afterwards. It was sunny and mild, though there was 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 a little nice wind too. Mums and I felt like two chil¬ 
 dren out of school, or two captives out of prison, when 
 we found ourselves in a jolly comfortable railway car¬ 
 riage all alone, flying along through the bright green 
 fields with the trees in their new spring dresses and 
 the sky as blue as blue,—all so jolly, you know, after 
 the long winter in our London square and all the 
 troubles we’d had. 
 
 Everything seemed at last to be going to begin to 
 come right. 
 
 “I feel in such much better spirits," said mums. 
 
 4 ‘Hebe does seem to be improving so fast now, and 
 the weather is so nice." 
 
 Dear little mums, she was looking so pretty. She 
 had a brown dress with very soft, fussy trimming, and 
 a brown bonnet, with something pink—just a tiny bit 
 of pink. She generally wears bonnets, except when 
 we’re regularly in the country. They suit her, and I 
 like them better than hats for her. I hate those mothers 
 who are always trying to look young. And I think 
 mums looks all the younger because she dresses like a 
 mother and not like a girl. I’ve got ideas about dress¬ 
 ing though I am a boy. I can’t help having them. 
 
 “I do hope Mossmoor Farm will be nice," she went 
 on again. “The only thing is I wish we were going 
 to be all together there." 
 
 “ So do I," I said. I hate being away from mums, 
 and then I’ve a feeling she may be wanting me always* 
 
188 
 
 THE GIRLS AND 1 . 
 
 “ Perhaps, if Hebe gets much stronger at Ventnor, 
 after two or three weeks there, the doctor may let us 
 join you all at this place,” said mother. 
 
 That was a nice idea. 
 
 “It would be awfully jolly/'I said. “We'd have 
 nothing left to wish for then, would we, mums, except 
 —-if only the diamond thing could be found ! 99 
 
 I don’t know what put it in my head just then ; we 
 hadn’t spoken of it for ever so long. I was almost 
 sorry I had said it, for mums’ face clouded over a little. 
 
 “Yes, indeed,” she said. “But I fear there’s no 
 chance of that now. And really gran has been so good 
 about it. He might have been very, very angry ; for, 
 after all, it was a sort of carelessness of mine. I should 
 
 have made sure it was firm the very last moment be- 
 
 / 
 
 fore I put it on. ” 
 
 But I began to talk of other things to put it out of 
 her head. And before long—at least it didn’t seem 
 long, railway journeys do so depend on how you’re 
 feeling—we pulled up at a pretty little station, and we 
 saw that the name of it was Fewforest. 
 
 We got out, feeling rather important, and perhaps 
 mums was a tiny bit nervous. You see she’s very 
 seldom had to do things like looking for houses, by 
 herself. She’s always nearly had father or gran. She 
 was rather proud of it, too, and so was I. I was de¬ 
 termined she shouldn’t feel lonely or bothered if I coul<2 
 help it. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 189 
 
 And everything went wonderfully right. It is like 
 that sometimes. 
 
 To begin with, I never saw a jollier railway station. 
 It seems in the middle of a wood, and the station- 
 master’s house is like a Swiss cottage. I've never 
 been in Switzerland—I've never been out of England, 
 —but mother has, lots, and of course Eve seen pictures. 
 And everybody says Fewforest is quite as pretty as 
 heaps of places people travel miles and miles over the 
 sea to visit. 
 
 There was a little kind of a phaeton standing out¬ 
 side, and a rather fat boy with red cheeks on the box. 
 
 He touched his cap as we came out, and, getting 
 still redder, he mumbled something about “ Measter 
 Parsley/’and “Mossmoor.” 
 
 “Yes,” said mother, “we are going to Mossmoor 
 Farm. Are you to drive us ? ” 
 
 He touched his cap again, and tried to explain that 
 his master was very sorry he couldn’t come himself; 
 something or other unexpected, we couldn’t make out 
 what, having happened to prevent him. 
 
 I wasn’t sorry. If the farmer had come, we’d have 
 had to talk to him, for civility’s sake, and it would 
 have been a great bore, when we wanted to talk to 
 each other and to look about us. We certainly didn’t 
 need to talk to the fat boy. He looked most thankful 
 when we were settled in our places behind, and he 
 didn’t have to see us at all, though his ears kept red all 
 
190 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 the way to Mossmoor, I could see, just from shyness. 
 I got to know him quite well afterwards, and his ears 
 weren't generally redder than other people’s. He was a 
 nice boy ; his name was Simon Wanderer ; it didn’t 
 suit him, for he’d never been farther away from his 
 home at Mossmoor than six miles. I don’t believe he 
 has yet, though he must be seventeen by now. 
 
 It was a lovely drive. I have been it lots of times 
 since, of course, and I always like it; but that first 
 time there was something extra about it. It was all 
 new to us, and then we did so enjoy being in the 
 country again, and there was a nice feeling as if we 
 were having an adventure too. 
 
 Part of the way is all through woods ; then after 
 that comes a heathy bit, and then a clear bit of com¬ 
 mon, and then you go up for a while with trees thick 
 at one side of the road and at the other a beautiful sort 
 of stretching-to-the-sky view. Then you turn sharp 
 down a lane, and at a comer where another lane— 
 quite a short one—leads on to a heath again, is the 
 Farm. 
 
 We got out at the gate. There’s no drive to the 
 front of the house, and this first time Mrs. Parsley 
 wouldn’t have thought it “ manners ” to meet us in the 
 stable-yard. She was standing at the gate. I saw in 
 a minute she was nice. She had a pleasant face, not 
 loo smiley, and no make up about it. 
 
 “lam pleased to see you, ma’am,” she said, “and 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 191 
 
 Master Warwick too, and Fm so glad it's a fine day. 
 Real May weather, isn’t it, ma’am ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed,” said mums. “ We couldn’t see your 
 pretty home to greater advantage, Mrs. Parsley.” 
 
 Then Mrs. Parsley smiled more than she had done 
 yet. 
 
 “1 can’t deny, ma’am, that it’s a sweet spot,” she 
 said, “and a healthy. It’s coldish in winter, it’s true, 
 but then it’s a cold that you don’t feel in the same 
 piercing way as when it’s damp. The air’s that brac¬ 
 ing about here, ma’am. ” 
 
 “So they tell me,” said mother. “And that’s just 
 what we’re looking for.” Then she went on to tell 
 about the whooping-cough and though, Cousin Doro¬ 
 thea had written about it already, Mrs. Parsley seemed 
 as interested as could be. People like that—I mean 
 people you can’t call gentlemen and ladies, though 
 they’re not poor, and regular poor people, too—do love 
 talking about illnesses—other people’s as well as their 
 own. And she had a lot of questions to ask about 
 “Miss Dorothea” too. She “did hope as she’d come 
 down to Mossmoor some day.” 
 
 All this time we were going towards the house. 
 But it was rather a slow business, doing so much talk¬ 
 ing by the way, and I was in a fidget to see the rooms 
 and find out if they’d do. There was no hall or 
 passage ; we went straight into a large kitchen, a very 
 large one. You didn’t see at first how big it was, 
 
192 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 because just round the door—to keep out the draught, 
 I suppose—there was a fixed wooden screen, like what 
 you see in lots of cottages. I was a little surprised 
 that there was no hall, for, outside, the house looked 
 really rather grand ; it might have been called 4 4 Moss- 
 moor Grange/' for it was built of nice dull red old 
 bricks and the windows were very pretty—out-jutting, 
 you know, and with tiny panes. But once you were 
 well inside the kitchen you couldn't have wished it any 
 different. It was so jolly ; not a bit messy, you know, 
 as if plates and dishes were washed there, or potatoes 
 peeled, or anything like that, for there was a good- 
 sized back kitchen where all that was done. The floor 
 was tiled, with good thick rugs here and there, and 
 there was a regular old grandfather's clock and bright 
 brass pans and things on the wall. 
 
 I wondered at first if this could be the kitchen we 
 
 were to have as a sitting-room. But Mrs. Parsley soon 
 
 % 
 
 explained. 
 
 “Won't you sit down and rest a bit, ma’am," she 
 said, “beforeI show you the rooms ? " 
 
 But mums and I both said we weren't at all tired. 
 
 / 
 
 44 Well, then," she said, 44 if you’ll be so good, we’ll 
 step through this way," and she opened a door at 
 quite the other side of the kitchen. “You’ll have a 
 little lunch, I hope” said the kind woman, 44 after we’ve 
 seen the rooms." and she nodded towards a table, 
 which was all spread with a white cloth and on it two 
 
TEE GIRLS AND L 
 
 193 
 
 or three dishes, one with a cold ham, and another with 
 some kind of a pie or tart, and a big jug of milk. I 
 was getting hungry, but still I cared most of all to see 
 the rooms. 
 
 Through the door there was a tiny hall. It had a 
 nice window, and a door stood open at the other end. 
 
 “This is the summer kitchen, as we always call it/* 
 said Mrs. Parsley. “ I had a little fire lighted just for 
 you to see, it’s nice and comfortable,”—she called it 
 “corn, 0 not cum- li fortable,”—“even if the weather's 
 chilly.” 
 
 It was a dear room—beautiful deep windows with 
 seats round them, and nice old cupboards, one with 
 glass doors, and a queer kind of sofa with a straight-up 
 back and a long red cushion. The chairs were plain 
 wood and everything was plain, but not a bit common ; 
 ever so much nicer than lodgings, you know, like what 
 there are sometimes at the sea-side with horrid flowery 
 carpets all staring, and mirrors with gilt frames, and 
 shaky little chiffoniers that won’t hold anything. Here 
 it was all solid and comfortable ; there was nothing we 
 could break supposing we did “rampage” about, as 
 nurse calls it. Even the kitchen fireplace was nice ; I 
 thought to myself what jolly toffy we could make on 
 a wet day. 
 
 “Oh, this is a nice room, ” said mums; “nothing 
 could be better.” 
 
 Mrs. Parsley did look pleased, and in a minute or 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 two she opened a door we hadn't noticed. It looker 
 like a part of the wooden panels, and there was a funny 
 little stair. 
 
 “This leads to the small bedroom, ma’am,” she 
 ’ said. “There’s a door through it to the other two, 
 but there’s also doors to them on the landing over the 
 big kitchen, which you get to up the regular staircase. 
 But if the young gentleman was to have this room it 
 might be a convenience for him to get to it without 
 having to go all the way round and pass through the 
 •other bedrooms.” 
 
 It was a funny little room—very jolly though—just 
 a bed and a chest of drawers, a toilet-table, and a shelf 
 .across a corner for a washhand-stand, and two chairs. 
 But I liked it very much, and the two big bedrooms 
 that we got into through it were really very nice—car¬ 
 pets in the middle, and in one a regular polished bed¬ 
 stead with curtains. / wouldn’t have liked it, but, as 
 it turned out, Anne did. And it was very big ; plenty 
 of room for her and Maud too. In the other room there 
 were two smaller beds; one would do for Serry, and 
 the other for nurse. 
 
 And everything was as clean as clean—lavendery too 
 —not a bit fusty or musty. 
 
 “ Really,” said mums, “ nothing could be nicer. I 
 
 % 
 
 / suppose these are all the rooms you have to spare, Mrs. 
 .Parsley? ” 
 
 There was one other, as tiny as mine, but it was af 
 
TEE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 195 
 
 the opposite side of the house. Still mother thought it 
 would do for me if Hebe was able to come at tl\e end 
 of the time, and then nurse could have mine. 
 
 “ And if I could run down myself for a night or so,* 
 she said, “ I daresay Serry and Maud could sleep to¬ 
 gether ; there'd be plenty of room for me beside Anne.* 
 
 Then she and Mrs. Parsley went on to talk about 
 sheets and pillow-cases, and stupid things like that, so 
 I took out my note-book—I always have a note-book 
 —and went poking about to see what things we'd 
 better bring down with us from London. I made quite 
 a tidy list, though mums wouldn't let me bring all I 
 wanted ; and some of the things Mrs. Parsley had 
 already when I spoke about them, only she hadn't put 
 them out. 
 
 Then we went down again by the big staircase—all 
 old brown wood and nobbly balusters : mother said it 
 was really beautiful—which ran down to a kind of hall 
 behind the kitchen, and then we had luncheon. I’ll 
 never forget it. Either I was awfully hungry, or the 
 things were extra good—perhaps both—but I don't 
 think I ever tasted such nice ham, or such a splendid 
 home-made cake. 
 
196 
 
 THE GIRLS AND 1. 
 
 ( 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 SPYING THE LAND. 
 
 After luncheon we had still an hour and a half 
 before we needed to start for the station. Mrs. Parsley 
 asked us if we would like to stroll about the garden and 
 the farm a little, but mums was tired. She did go out¬ 
 side the house to a nice-sheltered corner where there 
 was a rustic bench, and there she said she would enjoy 
 the air and rest at the same time. 
 
 But I wasn't the least tired. I wanted to enjoy the 
 air without resting. So mums asked Mrs. Parsley to 
 tell me where I could go without any fear of losing my 
 way, or coming back too late. 
 
 Mrs. Parsley considered. 
 
 “ There's a beautiful path through the wood," she 
 said, “ that brings you out at the end of what we call 
 our village. It’s ‘Fewforest, South End,' by rights, for 
 Fewforest is very straggly. It’s divided into north end 
 and south end, and houses between, here and there. 
 The old church is at South End, I'm glad to say, for it 
 makes it nice and convenient for us ; no excuses for 
 staying away if it’s a bad day, though, indeed, I think 
 
THE GIRLS AND 1. 197 
 
 our folk love their church. We’ve been very favored 
 in the clergy here for a many years.” 
 
 “ I’d like to see the church,” I said. I always like to 
 see churches. ‘ 4 Will it be open, Mrs. Parsley?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, sir, bless you, sure to be. We’ve all the 
 new ways here, Mr. Joyce would never hold with a 
 church that was kept locked. ” 
 
 Mother smiled a little. 
 
 “The old ways, I like to call them, Mrs. Parsley,” 
 she said. “ The old ways we’re coming back to, I’m 
 glad to say, after putting them aside for so long that 
 people had almost forgotten they were the really old 
 original ones.” 
 
 Mrs. Parsley didn’t mind her saying that, I could 
 see. 
 
 “True, ma’am, that’s just as Mr. Joyce puts it,” she 
 said. 
 
 Then she explained to me exactly how I should go. 
 I was to make a round, coming back by the high road. 
 In this way I should pass up the village, and see the 
 post-office, which was also a telegraph office, and the 
 doctor’s house. It’s always a good thing in a new 
 place to see all you can. 
 
 “And some little distance behind the church, so to 
 say,” added Mrs. Parsley, “standing on rather high 
 ground, you’ll see the Convalescent Home, Master 
 Jack. We’re quite proud of it now, though at the 
 beginning some folk were silly enough to think it’d 
 
198 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I . 
 
 bring infections and illnesses to the place. But them 
 as has charge of it know better than that ; every care's 
 taken. And there's some sweet young ladies who come 
 down turn about, one with another, to help with the 
 children. It s a pretty sight, I can tell you, to see the 
 poor dears picking up as they do here. They'll get 
 quite rosy before they go, some of them, and they poor 
 peakit-like faces they come with." 
 
 “ Peakit-like " means pinched and miserable-looking. 
 It is a north country expression, mums says, for Mrs. 
 Parsley belonged to the north when she was young. 
 
 Well, off I set. I hadn't any adventures—that was 
 for afterwards. I found my way quite well, and I en¬ 
 joyed the walk very much. The church was rather 
 queer. It was very old ; there were strange tablets on 
 the walls and monuments in the corners, and part of 
 the pavement was gravestones—the side parts, not the 
 middle. But it was new too. There weren’t any 
 pews, and it was all open and airy. But still it had 
 the feeling of being very old. I don't know much about 
 architecture—it's one of the things I mean to learn. I 
 know pews are all wrong, still they're rather fun. At 
 one church near Furzely, where we sometimes go in 
 wet weather, there are some square ones with curtains 
 all round, and the two biggest pews have even fire¬ 
 places in them—they're exactly like tiny rooms. I 
 daresay there were pews like that once in Fewforest 
 church, for it certainly is very old. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 199 ‘ 
 
 I stood in front of the chancel some time looking at 
 the high-painted window behind the altar; it was very 
 old. I could see it by the cracks here and there where 
 you could tell it had been mended. I couldn't help 
 thinking what lots and lots of people must have looked 
 at that window—at those very figures in it and the pat¬ 
 terns round the edge—since it was first put up there. 
 Lots of children as little as me, who grew up to be men 
 and women, and then got old and died. Isn’t it queer 
 to think how men and women must die, and that bits 
 of glass that anybody could break with a touch can 
 last on for hundreds of years ? I daresay some of the 
 children I was thinking of, the long, long ago ones, 
 kept on looking at that window every Sunday, and 
 saints’ days too—for people long ago went much 
 oftener to church on saints’ days, you know—all 
 through their lives ; for before there were railways, or 
 even coaches, and travelling cost so dear, lots of coun¬ 
 try people never went farther away than a few miles 
 from their own village at all. It is strange to think of. 
 
 I thought to myself I’d like to show Anne the church. 
 She’d understand all these feelings it gave me—perhaps 
 she’d make poetry about it. She does make poetry 
 sometimes. I was sure she’d like the church. 
 
 But I was afraid of being late for mother, or making 
 her fidgety that I was going to be late, so I turned 
 to go. 
 
 Just as I was leaving the church, I saw that there 
 
200 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 was some one there beside myself. I hadn't noticed 
 her before, but she must have been there all the time. 
 
 It was a lady. She had been kneeling, but she got up 
 and passed out quickly. I had only time to catch a 
 very little glimpse of her face; but even in that tiny 
 glimpse I felt as if I had seen it before. But I couldn’t 
 think where. She didn’t see me, I was a little in 
 shadow, and she looked eager and hurried, as if she , 
 had plenty to do, and had only run in to say her 
 prayers for a minute. 
 
 Where had I seen that frowning, eager look in a face 
 before ? It did bother me so, but I couldn't remember. 
 
 That was a tiny bit of an adventure, after all. I 
 shouldn’t have said I hadn’t any at all that day. 
 
 I walked home through the village—that end of it, 
 that’s to say, the south end—past the doctor’s house, 
 with a big plate on the door, “ Dr. Hepland/' and the 
 one or two everything shops (don’t you love i( every¬ 
 thing ” shops? I do. I stood at the door of one of 
 them, to sniff the jolly mixty-maxty, regular country 
 shop smell), and the post office. And then I felt I 
 knew the place pretty tidily for a beginning. There 
 was lots of time. I’d seen what o’clock it was at the 
 church, so I strolled along comfortably. Some of the 
 people stared at me a bit. It was rather early in the 
 season for visitors, you see. But I didn’t mind. I 
 just stood still, with my hands behind me, and looked 
 well round at the view and everything. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 201 
 
 Behind the church the ground rises, and up there, 
 there was a house, standing by itself and looking 
 rather new. I remembered what Mrs. Parsley had 
 said. 
 
 “That must be the getting-well Home for children,” 
 I thought. “I'd like to see through it. Perhaps we 
 might have some of the children to tea one day, 
 when we're at the farm. The wellest ones ; it would 
 be rather fun. ” 
 
 I'd a good deal to tell the girls about when we got 
 home, hadn’t I ? 
 
 But, after all, we didn't tell them very much that 
 night. For both mums and I were pretty tired, though 
 everything had been so nice. The train going home 
 was a much slower one. When we got near London, 
 it seemed to stop at every station. My goodness ! it 
 was tiresome. And we were hungry too, for we'd only 
 had luncheon at Mossmoor; we had to leave too soon 
 for tea, and, besides, mother didn't want to give Mrs. 
 Parsley so much trouble. 
 
 Father was going to be late that night. He wasn't 
 coming in to dinner at all. I didn't much mind, for it 
 was all the nicer for me. Mums and I had a sort of 
 picnic dinner—with tea, you know, like what people 
 often have when they arrive very late after a journey. 
 And we talked over about the rooms and everything 
 quietly. The girls were all in bed. We just went in 
 to see them. Hebe was the widest awake; and she 
 
202 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 was so pleased to hear that perhaps there’d be room for 
 her too at Mossmoor if she was a good girl, and got 
 nearly quite well at Ventnor. 
 
 And the next morning we told all of them every¬ 
 thing about it. I had to begin at the beginning, and 
 tell about the railway, and how pretty the fields 
 looked, and what a lovely station there was at Few- 
 forest, and the drive in the pony phaeton, and how 
 red the fat boy’s ears were ; and then about the 
 house and Mrs. Parsley, and the rooms, and every¬ 
 thing. 
 
 I hadn’t time to tell about my walk through the vil¬ 
 lage till luncheon—mums’ luncheon, I mean, which is 
 our dinner. And then I began about the nice old church ; 
 they were very pleased, Anne most of all. But just as 
 I was telling about the lady I’d seen, and how I 
 couldn’t remember how I seemed to know her face, all 
 of a sudden it plumped into my mind. I threw down 
 my knife and fork on my plate. I’m afraid they made 
 a clatter, for mums jumped. It was partly perhaps 
 that I called out so. 
 
 “ I know who it was. It’s that girl—Miss Cross-at- 
 first, you know, Anne,” for that was the name we’d 
 given her, and, indeed, I didn’t remember her real 
 name. 
 
 “Miss ivha /, Jack ?” said mums; while Anne said 
 quietly, ‘ ‘ Oh, yes, I know. How funny ! ” 
 
 Then we explained what we meant. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 203 
 
 “Judith,” said mother; “Judith Merthyr. What a 
 very queer name for her/’ and she couldn’t help laugh¬ 
 ing. “ It may have been her, for I know she works 
 among poor children. Perhaps she’s one of the girls 
 who come down in turns to the Convalescent Home— 
 the ladies Mrs. Parsley told us of. I must ask 
 
 Dorothea Chasserton : she’s sure to know. It would 
 
 •» ' 
 
 be nice if Judith were there, they say she’s such a very 
 kind girl. ” 
 
 “Yes,” I said, “ we found that out. It's only the 
 way her face is made—she can’t help it.” 
 
 But somehow we all forgot to ask Cousin Dorothea. 
 For one thing, there soon began to be a good deal of 
 bustle getting ready to go away, for with this horrid 
 whooping-cough nurse and Rowley had been so extra 
 busy that there was a lot of sewing to do. Not for me, 
 of course. My sailor-suits all come from the man at 
 Devonport, and, except for darning my stockings, I 
 don’t think I give much mending to do. But of course 
 girls are always wanting things made for them at 
 home. Then to add to ail the fuss, gran took it into 
 his head to come back all of a sudden. Mother hadn’t 
 counted on his coming at all till after she’d got back 
 from Ventnor with Hebe, and by then she thought 
 if Ilebe was well enough to be with the rest of us at 
 Mossmoor, she herself would be free to devote herself to 
 gran. She wanted to be extra good to him, you see, to 
 make up for the worry about the diamond ornament. 
 
204 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 But gran's often rather changeable; and of course, 
 as mums always says, “It's his own house : who has a 
 better right to come to it whenever it suits him ? ” 
 
 Only it was rather inconvenient, and mother looked 
 pretty blank the morning she got the letter. He 
 wasn’t going to stay long—he had some other visits to 
 pay before he settled down for his usual two months 
 or so of the season in town. He would only stay 
 about ten days. 
 
 61 Just till we are all leaving," said poor mums. 
 w And I know he will want me all day,—and I'd gladly 
 be with him all day—but I am so busy." 
 
 “So am I,” said father, looking rather flabbergasted 
 himself. “But we must just do the best we can, 
 Valeria. You tell him frankly that you are and must 
 be very busy, and I will tell him that my new book is 
 announced, and yet I have a good deal to do to it still.* 
 
 “ Yes," sighed mums, “I must do my best. But it 
 is a pity. He says he is anxious to see the children 
 for himself—to make sure they are coming round sat¬ 
 isfactorily. Poor gran, and he doesn't say one word 
 about that unlucky brooch. He has been very good 
 about it." 
 
 “ Perhaps he thinks every one concerned has been 
 sufficiently punished about it," said father. 
 
 And Anne, who was down at breakfast with us grew 
 very red, and looked down at her plate. 
 
 Well, gran came, and I think mums managed beauts 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 205 
 
 fully, though she must have been pretty tired. We 
 rather went to the wall. That's to say / did, for there 
 was an end of all my nice quiet times with mums— 
 afternoon teas in the little drawing-room, and driving 
 out with her to shop. The doctor ordered drives for 
 the girls now—for Anne, and Serena, and Maud, that's 
 to say,—so they took turns of it in the victoria every 
 fine afternoon. I didn’t envy them the days gran went 
 too, for if there’s one thing I hate it’s the back seat of a 
 victoria, and it gives such a messy look to the turn* 
 out, I think. 
 
 Those days I was a good deal with Hebe, reading 
 to her in the afternoons, and sitting with her to make 
 up for mums being so little with her. Gran used to 
 come sometimes, and I had to go on reading aloud 
 just the same, with him listening. I didn’t like it at 
 all - 
 
 But he was very kind. He never went out scarcely 
 without bringing in some present for some of us, 
 especially Hebe—either fruit, or cakes, not too rich, 
 but very good, or new story-books, or some kind of 
 puzzle or game. He was really very jolly that time. 
 
 We were awfully pleased though when the day came 
 at last for us all to start. We were to go first—the 
 three girls, and nurse, and I,—and mums, and Hebe, 
 and Rowley were to go down to Ventnor the next day. 
 Father was to take them, for poor Hebe could scarcely 
 walk yet. Gran went off on his visit the afternoon of 
 
206 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 our day. He said he couldn't leave till he had seen us 
 off, and he actually came to the station with us—he 
 and his man. Fancy that! 
 
 And it was rather lucky for us, for he would have us 
 travel first-class, and mums had only meant us to go 
 second. I must say first is ever so much nicer, and 
 it's rubbish of people to say they like second better. 
 It's only silly people, who are ashamed to say they do 
 it for saving reasons. I can't understand that sort of 
 being ashamed. 
 
 Then gran tipped the guard, so that he came at every 
 station to ask if we wanted anything. We never did, 
 but it felt rather grand. Altogether, the journey was 
 very nice, and we hadn't time to feel very sad at leav¬ 
 ing dear mums and Hebe, though all the way I kept 
 thinking of my last going there with mother. 
 
 It was a fine day, though not so bright as the other 
 time. When we got to Fewforest there was a big fly 
 waiting for us, and a spring cart from the farm for the 
 luggage. And no sooner did Serry catch sight of it 
 than she tugged my arm, and said quite loud— 
 
 “ Is that the red-eared boy, Jack ? " 
 
 She is so silly, I wonder he didn't hear her. 
 
 It was he, sure enough, as red as ever, and grinning 
 now as well, like an old acquaintance. The driver of 
 
 the fly, on the contrary, was a rather grumpy man. I 
 
 • 
 
 had been thinking of asking nurse to let me go outside, 
 but when I saw his face I didn't. No chance of him 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 207 
 
 Jetting me drive part of the way, even though the horse 
 was about a hundred years old, and went jog-jogging 
 along as if it meant to take a month to get to Moss- 
 moor. I can generally tell something about people 
 by the look of their faces. 
 
 So we all squashed inside—nurse and us four. It 
 wasn't a very great squash, for the fly was a regular 
 old-fashioned roomy one. Once upon a time I dare¬ 
 say it had been some lady's grand “ coach" in which 
 she drove about paying all her visits. I happened to 
 say this to Anne, and she liked the idea. She said she 
 thought she would write a story, and call it The His - 
 tory of a Chariot. I don't know if she ever has. 
 
 When we got toMossmoor the stupid coachman was 
 going to drive us into the stable-yard, which would 
 quite have stopped the niceness of our first arriving, 
 especially as I caught sight of dear old Mrs. Parsley 
 standing at the front door with her best cap on, all in 
 a flutter to welcome us. (I didn’t call her “dear old 
 Mrs. Parsley” to myself then: it's since I've got to 
 know her. And I couldn’t have told it was her best 
 cap ; it wasn't for some time that we got tc understand 
 her caps. They were like degrees of comparison, both 
 upwards and downwards, for she had always about 
 six going at a time.) So I holloaed out to the driver 
 to stop at the little gate, and he did, though he growled 
 and grumbled. He is so surly; his name’s Griffin, 
 and he and the fly belong to the “Yule Log ” at Few- 
 
208 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 forest, North end. There’s no inn at South end. 
 was only just in time, for you can’t turn, farther up 
 the lane, unless you drive on a bit, or turn in the stable- 
 yard. You see it was a good thing for the girls that 
 I'd been there before, and knew all the ins and outs of 
 the place, wasn’t it ? 
 
 It was fun showing them the rooms and everything. 
 And even though I had described them as particularly 
 as I could, they all declared—nurse too—that I hadn’t 
 made them out half nice enough. I was glad of that 
 
 We had plenty of time to poke about, because the 
 luggage hadn't yet come. And Mrs. Parsley had tea 
 set out all ready; she wasn’t one of those horrid land¬ 
 ladies who won’t give anything at the first start for 
 
 * 
 
 fear they should possibly not be paid back for it. I’m 
 sure she never charged anything for the cake she’d 
 made us, and the jam and honey, that first night, 
 tnough there was precious little over of any of them 
 when we d finished. 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 209 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A LONG-AGO ADVENTURE. 
 
 We were very busy and happy the next morning 
 getting all our things settled, and making the summer 
 kitchen look as pretty as we could. We had brought 
 one or two folding-chairs and some rugs and table- 
 covers to brighten it up, and it did look very nice 
 indeed. 
 
 It was a good thing we were taken up that way, 
 for—wasn't it provoking?—that first day it took it 
 into its head to rain ! All the morning at least, 
 though it cleared up about our dinner-time. But it 
 was very tiresome, for though it was quite mild, it 
 was of course damp under foot, and nurse wouldn't 
 hear of us going a nice scrambly walk as we had 
 planned. And she would come with us. I daresay 
 she was right, but it was a bore. 
 
 “ Which way shall we go, Jack ? " said Anne, when 
 we were all ready to start and nurse had satisfied her¬ 
 self that the girls had all got their thickest boots on, 
 and waterproofs and umbrellas in case it came on to 
 rain again. 
 
 Nurse had been consulting Mrs. Parsley, I'm sure. 
 
 *4 
 
210 
 
 TEE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 “ We must keep to the high-road/' she said. “It 
 dries up very quickly as it's a sandy soil." 
 
 “Anne wasn't asking you, nurse," said Serry rather 
 pertly. “She was asking Jack." 
 
 “All the same, Miss Serena, I must do my duty/' 
 said nurse. “ I am in charge of you, and your 
 mamma wouldn’t be pleased it I let you all go stravag- 
 ing over the wet fields to get bad colds and pleurisys 
 and newmens, and what not." 
 
 “Newmens," said Anne, “ what do you mean ? " 
 
 But nurse was put out, and wouldn't explain. It 
 wasn't till some time after that we found out she 
 meant that bad kind of cold on your chest that cows 
 have so often, as well as people. 
 
 I tried to smooth nurse down, and I frowned at Serry, 
 who was just in a humor to go on setting her up. 
 
 It was a pity to start so grumpily on our first walk, 
 but things never do go quite right for long in this 
 world, do they ? 
 
 “I'll tell you what we can do," I said ; “we can 
 see the church. It’s just a nice little walk by the road 
 from here—you'd like that, wouldn’t you, Anne ? " 
 
 “Yes," said Anne, “ I like old churches." 
 
 “So do I," said Maud. 
 
 “ Are there places you could hide in, in this 
 church," said Serry, “like in the old church at Furzely ? 
 Whenever I go there I can't help thinking what lovely 
 hide-and-seek we might have there." 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 211 
 
 “Miss Serry,” said nurse, quite shocked, “I think 
 you should have different ideas from that in your 
 mind when you go to church/’ 
 
 And of course we all thought so too. But it isn’t 
 much use taking up anything Serry says, seriously. 
 She is so scatter-brained. 
 
 We had a nice enough walk after all. The road was 
 beginning to dry up, except at the side next the wood 
 where the trees dripped on to it, for the trees were 
 really soaking. And we soon got nurse into a good 
 humor again ; she’s never cross for long. We made 
 plans about all the nice things we’d do, if only the 
 weather would be really fine—tea in the woods and 
 things like that, you know. 
 
 “But it’s early in the season still, my dears, you 
 must remember,” said nurse. “It’s not often you can 
 plan for much out-of-doors before June is near its 
 the end.” 
 
 “And then July is always a rainy month, people 
 say,” said Anne. “I do think England’s horrid for 
 weather being so uncertain. ” 
 
 “Well, indeed,” said nurse, fi take it all in all, I 
 think I’d rather have our climate up in the north. It’s 
 cold, to be sure, a great part of the year, but the sum¬ 
 mer is summer while it lasts. And then you know 
 where you are ; in winter you can hap yourselves up 
 and make the best of it, while here in the south it 
 seems to me that every day you have to think if it’s 
 
212 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 warm or cold, or what it is, all the year round, summer 
 and winter alike.” 
 
 I forget if I told you that nurse is Scotch. She hasn’t 
 really been in Scotland since she was quite little, but 
 she’s very proud of it, and she’s very fond of using 
 funny words, like “ stravaging. ” 
 
 “ They say the air here is like Scotland,” I said, “ so 
 fresh and moory. So you should like it, nurse. And 
 you know there’s a place here that they send little ill 
 children to from London ; I can show you the house, 
 we can see it up above when we get to the church.” 
 
 And, funnily enough, just as we got close to the 
 village we came upon a little party of the convalescent 
 children going a walk. They were all dressed alike— 
 the girls in brown frocks and red cloaks and brown 
 hats, and the boys in some sort of corduroy. And 
 there was a sort of servanty looking person with them, 
 and also a lady ; just for half a moment I wondered if 
 it was Miss Cross-at-first, but it wasn’t. This one was 
 quite different; she was short and round-faced, and 
 extremely good-natured looking. She smiled at us as 
 she passed us. And the children all looked very 
 happy. 
 
 “You see they’ve come a walk along the wood like 
 us,” said Maud, “ because I daresay it’s wet in their 
 garden too.” 
 
 “I’d like to go to see them very much,” said Anne. 
 “ What a pity it isn’t Miss Cross-at-first with them f 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 213 
 
 And mums never remembered to write to Cousin Doro¬ 
 thea to ask if it could have been her you saw in the 
 church that day.” 
 
 “ Fm certain it was,” I said. “ I don't need Cousin 
 Dorothea or anybody to say so. But I’d like to know 
 if she’s gone away or if she's coming back again. 
 They say girls—ladies, I mean—take it in turns to 
 come and look after the children.” 
 
 “Perhaps Mrs. Parsley could find out for us,” said 
 Anne. “ You know, nurse, we want to have some of 
 the children at tea at the farm before we go. Mother 
 said she daresayed we might. ” 
 
 “ It's time enough, Miss Anne, to talk about what 
 you’ll do before you go, seeing as you're scarcely 
 come,” said nurse, rather grumpily. She's not very 
 fond of things to do with poor children ; she's always 
 afraid of our catching illnesses. “And it would be no 
 kindness to ask any other children to come to see you 
 at present. As likely as not they’d be getting the 
 whooping cough.” 
 
 We hadn’t thought of that; it was rather a dis¬ 
 appointment. 
 
 We had got to the church by now, and we all went 
 m. It didn’t look quite so pretty as the day I had 
 seen it first, for there was no sunshine coming in 
 through the colored windows and lighting up the queer 
 old tablets and figures here and there. Still it looked 
 very nice, and Anne and Maud admired it very much. 
 
214 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 So did Serry, only she said she’d have liked it better 
 with high pews and curtains to draw round the big 
 square ones. Just fancy that! 
 
 “You couldvit think it was nicer like that,” I said. 
 
 “Not prettier, but there must have been such jolly 
 corners and hiding-places,” said Serena. Her head 
 was full of hiding. “ There’d be nowhere to hide in this 
 church. You’d be seen in a minute.” 
 
 “ Nobody wants to hide in church,” I said; “that’s 
 not what people come for.” 
 
 “They might though,” said Serena ; “that’s to say, 
 supposing any one got locked up in a church all night, 
 they’d like to have some comfortable corner to creep 
 into where nobody could get at them.” 
 
 “ But there’d be nobody to get at* them,” said Anne. 
 “I don’t say I’d like at all to be shut up in a church 
 all night; still, the best of it would be you’d know you 
 were safe from anybody.” 
 
 Serry didn’t seem convinced. 
 
 “I don’t know,” she said. “There might be—well, 
 bats and owls and things like that, and then there’d be 
 feelings . You’d be sure to fancy there were people or 
 things there, and it wouldn’t be half so frightening if you 
 could get into a pew with a carpet, and make a bed of 
 the cushions and hassocks.” 
 
 “Eh,” said nurse all of a sudden, “you put me in 
 mind, Miss Serry, of an old story my mother told me 
 when I was a child. ” 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 215 
 
 << Oh, do tell it us,” cried Maud. 
 
 But nurse said we must wait, of course, till we were 
 out of the church. Nurse has quite proper feelings 
 about churches, though, when she was little, she be¬ 
 longed to the Scotch kirk, you know, which is different. 
 She said she'd tell us the story either on the way home 
 or after tea when we were all sitting together in our 
 kitchen-parlor, for it was too damp an evening for us 
 to go out again. 
 
 And at first we thought we'd have the story on the 
 way home, but then we settled we'd wait till the even¬ 
 ing. For there were plenty of things to amuse us go¬ 
 ing home ; I had to show them the post-office and the 
 shops—we went farther down the village on purpose, 
 —and I don't think stories are ever quite so nice when 
 people are ^walking as when they're sitting still. 
 
 We all felt quite hungry when we got back to the 
 farm, and we were very glad that it was nearly tea- 
 time. Nurse was very pleased, for Anne and Maud 
 had never got back their good appetites since they'd 
 been ill, though Serry had never lost hers all through 
 -—I don't much think anything would make Serry lose 
 her good appetite,—and of course I’d kept all right. 
 
 After tea we helped nurse to clear away. We al¬ 
 ways did that at Mossmoor, for you see mums had 
 promised Mrs. Parsley that We should give as little 
 trouble as possible,—it wasn't as if she had been a 
 lodging-house keeper, and she had only one servant 
 
216 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 who was rather rough and clumsy. We liked doing it 
 too, and dear Mrs. Parsley was even better than her 
 word about making us as comfortable as she possibly 
 could. There was scarcely a day that she didn’t do 
 something “ extra ” to please us. This very evening 
 she had made us some lovely kind of scones for tea. 
 She said they were a kind she had learnt to make up 
 in the north, and she “ wanted to make us feel at home ; 
 it must be a bit lonely just at first, and such a wet day 
 to begin. ” 
 
 Wasn't it sweet of her ? 
 
 Well, as I said, we did justice to the scones, and 
 when tea was over and all nicely tidied up, we brought 
 our chairs near the fire. For it was chilly after the 
 rain, and we were glad of a fire. And nurse got out 
 her knitting—nurse has always got socks for me or 
 stockings for the girls on hand,—and we began to feel 
 very jolly. We had felt a very little lonely, perhaps 
 almost an atom homesick, I think, with the dull morn¬ 
 ing and the strangeness and the not having father and 
 mother and Hebe, even though everything was so 
 nice. 
 
 ‘‘Now for your story, nurse,” said I. “ I hope it’s 
 been growing into a very big one all this time we’ve 
 been waiting for it.” 
 
 “No, indeed, Master Jack,” said nurse, “it’s nothing 
 of the kind. It’s scarce to be called a story at all, and 
 but little worth listening to.” 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 217 
 
 But we made her tell it all the same. I’m not going 
 to try to write it in Scotch words, for I don't know 
 Scotch a bit, and I’m not sure that nurse knows much 
 either, as she’s been in England ever since she was very 
 young. So I’ll just tell it straight off; anyway it’ll be 
 the sense of what she said, though she did put in some 
 extra Scotch words. I think she’s rather proud when 
 we have to ask her to explain them. 
 
 Nurse’s Story. 
 
 “It was my mother that told it me,” said nurse, “for 
 it happened to herself when she was a little girl. She 
 lived at home with her father and mother and brothers 
 in a good-sized cottage on the Muirness estate, for my 
 grandfather was one of the head men on the place, 
 which belonged to old Sir Patrick Muir. They were a 
 good way—five miles or so—from even a village, and 
 I daresay double as far from the nearest town, which 
 was only a small one. But in those days people were 
 content with stay-at-home lives, and they didn’t feel 
 dull or lonely even in very out-of-the-way places. It 
 is a good while ago since my mother was a child. She 
 was not young when she married, and she was nearly 
 forty when I was born, and I’m getting on for that my¬ 
 self now. My grandmother had been rather above my 
 grandfather, for she was the daughter of a well-to-do 
 man who farmed his own land. When my mother 
 
218 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 was a child these old folk were still living, and their 
 little place was very near Muirness ; indeed I believe 
 it was bought several years ago by Sir Herbert, old Sir 
 Patrick's grandson, and now belongs to the big estate. 
 
 “My mother was a great favorite with her grand¬ 
 father and grandmother, for she was the only grand¬ 
 daughter, all the others being boys. She used often to 
 go over to Oldbiggins Farm to stay for a day or two ; 
 and her grandmother was very fond of having her from 
 a Saturday to a Monday to take her to church with them 
 on Sunday, and send her back early on Monday morn¬ 
 ing in time to go to school. My mother didn’t care for 
 these visits as much as for week-day ones, for her grand¬ 
 mother used to take her to church on Sunday morning 
 and keep her there straight on through the afternoon 
 service too, which was really too much for a child. 
 Her mother was not so strict, and understood better 
 about children’s feelings ; and she used always to let 
 mother and her brothers go home after the morning 
 service, even if she stayed on for the afternoon herself. 
 It was five miles away, so it was a long walk, but the 
 old people used to drive in a cart there and back ; for 
 if they hadn’t done so, they wouldn’t have been able 
 to go to church at all. 
 
 “ One Saturday afternoon—it was late in the autumn 
 —mother's grandmother sent over to sav that she 
 wanted Maggie, that was mother’s name, to come to 
 stay till Monday, and she should drive to church and 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 21 ? 
 
 back with her on the Sunday—the ‘Sabbath-day’ wai 
 what they called it always. Maggie didn’t want much 
 to go, but her mother didn’t like to refuse; the old 
 people were kind, and it wouldn’t do to vex them. So 
 the child was sent off. She was about eight years old. 
 
 “ 6 Mayn’t I come home with my brothers after the 
 morning church is done ? ’ she said. But her mother 
 shook her head. For some reason they were not go¬ 
 ing till the afternoon. I think somebody was ill. 
 
 “ ‘ If I can get in the afternoon, I’ll look out for you, 
 and you can come home with me then, dearie/ she 
 said. - ‘ Tell your grandmother I’d like to have you 
 back to-morrow evening if she doesn’t mind.’ 
 
 “ The Sunday evenings at Oldbiggins were rather 
 hard upon a child too, for, on the top of the two long 
 services, the old grandfather always read out a very 
 long sermon, difficult for any one to understand, as hcs 
 read very feebly, and the words were often puzzling. 
 
 “ So with the hope of getting home again before the 
 Sunday evening, little Maggie started She was * 
 gentle, quiet child, and the old people had no idea but 
 that she was quite happy and liked the long hours in 
 church as much as they did. She went to church alone 
 with her grandmother and the farmman who drove the 
 cart, and they took with them a packet of bread-and- 
 butter, or bread-and-jam maybe—what was called ‘ a 
 piece ’—to eat outside the church between the two ser¬ 
 vices. There was only an hour between them. Maggie 
 
220 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 looked out for her own people before she and her grand¬ 
 mother went back into the church again, but they must 
 have been a little late, and the old lady liked to be in 
 her place in good time, so the child did not see them. 
 But she thought to herself she'd be sure to meet them 
 after church, and this thought kept her quiet, though 
 she couldn’t possibly get a glimpse of them from her 
 corner of the high pew, even if she had dared to look 
 about. She must have been very tired, and she had 
 cried in bed the night before, and I daresay the cold 
 air outside made it feel warm in the church, anyway 
 this was what happened. The poor little thing fell fast 
 asleep. And her grandmother, who was very blind 
 except with her glasses on—and she always took them 
 off and put them away when the last psalm had been 
 sung—went quietly out of the pew without a notion 
 but that the child was beside her. 
 
 “ When Maggie woke it was quite dark, the church 
 had been shut up ever so long ; there was no evening 
 service. At first she thought she was in bed, and that 
 the clothes had tumbled off her, then feeling about, 
 she found she had her frock and cape and bonnet on, 
 and everything near her was hard and cold, not like 
 bed at all. And by bits it all came back to her mind— 
 her last waking thoughts in church, and how she was 
 hoping to see her mother,—and she began to take in 
 where she was. I’ve always thought it was really 
 dreadful for her, and she must have been a brave. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 221 
 
 sensible child—I know she grew up a brave, sensible 
 
 / 
 
 woman. For, though she couldn’t help crying at first 
 with loneliness and cold and the queer sort of fear, she 
 soon settled to do the best she could. There was some 
 moonlight coming in at one window, though not much, 
 but enough to make her see where the pulpit was, and 
 up into the pulpit Maggie climbed, because she had an 
 idea she’d be safer there ; and it certainly was warmer, 
 for it was a sort of little box with a door to it, and 
 there were one or two stools and cushions and some red 
 cloth hanging round the top, which Miss Maggie ven¬ 
 tured to pull down and wrap round her. And there 
 she composed herself to sleep, and sleep she did, in 
 spite of her loneliness and hunger—oh, I forgot to say 
 she found a wee bit of her ‘ piece 9 still in her pocket,— 
 till the sunshine woke her up the next morning, for 
 luckily it was a bright mild day. Then down she came, 
 and walked up and down the aisles as fast as she dared, 
 considering it was a church, to get her cramped legs 
 warm again, and just as she was thinking what she was 
 to do to get out, the door opened, to her delight, and 
 in came the man who had care of the church—what 
 we call a verger—followed by the old body who cleaned 
 and swept it. 
 
 “They were astonished, as you can fancy; such a 
 thing had never happened before within the memory 
 of man. 
 
 “ Old Peter took her off with him to his cottage, and 
 
222 
 
 THE GIRLS AND 1. 
 
 his wife gave her some hot breakfast, and then he bor¬ 
 rowed a cart and drove Maggie home—straight home 
 to Muirness, not to Oldbiggins. It was home Maggie 
 wanted to go, you may be sure, and when Peter heard 
 the story, he declared her granny deserved a good 
 fright for not looking after her better. 
 
 “ ‘P’raps she thought I’d run off to mother and the 
 boys/ said Maggie. 
 
 “And that was just what it turned out to be. 
 
 “The old lady, instead of being frightened, was very 
 angry. She had stayed talking to some friend at the 
 church door, and somehow her daughter and the boys 
 had fancied she and Maggie had driven off, not seeing 
 them about. Maggie’s mother was in a hurry to get 
 home to the one that was ill, and just thought the little 
 girl had gone back quietly with her grandmother till 
 the next morning. And when the granny had missed 
 the child, she thought Maggie had run off to her 
 mother—for some one called out that Mistress Gray 
 and her children had driven off,—and was too offended 
 to send to Muirness to ask! 
 
 “ And at home they hadn’t missed her of course; 
 So, after all, Maggie wasn’t made much of a heroine 
 of, for all she’d been so brave and sensible. 
 
 “But I’m sure she never minded that, so glad was 
 she to be in her own dear home again, safe and sound, 
 And you may be sure her mother petted her enough to 
 make up all she could for the poor little thing’s dis» 
 
THE GIRLS ANL L 
 
 223 
 
 agreeable adventure. It was talked of through the 
 country-side for many a day after that. Maybe it is 
 still. ” 
 
 “And I hope they never let her go back to that 
 horrid old grandmother again, ” said Anne. 
 
 “Nay, my dear, she wasn’t so bad as that But old 
 people have their ways. ” 
 
 “I think our gran is much nicer than that,” said 
 Maud in her clear little voice. 
 
 And I’m sure we all agreed with her. 
 
 But we all thanked nurse very nicely for telling xtB 
 the story, which was really very interesting. 
 
 And it gave us a good deal to talk about 
 
IU£ GIRLS AJSD L 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MISCHIEF IN THE AIR* 
 
 Yes, it gave us a good deal to talk about. Stories 
 that do that are much the nicest; they seem to make 
 themselves over, and over, and to last so ldtig. We 
 talked for some days after that, about what we’d each 
 of us do it we were locked up all night alone in a church, 
 and we made ever so many plans. And the next Sun¬ 
 day—that was our first one at Mossmoor,—when we 
 all came home from church and were at dinner, Serena 
 astonished us very much, when nurse said she’d been 
 a very good girl, for she’s generally a dreadful fidget, by 
 saying quite coolly— 
 
 “Oh, I didn't mind the sermon a bit to-day, though 
 it was very long. For I was settling all the time what 
 I’d do if I was like Maggie in that church. And I know 
 quite well, only I won’t tell any of you. So if ever I'm 
 lost on a Sunday you’ll have a nice hunt.” 
 
 She tossed back her head the way she does when she 
 means to be aggravating. 
 
 “You silly girl,” said Maud in her superior way, 
 “you couldn’t hide in that church not to be found 
 
TEE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 225 
 
 You’re so boasty. And if you did, there’d be no fun in 
 it. ” 
 
 Serry gave another toss, and a particular sort of a 
 smile. That smile meant mischief. 
 
 “ Miss Serena’s certainly very clever at hiding piaces/"’ 
 said nurse. “ But there couldn’t be very much clever¬ 
 ness wanted to hide in a church ; it’s not like finding 
 out queer places you’d never think of in a house. 
 Now, I daresay, Miss Serry, if it came a very wet day 
 again while we’re here and Mrs. Parsley let you have 
 a good game, as I’ve no doubt she would, I daresay 
 you’d keep us hunting like anything.” 
 
 “I daresay I could,” said Serry. 
 
 But I knew by her voice that she knew that nurse 
 was speaking that way on purpose to put hiding in the 
 church out of her head. For, as I’ve said, Serry’s very 
 queer ; for all she’s so changeable and flighty, there 
 are times that if she takes up a thing, nothing will 
 get it from her—make her drop it, I mean,—till she’s 
 done it. And she’d gone on so about hiding in the 
 church that I think nurse was a little uncomfortable. 
 Perhaps she began to wish she hadn’t told us the story 
 of her mother, but I wouldn’t say so, for I didn’t want 
 to vex her. She’d been really so very kind. 
 
 After that Sunday, however, for some weeks noth¬ 
 ing more was said about it, and we left off talking of 
 the Maggie story. We had so many other things to 
 
 do and to speak about. The weather got all right 
 *5 
 
*226 
 
 T1IE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 again, even better than before, for every day now was 
 getting us nearer and nearer into the real summer; 
 though, of course, even in the middle of summer there 
 do come cold wet bits, just like our first day at Moss- 
 moor. But for some time we had nothing but lovely 
 weather. 
 
 It's a very drying soil all about Fewforest; after two 
 
 or three fine days, even in the woods, the ground is 
 
 so dry that you'd think it hadn’t rained since the world 
 
 * 
 
 was made. It’s partly with the trees being mostly 
 
 '• r 
 
 %s which are so neat and bare low down—no mess 
 of undergrowth about them. And the soil is very 
 nice, so beautifully clean and crunchy to walk on, for 
 it’s made of the pricks that fall off the firs, in great 
 part. It’s perfectly splendid to lie on—springy and 
 yielding and not a bit dirty—your things don’t get 
 soiled in the least. 
 
 They say, too, that the scent or breath of pines and 
 firs—I think it’s rather nice to think it’s the sweet 
 breath of the trees, don’t you ?—is awfully good for 
 coughs and illnesses to do with coughs. So it suited 
 us very well indeed to spend a great part of our time 
 in the woods. And certainly the girls’ coughs soon 
 went quite away. I was glad. I really could hardly 
 help hitting them sometimes when they would go on 
 barking and whooping, even though I suppose they 
 couldn’t stop it. They still coughed a little if they ran 
 too fast, or if they got excited or angr^ T or* believe 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 227 
 
 Serry pretended it sometimes just to be aggravating, for 
 she was in rather an aggravating humor at that time. 
 I think it was partly from not having Hebe, who has 
 such a good way with her, and as Anne and Maud 
 always stick together, you see Serena was rather left to 
 me, and I don't pretend to have a good way with her 
 at all, she makes me so angry. Though we get on a 
 good deal better now than we did then. 
 
 Still, on the whole, we were very happy indeed. 
 We did a little lessons—at least Anne and I did regularly. 
 Miss Stirling had set me some Latin and French, and 
 Anne didn’t want to get behind me in Latin, so she did 
 it with me, and she was very good in helping me with 
 my French, for she’s much farther on than me in 
 French. 
 
 That was in the mornings, for an hour or so. Then 
 we used to go what nurse calls a “good bracing 
 walk, ” right over the heath that edges the woods, for 
 two or three miles sometimes. We used to come in 
 for dinner pretty hungry, I can tell you. But Mrs. 
 Parsley didn’t mind how much she had to cook for 
 us. She was as pleased as if you’d given her a 
 present when nurse said she never had known our 
 appetites so good. 
 
 Sometimes we met the getting-well children from 
 the Home. But I rather fancy the people there had 
 heard about the whooping-cough; for though the 
 young lady who was with them smiled at us very 
 
228 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 nicely always, she rather shoo'd them away from 
 us. And it was always the same round-faced, beamy- 
 looking girl—not Miss Cross-at-first, certainly. 
 
 Then in the afternoons we mostly played or sat 
 about the woods, coming in for tea, and sometimes, 
 when it was very fine and mild, nurse let us go out 
 again a little after tea. But if it was the least chilly 
 or windy or anything, she wouldn't let the girls go 
 out, and then we sat altogether playing games, or 
 now and then telling stories till bed-time. Very often 
 dear Mrs. Parsley would come in, and we always made 
 her sit dow r n and talk to us. And sometimes I'd go out 
 a stroll by myself in the evening—towards the village 
 generally, for there was often a letter to post or some 
 little message for nurse to the shop. And then I got 
 another reason for walking that way in the evening, 
 which I'll tell you about directly. 
 
 We had been five weeks at the farm vhen one day 
 we got very jolly news from mums. The news had 
 been pretty jolly all the time ; Hebe had gone on 
 getting better, though the doctor at Ventnor had 
 thought her very weak at first, and so she and mums 
 had stayed on longer than they'd expected they 
 would. But this letter told that they had really fixed a 
 day for coming back to London, and that the nice 
 Ventnor doctor said no air could be better for Hebe 
 
 now than Fewforest, and so mums was going to 
 
 \ 
 
 bring her down the very next Friday to be with us for 
 
TEE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 229 
 
 the last three weeks. Mums was coming herself too, 
 to stay from Friday to Monday, for father had to be 
 away with gran those two days. Gran was at Brighton, 
 I think, but he was coming back now mums would be 
 there. There was a postscript to the letter—it was to 
 Anne,—in which mums said she might perhaps want 
 nurse to come up to London for a few hours to see 
 about clothes or something. “If I do,” she wrote, 
 “do you think I can trust you and Jack to take care 
 of the two little ones? I am sure Mrs. Parsley would 
 be most kind, but of course I do not want to give her 
 more trouble than we can help.” 
 
 “Oh,” said Serena, when Anne had read all that 
 aloud—“ I wish she had stopped before the postscript 
 —that would be fun. We’d lead old Jack a dance 
 wouldn’t we, Maud? As for Anne, we’d find her a 
 new book, and then she wouldn’t trouble us. ” 
 
 Maud looked at her with scorn, but would not con¬ 
 descend to speak. I do believe from that moment 
 Serry settled to play some kind of trick if we were 
 left alone. But when I said to Anne that I hoped to 
 goodness we shouldn’t be left in charge of Serry, she 
 only said it would be all right; Serry made herself 
 out worse than she was, and so on. Anne is so easy¬ 
 going. 
 
 Now I must tell you why I liked strolling down to 
 the church in the evenings. It only began the week 
 before Hebe and mums were to come. I happened to 
 
230 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 have gone to the village rather late with a letter, and, 
 coming back, I noticed that there was some light in 
 the church, even though it wasn't the time for any 
 service. And, standing still for a moment, suddenly I 
 heard the organ begin. Some one was playing it. The 
 
 c 
 
 door was a little open, and I went inside the porch and 
 found I could hear quite welL It was beautiful, far 
 nicer than on Sundays, and after a while I heard sing¬ 
 ing too. Such lovely singing—it was a womans voice 
 —and she sang some of the things I liked best, and I 
 stayed there listening as long as I dared. The next 
 evening I couldn't come, but the one after that I did., 
 and she was there again, and I listened ever so long. 
 After that I came whenever I could ; sometimes she 
 was there and sometimes not,—it was rather fun 
 wondering if she would be. I told Anne about it, and 
 she said she'd like awfully to come with me one 
 evening, but we didn't know how to manage it, for we 
 really couldn't tell Serry. She'd have teased so to 
 come too, and she'd have spoilt it all with her fidgeting, 
 and if we'd told nurse and asked her to let us go 
 without the little ones, Serry would have made some 
 sort of a fuss I'm sure. So I jest kept on going 
 whenever I could, though very often there was no 
 music. And I promised Anne that the first chance 
 I could see I'd take her too. 
 
 Mums wrote for nurse to go up to London on the 
 Thursday—just the day before she and Hebe were 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 231 
 
 coming. Nurse was to go up by an afternoon train, 
 and she'd get back about nine in the evening, mums 
 wrote; and we—Anne and I—might help to put the 
 little ones to bed, and then we might sit up till nurse 
 came back. There was really nothing to be anxious 
 about, Mrs. Parsley was so kind, and really we were 
 old enough to ho left an hour or two by ourselves. 
 Still nurse seemed a little uneasy. I’m sure it was all 
 about Serena. Anne and I promised her we'd be 
 awfully careful and good. 
 
 “ I know I can depend upon you, Master Jack," said 
 nurse. We were alone at the time—she and I—“and 
 really Miss Anne is wonderfully improved. Since the 
 diamond ornament was lost, and it being partly through 
 her fault, she's hardly like the same young lady. It's 
 an ill wind that does nobody any good, they say ; per¬ 
 haps Miss Serry will take a sensible turn after a while. * 
 
 “I hope it won't have to cost another diamond 
 ornament, and us all having whooping-cough again— 
 no, I suppose you can't have it twice, but I daresay 
 there are plenty of other illnesses just as horrid or hor- 
 rider, ” I said rather grumpily. 
 
 “I hope not," said nurse, “ though I would really 
 be thankful if Miss Serry would take thought. There’s 
 never any saying what she'll be after next. The rest 
 of the nursery work all put together isn t above half 
 what the mending and tidying up of her things alone 
 
232 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 Serry could take thought if she chose ; she had an 
 uncommonly good memory when it suited her. 
 
 This was the day before nurse was going. I nad 
 found out by now that the music at the church was 
 mostly every other evening, and as Td heard it the night 
 before, very likely the lady would be playing and sing¬ 
 ing again the next day. So all of a sudden I thought 
 I’d better tell nurse about it, and get leave to go if it 
 was a fine evening with Anne, and Mrs. Parsley would 
 take care of the little ones. 
 
 Nurse wasn't sure about it, but when I told her very 
 likely Serry would be better alone with Maud and Mrs. 
 Parsley than if we were all together the whole long 
 evening, she gave in. 
 
 “Very well," she said, “but don't you and Miss 
 Anne stay out late—not above half an hour." 
 
 I promised her we wouldn't. 
 
 Anne was very pleased, only she said wouldn't if 
 perhaps be better if we all four went; it would be a 
 little treat for Serry to look forward to, and perhaps it 
 would keep her good the rest of the time. 
 
 I thought afterwards Anne had been right, but I 
 wouldn’t agree with her when she said it. I didn’t 
 want Serry at all; I wouldn't have minded Maud, but 
 I knew Serry would spoil it all. So I said to Anne it 
 would never do ; they'd fidget or make a noise, and the 
 lady who was playing might hear us and be vexed, and 
 it would be horrid to have any fuss in a church, we 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 233 
 
 might get scolded by the verger or possibly even the 
 clergyman,—what would father and mother and gran 
 think of such a thing ? 
 
 Anne gave in. But I gave in to her a bit too. She 
 said it was much best to make no mystery about it. 
 Serry was as sharp as a needle about mysteries, and she’d 
 only set herself to find out. So that Thursday morn¬ 
 ing at breakfast—the day nurse was to be away—I said 
 quietly, “ Anne and I are going to church this evening 
 for half an hour. Nurse, please tell Serry that she and 
 Maud may stay with Mrs. Parsley in her kitchen while 
 we're out." 
 
 ‘ 4 Yes, ” said nurse. “You hear, Miss Serry and Miss 
 Maud. It'll make a little change for you." 
 
 “I like being in Mrs. Parsley’s kitchen for a while in 
 the evening very much, don’t you, Serry ? ” said Maud. 
 
 But Serry did not answer. I think she pretended 
 not to hear.- Still she couldn't make out now that she 
 hadn't been properly told. 
 
 Well, with many charges and warnings, poor nurse 
 set off. The red-eared boy drove her to the station, 
 and we ran over the fields by a short cut to a stile on 
 the road, where we could see her pass, and there we 
 shouted out again all our messages to mums and 
 Hebe—nurse couldn't possibly have remembered all 
 the things we told her to say, and it didn't matter 
 certainly, considering we were going to see them the 
 very next day* 
 
234 
 
 THE GIliLS AND I. 
 
 The first part of the afternoon we got on all right. 
 We'd had dinner earlier than usual so that nurse should 
 be in time for the train, and after she was fairly off we 
 went out into the woods with baskets to get all the 
 flowers we could for mums and Hebe—I mean to make 
 the rooms look nice for them. 
 
 There weren't very many, for of course the spring 
 flowers were over, and it was too early for the regular 
 summer ones. Besides, the spring is always the best 
 time for flowers that grow in the woods. Still we got 
 some, pretty nice, and some trails of ivy and these 
 pretty reddy leaves that you can find most of the year. 
 And we got a lot of fir cones too—mums does so love 
 the scent of them in the fire, and as people often feel 
 a little chilly when they first come out to the country, 
 we fixed we'd have a nice fire in the evening, and make 
 it nearly all of the cones. 
 
 After that we went in and arranged our flowers ; there's 
 always lots of moss in the woods, and with moss you 
 can make a good show even with very little. 
 
 Then there came teadime. We were a good while 
 over tea, for even though Serry had been all right so 
 far, both Anne and I felt a little fidgety—Serry was 
 almost too good, if you understand. 
 
 It was half-past five, or nearer six than that, I daresay, 
 when we had finished tea. Anne and I wanted to go 
 to the church about a quarter to seven, meaning to be 
 back before half-past, which was the two little ones 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 235 
 
 bed-time, so that we could help Mrs. Parsley if she 
 needed us. 
 
 Mrs. Parsley looked rather worried when she came 
 in to take away the tea things—not crossly worried, for 
 she was as kind as could be, but just troubled. And 
 afterwards we knew that the reason was that an old 
 aunt of theirs who lived a mile or two off was very ill, 
 and had sent for her, but she didn y t like to go because 
 of leaving us. She didn't tell us ; I almost think it 
 Would have been better if she had, for then Anne and 
 I would have given up going out and have looked after 
 Serry and Maud till nurse came back. Only, if we had 
 done that, very likely nothing would have happened 
 the same, and the wond--no, I must go straight on. 
 
 Well, we played “patience,” and did everything we 
 could to please Serry till about half-past six. Did I tel! 
 you that there's a very jolly old clock in the Parsley's 
 summer kitchen ?—so we always know the time. Then 
 I said to Anne I thought she might go and get ready, 
 and we might as well start, and “you two,” I said to 
 Serry and Maud, “can go to Mrs. Parsley till we come 
 back.” 
 
 Maud began gathering up the cards and counters and 
 things we'd been playing with, and putting them to¬ 
 gether tidily—she's always so tidy,—but Serry had got 
 a “ patience ” half set set out. 
 
 “ Do let me finish this,'' she said, “ and then I prom¬ 
 ise you I'll go into Mrs. Parsley's kitchen." 
 
236 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 “ You promise, ” I said. By this time Anne had come 
 downstairs with her hat and jacket on, and I was stand¬ 
 ing by the door with my cap in my hand. 
 
 “ Promise/' said Serena, “word of honor. ” 
 
 Well, she’s not a story-teller after all, and she 
 wouldn’t break a right-down promise like that, so I 
 thought it was all right. 
 
 “We shan’t be long,” I said, and off we set, Anne 
 and I, thinking we had managed beautifully. 
 
 It was very nice and peaceful outside; Anne is 
 really very jolly when you get her alone and she isn’t 
 thinking of some book or other she’s reading, and we 
 quite enjoyed the little walk. The church was open 
 as usual, but there was no sound of music yet, only 
 there was a light up in the organ loft, which I was 
 sure showed the lady was coming, though Anne 
 thought it was perhaps only a reflection of the even¬ 
 ing light through the window. But I knew by this 
 time that it was always pretty dark up by the organ, 
 except perhaps in the very middle of the day in very 
 bright weather. 
 
 We didn’t stay in the porch like I’d done at first. 
 I had found a nice little corner just inside, where we 
 could hear beautifully, and yet slip out in a moment, in 
 case any one came and found fault. And there we sat 
 quite happily, and in a minute or two we heard a hum 
 beginning, and then some notes, and then the playing 
 started properly. It was beautiful. Anne squeezed 
 
TEE GIRLS AND L 
 
 237 
 
 my hand, and I felt quite proud of having found it 
 out—like a showman, you know. “ But wait till you 
 hear her singing/* I whispered. 
 
 She was still only playing, luckily , when, what do 
 you think happened? The big door behind us was 
 slowly pushed openly, and in walked, as cool as 
 twenty cucumbers, two small figures, giving us—no, 
 that was only Serry—a condescending little nod and 
 smile as they slipped into a seat almost alongside 
 
 ours. 
 
238 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 miss cross-at-first's fur cape. 
 
 I couldn't help it, even though it was in church I 
 felt so boiling. I jumped up and caught hold of 
 Serry's arm and pulled her out into the porch. Poor 
 Maud came too of herself, and when we got outside 
 into the light, I saw that she looked pale and 
 frightened. Then Anne appeared, quite puzzled and 
 dazed, for she'd been all up in the music and had 
 almost forgotten where she was, or if she was any¬ 
 where, as she does sometimes. 
 
 / was all there though. I closed the door so that 
 our voices couldn't possibly be heard from the inside, 
 and then I faced round upon Serry. 
 
 “ What's the meaning of this ? " I said. “The very 
 moment nurse's back is turned you begin disobeying 
 her ?" 
 
 Serena's eyes sparkled. She has very funny eyes. 
 Sometimes, when she's very mischievous, they look 
 really green, though sometimes they're very pretty. 
 
 “Then you shouldn't go plotting for you and Anne 
 to have treats, and to keep us out of them," she said. 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 289 
 
 \ 
 
 “ ‘Treats/—nonsense/' I said. “As if it was a 
 treat. A simple thing like this, coming down to listen 
 to the organ." 
 
 “ Well why shouldn't Maud and I have a simple 
 pleasure too ? ” 
 
 “You don't care for music, at least you hate sitting 
 still, and Maud was quite happy at the farm. She 
 didn't want to come." 
 
 “No, Jack, truly I didn't," said Maud almost cry¬ 
 ing. “ But Serry said if I didn't she'd run off into 
 the wood and hide herself so that we couldn't find 
 her. And she told the servant to tell Mrs. Parsley we’d 
 gone with you after all, and w r e'd be all home soon. 
 And Mrs. Parsley was upstairs, and she called down, 
 ‘All right, my dears,' and Serry said if I said any¬ 
 thing she'd-" I never knew what Serry had said 
 
 she'd do, for now Maud began crying, and Anne put 
 her arms round her, and kissed and comforted her. 
 
 Then Anne and I looked at each other. What 
 should we do ? After all it wasn’t a very big thing ; 
 it wouldn't do any harm for them to sit listening to 
 the music too if Serry would be quiet. And perhaps 
 she would be, to make up for having been so naughty. 
 So I said, “As you are here, you had better stay. 
 Take Maud into the church, Anne. I’ll look after 
 Serry. ” 
 
 But when I was going to take hold of Serry she 
 clipped away. 
 
240 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 “I won't be pulled and dragged about,” she said 
 “ I'll go into a corner and be quite quiet if you'll leave 
 me alone, but I'll scream if you don't.” 
 
 Just then the singing began. I didn't want to miss 
 any of it, and Serry was more likely to be quiet if I 
 gave in. So I let her go ; she went in before me very 
 quickly, right into a corner as she said, and she gave 
 me a sort of a nod over her shoulder. I hoped it 
 meant she was going to be sensible. 
 
 The singing was most beautiful that night. We all 
 three sat listening and listening. I think Anne soon 
 went up into the clouds again and forgot everything 
 else. Maudie liked it too ; she leant against me, but 
 every now and then I felt her shiver, and little sobs 
 went through her. Maud scarcely ever cries, but 
 when she does it seems to tire her out. And Serry 
 had worried her very badly. 
 
 “Are you cold, dear?” I whispered, and she said 
 she was a little. Serry had hurried her out without 
 seeing that she was properly wrapped up, and it was 
 a chilly evening, I forgot to say. Perhaps it would 
 have been better if I had made them all come away 
 then, but it did seem such a pity to miss the singing. 
 I think it was “ Angels ever bright and fair,” but I’m 
 not sure. We've heard so many of her beautiful songs 
 since then that I’m not sure which it was. 
 
 Suddenly we heard the door pushed open, and some 
 one came into the church. It was a girl; she came 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 241 
 
 in very quickly, and hurried up the aisle and in through 
 a door or a curtain somewhere at the side. It was 
 already darker than when we came. A minute after, 
 we heard talking—the singing had stopped, I forgot to 
 say—and then two people came out at the side, and 
 hurried back again down the aisle and out at the door. 
 It was the person who had been playing, and the girl 
 who had come evidently to fetch her. 
 
 They didn't shut the door to, only closed it a little. 
 
 “What a pity," said Anne, “she's been fetched 
 away." 
 
 “Yes," said I, “ but Maudie’s rather cold. Perhaps 
 it's best for us to go home," and we got up and went 
 towards the door. 
 
 I looked round for Serry. She wasn't in the comer 
 we had seen her in. 
 
 “ I expect Serry's outside in the porch," I said to 
 Anne. But no, she wasn't. 
 
 “ She was sitting in the same place just before the 
 girl came in," said Anne. “ I saw her." 
 
 “She can't have gone home," I said. “She's not 
 very fond of walking about alone. She must be some¬ 
 where in the church." 
 
 And then all of a sudden there came over me the re¬ 
 membrance of her boast about being able to hide in the 
 church so that we couldn't find her. Was that what 
 she had been after ? Was that her reason for following 
 
 us, that she thought it would be a good chance for play- 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 • 
 
 ing us this trick ? It was too bad. There was poor 
 Maud tired and cold, and Anne and me who had been 
 worried enough already. I really felt as if I couldn’t 
 stand it. 
 
 I asked Maud what she thought, but of course Serry 
 hadn’t said a word to her about hiding. It wasn’t likely 
 she would, but every minute we got surer that she was 
 hiding. 
 
 You can’t shout out in a church, and yet it wasn’t easy 
 to hunt. We began ; we poked into any of the dark 
 corners we could think of, and behind the doors and 
 curtains, and even in the pulpit, though it was a sort of 
 open-work that a mouse could scarcely have hidden in 
 —not like the one in the “Maggie” story. But it was 
 all of no use, and it was more provoking than you can 
 fancy to know that all the time the naughty child was 
 hearing us, and laughing at us. We went on for a 
 quarter of an hour or more, I daresay ; then I deter¬ 
 mined I’d bother no more. 
 
 “ Stop, Anne,” I said, in a low voice, “ I’m not going 
 to-” but Anne interrupted me. 
 
 “I hear something,” she said. “Listen; what is 
 
 There was a little sound of footsteps, but not inside 
 the church, I thought. Still it might be Serry ; she 
 might have slipped out to baffle us. But first I thought 
 I’d try my new idea. I slipped out as near the middle 
 as I could, and then I said, loud and clear, though not 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 243 
 
 shouting, of course—do you know I felt quite fright¬ 
 ened when I heard my own voice so loud, it seemed 
 so unreverent— 
 
 “Serena”—this was what I said—“you can hear 
 me quite well, I know, so I give you fair warning that 
 if you don't come out before I finish counting twelve 
 we'll go home, and leave you to yourself—to stay here 
 all night if you choose. ” 
 
 Then I began, “One, two, three, four”—was it 
 fancy, or did I hear a little smothered laugh just as I 
 was going to say “ five? ”—but then all was still again, 
 and I went on, till, just as I was, you may say, on the 
 stroke of ‘ ‘ twelve, ” there came a flutter and a rush down 
 the aisle, and there was Miss Serry, tossing her hair 
 back, her eyes looking, I am sure, if there had been 
 light enough to see them by, very bright green indeed. 
 But, just as she appeared, there came another sound— 
 a harsh, rasping, grating sound—a queer feeling went 
 through me as I heard it, only I was so taken up with 
 Serry that I didn't seem to have attention to spare, and 
 I didn't really take in for the moment what it meant. 
 
 There was Serry as triumphant as could be. 
 
 “ I don't mind coming out now,” she said. “I've 
 proved that you couldn't find me.” 
 
 “You have been about as naughty as you could 
 be,” said Anne, “and whether Jack tells mother all 
 about it or not, I know / shall.” 
 
 Serena did not answer. She really seemed startled. 
 
244 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 It is not often that Anne takes that tone. She used to 
 be so constantly in scrapes herself—about carelessness, 
 and forgettings, and losings, and all that sort of thing 
 —that I think she felt as if she had no right to find 
 fault with others. But after a moment Serry got back 
 her coolness. 
 
 “ Well, anyway I've gained," she said. “ You don't 
 know where I was hidden, and you'd never have found 
 me. 
 
 And to this day she has never told us ! 
 
 “ Let us get home now as fast as we can," said 
 Anne; “ there is poor Maudie shivering with cold 
 I'm afraid she's got a chill." 
 
 We turned towards the door, but suddenly the re¬ 
 membrance of the sound I had heard came back to 
 me, and a great fear went through me. I hurried on. 
 Yes, it was too true; the door was locked, locked 
 from the outside, and we were prisoners—prisoners 
 pretty certainly for the night ! I faced round upon the 
 girls and told them. 
 
 “ I remember hearing the sound of locking," I said. 
 
 But at first -they wouldn't believe me; I could 
 scarcely believe it myself. We rattled and shook at 
 the door in the silly way people do in such cases ; of 
 course it was no use. Then we made journeys round 
 the church to all the other doors ; none of them had 
 been open in the daytime, so it wasn't likely they 
 would be now. Then we considered together if it 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 245 
 
 would be any use shouting, but we were sure it 
 wouldn’t be. There was no house ' very near the 
 church ; the Convalescent Home, on rising ground 
 a little behind it, was about the nearest, and we knew 
 our voices could never be heard there. And we were 
 too far back from the road to hope that any passer-by 
 would hear us; beside which, unluckily, it was a 
 windy night—the wind had risen a good deal since we 
 had come out. We could hear it outside, and it almost 
 sounded as if it was raining too. 
 
 “ There is nothing for it,” I said at last, “ but to stay 
 quietly and make ourselves as comfortable as we can 
 till some one comes to let us out. Mrs. Parsley is sure 
 to miss us and send, as she knows where we are. The 
 great thing is to keep poor Maud from catching cold. ” 
 
 I wasn’t cold myself; I had been moving about, 
 and then I wasn't getting well of an illness like the 
 girls. So I took off my ulster and made Maudie put it 
 on. There were no cushions in the church, but we 
 collected all the hassocks we could, and built up a sort 
 of little nest, and then we all huddled in together. It 
 was fast getting dark, and after we had been sitting 
 there a while we heard the clock outside strike eight. 
 
 I couldn't make it out ; they must have missed us at 
 the farm before this. But they hadn't, and I may as 
 well explain here—a lot of explainings together at the 
 end are so confusing, I think—how it was. You re¬ 
 member my saying Mrs. Parsley had had bad news that 
 
246 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 day. Well, just as Serry called out to her that she and 
 Maud were coming with us after all, another message 
 had come that she must go at once to the old lady who 
 was so ill. There was no choice, she had to go, so the 
 horse was put to and the red-eared boy drove her off 
 Mr. Parsley hadn't come in, so all she could do was 
 to tell the servant we'd all be in soon, and she must tell 
 us what had happened, and that she'd send the cart 
 back to the station to meet nurse at nine. Now, the 
 servant was very stupid: she got “nine" into her 
 head, and when Mr. Parsley came in about half-past 
 seven she told him we were all to be in at nine; and 
 he said afterwards he'd got some vague idea that we 
 had all gone in the cart to meet nurse. Anyhow, he 
 wasn't a bit uneasy, and after he’d had his supper he 
 set off walking to the old aunts to see how she was, 
 and to arrange about Mrs. Parsley staying all night 
 if she had to. 
 
 So you see, till nurse got back, there was no one to 
 be uneasy about us. 
 
 But we didn't know it, and there we sat, more and 
 more puzzled, and even frightened in a strange sort of 
 way. It seemed as if we'd dropped out of the world 
 and nobody cared. 
 
 “At the worst," I whispered to Anne, “when nurse 
 Gomes they’ll hunt us up. She knows we were to be 
 hi the church, and she'll think of the Maggie story." 
 
 “ Only," said Anne, “ suppose she misses her train, 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 247 
 
 or that it's very late. It’s Maudie I'm so unhappy 
 about, Jack. Hush- 
 
 For we heard a little sob, and we didn't want to 
 wake her. She had fallen asleep,i and Anne and I were 
 both cuddling her close to keep her warm. 
 
 “ Is she waking ? ” I said, very low. 
 
 But Anne pinched my hand. The sob wasn't from 
 Maud, it was fromSerry. I must say I was rather glad. 
 It was about time for her to sob and cry, I thought. 
 
 We waited on and on. After a bit I think Anne and 
 Serry too got drowsy, and perhaps I did myself. Any¬ 
 how, I grew stupid, and as if I didn't care ; but I was 
 very cold too. 
 
 It seemed such a tremendous time. I heard a story 
 not long ago of a man who got shut in somewhere—I 
 think it was in the catacombs, or some place like that— 
 who went through, as he thought, days of it. He 
 grew terribly hungry, for one thing, and ate his candle, 
 and was released just when he believed he was at 
 the last gasp, and after all he'd only been there three 
 hours ! It did seem absurd, but I can quite believe 
 it. He'd lost all sense of time, you see. Well, I sup¬ 
 pose it was rather like that with us. I know, when at 
 last we heard the clock strike, I was sure it was going 
 on to twelve. I couldn’t believe it was only nine! 
 
 “Anne," I whispered, “ are you awake ? How ever 
 are we to wait here till to-morrow morning l It's only 
 nine o'clock I ” 
 
24S 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 “Nurse will be coming home soon then,”said Anne, 
 hopefully; “she’ll never wait till to-morrow morning 
 to find us. ” 
 
 “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t make anything 
 
 i 
 
 out. I think it’s as if we were all dead and buried, and 
 nobody cares. ” 
 
 “ Hush,” said a clear little voice ; “ that’s not good, 
 Jack. God cares, always. ” 
 
 It was poor little Maudie, and again I heard the 
 choky sob from Serena. 
 
 Just then, as if in answer to Maud, at last we heard 
 a sound, or sounds—voices and footsteps, and then the 
 grating of the key in the lock. 
 
 “ They’ve come for us, they’ve come for us!” we 
 cried, and up we all jumped. It was quite dark, but 
 as the door opened a light came in ; the people, who¬ 
 ever they were had a lantern. But it wasn't Mr. Pars¬ 
 ley, nor his wife, nor the red-eared boy, nor any one 
 we knew—at least, not any one we expected. It was 
 —the light was full in her face, and she was frowning 
 just the sort of way I remembered—it was Miss Cross- 
 at-first! 
 
 And just fancy what I did? I ran at her, I was so 
 confused and stupid, calling her that! 
 
 “Oh, Miss Cross-at-first,” I said, “please let us 
 outJ We’ve been locked in, hours, and Maud is so 
 cold! ” 
 
 It must have been awfully muddling for her . She 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 249 
 
 frowned worse than ever, and turned to the girl with 
 her—a girl about fifteen, not a lady, but very nice. 
 
 “Who are they, Linny! ” she said. “Do you 
 knew ? ” 
 
 But Linny shook her head. 
 
 “Some mistake/’ she began, but I interrupted her. 
 
 “Til tell you who we are/’ I said. “You know us, 
 and we know you, but I can’t remember your proper 
 name,” and then it flashed upon me what I had called 
 her, and I got scarlet. 
 
 “My name isn’t ‘Crossley/ or whatever you said,” 
 she began (oh, how thankful I was she hadn’t heard 
 properly ! Afterwards we told her the name we’d 
 given her, and she didn’t mind a bit), “but I seem to 
 know you. I’m staying at the Home here. I left my 
 music in church, for I went off in a hurry. But what 
 in the world were you all doing here ? ” 
 
 “We came to listen to you,” I said, and then Anne 
 went on to explain. She did it so nicely, not exactly 
 putting the blame on Serry, which would not have 
 been kind just then, but she quite made Miss Merthyr 
 understand. 
 
 “You poor little souls ! ” she exclaimed. “Of course, 
 I remember hearing you were somewhere down here, 
 but I’ve been away. I only came back again a few days 
 ago. And Maud, poor child, you do look blue. I’ll 
 tell you what, come back to the Home with me and 
 get warm. Linny, run back and tell them to heat some 
 
250 
 
 THE GIRLS AND 1. 
 
 milk, and then Linny and I will wrap you up and take 
 you home.’' 
 
 “But/' said a little voice, “won’t the getting-well 
 children catch the whooping cough ? " 
 
 Judith—that's what we always call her now— 
 couldn’t help laughing. It was Maud who had said it. 
 
 “The Home children are all in bed and asleep long 
 ago/' she said. “They'll run no risk, and I've not 
 heard any of you coughing. I'm sure the infection's 
 over. So come along. Oh, my music ! Linny, take 
 the lantern ; oh no, she's gone ! Never mind, I'll get 
 it on my way home. I don't want the organist to 
 confuse it with his." 
 
 And in five minutes we found ourselves in the kitchen 
 at the Home, in front of a jolly fire, and with nice hot 
 milk to drink. For it really was a cold night ; it had 
 been raining, too, pretty sharply. The other ladies at 
 the Home—there were two, and two servants—were 
 very nice to us. But Maud kept hold of Miss Cross-at- 
 first’s hand as if she couldn't let go. 
 
 “ Now, we must get you home," said Judith. “ Let's 
 see, how can we wrap you up ? Why, this is your 
 brother’s jacket. My boy, you must have been cold ! 
 Here, put on your coat, and I’ll fetch some shawls and 
 things. I have a bundle I have never undone since I 
 came, for it hasn't been cold till now." 
 
 She flew upstairs, and was down again in a moment. 
 
 “ Here's a shawl for each of you," she said to Anne 
 
THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 251 
 
 and Serry ; “ and here, oh yes, this short fur tippet will 
 be just the thing for Maud. I didn’t know I'd got it here. ” 
 
 It was a nice little cape, with a hood at the back. 
 
 She opened it out and gave it a shake, as people 
 often do when a thing has been folded up, and—some¬ 
 thing hard dropped out of it and rolled on to the stone 
 floor with a clatter. 
 
 “What's that?" said Judith. “There must have 
 been some pin or something caught in the fur. I 
 haven’t worn it for ever so long—not since " 
 
 She stooped and looked about a little on the floor. 
 But she is near-sighted—that's why she frowns so— 
 and she didn’t see anything. 
 
 “Never mind, I daresay it was only a safety-pin," she 
 said. “ Here, Maudie, dear," and she held out the cape. 
 
 But Anne had been looking about on the floor too, 
 and suddenly she made a dive under a table standing 
 at one side. When she stood up again her face looked 
 all—I don’t know how. 
 
 “ Jack," she said, as if she were choking, “ it’s-" 
 
 and she held out her hand. There, on her palm— 
 looking not quite so bright as the last time we had 
 seen it, but otherwise none the worse—lay the diamond 
 ornament , gran’s curious old-fashioned treasure, which 
 had caused poor mums and Anne, and indeed all of us, 
 so much trouble and distress. 
 
 I gasped. I couldn’t speak. Judith stared. 
 
 **What is it?" she said. 
 
252 
 
 THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 Then I tried to get my voice. 
 
 “It's the thing that was lost,” I said, “ worth ever 
 so much, anu an heirloom too. Didn’t you know? 
 Cousin Dorothea knew. Mother lost it the day of the 
 Drawing-room. Oh,” as light began to break in upon 
 me, “ it must have dropped on to your cape and caught 
 in the fur—it is very fuzzy fur—and there it’s t)een ever 
 since ! Oh, to think of it! ” 
 
 “Yes,” said Judith, “there it has been ever since. 
 I’ve never had on the cape since, and my maid put it 
 in with these shawls when I was coming down here. 
 I remember her saying it might be cold here sometimes. 
 No, I never heard a word about the ornament being 
 lost. You know I didn’t come back to your house that 
 day; I went straight home. I wonder I never heard 
 of it But I’ve been in Germany till lately ; and if I 
 had heard of it I don’t think I would ever have thought 
 of this little cape. It must have fallen into the hood of 
 my cape in the carriage. I remember I sat beside 
 Mrs. Warwick. It is really wonderful ! ” 
 
 Wasn’t it ? We could talk of nothing else all the way 
 to the farm, for we set off almost at once, and we only 
 got there in time to prevent poor nurse and Mrs. Parsley 
 from being most terribly frightened about us, as they 
 had just arrived, Mrs. Parsley having driven to the sta¬ 
 tion to pick up nurse on her own way home, as the old 
 aunt was a little better, and she’d got a neighbor to 
 come in for the night 
 
THE GIRLS AND L 
 
 253 
 
 Nurse was rather uneasy when she heard from Mrs. 
 Parsley that she'd had to leave us, still Fanny, the ser¬ 
 vant, was very good-natured, and, as Mrs. Parsley 
 said, it was difficult to think what harm could come to 
 us in a couple of hours. 
 
 Certainly, getting locked up in church was a very 
 out-of-the-way sort of accident to happen ! 
 
 But the finding the diamond brooch seemed to put 
 everything else out of our heads. I don’t know how 
 late we didn't sit up talking. Maudie grew quite bright 
 again, and I think the excitement kept her from catch¬ 
 ing cold. Serry, for a wonder, was the quietest of all. 
 She told me afterwards that she was more thankful 
 than she could say that her naughtiness hadn't done 
 Maud any harm, and she told it all to mother—all of 
 her own self. I think that was good of her. The only 
 thing she kept up her mischief about was that she never 
 has told us where she hid. 
 
 We made a beautiful plan with Miss Cross-at-first— 
 Judith, I mean. She was to go with us to the station 
 the next morning to meet mums and Hebe, with the 
 diamond brooch in a nice little box she found for it 
 And we carried out the plan exactly. Mother was as¬ 
 tonished when she saw Judith, and very pleased even 
 before she knew what had happened. And she thought 
 us all looking so well. No wonder we were all so 
 happy, just bursting to tell her. 
 
 And I can l tell you how delighted she was, and how 
 
254 
 
 THE GIRLS AND I. 
 
 wonderful she thought it She sent off a telegram thai 
 minute—we went to the post-office on purpose—to 
 gran, for he had really been so good about it. It really 
 seemed too much happiness to be all together again, 
 and dear old Hebe looking so well, and poor little 
 sweet mums so bright and merry. 
 
 The rest of the time at Fewforest passed very jollily, 
 though we had no particular adventures. We’ve been 
 there two or three times since, and we like it extra 
 much if it happens to be Miss Cross-at-first’s turn at the 
 getting-well Home, for we’ve grown awfully fond oI 
 her. We count her one of our very most particular 
 friends, and she sings so beautifully. 
 
 That’s all I have to write about just now. It seems 
 to finish up pretty well. I daresay I shall write more 
 some day, for things are always happening, unless 
 being at school gets me out of the way of it. Perhaps 
 even if it does I’ll write stories like father when I’m a 
 man. If ever I do, and if people like them (I’m afraid 
 
 they’d never be anything like his), it would be rather 
 
 / 
 
 funny to remember that I was only eleven when 1 
 wrote my first one—about the girls and me I 
 
 THE END. 
 
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