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Title: The Little School-Mothers

Author: L. T. Meade

Release date: July 8, 2013 [eBook #43140]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE SCHOOL-MOTHERS ***

L.T. Meade

"The Little School-Mothers"

Book One—Chapter One.

The Girls of the Third Form.

“Robina Starling will arrive at the school this evening,” said Mrs Burton. “She is twelve years old, and has never been at school before. I want you girls of the third form to take her under your charge. Frederica and Patience Chetwold, do you hear? Harriet Lane and Jane Bush, I expect great tact and consideration; don’t forget. And as to you, dear Rose, and you. Cecil and Vivian Amberley, I know beforehand that you are always sweet and considerate to those a little younger and a little more ignorant than yourselves. Robina has been sent from home because of her mother’s illness. She is quite a little home bird, and I have no doubt will be sorry for herself. I have given her people to understand that she will be very happy at school, and I expect you girls of the third form to help me to carry out my prognostications. Now then, I think that is all. We will begin our usual lessons. Miss Sparke, will you take the third form girls for their history? Miss Devigny, the sixth form are waiting for you in the blue parlour.”

A minute later the several girls of Abbeyfield School had dispersed to their different classrooms, and the great hall in which they had assembled for prayers, and afterwards to hear Mrs Burton’s remarks with regard to Robina Starling, was empty. A busy hum of eager voices might have been heard issuing from the different classrooms. It was the subdued hum caused by young people kept in complete order and actively engaged in following the pursuit of knowledge.

Abbeyfield School was situated in the neighbourhood of the New Forest, and was within half an hour by train of Bournemouth. The time was midsummer, and the holidays were not far ahead. The school was a very select one, and did not consist of more than twenty pupils. There was the third form for the girls already mentioned: Frederica and Patience Chetwold, Harriet Lane, and Jane Bush, and the three Amberleys. There was the first form, where the little children played and learned a little and were happy—there were only three little children now in the first form—and then there was the sixth form, where the girls who were considered grown-up pursued their studies. Here might be seen grave Constance Amberley, the sister of Rose and Cecil and Vivian; here, also, were Julia Price and Agnes Winter, and several more, all well-behaved girls anxious to do their duty and to take advantage of the many excellent opportunities offered to them at Abbeyfield.

There were, to all appearance, no really naughty girls in the school, although it is true that Harriet Lane and Jane Bush were not quite so much liked as their fellows. Still, harmony was the order of the hour, and no young people looked happier than these as they went two by two into their pews to the old church on Sunday and appeared now and then at a fashionable flower show at Bournemouth, or—best time of all—played merrily in the fields and lanes which surrounded Abbeyfield.

On the day when Mrs Burton had announced the arrival of Robina Starling, there was to be a picnic, to which every member of the school had been invited. It was a special picnic given by Miss Devigny, the lady who superintended the studies of the sixth form girls. She was to take them to a well-known place called Mark Ash, about six miles away. They were to have a picnic tea, and were not to return home until late. Mrs Burton would not accompany them, but Miss Sparke and Miss Devigny were considered quite a sufficient escort. They would drive to Mark Ash in two waggonettes, and every heart was pit-a-pat with excitement at the thought of their happy afternoon.

Miss Devigny was the sort of teacher whom all girls idolise. It was not that she was exactly beautiful, nor perhaps especially clever, but she had that indescribable attribute which is best known by the word “charm.” Without any apparent effort on her part, she charmed all those with whom she came in contact. Even the dullest pupil brightened and did her best under Miss Devigny’s influence; even the most sulky became good-tempered, and the most secretive became open and above-board. The great inducement for the little girls of the third form to struggle hard and conquer the difficulties of English, French, and German was the hope that they would be moved into Miss Devigny’s class. To work with her in the blue parlour was as good as a holiday—so the girls who were there already affirmed, and so all, without a single exception, believed.

Now, however, there was a new topic of interest. Something very wonderful had occurred. The third form girls were to receive a new companion. For a girl to arrive at the school so late in the term was itself rather remarkable, but for a girl to come and be immediately placed, as it were, in their charge; for a girl to be made over to them so that they alone were to be in a measure responsible for her well-being and happiness, was a state of things which at once dazzled and perplexed them.

During recess that morning the girls of the third form met in a little group to discuss the situation. Even the sixth form girls looked at them with a certain envy, and thought it somewhat strange of Mrs Burton to put this responsibility upon the young ones. The sixth form girls were, of course, much too grand to interfere, but they also were interested in Robina.

“She must be a sort of bird,” said Frederica. “Think of her funny name—Robina Starling.”

“We must not laugh at her,” said Patience; “we must be very careful about her. I wonder at what end of the dormitory she will sleep?”

“There is an empty bed at the far end near me,” said Harriet Lane.

“Oh, she won’t be put there, Harry; don’t you make any mistake,” said Jane Bush. “She is going to be petted and fussed over—I can see that. I know quite well what will happen. She will have the centre bed under the window—that’s the nicest bed of all. You’re in it now, Rose.” Here Jane laughed. “Well, you’ll have to turn out; the bird will want it; see if I am not right.”

“Don’t be nasty,” said Rose. “If I have to turn out, I don’t mind, not one bit. Poor little thing! She has never been at school before, and she is twelve years old. It’s rather nice to have the charge of her; don’t you think so, girls?”

“Yes,” said they all, except Harriet and Jane.

“I do wonder what she will be like?” said Cecil Amberley.

“I know,” cried Harriet. “You mark my words, girls.” Here she pushed herself forward in a silly, aggravating way she had. “You mark my words. There is something queer about that Robina. Why should we receive her in the sort of manner Mrs Burton seems to expect? Why should we be so precious good to her? She must be a weakling; perhaps she is deformed, or has a squint.”

“Oh! Harriet, you don’t think so!” said Vivian Amberley, the youngest of the four sisters, and in consequence the most petted. “I can’t bear girls with squints,” she added.

“But that would be better than having a hunchback,” said Jane.

“She is sure to have something,” continued Harriet. “It may not be either of these, but something. She is small, and ugly, and frightened—that I am certain of. Oh, of course we’ll have to be good to her; but at the same time, what I say is this, girls: we’ll have to let that young ’un know at once that she is not to have her own way about everything.”

“There is something in what you say,” remarked Patience Chetwold; “and although I never quite care for your sort of tone, Harriet, yet I think, too, we must not let the girl rule us all. She won’t love us a bit if we spoil her.”

“Of course she won’t,” said Frederica.

“Well, I am going to spoil her,” said Rose; “and I know for certain she is not a bit like what you say, you horrid thing,” and she darted an angry glance at Harriet Lane. “She has a very pretty name, to begin with, and I am certain she is just a dear.”

“Don’t let’s quarrel about her,” said Jane. “So far we are not a quarrelling lot. It would be too bad if that Robina started quarrelling in the school.”

“Oh, I say, girls, there’s the bell! Let’s go in. Let’s race to the door. Who’ll be first?”

“I say!” cried Harriet. “Who’ll follow? Come along, Jane Bush!”

The picnic was great fun. The girls said so afterwards. There was not a single flaw anywhere; there was no sort of dissension in the school; the children were well-behaved, they did not quarrel. It is true that Jane Bush could quarrel if there was anyone to quarrel with, and it is true that Harriet could be nasty, and even spiteful, were the occasion to offer. But then it did not offer. When there happen to be in a form two girls like the Chetwolds, and three girls like the Amberleys, two somewhat disagreeable girls have very little chance of making their presence felt. Accordingly, no one disputed for the favourite place near Miss Devigny, and no one rebelled or made nasty remarks when Jane Bush secured the last morsel of cream blancmange for herself; no one even whispered “Greedy pig!” but everyone was as ladylike and charming as possible.

Miss Devigny turned to Miss Sparke, and said, under her breath:

“I really never saw such well-behaved little girls; they do you great credit, Miss Sparke.”

“They are naturally amiable,” replied Miss Sparke; “and I only trust things will continue in as great harmony as at present after Robina Starling arrives.”

“Do you know anything about the child?” asked Miss Devigny, dropping her voice and coming closer to the other teacher.

“Not much, except that she is too troublesome at home to remain there any longer. Her mother is very far from well, and little Robina has never learned obedience. Dear Mrs Burton is not afraid of her on that account, however, and she believes that there will be no finer discipline for her than making her over, as it were, to the third form.”

“Perhaps so,” said Miss Devigny, a little doubtfully; “but I am not so sure on that point,” she added.

The girls were now playing hide-and-seek in the wood, and while the two governesses were talking, quite unperceived by them a little head peeped out from amongst a great mass of underwood, and two bright, mischievous black eyes looked keenly for a minute at Miss Devigny, and then the head popped back again before anyone could see. The governesses were quite unaware that one of the most troublesome children in the third form had overheard them. This child was no less a person than Jane Bush.

Jane was a little girl who had never known a mother’s care. She had been sent to this nice school when she was ten years of age. She had been at Abbeyfield now for nearly two years. She was a small girl for her age, somewhat stoutly built. She had very black eyes, and short black hair, which she always wore like a mop sticking up all over her funny round head. She was a perfect contrast to her own special friend and ally, Harriet Lane. Harriet was a tall, lanky, pale child. She had exceedingly light blue eyes, a large mouth, somewhat prominent teeth, and thin, hay-coloured hair. She was not at all pretty. Harriet had made up her mind on the subject of her own looks long ago.

“I must be something,” she thought. “If I am not pretty, I must at least be out of the common. I will make people see that I am awfully clever. It’s just as nice to be clever as to be pretty.”

Perhaps Harriet was more clever than her companions. She certainly did manage to impress the others with her power of learning French and German, with the excellent way in which she studied her “pieces” for the pianoforte, and with her really pretty little drawings, which, in her opinion, were almost works of art.

Harriet, in her heart of hearts, voted the Chetwolds dull and the three Amberleys molly-coddles.

“They are always fussing about their throats or having damp feet or getting a little bit of a chill,” she remarked on one occasion in a very superior tone to Jane. “I have no patience with girls who are always thinking of themselves; they just do it to be petted. As to that Vivian, she knows quite well that if she manages to cry a little and put her hand to her throat, she won’t have any more lessons for the rest of the day.”

“I call Vivian a horrid little cheat, although she is thought such a model,” said Jane.

“Oh, I hate models,” said Harriet. “Give me a naughty girl, by preference.”

“There are no naughty girls in this school,” said Jane; “they are every one of them as good as good. It’s awfully dull,” she added. “Even you and I can’t be naughty, Harriet; for there’s no one to be naughty with.”

These were the sentiments of these two really troublesome young people when they started on their picnic. In the course of that same evening, when the sun was about to set, and the slight summer breeze had dropped away, and there was a perfect calm all over nature and a serene pale blue sky overhead, then Jane Bush met Harriet Lane and, clutching her by the arm, said:

“Oh, Harry, Harry! What do you think?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” said Harriet, who looked taller and more lanky than ever. “I wish you wouldn’t get so frightfully excited, Jane. You quite take my breath away.”

“I have got news for you,” said Jane, making her mouth into a round “O,” and forming a trumpet for it with her hand. “News!” she repeated. “Wonderful grand news!” and now she managed to shout the words into Harriet’s ear.

“Don’t deafen me,” said Harriet. “I can’t help it if you have news. I don’t suppose there is anything in your new’s,” she continued.

“You are as cross as two sticks, Harry,” said Jane; “but you won’t be when you hear what I have got to say. Come along; I must tell you before we start for home, and they are putting the horses to the waggonettes already. Let’s run down this glade. Let’s be very quick, or they’ll stop us. I see old Sparke coming back as fast as she can, and she’ll begin to call us all to the top of that little mound. It is there we are to wait for the waggonettes. Come—quick!”

Harriet, although she liked Jane, had a secret sort of contempt for her. She could be naughty, of course, but she was not clever. Harriet admired nothing but talent. She believed herself to be a sort of genius.

“I don’t suppose you have anything to tell me,” she repeated; “but I’ll come if you want me to. See, I’ll race you—one, two, three! I’ll get first to that tall tree at the end of the glade.”

In a race with Harriet, Jane was nowhere, for Harriet’s legs were so long and she was so light that she flew almost like the wind over the ground. She easily reached the meeting-place first, and Jane followed her, panting, red in the face, and a little cross.

“You did take the wind out of me,” she said. “Oh, oh, oh!”

She pressed her hand to her side.

“I cannot speak at all for a minute—I—I—can’t—tell you my news. Oh, you have winded me—you have!”

“Don’t talk, then,” said Harriet, who was leaning comfortably with her back against a tree; while Jane, round as a ball and crimson in the face, panted a little way off. By-and-by, however, Jane got back her voice.

“I’ve found out something about the new ’un,” she said, “that bird thing, who will be here to-night. I was hiding down in the brushwood, just by the big oak, and you were all looking for me; but I buried myself under a holly tree, and no one could see even a squint of me, however hard one looked. They—didn’t know I was there.”

“Who do you mean by ‘they’?” interrupted Harriet.

“Sparke and Devigny,” said Jane. “Oh, of course I am fond of Miss Devigny, but I can’t be bothered to ‘Miss’ her when I’m in no end of a hurry. Well, they talked, and it was all about the new ’un. She is not a model; that’s one comfort. She is so desperately naughty she has been sent from home—sort of expelled, you know—sort of disgraced for life; a nice sort of creature to come here! And we’re to mould her. What is to ‘mould’ a body, Harriet?”

“To make them like ourselves, I suppose,” said Harriet, whose eyes sparkled over this intelligence.

“That is what Sparke said; she hopes everything for the bird from our influence. Isn’t it fun? Isn’t it great? I am quite excited! See here now: think what larks we’ll have with a squint-eyed, hunchbacked, very naughty girl. Oh, won’t it be larks!”

“She may be a nuisance, there is no saying,” remarked Harriet.

“Why, aren’t you delighted, Harriet? I am.”

“Can’t say,” answered Harriet. “I only hope,” she added, “that whatever else she is, she is stupid. I don’t want any clever girls in the same form with me. Now, let’s go back, Jane.”

“You don’t seem at all obliged to me for telling you such a wonderful piece of news,” said Jane.

“I am not. We’d have found it all out for ourselves in no time, and you should never listen—you know you shouldn’t.”

“Oh, Harriet, you won’t tell on me—you promise you won’t?”

“I? Of course not, silly. Now let’s be quick. I hear Sparkie shouting. Let’s run back. Oh, I am glad I have got long legs!”

Book One—Chapter Two.

Robina.

Robina Starling was waiting all by herself in the school parlour. Mrs Burton had received her, and had been very nice to the small girl. She had talked to her affectionately, and even kissed her, and had herself taken her to the dormitory where the girls of the third form slept. She had shown her the little cubicle which was to be all her own, and said that she felt quite certain Robina would be happy at school.

“There is no unhappy girl in my school,” she said, “and if you are not as gay as a lark and as bright as the sunshine, you will be the first discontented girl who ever came to Abbeyfield. Now, dear, your things will be unpacked for you by Preston; but, in the meantime, you might brush your hair and wash your hands; then you can come down to me. We shall have tea together this first night. Afterwards, I will take you to the parlour, where you can wait for your companions.”

Mrs Burton left the dormitory as she spoke, and Robina stood there all alone. When she found herself quite alone, she blinked her eyes hard two or three times, then, tossing back her great mane of thick brown hair, said under her breath, “Now I am better.” Then she proceeded to investigate the room.

There were eight beds in the room, and it was, of course, very large. This dormitory, occupied by the third form girls, was perhaps the most beautiful bedroom it was possible to see. Each girl’s little division, or cubicle, was quite as large as an ordinary small bedroom. It was curtained off, and was completely furnished within with every requirement that a small girl could desire. There was, to begin with, a very pretty wash-hand stand with rows of wide, deep drawers beneath, and over the stand was a looking-glass. The wash-hand stand, with its drawers and glass, was so placed that a girl could see her face nicely. There was a little toilet table without a glass, and there was a deep cupboard in the wall full of shelves at one side and a hanging press at the other. The floor of the little cubicle was carpeted with pretty felt, and there were curtains to match at the windows.

Robina found herself in one of the most charming of the eight cubicles. Each cubicle was arranged with a different colour, and Robina’s was of a very delicate shade of mauve; the paint was white and the decorations mauve; the felt carpet was mauve, the curtains were mauve, and the little bed had a French canopy over it of mauve and white curtains tied back with broad mauve ribbons. There was also a mauve silk couvrepied on the bed, so that altogether the effect was most charming.

Robina was not, perhaps, a shy girl; and, having quickly taken in what her own cubicle contained, she marched into the others. Each cubicle was exactly like its fellow, except that its colouring was different: some were all in pink, some all in blue, some again in red and white, some again in palest primrose.

“I have the prettiest,” thought Robina; “not that I care.”

She now looked out of her window. The cubicle next to hers had no window, so she was highly privileged; but she was not in a mood to notice this at present. She stood quite still, gazing steadily out at the view. Her face was peculiar for so young a child, and had a look of power about it which would distinguish it all through life, and make people inclined to look twice at her. It was not exactly a beautiful face, but it arrested attention. The little nose was short, and perfectly straight; the brows thick; the forehead broad and very white. The eyes were good, but of a nondescript colour; so that one moment you spoke of them as brown, at another as blue, at another as grey. At night, they looked very black, and in times of emotion they would sparkle in quite a dangerous way. Robina’s mouth was well cut, but a little large. She had a clear skin that was somewhat pale, and was a square-built child, neither especially tall nor especially short for her age.

Having completed her toilet—not with any particular view to being tidy or making herself charming—she went downstairs. A maid directed her to Mrs Burton’s sitting-room, where she and her mistress had tea.

During tea-time, Mrs Burton did what she could to draw Robina out. But this was not at all an easy task. Robina did not want to be drawn; and she was the sort of child whom it was absolutely difficult to force out of the way in which she washed to go. Mrs Burton tried her on the subject of her sick mother; but although Robina did blink her eyes twice in a rather suspicious manner, she replied quite calmly, saying that her mother was always an invalid and could not stand noise.

“I am noisy,” said Robina, “so that is why I have been sent to you. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs Burton.

“Do you expect me to be very quiet here?” continued Robina.

“In play-time,” answered Mrs Burton, “you can be as noisy as you like.”

“But when I am in the mood I am always noisy,” said Robina.

“We don’t have moods here,” replied Mrs Burton, whereupon Robina stretched out her hand and helped herself without asking to a large piece of cake. She ate it almost greedily, stuffing great pieces into her mouth.

Mrs Burton was determined that no discipline should begin that evening, so she turned now to the subject of lessons. What did Robina know? Nothing, it seemed, and yet in a way everything.

“I have read lots,” answered that young lady calmly; “but they couldn’t manage me about my lessons; that was another reason why they sent me here. Did you know that?”

“Yes; I have heard it,” replied Mrs Burton.

“Do you mean to manage me here?” asked Robina.

“I hope so,” replied the headmistress.

“Nobody else has been able to do it,” said Robina in a very calm voice.

Then she got up, allowing a lot of crumbs to fall upon the floor, and walked to the window. She stood—perhaps with intention—her broad back to her governess. Mrs Burton looked at the back, the well-squared shoulders, the sturdy little figure, the thick hair which fell in luxuriant masses far below the child’s waist.

Mrs Burton was not one either to sigh or despair; but she knew quite well that she had undertaken no mean task in introducing Robina Starling into her orderly school. After a minute’s pause she got up, and, going to her little pupil, took her hand.

“I want you to help me, Robina,” she said. The wild eyes darted a quick glance into her face.

“How?” asked Robina. “I am not much good at that sort of thing.”

“I won’t tell you how to-night, my dear; but perhaps to-morrow we will have a talk. There is one rule in the school which has never been broken yet; and that is, that a new pupil—quite a new pupil—has tea with me all by herself on the day after her arrival. So you, Robina, will have the privilege of having tea alone with me to-morrow evening. You must come to me here at five o’clock—sharp at five o’clock, remember—and then you and I will have a little talk and I hope a nice time together. It is considered an honour, my love.”

“That depends on who is considering, doesn’t it?” said Robina very calmly.

“I am sure you will think it an honour,” said Mrs Burton in as calm a voice. Then she took her pupil’s hand, and led her into the school parlour. “You will find books here,” she said, “and every single thing you want until the other girls come back. I expect them at eight o’clock, when you will all have supper, and then you will go to bed.”

Robina said nothing, and the headmistress went away.

There were three special parlours in the school. They were called by the old-fashioned name of parlour, but they were in reality ordinary sitting-rooms. One was devoted to the sixth form girls, and this was a large and truly elegant apartment, furnished well, with a grand piano, and easels, and beautiful pictures on the walls. The sixth form girls had all sorts of comfortable chairs and everything to conduce to that feeling of being grown-up which is so much liked by girls of from sixteen to eighteen years of age.

The little ones had also a parlour which was more like a play-room than anything else; and the third form parlour, in which Robina now found herself, was a large, square room with a round table in the middle, a book-shelf full of story-books, another book-shelf full of histories and works of travel, a pair of globes, and several bird-cages. A bird-cage hung down before each of the four windows, and in the cages were canaries, bullfinches, and other tame birds. There was also a parrot in a large cage in one corner of the room.

Robina, whose eyes had been quite dull, and who had felt an indescribable and most painful weight at her heart, quite brightened up when she saw the birds. She amused herself taking her chair from one window to another and examining the feathered creatures, who had now curled themselves up into round fluffy balls, and were sound asleep. Not for the world would she awaken them; but a new, tender sort of light came into her eyes as she watched them.

“Pretty darlings!” she said softly, under her breath. Her whole queer little face became happier in expression after she had examined the pet birds of the third form. She then crossed the room to look at the parrot. The parrot was an old grey bird with a solemn, wise face. He was not asleep: no one ever seemed to catch him nodding. He turned his head to one side and looked full at the new-comer.

“Mind what you’re about!” he said sharply, and then he turned his back to her as though she were not of the slightest consequence.

Robina burst out laughing. The parrot laughed too, but still kept his back to her.

“Mind what you’re about yourself,” said Robina. Whereupon the parrot answered, “Ha, ha!” and the next minute began to “miaow” in the most distracted manner, as though he were an angry cat.

Robina, now in fits of mirth, stood and regarded him. She was so employed when all the girls of the third form burst into the room. They came in in great excitement, each pair of eyes fixed upon Robina, and all the seven pairs of lips eager to say something to the girl who had so strongly excited their curiosity.

“I am so glad to see you. How do you do?” said Frederica, who was slightly the oldest girl in the form, and therefore the one to take the lead. “You are Robina, are you not?”

“Yes,” said Robina. She spoke with extreme calm. “You must be very tired.”

“I am not a bit tired,” said Robina.

“Well, I am glad you are not. I am sorry we were not at home to welcome you. We have had a lovely picnic!”

“Bother picnics!” said Robina.

This was a little disconcerting. Harriet Lane began to laugh. The parrot said instantly “Mind what you’re about! Ha, ha!” and everyone laughed now. The ice was broken: it was impossible to be formal after Polly had declared himself. Robina found that she was surrounded by a lot of eager, good-looking, pleasant girls. Each seemed more eager than the other to give her a hearty welcome. The soreness round her heart was soothed for the time being. She sank down on a chair and looked them all over.

“You’re not a bad lot for school-girls,” she said; “but I don’t know one from the other. Who is each? Please don’t speak so fast—one at a time. You are Frederica? What a queer name! Now, who are you? And who are you? I will tell you very soon which of you I mean to be friends with. I always do what I like everywhere.”

“Mind what you’re about! Ha, ha!” said the parrot.

Book One—Chapter Three.

Developments.

In a very few days Robina Starling was settled at school. She was as completely settled there as though she had lived at Abbeyfield all her life. She was the sort of girl who quickly fitted herself into a new niche. She wasted no time in selecting her friends. She was not a scrap afraid. She looked calmly, not only at the girls in the third form, but at those superior beings—the sixth form girls. What she thought she always said. Those girls who admired her said that Robina was very straightforward, that it would be impossible for her to tell a lie, and that they admired her for this trait in her character extremely. The girls who did not admire her, on the contrary, said that she was rude and ill-bred; but that fact—for she knew quite well that they said it—seemed rather to please Robina than otherwise.

She was quick, too, about her lessons. Although she knew nothing in the school way of knowing things, she had in reality a mass of varied information in her little head. She had a startling way of announcing her knowledge in and out of school. Miss Sparke used to find herself sometimes put quite in the wrong by this extraordinary pupil.

“No, Miss Sparke,” Robina said very calmly one morning during class, when she had been a week in the school, “that was the old-fashioned view, but if you look in the latest volumes on the subject, you will see for yourself that things are changed now. Shall I look for you, Miss Sparke, or will you do it yourself? It is a pity that you should teach the wrong thing, isn’t it?”

Miss Sparke said, “Hold your tongue, Robina; you are not to correct me in school.”

But she had coloured high when her naughty pupil spoke; and Robina, who did not colour at all, nor show the slightest triumph, but who sat down again in her seat with the utmost calm, made a deep impression on her school-fellows. She, with several of the girls, examined the latest authorities that afternoon, and as Robina was proved absolutely correct, and Miss Sparke wrong, the poor teacher took a lower place in her pupils’ estimation from that moment.

“You see,” said Robina, “although I am young in years, I have always read grown-up sort of things. Father’s frightfully clever, and so is Mother, and as there are no other children at home, I just read what I like. Besides that, I hear Father talking with other learned men. Father’s a great scientist, and he knows. Poor Sparkie is very well, but she is no scientist, and she doesn’t know.”

“What is a scientist?” asked Frederica.

“Oh, Frederica!” said Harriet; “why surely you know that. A scientist is—” but then she coloured, for Robina had fixed her bright eyes on her face.

“Well,” said Robina calmly, “you will explain to Frederica what a scientist is, won’t you, Harriet?”

“A person who knows science, I suppose,” answered Harriet, blurting out the words, and then dashing out of the room in a fury.

A laugh followed her to the door. She felt that she hated Robina. She had never really liked her from the very first; and now, with a choking sensation in her throat, she went out into the playground.

The first person she saw was Jane. Now Jane in her heart of hearts greatly admired the new pupil. The fact that she was really naughty at home had, it is sad to relate, but added to Jane’s liking for her. Harriet, it is true, was Jane’s own special friend, but Harriet was not nearly so amusing or so daring as the new pupil. Harriet now called her companion to her in an imperious voice.

“Come here, this minute, you silly!” she said. “Why do you stand there with your mouth gaping and your legs far apart? You look for all the world like one of those foolish sheep on the back lawn.”

“I am not a sheep; you needn’t say it,” answered Jane.

She had reached Harriet’s side by this time.

“Well, come for a walk with me in the paddock,” said Harriet. “I don’t want to be cross to you, Jane, but really that new girl, Robina—she is past bearing.”

“Oh, I like her so much,” said Jane.

“You do?” answered Harriet. “You mean to tell me, you horrid thing, that you would give me up for her?”

“Oh! no, no, Harry, of course not. I like you best, of course. You are my real, oldest friend. But I suppose a girl may have two friends, and I do like her. The thing that makes me so sad is this: she won’t be my friend; she snubs me like anything.”

“There’s one comfort,” said Harriet; “she’ll soon snub herself out of the school if she isn’t careful. Think of her correcting Sparkie this morning! I never heard of such cheek in the whole course of my life.”

Jane began to laugh. “It was very clever of her,” she said.

“It was very impertinent of her,” said Harriet.

“But she was right,” said Jane, “and Sparkie was wrong.”

“I have no doubt she was wrong herself,” said Harriet, “although,” she added, “she did prove her point in that horrid encyclopaedia.”

The little girls had now reached the paddock. Here was delicious shade and green grass, and the heat of the July sun was tempered by a lovely breeze. Harriet, whose cheeks were hot with annoyance, began to cool down. Jane watched her with eager eyes.

“Harriet,” said Jane; “you don’t think for a minute that I love anyone as much as you?”

“I hope you don’t, Janie,” said Harriet; “it would be awfully unkind of you. But now listen to me. We must do something to stop this.”

“To stop what?” asked Jane.

“That young ’un taking the lead in everything. It is too ridiculous. She hasn’t been more than a week in the school, and yet everything yields to her. She struts about with her head in the air and even talks to the girls of the sixth form, and isn’t a bit afraid of Sparkie or even of Devigny. The next thing we’ll find if this goes on is that Mrs Burton herself is corrected by her. I wish, I do wish, I wish beyond anything, I could get her proved in the wrong herself.”

“Oh, Harriet!” exclaimed Jane.

“Yes, I do,” said Harriet; “I don’t pretend otherwise; she has taken everything from me.”

“Oh, what do you mean?” said Jane.

“I had not much,” continued Harriet; “but yet I had one thing. I was at the head of my form; I was certain of the best prizes; I was considered the clever one. I was not vain of it, but I was glad. Now, I am the clever one no longer. She is at the head of the form. Although she has been such a short time in the school, she will get a prize at break-up; I know she will. It isn’t that she has ever been taught in the school way, but she knows such a lot. Oh, I do hate her, Janie! I wish—I wish she had not come!”

“Poor Harriet!” said Jane.

She felt immensely pleased herself at this confidence reposed in her. Hitherto Harriet, with her pale face, her lank hair, her tall young figure, had been very condescending to black-eyed, roly-poly Jane. She had kept Jane under, and had only condescended to listen to her now and then. It was delicious to be confided in; to have Harriet explain to Jane what she felt about things. After a time, Jane said softly: “Until Robina came, we were the only naughty girls in the school.”

“Oh, we were not a bit naughty in reality,” said Harriet. “It pleased you to think it, Janie. When I told you that we were the naughty ones, you used to be as proud as Punch; but we were not really naughty as she could be naughty. I declare since she came I feel that I could do anything.”

“Let us make her naughty,” said Jane, in a low tone.

“Let us what?” asked Harriet, turning and facing her little companion.

“I know!” said Jane after a pause. “I heard what they said when I was hiding under the holly bush. They said that she was sent to school because she was so noisy and wouldn’t obey anyone. Up to the present she has only been a little naughty; she has done the sort of things that people forgive. Let us make her do something that people don’t forgive: let’s make her awfully disobedient.”

“I declare, Janie,” said Harriet, “you’re a much cleverer girl than I gave you credit for. That isn’t at all a bad idea. Of course it’s naughty of us to wish anything of the sort; but then she is too aggravating, and—and—if she takes my character for cleverness away, and keeps the head of the form, and wins my prize—I cannot stand it. Oh, she put me to shame just now before the others—I won’t tell you how, for it isn’t worth while; but she—she laughed as I went out of the room, and—the others laughed, too. I hate her! I don’t mind what I do to get her into trouble!”

“We mustn’t do too much, we must be careful,” said Jane. “But if she is really very disobedient at home, why should she not be disobedient just once at school? You are clever enough to manage that, aren’t you, Harriet?”

“And you are clever enough to help me,” answered Harriet. “Well, let’s say no more now; mum’s the word. They’re going to have tea on the lawn, and we may as well join the others. I shall not feel nearly so bad now, Janie, since you are my friend, and we are making up a little plot together. Let’s think very hard. Let’s put on our considering caps, and let’s meet again here this hour to-morrow.”

“Oh, Harriet!” said Jane. “I am glad and I’m sorry. I’m a bit frightened, and yet my heart goes pit-a-pat with excitement. I do love you, Harriet. Oh dear, oh dear! I wonder if this is desperately wicked!”

“I’ll give you a kiss if you will faithfully promise not to say one word of our conversation to another soul,” said Harriet.

Her kisses were considered great favours by the hungry Jane, who now received solemnly a peck on her forehead from Harriet.

“We’d best not be seen too much together,” said Harriet. “I will go round by the fish-pond to the lawn, and you can run into the house and come out that way.”

There is no doubt whatever that these two girls felt a very extra spice of naughtiness in their hearts on that afternoon.

Meanwhile, Robina was enjoying herself; she was the centre of a large circle of girls. She was very nicely dressed, to begin with; and she looked, if not pretty, yet exceedingly interesting; her face was so full of intelligence and her expression was so varying, that it was quite a delight to watch her when she talked. She had the merriest laugh, too, like a peal of bells, and she had a very good-natured way of drawing a neglected girl to her side, and putting her arm about her and making friends with her for the time being. In particular, she was fond of little children, and the small girls of the school clung round her, pressing up to her side, and begging to be allowed to sit on her knee and fondle her, as tiny girls will.

The first form in the school at present only consisted of four little girls. There were Patty and Cissy Price—two wee sisters of seven and six years of age; and there was Curly Pate—as they called her—the youngest girl of all, who was not yet quite six; and there was little Annie, who was older than the others, but very small in stature and very delicate.

Curly Pate was the baby of the school, and was somewhat spoiled in consequence. She was a perfect roly-poly creature, with fat arms and creasy, fat neck and little fat legs. Her face was perfectly round—as round as a ball, and she had blue eyes and a soft complexion, and fluffy, curly, baby hair all over her little head. Her hair was short and thick, and of that fine, fine quality which only very tiny children and babies possess.

From the eldest to the next youngest girl in the school Curly Pate was the darling. Anyone would be proud to walk with her, to caress her, to submit to her whims; and Curly Pate, like all young queens, was exacting. She had her preferences. She liked Constance Amberley better than any of her own small companions. When Constance walked about the grounds with Curly Pate on her back—that young person pretending that she was riding her pony and desiring her “Gee-gee” to go faster, and pounding her on the head and shoulders in no inconsiderable degree—Constance, far from being pitied, was envied by everyone else in the school. But lo, and behold! when Robina appeared, that fickle young person—the school baby—changed her tactics. She walked straight up to Robina on the first day of her appearance in the playground and said:

“I ’ike oo—new dirl!” and established herself on the spot, Robina’s ruler.

Robina was elected to be the baby’s slave, and the others laughed and joked at Constance, and watched the baby with delight. The other little girls followed suit, as very small girls will.

On this special afternoon Robina had the four small children in a circle round her. Curly Pate, it is true, occupied the place of honour on the young lady’s lap, but Patty and Cissie Price, and grave, pale little Annie were also close to the popular favourite.

“Tell us a story, Robina,” asked Cissie Price.

“Not now,” said Robina; “and you are not to pull me, babies, for it makes me too hot. Curly, sit still, you little imp! I’ll put you off my knee if you don’t behave.”

Now none of the other girls in the third form would have dared to speak to Curly in that tone. They would have received a slap in the face for their pains, but Curly took it quite meekly from Robina.

“I—is—dood. I is—vedy dood. I ’ove oo,” she said.

She nestled up close to Robina, pulling that young person’s hand round her waist, and patting the said hand with her own two fat little ones and saying, over and over again: “I ’ove oo, Wobbin—I ’ove oo!”

It was on this scene that Harriet and Jane appeared. Since Robina had come, Harriet had rather avoided her. She had been jealous, poor child, from the first moment; but now she altered her tactics, and forcing her way through the group, sat down close to the new favourite.

“There’s no room here,” said Robina. “Go a little further off, please, Harriet; you are pushing little Annie and making her cry.”

“I don’t care twopence for little Annie!” cried Harriet, rudely. “I have as good a right to sit here as anybody else. Don’t press me, Annie; if I am in the way, you’re the person to make room, not me. Go back to your nursery, won’t you?”

Annie, who was a very timid child, began to cry. Robina immediately rose, lifted Curly Pate on to her shoulder, and said to the three other little ones:

“I have changed my mind. I will tell you a story now, but no one else shall listen; it’s a lovely, true, true fairy tale. We’ll just sit under that tree, and you shall all hear it.”

They followed her, clinging to her skirt and one of them trying to grasp her hand. Harriet’s face grew black. Frederica said:

“Well, Harriet, you don’t look too well pleased; but for my part, I think Robina was quite right; you ought not to have taken poor little Annie’s place.”

“Do you mind telling me,” answered Harriet, “what right those children have to interfere with us? They belong to the first form; let them stay in their nursery.”

“Oh, as to that,” said Rose Amberley, “they have as good a right to the lawn as we have. They are always allowed to play here every afternoon; and Robina invited them to tea; she bought a lot of sweeties, chocolates and cakes for them. They are Robina’s guests; they just worship her.”

“Worship her, indeed!” said Harriet. “Well—I don’t worship her.”

“Anyone can see that, Harriet, and it is a great pity,” said Rose Amberley. “Robina is a very nice girl, and as good as gold.”

“Oh, is she!” said Harriet. “Jane, what do you think?”

“I know what I know,” said Jane, nodding her little head with great firmness.

Frederica looked very hard at Jane; then she glanced at her own sister.

“Look here,” she said suddenly; “we have all been very happy at school, haven’t we?”

“Who says we haven’t?” answered Harriet. She felt crosser than ever, for there were such peals of laughter coming from under the shelter of that tree, where Robina was telling the babies her fairy tale. “Who says we haven’t?” she repeated.

“The reason we have been happy,” continued Frederica, “is simply this: we have been—or at least we have tried to be—good. It would indeed,” continued the young girl, “be very difficult to be anything but good here—here, where things are so sweet and everyone is so kind, and even lessons, even lessons are made such a pleasure. Why shouldn’t we all keep on being good? why should we be jealous?”

“Who says anyone is jealous?” said Harriet.

“Oh, Harriet!” said Frederica; “you know you are, just a little bit.”

“I don’t wonder she’s jealous!” suddenly burst from Jane. “Robina has taken her place in class. Harriet is our clever one; she doesn’t want to—to—”

“Oh, I am sure she is not small-minded enough for that,” said Frederica at once. “If a cleverer girl comes to the school—”

“She is not cleverer!” burst from Harriet.

“Well, Harriet, you’ve got to prove it. If you are clever, work still harder, and resume your place in the class, and I’m sure we’ll all be delighted: fair play is fair play, and it’s very mean of you to be angry about nothing. Ah! here comes tea, and I am so thirsty. Let’s help to lay it out, girls!”

Immediately every girl had started to her feet: a white table-cloth was spread on the lawn, cups and saucers followed suit; tea, cake, bread and butter, dishes of fruit were soon being eagerly discussed. The small children gave a whoop of excitement, and Robina returned, still carrying Curly Pate, with the others in her train.

During tea, one of the little ones suggested that they should turn Robina into a queen. No sooner had the thought been uttered than it was put into execution. She was seated on a special chair and crowned with flowers, which the children had been gathering for her. A wreath of flowers surrounded her laughing face, and a garland of flowers was placed round her neck. Curly Pate looked on just for a minute, then said eagerly: “Me too! me too!”

“Why should there not be two queens?” said Robina. “Gather some white flowers for the baby, somebody.”

“Somebody” meant everybody—that is, except Harriet, for even Jane was drawn into the whirlpool of excitement. Nothing could be prettier than the happy faces of the children; and especially of the queen with her flowers—her cheeks slightly flushed, her queer, half-wild, half-pathetic eyes brighter and darker than usual, one arm encircling Curly Pate’s dear little fat body, and of Curly Pate herself, shrieking with delight while a crown of white daisies encircled her little head.

It was on this scene that Mrs Burton, accompanied by a gentleman whom the girls had never seen before, suddenly appeared.

Book One—Chapter Four.

An Unusual Prize.

The gentleman was holding by the hand a small boy. The boy could not have been more than seven or eight years of age. He was rather a little boy for that, so that some of the girls put him down as younger. He was a very beautiful boy. He had a little dark face, with that nut-brown skin at once clear and yet full of colour which is in itself a great loveliness. His eyes were large and brown like the softest velvet. He had very thick brown hair with a sort of bronze tone in it, and this hair hung in ringlets round his head. The boy was dressed in a peculiar way. He wore a suit of brown velvet, which fitted his agile little figure rather tightly. He had brown silk stockings and little breeches, and shoes with steel buckles. Round his neck he wore a large lace collar made in a sort of Vandyke fashion. Altogether, this little boy looked exactly as though he had stepped out of a picture.

He was not at all shy. His eyes travelled over the scene, and they fixed themselves on Curly Pate, while Curly Pate’s eyes gazed on him.

There was dead silence for a minute, all the girls in the school looking neither at Mrs Burton nor at the gentleman, but at the queer, new, little, beautiful boy. Then Curly Pate broke the stillness.

“I is kene,” (queen), she said, “and—him is king!” and she pointed with rapture at the boy.

“Oh, you’re king, are you, Ralph?” said the gentleman. Then he said again: “Come over to me, little queen, and let me introduce you to the king.”

Never was anyone less shy than the school baby, and never, perhaps, was anyone more fickle. She scrambled immediately off Robina’s knee and, pushing aside her companions, went up to the boy and took his hand.

“Tiss I—king; won’t oo?” she said, and she raised her little cherubic mouth to the small boy.

The boy, who was no more shy than Curly Pate herself, stooped, kissed her, and said:

“Oh, you little darling!” Curly Pate gave her fat hand to his Majesty, and the king and queen trotted off together.

“Does oo ’ike fairies, and butterflies and flowers?” the queen was heard to say as she conducted His Majesty round the garden.

The girls all looked after them with pleasure, and the gentleman said to Mrs Burton:

“Then I shall have no fear whatever. I see he is happy already, and I know all you girls will treat my little man kindly.”

“Of course we will,” said Robina, taking the lead in that way which nearly drove poor Harriet mad. “Is he going to stay here? What a perfect little darling he is!”

“He is going to stay from now until the end of the term,” said the gentleman; “then I am coming back for him, and I am going to give a prize to the girl whom he himself likes best.”

“Oh! then, of course, that will be Curly Pate,” said Robina, still smiling and looking very interesting and absolutely out of the common.

“Curly Pate won’t count,” said the gentleman. “The prize is to be given by Mrs Burton’s permission to a girl in the third form. Who are the girls in the third form, if I may venture to ask, my dear madam?”

The gentleman had a most courteous way; his manners were so nice, and his voice so—perhaps harmonious is the right word, that he might almost have been a king himself.

“Girls of the third form,” said Mrs Burton in reply, “come and stand over here, will you?”

At the word of command, Frederica and Patience Chetwold, the three Amberleys, Harriet and Jane, and last, but by no means least, Robina Starling, stood in a long row before the strange gentleman and Mrs Burton.

“So you are the third form girls,” he said very kindly. “Well, I am exceedingly pleased to make your acquaintance. One of you—that one whom Mrs Burton considers the most truly kind to my little boy—shall receive from my hands, on my return to claim my child, a prize. It will be, after a fashion, a prize for conduct, for it will be given to that girl who does not spoil Ralph, but who helps him to be good, who wins his love, who, in short, understands him. I know he is a very pretty boy, and on the whole, perhaps he is good; but he is by no means all good, and perhaps it would be well, girls of the third form, to give you a hint—he can be led, but never driven. I think he is an honourable little fellow, and I am sure he would not willingly tell a lie, or be willingly disobedient. I want one of you to be, in short, his school-mother, and the school-mother who really adopts my Ralph shall be rewarded by me.”

Mrs Burton now spoke.

“You shall all be put on trial with regard to Ralph,” she said, “for the next week. At the end of that time he will himself select his school-mother, and unless something unforeseen occurs, I think, Mr Durrant, the prize will be already won. The fact is, my dear sir, there are a great many prizes to be competed for just now, and I do not want my girls to be kept in a state of suspense.”

“I will give as my prize,” said Mr Durrant, “a pony, with a side-saddle, and a habit made to order and to fit the girl who wins the prize. In order, too, that the pony shall be no expense to the fortunate owner, I will provide for its maintenance a certain sum per year, until the owner can assure me that she is in a position to undertake this expense herself. What I mean is this,” continued Mr Durrant: “I don’t want the girl’s parents to have any expense with the pony. He will be my gift to the little girl who mothers my boy. And now I think I have said all that is necessary.”

“I will talk to you girls on the subject of little Ralph this evening after prayers,” said the headmistress. Then she turned away with Mr Durrant, who, however, first of all shook hands with the girls of the third form, and said a few words to the sixth form girls, and, in short, charmed everyone.

Harriet was the person selected now to find the king and queen.

“Bring them both to the house, dear,” said Mrs Burton, and Harriet, well pleased, ran off to obey. Nowhere within sight could the little pair be found, and Harriet, after running for a few minutes, paused to consider.

She wondered if this unexpected state of affairs would in any way promote her own interest. As a matter of fact, she hated small children. There was no small girl at the school who was ever seen to interrupt Harriet’s work, or to fling herself against Harriet’s knees, or to look into Harriet’s face with that childish petition: “Oh! do tell us a story, please.” The little ones left Harriet wisely alone, and Harriet never concealed her aversion to them.

“Horrid little sticky things,” she was heard to say, “with their lollipops in their hands and their faces wanting washing, and their clothes so grubby!” These statements were quite false, for the small children were kept by their kind teacher, Miss Ford, in the most immaculate order. But Harriet was well-known in the school not to stick to the truth when she wished to give vent to her sentiments. Now, however, her feelings were changed. She must, of course, find the king and queen at once.

“Ridiculous name!” she murmured. “That little tiresome, fat baby girl and that small boy, dressed for all the world as though he were a peacock! But still—but still—a pony with a side-saddle and habit, and his keep provided for, is worth struggling to win. And then it would be such fun to get the prize over Robina’s head. She is certain sure of it already, I see by her smug face. I am sure I am clever enough to get this from her, and I will.”

Harriet now spied both children standing much too near the edge of a round pond which ornamented part of the grounds.

“Oh, Curly Pate!” she shrieked. “Come back this minute, you naughty child, from the edge of the water!”

Curly Pate, who had been gazing at her own little image in the pond, looked up. Her fair face was flushed with passion, and seizing Ralph’s hand, she said imperiously:

“Turn away, king. Curly Pate hates that howwid dirl.”

Harriet was near enough to hear the words. Angry already, and disliking Curly Pate more than words could say, she rushed up to her now, seized her by the waist, and planted her several feet away from the pond.

“There, you naughty, disobedient little thing!” she said. “You’ll be drowned if you don’t take care!”

Curly Pate burst into roars of tears, and set to work screaming as she alone knew how. Ralph, furious at having his queen abused, turned to Harriet and began to beat her.

“Go away, go away!” he said. “You’re not a bit a nice girl. Go away, you horrid thing!”

“Horrid thing yourself!” said Harriet and she slapped Ralph across the face.

Little Ralph Durrant was much too proud to cry; the slap stung him, and the little olive-tinted face grew red. After a minute, during which he was struggling with himself, he turned towards Harriet and said gently:

“’Twasn’t ladylike of you to slap me, but I forgive you.”

“Oh, your Mightiness! Do you, indeed?” said Harriet. “I am sure, your Majesty, I am exceedingly obliged.”

The scornful tone was quite new to little Ralph. What would have happened next is hard to tell, if at that moment Robina had not rushed up.

“Well, Curly,” she said; “well, my little precious! Why, what are you crying about? And Ralph, dear, is anything the matter with you?”

Curly, whose tears were now growing less, flung herself impetuously into Robina’s arms, while Robina laid a trembling hand on her shoulder. Robina by this time was on her knees, both children fondling her. Harriet stood still for a minute. Then she said in a lofty tone:

“Take them to the house—or rather, take the boy to the house. I was sent to fetch them, but of course it would be like you to interfere. You want to be his school-mother, and to get the pony—I know you; and let me say at once that I despise you for your horrid ways!”

Robina turned scarlet.

“You have no right—no right to say such things to me!” was her first remark. Then with a great effort she managed to quiet herself. Her eyes, with a wild light in them, were fixed on Harriet’s face.

“I despise you too much,” she said slowly, “to take any notice of your words. Curly, you shall have a ride, my sweet, on my shoulder; and Ralph, you will hold one of my hands. We must come quickly to the house, for Mr Durrant wants you to say good-bye.”

“Oh, good-bye,” said Ralph; “that hurts, doesn’t it?”

He forgot Harriet, who was watching the scene from a few feet away. A new expression filled his beautiful little face, his eyes were fixed on Robina with a world of appeal.

“Yes,” said Robina; “it hurts; but brave people don’t mind pain.”

“I am brave; I shan’t mind it,” said Ralph. “Hold my hand for a bit after he goes, will you? and then I shall not mind at all.”

Book One—Chapter Five.

Explained.

After prayers that evening Mrs Burton, as she had arranged, had a talk with the girls of the third form in her own private sitting-room. She spoke very simply, and explained what she considered her view of the matter.

“My dears,” she said, “this is a very nice opportunity for you, for really to win the affection of a little fellow like Ralph is to achieve a victory; and I earnestly want you all to try, not so much for the sake of the prize as because the looking after a little fellow like that, who will be very spirited and, doubtless, also very exacting, will be good for your own character, teaching you forbearance, unselfishness, and much thought for others, which are qualities every girl ought to cultivate. These are essentially girls’ qualities, my dears; for all those girls who hope to be true women by-and-by ought to possess them. They are better and of greater value to the possessor than money or cleverness or beauty, for they mean beauty of the heart, and will last, my loves, when mere outward beauty fails, and, in short, even beyond this life, when time is no more. And now, dears, I am going to tell you my little plan.

“There are altogether seven of you, excluding Robina. Now, Robina has a special power with children, and has already captivated the affections of Ralph. It would not be fair that Robina should exercise her influence over him during the trial week, but each of the rest of you shall in turn take care of the little man for an entire day. I will give you no directions whatever with regard to how you will treat him. During that day the girl who has him in charge will be excused from lessons. She will look after him from morning till night, dress him and undress him, take him for a walk, and provide for his amusement generally. She will help him to learn his simple lessons; she will, in short, be his mother pro tem. I do not expect any one of you absolutely to fail, and at the end of the week Ralph is himself to choose his school-mother. Now, nothing can be fairer than this. Frederica, my dear, you, as the eldest girl in the form, will look after Ralph to-morrow. And now I think I have said all that is necessary.”

Mrs Burton asked the girls to leave the room, which they did in a body, and great was the discussion which took place in the third form parlour on that special evening.

Frederica was the first to speak.

“Of course, I will look after Ralph,” she said, “and I don’t believe I shall find it difficult. I have several brothers and sisters at home, and though I don’t know that I am especially good with children, I think, on the whole, I can manage them fairly well.”

“You are not to spoil him, you know,” said Harriet.

“Perhaps,” interrupted Frederica, “we had best each keep our own counsel as to the manner in which we are to treat Ralph. It is a great responsibility, and as something hangs on it—for I don’t pretend for a moment I should not like to get the pony—the less we say to each other the better.”

“There’s one thing,” said Rose Amberley at that moment. “Mrs Burton, I am sure, will not wish any of us to give Ralph sweeties or cakes, or the sort of things that might make him ill. Otherwise, I suppose each girl will manage him her own way. Now, let us see. To-morrow will be Wednesday. You are to look after him to-morrow, Frederica. I suppose Patience comes next, and then I; and then, I think, it is your turn, Harriet, isn’t it? I presume we’ll come according to our ages. You are next oldest to Rose, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Harriet.

“Very well then, Harriet. If I look after Ralph to-morrow,” said Frederica, “and Patience has him on Thursday, and Rose on Friday, Saturday will be your day.”

“Oh, I hate having him on Saturday,” said Harriet, “for that is our half-holiday, and there are such lots of things to be done.”

“Still, that can scarcely be helped,” said Frederica again, “for your turn comes on Saturday, so there is nothing to be said.”

“What a nuisance!” said Harriet. “And I suppose Jane will have him Sunday; I wish my day were Sunday.”

The other girls made no reply, and Harriet presently went out of the room, her hand linked in Jane’s.

“Now, Janie,” she said, “you understand, of course, that I mean to get that pony.”

“I know you mean it,” said Jane.

“What I mean I generally manage to do,” was Harriet’s response.

“You do, as a rule,” replied Jane.

“If I get the pony,” said Harriet, “I will let you ride him pretty often. You shall come over to our place, and you shall use my beautiful side-saddle; of course, my habit won’t fit you, you are such a round podge of a girl, but you can wear any old skirt. Shan’t I make that pony fly! I’ll give him beans! Oh, yes; I mean to have him.”

“But, after all,” said Jane, “that depends upon whether Ralph chooses you as his school-mother or not.”

“You leave that to me,” said Harriet.

“I am sure he won’t choose you,” said Jane. “He will choose Robina; he loves her now like anything.”

“He will choose me,” said Harriet. “I have a plan in my head, and he’s certain to.”

“But he hated you to-day,” said Jane. “If you really meant to win his heart, you shouldn’t have been so horridly cross to Curly Pate, and you shouldn’t have slapped him on the face.”

“I know,” said Harriet, in a contrite voice; “my passion got the better of me, but you may be certain I will be on my guard on Saturday. And look here, Jane: you have not the remotest chance on your own account of winning the prize, but if you help me to get it I won’t forget you in the matter of rides, and I will try and get Father and Mother to invite you over to our place very often during the holidays. You will like that, won’t you, Jane?”

“Love it,” said Jane, who, however, was by no means certain on that point, for, although Harriet had great power over her, she was a little afraid of her.

“Well, you shall come very often these holidays, and perhaps Mother might be coaxed to take you to the seaside with us; but everything depends on whether you help me to be school-mother to that boy. You will have to do your very best on Sunday. You’ll have to talk to him about me, and tell him all the wonderful things that I will do for him when I have him to look after, and you will have—whatever you do—to frighten him about the others, and most especially frighten him about Robina. Now, I think that is all. I shan’t bother about him, you may be sure, until Saturday. I think I know my way at last how to spite Robina, horrid thing! She is just mad to get that pony. I know life will be quite happy again if I can get it from her. Oh, she is sure of it—and Mrs Burton is so sure she’ll win, that she is not even going to be given a day to look after Ralph! Very unfair, I call it.”

Jane said nothing, but that night when she lay down in her little bed in the third form dormitory, her thoughts kept her awake. She did not much like the task she had undertaken. Harriet certainly was a tyrannical friend, and Harriet was growing less good each minute. Now that naughtiness was coming so terribly to the fore, poor little Jane felt in her heart of hearts that she did not enjoy it. It was all very well to burst out laughing during lessons and to play a practical joke on another girl, and to hide behind doors and spring out upon a frightened servant or a still more timid schoolfellow, and it was delicious to make apple-pie beds and to set booby traps and all those sort of things, but this sort of naughtiness, somehow, was different.

Jane had been impressed by Mrs Burton’s words:—“You must be unselfish, and forbearing, and thoughtful for others, and all these attributes will be good for your character, and will help you to be true women by-and-by.” Above all, Jane was struck with what Mrs Burton had said about these things being better than beauty, or riches, or talent, for these things were the best of all, and would stay with a girl and would help her through her life, and—and—help her after death. Jane was very frightened of death. The thought of it came to her sometimes in the middle of the night, but she always pushed it out of sight. Now, however, Mrs Burton spoke of something which would help her even after that had taken place. She shivered in her little bed. She did not at all like the task which was put upon her.

Meanwhile, things went apparently well in the school. Robina was as bright as ever on the next morning, and just as clever over her lessons, and just as apparently indifferent to her fellow-pupils. She had to all appearance forgotten the words she said to Harriet on the previous night. She talked cheerfully to Harriet. Harriet was forced to reply in the same tone. Afterwards the girls played in the garden, as they had done on the day before; but Harriet and Jane did not meet as they had previously arranged in the paddock. It was not necessary to meet, they both felt, for something had occurred since then, and their course was in a measure plain. Curly Pate was with them, too, and so were the other little children. The only one who was absent was Frederica; she and Ralph were not to be seen.

Late that night Frederica came up to the dormitory, and went to bed as usual. All the others clustered round her.

“Well—well,” they said, “could you manage? Aren’t you dead tired? What sort is he, really? Oh, do say if you think you have any chance of getting the pony!”

“I can say nothing—it wouldn’t be fair,” said Frederica. “Mrs Burton doesn’t wish any one of the girls on her trial to help the others by saying things. I have had a good day, I think, and am tired, and should like to go to sleep. Patience, you are to go to Ralph’s nursery at seven o’clock to-morrow morning.”

The next day was Thursday, and Thursday was Patience Chetwold’s day. It passed very much as Wednesday had done, only that Jane looked rather miserable, and Harriet took no notice of her at all. Friday was Rose Amberley’s day, and on that day the girls heard—or fancied they heard—peals of laughter in the distance. They were all rather anxious, for Rose was so remarkably nice, and had quite a way with little children. Before Robina came she had shared the honours with her elder sister, Constance, of being the babies’ favourite. The girls began to say amongst themselves that Rose would carry off the prize, and that, on the whole, they would like her to have it, for she was so kind and nice, and so remarkably pretty.

It was on the evening of Friday that Jane ran up to Harriet, pulled her by her arm, and said in a low tone:—

“I want to walk with you in the paddock.”

“Now, what’s up?” said Harriet crossly.

“Come,” said Jane.

Jane’s black eyes were shining, and her short black hair resembled a mop more than ever, and her little round figure seemed rounder. There was quite an agitation about Jane which made her roundness and queer short hair and round black eyes look too comical for words; at least, this was what Harriet said, when she found herself with her friend in the paddock. Harriet was such a contrast to Jane, and looked more lanky and more pale than ever on this occasion.

“Now—what is up?” she said. “You do look precisely like a fat Christmas goose just before he is going to be killed for Christmas dinner. What is up with you now?”

“Only that—I—I—mean—I don’t want to be the school-mother.”

Harriet burst into a peal of laughter. “Isn’t it a case of sour grapes?” she said. “You just know you can’t be the school-mother, so you think you’ll cover your defeat by saying that sort of thing.”

“I want to say more,” whispered Jane. “I am frightened to do what you want; I mean I am frightened to say what isn’t true about the others—and, particularly, about Robina. I don’t want to do it; I thought I would tell you.”

“I always knew you were a sneak,” said Harriet, “but please yourself, of course. It won’t be very nice for you when I send you to Coventry.”

“What do you mean by sending to Coventry?” asked Jane.

“You are a silly! You are frightfully ugly, and you have no brains at all. Coventry means that I won’t speak to you; and what’s more, I’ll get a lot more girls in the school not to speak to you. Perhaps you won’t enjoy that—but please yourself, I don’t care.”

“Harriet, you are cross! You know, you know quite well that I would please you if I could. But—but I do want to be the sort of girl Mrs Burton spoke about.”

“Oh, you are turning goody-goody!” said Harriet. “Then, indeed, I have no further use of you. I am going to take up Vivian Amberley. She is quite a nice little thing—very different from you.”

Jane gave utterance to a very quick sigh. Vivian was perhaps the girl in the third form who had the weakest character. She was not like her two elder sisters: she could be very good with good girls and quite naughty with girls who were not good. Jane had always known this fact, and had always been terribly afraid that Harriet would make use of Vivian, and turn her to her own purposes. In that case, of course, Harriet would never speak to poor Jane again; and Jane did care for her and could be intensely jealous about her. So now she said:—

“I know you are very clever, Harriet, and I suppose you do know best; only I wish that little voice inside of me wouldn’t talk so loud. It keeps me awake at nights, and I get frightened; but if you really, really think—”

“I think nothing!” said Harriet crossly. “Please yourself. Vivian will help me, if you won’t. I will know what you have done by Monday morning. You can do exactly as you please; and now don’t keep me, for I have got to finish learning my piece to recite on Sunday afternoon.”

Book One—Chapter Six.

Beguiled by Promises.

There was no doubt that Harriet was clever, but even she felt a little nervous when she went into Ralph’s bedroom to awaken him on Saturday morning.

Ralph had a sweet little room to sleep in. It opened into Miss Ford’s, but the door between the two was shut; for Ralph’s whole endeavour was to be a very manly boy, and manly boys always liked best to sleep alone. He looked very pretty indeed, now, in his sleep, his mop of brown curls pushed back from his forehead, the long black lashes lying like a cloud on his rounded cheeks; his red, red lips slightly parted, a smile on his little face. But Harriet saw no beauty in the sleeping boy.

“Little tiresome thing!” she murmured under her breath. “If it wasn’t for that pony and my determination to win the prize over Robina, wouldn’t I give him a time to-day!”

But the pony was worth winning, and Harriet was clever. She bent down over Ralph, and touched him gently on his arm. He woke with a start, looked at Harriet, coloured brightly, and then said:—

“What’s up?”

“Time for you to rise,” said Harriet. “I am your school-mother for to-day.”

“Oh,” said Ralph. His face turned a little pale, but he did not start.

“You can lie in bed as long as ever you like,” said Harriet; “I don’t care; I’m not going to tell on you; you may be as naughty as you please to-day—you needn’t do any single thing except just what you like.”

“Needn’t I, really?” said the boy.

“Of course, you needn’t,” said Harriet. “Why should you bother to be good?”

“But Father likes me to be good,” said Ralph; “and—and—Mrs Burton does. I love Mrs Burton, don’t you?”

Harriet longed to say “No,” but, shutting up her lips, she nodded her head.

“You are the girl who was so horrid and rude to me the other day,” said Ralph; “you slapped me on my cheek.”

“And you beat me,” said Harriet.

Ralph’s eyes began to twinkle.

“So we’re quits,” said Harriet. “Let’s shake hands; let’s be pals.”

“It’s nice of you to forgive,” said Ralph.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” replied Harriet. “If you but knew me, you’d consider that I am quite the nicest girl in the school.”

“Are you really?”

“Yes; but what do you think, after all, of getting up? I have such a wonderful plan of spending our day together.”

“Have you?” said Ralph.

“A delicious plan; you can’t guess how you will enjoy yourself.”

“Can’t I, really?”

“Hadn’t you better get up. You can wash yourself, you know.”

“Oh, I never washed myself yet,” said Ralph.

“Well, you’ll have to begin some time. I’ll sit and stare out of the window, and you can pop into your tub, and have a good splash; I don’t care a bit if you wet the floor; manly boys can’t be always thinking of those sort of things. Now, then, up you get, and I’ll stare out of the window.”

Harriet suited the action to the word. Ralph saw a long, narrow back and very thin light hair only partly concealing it. He observed that the lanky little figure sat very still. He felt impressed, much more impressed than he had been when kind Frederica and unselfish Patience, and even pretty, pretty Rose Amberley had been his school-mothers. They had been commonplace—quite nice, of course, but nothing special. The lanky person was not commonplace.

He hopped up with a little shout, washed and dressed himself after a fashion, and then went up to Harriet.

“Well, pal,” she said, just glancing at him, “are you ready?”

“Quite,” said Ralph. “I like you to call me your pal. You’re a very big girl compared to me, aren’t you?”

“You’re not a girl at all,” said Harriet; “you’re a very manly boy, and you’re awfully pretty; don’t you know that you are very pretty?”

“No,” said Ralph, turning scarlet, “and boys ought not to be pretty; I hate that.”

“Well, then, you’re handsome. I’ll show you your face in the glass presently. But come down now. I am allowed to do just what I like with you to-day, and we’re going to have such a good time!”

The beginning of the good time consisted in having a real picnic breakfast out of doors. Ralph and Harriet collected twigs and boiled the kettle in one corner of the paddock. It didn’t matter to Harriet that the paddock was rather damp and cold at this hour, and it certainly did not matter to Ralph, who was wildly excited, and quite forgot everything else in the world while he was trying to light the dry wood. Really, Harriet was nice; she did not even mind his having matches.

“They never allowed me to have matches before I came here.”

“You can put them in your pocket, if you like,” said Harriet. “Manly boys like you should not be kept under. You wouldn’t burn yourself on purpose, would you?”

“Of course not.”

“Have you a knife of your own?”

“No; Father says I’m rather young.”

“But you’re not; I’ll give you a knife if you like. I have an old rusty one upstairs with a broken blade. You shall have it.”

“Thanks aw-filly!” said Ralph. “But, perhaps,” he added, after a minute’s pause. “I had best not have it, for Father would not like me to.”

“Oh, please yourself,” said Harriet. “Have you had enough breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you awfully, and it was so good. I suppose,” added Ralph, a little timidly, “we’d best begin my lessons now. I hate reading to myself, but I suppose I must learn.”

“You needn’t learn from me,” said Harriet. “I’m not going to give you any lessons.”

“Oh—but—oughtn’t you to?”

“Whether I ought to or not, I don’t mean to,” said Harriet. “Now, look here, what shall we do with ourselves?”

“I don’t know,” said Ralph, who was so excited and interested that he leaned up against Harriet, who would have given worlds to push him away, but did not dare.

“You’re very nice, really, truly,” he said, and he touched her lank hair with his little brown hand.

“Yes, am I not nice?” said Harriet, smiling at him. “Now, if you were to choose me for your school-mother, you would have a jolly time.”

“Am I to choose who I like?” said Ralph.

“Of course, you are. We are all trying our hands on you; but you are to make your own choice. Didn’t the other girls tell you?”

“No.”

“Do you like being with the others?”

“They were very kind,” said Ralph.

“Did you have a picnic breakfast with them?”

“Oh, no.”

“If I were your school-mother,” said Harriet, after a pause, “we would have one every day, and—and—no lessons; and you might play with matches, and you might have a pop-gun, and there’s something else we would do.”

“Oh, what is it?”

“We’d go and see the gipsies.”

“But I am frightened of gipsies,” said Ralph. As he spoke he pressed a little nearer to Harriet. “Are there gipsies about?”

“There are some gipsies living two fields off—you look almost like a gipsy boy yourself, you are so dark. There are a lot of little brown babies rolling about on the grass, and big brown men, and big brown women, and there are dogs, and a donkey, and an old horse; but the most wonderful thing of all is the house on wheels.”

“The house on wheels?” said Ralph.

“Yes, the old horse draws it, and the gipsies live inside; oh, it is wonderful!”

“Aren’t gipsies very wicked people?”

“Wicked?” said Harriet. “They’re the most lovely people in all the world. I can’t take you to see them to-day, but if I were your school-mother, we would manage to slip off and have a good time with them. They love little brown boys like you, and you would love them. Oh, you don’t know what a gipsy is! Frightened of them, are you? Well, I’ll tell you a story of what they did for me when I ran away once and stayed with them for a whole night. I never had such a good time in all my life.”

Harriet made up a story out of her head. It is true she had once been for a very frightened half-hour with some gipsies on the common nearest to her father’s house; but that time now was changed into something quite fairy-like.

Ralph listened with his eyes shining, his lips apart, and his breath coming fast.

“Oh, I didn’t know they were like that,” he said. “Let us go now, now; don’t put it off, please; let’s come this very instant-minute.”

“No,” said Harriet firmly. “I could not possibly take you to-day. But I will manage it if you choose me for your school-mother. Of course, you won’t choose me. I know who you’ll choose.”

“Who?” asked Ralph.

“That Robina girl.”

“Who?” asked Ralph.

“Oh, that creature who came for you and Curly Pate when you were sent for, to say good-bye to your father.”

“Is she Robina?” asked Ralph. “Oh, I like her so much!”

“That is because you don’t know her. Shall I tell you some things about her?”

“Would it be right?” asked Ralph.

“You needn’t listen if you don’t like,” replied Harriet. “You can go to the other side of the paddock. I am going to say them aloud, whether you listen or not.”

Harriet instantly crossed her hands on her lap, and began saying in a chanting tone:—

“Robina was so naughty at home, and made such a dreadful noise in the room with her poor sick mother that she had to be sent away. She was sent here to this school, and since she came all the rest of us are dreadfully unhappy, for, although she looks kind, she is not a bit kind; she is the sort of girl who doesn’t obey. She was sent away from home because she was so disobedient—”

“Oh, don’t!” said Ralph suddenly.

“Why—what is the matter?” said Harriet. “Were you listening?”

“I couldn’t help myself; you spoke so loud. I didn’t want to, but you did speak very loud. Why do you say those horrid things about her?”

“They are true,” said Harriet. “I don’t mean to be unkind to her. I wouldn’t be unkind to anybody, but, at the same time, I want to warn you in case you are taken in by her ways and choose her as your school-mother.”

Ralph was quite silent. After a minute he said in an altered voice:

“Let’s do something now—what shall we?”

Harriet suggested that they should visit the farmyard at the back of the house and coax Jim, the groom, to let them ride on some of the horses. This, of course, was most fascinating, and no sooner had it been thought of than it was done. The ride was followed by something still more exciting. Jim was going to drive to the nearest town with the spring cart, and he offered to take the two children with him.

Harriet no sooner heard this proposal than she accepted it, and she and Ralph had a glorious drive to town. There she spent sixpence—all the money she possessed—on different sweetmeats.

“I wish I had some more,” she said. “I’d give you all my money—I would, indeed!”

“There are quite enough sweeties there,” said Ralph; “but if you really want to buy other things, Harriet, I have got money.”

“Have you? Let’s see what you’ve got,” said Harriet.

Ralph put his hand into his breeches pocket, and took out a handful of coppers, a shilling, and two sixpences.

“Here’s lots,” he said. “Isn’t it lots, Harriet?”

“Yes,” said Harriet, looking at it greedily. “We might buy a picnic tea for ourselves out of that.”

“Oh! might we?” said Ralph. “How per-fect-ly bee-tttiful!”

The picnic tea was purchased; it was not wholesome. The children went back. Ralph and Harriet had their dinner all alone, for during the trial day the arrangement was that the rest of the school children were not to interfere. Afterwards, they had their picnic tea out of doors, and after that was over, Harriet again spoke of the gipsies, and the delight of knowing them, and the certain fact that they would give them tea, or, perhaps, dinner, in the wonderful house on wheels, and the still more certain fact that Ralph would not be a true boy until he had visited the gipsies with Harriet.

On the whole, Harriet considered that her trial day was a success. It was an untidy, flushed, and not a healthy little boy who crept rather late into bed that night, and whom Harriet undressed without troubling herself whether he was washed too carefully or his hair brushed or not. Even to his cry that he had just a weeny, teeny pain, and that he did not feel quite quite well, she made no response. But when she was bidding him good-night, she said:—

“Remember the gipsies, and I am the sort of girl who always keeps her word.”

“Good-night, dear, dear Harriet!” said the little fellow. “I have had quite a lovely day!”

After Harriet went away, it was some time before Ralph fell asleep. Of course, he was a manly boy, and he did not mind a bit being alone, and it was nice, very nice, to have a little room all to himself. But, notwithstanding his bravery, and his fixed determination not to be lonely without Father, and never to cry even the smallest tear, there was an ache in his heart. He kept on thinking so much of his school-mother that he could not sleep. The girls in the school were very nice. Rose had been sweet to him, so had Frederica, so had Patience, and his school-mother of the past day—oh, she had been the most exciting of all. She was not a bit a pretty girl—in his heart of hearts he thought her rather ugly; but she had done things none of the others had done. She had given him adventures—that breakfast out of doors, a box of matches to keep in his own pocket; that ride on Firefly’s back—Firefly was a very spirited pony—and the girl had looked on admiringly while Ralph kept his seat; and then the drive to town, and the spending of all Harriet’s money on sweetmeats and of all Ralph’s money on a picnic tea. Oh, yes; he had had a good day, very good, and there had been no lessons.

Ralph could not honestly say that he loved lessons. He used to pretend he did, for he hated to grumble about things, and manly boys learned things—at least, so his father used to say. Manly boys always knew how to read, and they spelt words properly, and they wrote neat, good hands, and they learned, too, how to add up long, terrible rows of figures. All these things were necessary if a boy was to be manly and wise. Ralph knew perfectly well that he must go through with these unpleasant things. Nevertheless, he had to own that he did not like them. This school-mother, if he were to select her, would not be very particular about his reading aloud, and spelling properly, and working at his sums. Oh, no, he would have a good time with her; matches in his pocket, knives to play with—although his father did not like him to have knives—and, above all things, such a wonderful, glorious hope was held out to him! They would go away together, he and his school-mother, to see the gipsies. They would climb up the steps into that house on wheels; and, perhaps—perhaps—it would move, and they would feel it moving, and the brown babies would roll about on the grass at his feet, and the brown men and women would talk to him.

Harriet had spoken much to him about the delights of gipsy life. Ralph felt that he would give a great deal to taste it for himself. He tossed from side to side of his little bed, and presently he sat up, his cheeks flushed, his hair tumbled. “What would Father say to all this? Father liked boys to do lessons, and to lead orderly lives, and—”

“Oh, Father!” sobbed the child. He could not help crying just a little bit. He wanted his father more than anything in all the world just then; yes, although his heart was full of Harriet and her proposal to visit the gipsies.

Book One—Chapter Seven.

The Choice.

The three remaining days of trial of the school-mothers went quickly by. There was suppressed excitement all over the third form. Harriet alone would not be induced to talk on the subject. She put on quite a good little air.

“No,” she said, “don’t let’s worry over the thing. Ralph will make his own choice. He is quite a nice little boy. He has a great deal of go in him, but he will make his own choice, whatever we say.”

Then Harriet would bend over her book, and pretend to be very industrious; while all the time she was watching Robina.

Robina had the wonderful faculty of jumping at conclusions. She caught at the sense of a thing in a flash. She had also an amazing memory. It was not the least trouble to Robina to learn a long poem by heart. She also remembered every single word told her by her teachers. She had never before been taught in the manner she was taught at school; but already she was amassing knowledge in a marvellous way. Notwithstanding all Harriet’s efforts, Robina, without the slightest trouble, kept at the head of the class. Every day Harriet tried to supplant her, or, rather, to get back her old position, but every single day she tried in vain. Robina kept her place in class, and the other girls now openly said to Harriet that she had not a chance.

“You have met your master,” they said, “and you may as well accept the position at once.”

It was by no means in Harriet’s nature to accept any such position, and her lanky little figure and pale face seemed to bristle all over with suppressed passion when she was addressed in this way.

On the night before Ralph was to make his decision with regard to the school-mothers, Harriet said a word to Jane.

“By this time to-morrow,” said Harriet, “we shall know everything.”

“Oh, yes; I suppose so,” said Jane. Then she added quickly: “I wish he had not come to the school.”

“Who do you mean by that?” asked Harriet.

“Ralph—I wish he had not come.”

“It can’t make any matter to you,” said Harriet.

“It does,” said Jane. “He is a nice little boy. I like him just awfully. He won’t be happy with you.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Harriet.

Jane was silent.

“You think,” said Harriet, in a low tone, “that I am sure to be selected by Mrs Burton as his school-mother?”

Jane nodded her head. Her little round face was quite flushed, and her black eyes were shining.

“Did he say anything to you,” asked Harriet, in great excitement. Jane nodded. Harriet felt her heart beating fast. She suddenly put her long, thin arm round Jane’s neck, drew her up to her, and kissed her.

“Then you have helped me,” she said. “I knew you would. I won’t forget it when the holidays come.”

Just then some other girls appeared in view, and Jane and Harriet had to separate. The other girls walked on arm-in-arm. They consisted of Rose and Vivian Amberley, Patience Chetwold and Robina. Robina was not quite au fait to the ins and outs of the school. She still lived more or less in a world of her own. Now, she was rather surprised when Vivian, who was leaning on her arm, gave it a violent tug, and said in a smothered voice, which only reached Robina’s ears:

“Oh, I am quite unhappy!”

This was the sort of remark which could not fail to interest Robina profoundly. She had been an only child all her life, and although she had now and then played with another child, and although the one dream of her existence was to be surrounded by other children, she had never enjoyed this pleasure daily and hourly until she came to school. Robina was full of faults, but she had a kind and generous nature. There was nothing mean about her, and she was, for an only child, absolutely unselfish. Vivian’s remark in a low tone was not heard by either Rose or Patience. Robina took an opportunity to draw the little girl aside, and to ask her what she meant.

“It’s about Ralph,” said Vivian.

“What about Ralph?” asked Robina.

“I dare not tell,” said Vivian.

“Very well,” said Robina; “then there is no use in questioning you.”

“But I am very, very unhappy, all the same,” said Vivian.

Robina looked at her longingly. “Sit down,” she said suddenly.

They had come to a wooden seat under an old oak tree. Vivian popped down at once, but Robina still stood.

“I don’t know much about school,” said Robina. “I have not been here long. I am not a specially good girl; I was often very troublesome at home, but I think I know a few things, and perhaps I learnt those things at home.”

“What are they?” asked Vivian.

“I have learned,” said Robina, “to know a good girl when I see her. There are some girls in this school who are not good.”

“Oh, yes; oh, yes!” said Vivian. She turned white, and clasped her small hands tightly together.

“And there are some girls in this school,” proceeded Robina, “who are not strong,” and she fixed her grey eyes on Vivian’s face.

“Yes,” said Vivian again, falteringly.

“I won’t name them,” said Robina; “but I will only just say this: that if I were a weak girl in the school, I’d just make up my mind that I was. I would not pretend that I was strong, for instance, and I’d go and tell anything that made me unhappy to the person who ought to know.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t, if you were me,” said Vivian, suddenly speaking in great excitement.

“Does the cap fit?” asked Robina.

“Yes, yes,” answered Vivian; “it fits. But I can’t, I can’t!”

“I haven’t the least idea what is the matter,” said Robina; “but you are unhappy, for you have said so, and you are weak, not strong, for you admit it and, anyhow, I know. Now, being weak in a school like this, where there are some girls who are not good, you have no chance at all, unless you go to someone stronger than yourself to help you.”

“Who ought I to go to?” asked Vivian, trembling very much.

“You ought to go to some of your teachers.”

“Oh, I can’t do that—it would be quite too dreadful; you don’t know what they would say of me.”

“That is what you ought to do,” said Robina; “but if you haven’t courage for that, you ought to go to one of your school-fellows. You have your two sisters.”

“They are no good at all; they are not, really.” Robina was silent for a minute. Then she said:—

“Well, I am of some good, I suppose, and I think, on the whole, I am just a tiny bit strong.”

“Oh, you are, you are,” said Vivian. “You are just wonderful.”

“Well, then, you can come to me.”

“But they’ll call me a tell-tale-tit; they will, they will. You don’t know, you can’t know.”

“I tell you what you will do,” said Robina. “You will take my hand, and you and I together will go and stand before the girls who are making you unhappy. You will say: ‘I can’t stand this, and I am going to tell Robina, and Robina will help me to decide as to what is best to be done.’ You won’t be mean if you do that, Vivian, for they will understand. That is what you ought to do. Now, I have told you.”

“I ought, but I can’t,” said Vivian. She wriggled in her seat. Suddenly she sprang up, caught hold of Robina’s hands, and kissed them. But Robina wrenched them away.

“No, no; don’t do that,” she said. “I hate being kissed by cowards.”

She turned and left Vivian. The poor girl had never felt so small and abject in all her life, for poor Vivian was more or less in the secret. Not only had Jane explained to Ralph the great advantage of choosing Harriet as his school-mother, but Vivian had also been forced into the cause. She had spent a truly most miserable day, knowing perfectly well what Harriet’s real character was, and yet afraid to do anything but urge Ralph to choose her as his school-mother during the remainder of the term. Alas and alas! what a dreadful thing it was to be a weak girl, and how Robina despised her; and how strong Robina seemed herself, and what would not Vivian give in all the wide world to have Robina’s strength, and to follow the advice which she had given.

Immediately after breakfast the next day Mrs Burton called the eight girls of the third form into her parlour. When they had all assembled, she said to them:

“You have had your day of trial each, with the exception of Robina, whom it was more fair not to count. I may as well tell you frankly that I think Robina will be elected as Ralph’s school-mother, and I may as well, also, tell you now that I shall be glad if that is the ease. At the same time I may be mistaken.”

There came a sort of gasp from several of the girls. Harriet was standing quite in the background. Her face was quite pale. She felt her heart beating almost to suffocation. Oh, that pony, with his side-saddle. Oh, that habit made to fit so perfectly! Oh, the joy of going home in the holidays with such a companion—such an unfailing source of delight! Would not Harriet in future be a heroine in her home? What would not the others give to be the owner of a real flesh and blood pony? She did not mind how low she stooped in order to obtain it.

Mrs Burton paused, and looked round at the different girls.

“My dears,” she said, “I doubt not that you are interested, not, perhaps, in Ralph for himself, but in the thought of the prize which Ralph’s father, Mr Durrant, has offered you. I have my own ideas with regard to that prize; but Mr Durrant wishes you to have it, and there is nothing more to be said. The girl whom little Ralph himself selects as his school-mother will at the end of the term be the possessor of the pony—that is, always provided that she fulfills her duties to my perfect satisfaction. When Ralph has made his choice, he must, of course, abide by it, unless something quite out of the common occurs; but I must assure you in advance, my dear girls, that the post of school-mother will be no sinecure. The girl who has charge of Ralph must be patient and remember that he is only a very little boy. He will be necessarily thrown a great deal with the younger children, and the girl who is his school-mother must not only be patient with him, but she must help him to learn his little lessons. He must sit by her side at meals, and every morning she must rise a little earlier than usual in order to dress him, and every evening she must leave the playground in order to put him to bed. It will soon be perceived whether he is happy or not in her company. Now, I think I have said all that is necessary, and Ralph himself shall come in and decide.”

Mrs Burton rang a little silver bell which stood on the table. Miss Ford, the mistress who had the charge of the small children, immediately appeared.

“Will you bring Ralph Durrant into the room?” said Mrs Burton.

A minute later, Ralph marched in. He looked his very manliest. Every girl in the form felt her heart going pit-a-pat as she watched him. He was wearing a little suit of white on this warm day, but there was a crimson tie fastening his collar. Nothing could have been sweeter than his dress, and no little face in all the world could have looked more eager and lovely. He had the perfect self-possession of a very young child. He came straight up to Mrs Burton, holding out his hand.

“Good morning, Mrs Burton,” he said.

“Good morning, Ralph, my dear,” she replied. “Will you come and stand with me, Ralph, up here?”

“Oh, thank you so very much,” said Ralph.

He mounted on to the little dais, and Mrs Burton, taking his hand, led him forward.

“You see all these girls, Ralph,” she said. “They are all your great friends, are they not?”

“Oh, yes!” said Ralph. He looked eagerly from one face to the other. To begin with, there was Robina. He had not seen her for a week. She was standing very erect; her face was quite calm and strong and kind. She looked full at Ralph, but with no special pleading in her eyes. She would have liked to be his school-mother, and she wanted the pony very much; but not for worlds would she condescend to plead with him. A great deal can be conveyed by the glance of an eye, and Robina’s eyes were of the sort that could convey any number of messages to the sensitive, warm heart of a little child. But at the present moment they were dumb. Ralph looked past her.

“Here are all your kind friends,” said Mrs Burton. “You know Robina Starling. This is Robina. You remember how very kind she was to you and Curly Pate on the day you arrived. She helped you during that hard time when your father went away.”

“And I didn’t cry not one tear,” said Ralph, giving an eager glance at Mrs Burton, and then looking back at Robina. Oh, if only her eyes had said then: “Come to me,” he would have chosen her above all the others. But the proud eyes were dumb.

“Yes,” continued Mrs Burton, “this is Robina Starling, your great friend. And here comes Frederica. You had, I know, a very pleasant day with her.”

“Very pleasant,” said Ralph. “Good morning, Frederica,” he added, saying the words in a clear, sweet little voice.

“And this is Patience, Frederica’s sister.” Patience smiled at him quite broadly, and he smiled back at her just as though they held a secret between them, and the secret was very good fun.

“And this is Rose. You cannot forget how happy you were with Rose.”

“Oh, yes, of course, I was,” said Ralph. “Good morning, Rose.”

“Good morning, dear,” said Rose.

“And this is,” said Mrs Burton, slightly altering her voice, as though it were scarcely worth while to speak of Harriet, “this is Harriet. You spent Saturday with Harriet.”

Ralph coloured. All the girls noticed how a flame of red swept over his little face. His eyes grew dark. He looked full at Harriet, as though she fascinated him.

“And this is Jane Bush. And now we come to Cecil Amberley. I am sure Cecil would be kind to any little boy.”

“Yes, oh, yes,” said Ralph.

“And last but not least, here is Vivian. You were with Vivian yesterday, don’t you remember?”

“I remember,” said Ralph.

“Then, my dear little boy, you are acquainted with every girl in the third form. Now, listen to me. It is your dear father’s wish that one of these girls should take, as far as possible, the place of a mother to you during the remainder of the term. For three weeks, Ralph, until your father returns, you will be given over to the special care of one of these girls; and your father wishes you, as being, he considers, a very wise little boy, to choose your school-mother yourself. Having made a choice, you must abide by it, unless I personally interfere. That I shall not do except under extreme circumstances. Now, my boy, you have no cause to be afraid. Choose boldly the girl you like best, the girl with whom you will be happiest. Remember, Robina was your oldest friend, and Vivian your newest friend; the others came between. Look well at them all, and make your choice, as a wise little boy should.”

Again Ralph looked full at Robina, and again Robina knew that her eyes had but to say: “Come,” and not all the gipsies in all the world, nor all the picnic teas and breakfasts and boxes of matches in a little boy’s pocket, and possible knives—the temptation to possess which a little boy might succumb to—could have influenced Ralph in the very least. But alack and alas! for all that was to follow: those eyes still were dumb. So Ralph’s own brown eyes wandered past Robina and rested, without any special desire or longing in them, on Frederica’s face, and past Frederica to Patience, and then they lingered and seemed to dilate, and the whole little face trembled as the boy gazed at Harriet. But even now he was wise, and would not make his choice too hastily; for, past Harriet, his eyes travelled to Jane, who looked down, and turned white and pink, and from Jane he gazed at Cecil, who was all unconscious and looked full back at him, being quite certain in her heart of hearts that she would not be the one chosen; and then he looked at Vivian, who, as a matter of fact, counted nothing at all to him.

His heart beat. He thought of a hundred things, but most of all at that moment of not learning to read much, of not troubling himself with figures, of being the manly sort of boy who would play with fire and not be burnt, and have knives and not be cut, and, above all things, of a certain gipsy caravan which was called a house on wheels. Once again, his eyes sought those of Harriet; and now she looked boldly at him, and Ralph looked boldly back at her, and smiled, and, loosing his hold of Mrs Burton’s hand, he said in a loud voice:

“I choose Harriet for my school-mother, because I love her the best of all.”

Book One—Chapter Eight.

Consequences.

The astonishment which this announcement caused in the school may be better imagined than described. Even Mrs Burton was struck dumb for a minute. Then she said quietly:

“Harriet, you are the favoured one. Will you please take Ralph to Miss Ford, and get her to set him his lessons, and then will you take him into the third form room, and give him a seat by yourself and attend to his work in the intervals when you can spare some moments from your own? I will arrange later on that you have plenty of time to do this. Now, my dear, attend to your duties. You have been elected in a fair field, and I don’t think any favour has been shown, and I congratulate you, and hope you will be the proud possessor of the prize pony on the day when you leave school.”

The rest of the girls in the form congratulated Harriet also, and she walked out of Mrs Burton’s parlour with her head in the air, holding Ralph by the hand. Never had such a moment of intoxicating triumph been given her before. She was trembling from head to foot.

“Now we’ll have fun, won’t we?” whispered Ralph. “Yes, of course,” said Harriet back. “But come along at once, Ralph. We must get your lessons. You will be a very good little boy, won’t you, and not too troublesome?” She longed to add: “I can’t stand troublesome children,” but refrained for the time being.

Miss Ford gave Ralph some easy lessons, telling Harriet where his weak points lay, and how often he ought to repeat them over to her.

“You must be very particular indeed with regard to his sums,” she said. “These sums in addition and this little one in subtraction must be done perfectly. I think that is all for to-day.”

Harriet, still holding Ralph’s hand, but holding it rather loosely, marched now in the direction of the third form class-room. As they were going there, Ralph spoke:

“I thought—I thought—that—if you were my school-mother, there would not be sums and things.”

“Oh, nonsense!” replied Harriet, rather tartly. “There must be sums and things, as you call them. How are you to be wise if you don’t learn?” she continued. Then, seeing that the colour swept over his face, she added hastily, “I won’t be hard on you, no fear, and when lessons are over, we’ll have great fun.”

“Yes, great fun,” repeated Ralph. “The gipsies, perhaps?” he added, pleadingly.

But Harriet, who had not the least idea in her heart of hearts of bothering herself with regard to gipsies, was silent. They entered the school-room, where all eyes followed them to their seats. Ralph’s choice was considered too wonderful for words, and more than one girl felt that the thing had been managed by foul play. What had occurred they could not tell, but they were positively certain that Ralph of his own accord would never have chosen Harriet.

Meanwhile, lessons went on, and Ralph struggled over tasks which Robina or any other girl in the form would have rendered easy and pleasant for him, but which Harriet did not trouble herself to think about.

“Don’t bother!” she whispered once quite crossly, when he pulled her sleeve.

Towards the end of the morning it was with great difficulty that the little boy could keep back his tears. Of course, he had made a splendid choice, and Harriet was delightful; but, still—but, still—how he did wish he knew how to take nine from seven! Nine would not go from seven because seven wasn’t as much as nine. Oh, how was it done? Then there was six from five. He came to the conclusion at last that sums were not meant for little boys; it was beyond the power of the human brain to manage sums; not even his own father could take six from five. He began in his restlessness to tear up paper, making five little pieces, and then six little pieces, and wondering how he could ever take the greater out of the less.

“Harriet,” he whispered at last, tugging at her arm, “it can’t be done; see for yourself.”

“Don’t bother,” whispered Harriet again. But then she saw Robina’s eyes fixed on her face, and, suddenly recovering herself, bent down over Ralph.

“What is the matter, you little troublesome thing?” she said.

“I can’t take six from five,” answered the boy.

“Oh, you goose!” said Harriet; “borrow ten. Now, then, peg away.”

What Harriet meant was Greek to Ralph. “Borrow ten?” he murmured to himself, “borrow ten?”

It was a very hot day, and Ralph, try as he would, could not borrow ten. There was no one to borrow it from. The windows were open at the opposite side of the great room, and a bee came in and sailed lazily round. The bee, in his velvety brown coat, was watched by a pair of eyes as soft, as brown as his own velvet coat. The bee never borrowed ten, that was certain; no more could he. Oh, he was sleepy, and lessons were horrid, and sums were the worst of all. And why, why, why did not his school-mother really help him?

He was just dropping off to sleep when a brisk voice said in his ear:

“What is the matter, Ralph?” He looked round, and there was Robina.

“I am sleepy,” said Ralph. “It’s because I can’t borrow ten. Will you lend it to me?”

Robina bent down over the slate, where poor little Ralph was making a muddle of his sums.

“This is the way you do it,” she said.

She explained so simply; the child understood. His eyes brightened.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” he answered. “Why, it’s quite nice now, quite nice.”

“Well, you won’t forget another time,” said Robina. She had to go back to her own seat. She took care in doing so not to glance at Harriet.

At last school time was over, and the young people went into the gardens. Ralph now felt happy once more. His idea was that Harriet—dear, kind, fascinating Harriet, who had made him so intensely happy on the day when she had been his trial school-mother—would now take him all away by himself. She would sit somewhere under a tree, and get him to sit by her side, and tell him her plans. These plans must surely include a picnic tea and a visit to the gipsies. Ralph felt now that every desire in his life was centred round the gipsies.

“Come, Harriet,” he said, tugging at her sleeve, “come away, please.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Harriet.

“Why—we want to be all by our lones,” said Ralph. “We have such lots to talk about!”

Harriet looked down at him. She looked down at a little boy, with flushed cheeks and lovely eyes and a tremulous, rosy mouth, and a little face all full of love and soul and feeling. But it was not given to Harriet, even for a minute, to see this little boy as he really was. She only saw through him a pony—a flesh and blood pony, with its side-saddle; and she saw a girl with a perfectly-fitting habit who owned the pony, and this girl was herself.

“Well,” she said a little crossly, for she had a great deal to do that afternoon, and meant to have a right good time at a great picnic where all the girls were going, and where, of course, she would be, in honour of her triumph that morning, the principal personage. “Well,” she repeated, “what is it?”

“I have such a lot to say,” whispered Ralph.

“Come along here, then, Ralph, and say it. What do you want?”

“Why, Harriet, I thought—I thought—”

“Now, I tell you what,” said Harriet. “You and I must understand each other. You’re a very good little boy, and I like you enormously, and I’ll be ever so kind to you. You don’t know what luck you’re in to have chosen me for your school-mother. I don’t know what would have come to you if you had chosen any of the others. But you mustn’t be selfish, you know.”

“No,” said Ralph, winking back a tear, “’course not.”

“And there’s another thing. You must never again allow that horrid girl, Robina, to help you with your sums. Now, do you hear? You did look silly over that sum in subtraction; and, of course, Robina, who hates me, was watching her opportunity.”

“I don’t know what opportunity is,” said Ralph.

“Oh, well—I can’t tell you—you’re a baby. Anyhow, don’t do it again, do you hear?”

“Very well, Harriet,” said Ralph.

It was just at that moment, and before a single word could be said with regard to the afternoon of that half-holiday, and the gipsies and all the great, great fun which Ralph so looked forward to, that Miss Ford came up to Harriet, and drew her a little aside.

“Mrs Burton wishes me to say, Harriet, that she will not expect you to join the picnic to-day on account of Ralph Durrant.”

“And why not, pray?” asked Harriet, turning very red.

“Because they are going too far away, and he would not be back in time for bed, so you are to stay at home to look after him.”

“Well, I like that,” said Harriet. “I won’t do anything of the kind.”

“Oh, you needn’t stay, really, Harriet,” interrupted Ralph, who gave up all thought of the gipsies on the spot. “Do please go, Harriet. I don’t mind being left.”

Harriet looked eagerly at him.

“Don’t you?” she said. “Oh, I am sure you don’t; you are a very good little boy.”

“But, I am afraid,” said Miss Ford, “that is not the question. Ralph’s school-mother accepts certain duties, which she must perform, and you can’t go to the picnic, Harriet, for Mrs Burton forbids it. She says you are to stay at home and look after Ralph, and make him as happy as possible.”

Harriet, who never denied herself, was suddenly forced to do so, and in the most disagreeable, unexpected way. She almost hated Ralph at that moment. His brown eyes did not in the least appeal to her, and when he snuggled to her side, and tried to take her hand, she pushed him almost roughly away.

“I hate being pawed!” said Harriet. “You must understand that, Ralph, if you are to be with me always. Very well, Miss Ford,” she continued, turning to the teacher. “I must do what is right, of course.”

“Of course, you must,” said Miss Ford, and she marched away, saying to herself that she pitied Ralph, and wondering—as, indeed, everyone else was wondering—why Harriet had been chosen as his school-mother.

Book One—Chapter Nine.

A Visit to the Fair.

Almost immediately after early dinner, two waggonettes came up to the door, and the girls of the sixth form and the girls of the third form, with their governesses and Mrs Burton herself, started off for a long and happy day in some distant woods. They were to visit the ruins of Chudleigh Castle and go up to the top of Peter’s Tower—a celebrated place in the neighbourhood—and afterwards they were to have tea on the grass; and, best of all, they need not return home until the moon came up.

The moonlight drive home would be the most fascinating part of the whole expedition. For days and days this picnic to Chudleigh Castle had been talked about; and Harriet, with the others, had enjoyed it in anticipation. Now, she had to stand by, gloomily holding Ralph’s hand, while the carriages were packed with radiant, happy girls, and, what was still harder, she had to listen to their gay shouts, and, in particular, to their badinage at her expense.

“I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, Harriet,” said Rose Amberley.

“I hope you and Ralph will have fun, my dear,” said Agnes Winter, one of the sixth form girls, whom it was a great honour to know, and whom Harriet secretly adored. Even her own special chum, Jane, was looking flushed and pleased—disgustingly flushed and pleased, thought Harriet. And there was that little weak Vivian giggling in the silly way she always did, and casting covert glances at her, and, of course, laughing at her in her sleeve. And there was that odious Robina, not looking at her at all, but calmly taking her seat, and making others laugh whenever she spoke to them. Oh, it was all distracting, and for the time being so angry was Harriet that even the prospective pony lost its charm.

At last the waggonettes started on their journey. The sound of their wheels ceased to be heard. Stillness followed commotion; gay laughter was succeeded by—in Harriet’s opinion—a sort of void. Again Ralph tugged her arm.

“Now,” he said, “now it’s gipsies, isn’t it?”

“It’s nothing of the kind, you horrid, little troublesome thing,” said Harriet. “I am not going to take you to see the gipsies to-day—no, nor any day, for the present. Oh, stop that blubbering, or I’ll smack you.”

“You did once before,” said Ralph steadily, and he looked her full in the face, tears arrested in his eyes, and his own colour coming and going.

Harriet immediately saw that she had gone too far. She altered her tone.

“Please forgive me, Ralph,” she said. “I know I am cross; I wanted so very much to go to that picnic, and I can’t because of you.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ralph. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Yes,” said Harriet crossly; “that’s not the question. You are considered a baby, and you must be treated as one.”

“I aren’t a baby!” said Ralph, in great indignation. “Father said I am a real manly boy.”

“Well, prove yourself one,” said Harriet. “Don’t cry when I speak a little sharply, and don’t worry me about the gipsies. I will take you to see them when I can, because I promised to take you; but you’re not to remind me of them, for if you do I’ll be very angry.”

“I won’t ever, ever speak of them again,” said Ralph, gulping down a sob.

“Well, that’s all right,” said Harriet. She moved restlessly across the lawn. Curly Pate and the other small children were tumbling about on the grass. Ralph looked longingly at Curly Pate. Curly Pate clapped her pretty hands, and ran to meet him.

“I keen—oo king!” she said.

Harriet stood by restlessly. How contemptible it all was! Those silly little children, that tiresome Miss Ford, the empty house, the empty gardens, and the pleasure party far away—the pleasure party with some of its members laughing in their sleeves at her! Yes, she knew that fact quite well. That detestable little Jane was laughing. She saw the laughter hidden behind her smug face. And that horrid Vivian, she was all one giggle, and last, but not least, there was the detestable Robina—on this day of all days to laugh at Harriet seemed the final straw! She had had her great moment of victory; she had proved to Robina that she was the favourite—was the chosen one, was the beloved of the little boy about whom the school chose to make such a fuss. But oh, dear! there was reaction after triumph, and this reaction took place when Harriet found what were the duties imposed upon her by motherhood. She must take care of her little boy while the others went out a-pleasuring.

By this time, however, Ralph had forgotten all about her. He and Curly Pate had gone away to a little distance. Curly Pate was on her knees picking daisies, and Ralph was standing over her, after the fashion of kings when they choose to govern their queens and give directions.

“Longer stems, Curly; bigger flowers, Curly. Oh, you silly! not that one—that one with the red all round, it’s broader. Now, then—I’ll show you how to pick them.”

“Peese, king! peese!” replied the impatient queen.

Harriet was not interested in the small children, and just at that moment something occurred.

A girl from the neighbourhood, of the name of Pattie Pyke, was seen walking down the avenue. She was the doctor’s daughter, and was the only girl who was ever allowed to come to the school to take lessons. She joined the third form twice a week for German lessons, but was never with them during recreation. In consequence, she was scarcely counted at all in the school life. Harriet and she, however, had managed to take up a sort of acquaintanceship which never until this moment had developed into friendship. Pattie was a plain girl, large for her age, stoutly built, and with a face covered with freckles. She had small blue eyes and a snub nose. Her hair was somewhat inclined to be carroty, and she had white eyelashes and eyebrows. Notwithstanding this, she was a pleasant girl enough, and had plenty of ability.

“Hallo!” she said now, when she saw Harriet. “Why, I thought, of course, you’d be off to the picnic!”

“Well, I’m not, you see,” answered Harriet ungraciously; “I am here.”

Pattie drew nigh. The real desire of her life was to make friends with one of the school-girls. She was always imploring her father to send her to the school as a boarder, but hitherto he had been deaf to her entreaties.

“I was coming to the school with a note,” said Pattie; “Father told me to leave it. I did not think I’d meet one of you. I am surprised to see you.”

“Well, you need not be. You were not at school this morning, or you would know why I am here.”

“No, I had a cold, and Father thought I had best not go. He is so awfully particular, for fear of my giving anything to the rest of the girls. I am better now, but I must not be out long; my throat is rather sore.”

“You look quite well,” said Harriet.

“It’s only my throat that’s a little bad. Please, do tell me about this morning.”

“And the great triumph for me,” said Harriet. “Ralph, don’t go out of sight!”

She shrieked these words to Ralph, who immediately paused, turned, and looked at her, then came in her direction, holding Curly Pate’s hand.

“Do you see that child?” said Harriet.

“Yes—the little darling!” cried Pattie. “Little Ralph Durrant. Father raves about him; he says that he will be the richest man in England some day.”

“Oh, well,” said Harriet; “he is a very troublesome little boy now. But, nevertheless, I am pleased. His father has made a most ridiculous proposal. He said that Ralph was to choose one of us to be his school-mother—I can tell you it was thought a great honour—and he chose me.”

“You?” cried Pattie.

“Yes; are you surprised?”

“Oh, no!” answered Pattie; but she was, nevertheless.

“Well, I am the chosen one, and I can tell you I had my triumph. Those other girls, especially that new girl, Robina Starling, was sure that one of them would be cock-o’-the-walk; but not a bit of it—my little boy chose me.”

“That was nice for you,” said Pattie; “only I should not have thought you would have cared to be bothered by a child.”

“It’s not that,” said Harriet, lowering her voice; for, really, under the circumstances, any sympathiser was better than none. “A good deal depends on it. I will explain to you another time. Of course, there are drawbacks. I have the charge of that small person, and in consequence can’t enjoy myself at the picnic to-day.”

“Oh, what a pity!” said Pattie.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“And you are all alone this lovely, lovely day?”

“It is true,” said Harriet. “Well, I suppose I must take the rough with the smooth.”

“I tell you what,” cried Pattie, in some excitement. “Couldn’t you come home and have tea with me? It would be such fun! You might bring Ralph with you, you know. Of course, you would be allowed to come, and it is only a stone’s throw away.”

“I wish I could; I’d like it very much,” said Harriet.

“Do come,” said Pattie. “We’ll manage afterwards to go out and see the fair in the village.”

“Oh. I am sure I wouldn’t be allowed to take Ralph to the fair.”

“He need not come; indeed, we wouldn’t want him. We’d manage somehow to leave him behind; there are lots of people at home to look after him. Oh, do, do come. You need not say a word to anybody.”

Harriet thought for a minute. After all, Miss Ford had no control over her. Miss Ford had only the charge of the little children; there was no one’s leave to be asked. She was the school-mother of Ralph. Of course, it must never be told, for it was against the strict rules of the school that any girl should venture out of the grounds without leave. It is true that Harriet had gone in the spring cart to town last week; but, after all, she had got leave to do that, for she had run to the house to ask for it. “If Mrs Burton was at home, I know she would not mind,” said Harriet eagerly. “But I can’t ask her leave, as she isn’t here. If we go, we must be back quite early; we must be back before old Ford misses us. That’s the nuisance!”

“You can manage that,” said Pattie. “It’s early now. We’ll go straight home, and have tea. Then Mother or someone will look after that little Ralph of yours, and you and I will just run down to the fair, and see what is to be seen. Do, do come, Harriet! I should so love to have you!”

“All right,” said Harriet.

She looked around her. Miss Ford was nowhere in sight. So much the better. Ralph was called sharply back to her side. He came, Curly Pate trotting after him.

“I ont my king,” called the school baby.

“Then you will do without him,” said Harriet roughly. “Go back to your play, you little silly. Run back at once.”

Curly Pate burst into loud screams and yells, and Ralph, forgetting his allegiance to Harriet, flung his arms round her and comforted her valiantly.

In the midst of this scene, Miss Ford hurried up.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Ralph and Pattie and I are going away for a little by ourselves,” said Harriet. “Curly Pate wants to come with us; but we don’t want her.”

“Yes, I want her,” said Ralph.

“Why can’t the child go with you?” asked Miss Ford.

“No, she can’t,” said Harriet, looking very cross. “Very well, darling,” said Miss Ford, catching the child in her arms and kissing her. “I’ve got something so nice to show you.”

She carried the weeping baby away, and Ralph, with a great pain at his heart, followed Harriet. His school-mother! Oh, yes, she was that. But did he like her? He was not sure. She puzzled him extremely. She was not half as interesting as on that wonderful day when she had devoted herself to him, and told him stories about the gipsies.

As soon as ever Miss Ford had turned the corner, and had carried the weeping Curly Pate out of sight, Harriet turned to Pattie.

“Now we must be very quick,” she said. “If you don’t mind, we will run all the way.”

“Where is we going?” asked Ralph.

“We are going to have a jolly time,” replied Harriet. “Now, Ralph, you clearly understand; you are going to be put on your honour.”

“Yes,” said Ralph, looking important; “Father says that sometimes.”

”‘Your honour’ means this,” continued Harriet: “You will never tell anybody what we are doing.”

“Course not,” replied Ralph. “I aren’t a tell-tale.”

“He isn’t, either,” said Harriet, looking at Pattie. “He is quite a good little boy, when he chooses. Well, then, we are ready, and I hope, Pattie, you are prepared to give us a very good time.”

Pattie answered at once that she was. In her heart of hearts, however, she was doubtful. Her father and mother were poor. Dr Pyke’s practice was not a large one, and he found it difficult to make both ends meet. Then, there were numerous little Pykes at home—Pykes of all ages, from Pattie, whose years numbered twelve, to the baby, who was only three months old. It seemed to Pattie that the children swarmed everywhere. Still, she had a whole shilling stowed away in her purse in the corner of a drawer in her bedroom, that could be spent at the fair, and it was grand and delightful to bring a girl from Mrs Burton’s to tea with her, and she also felt sure that little Ralph would have a welcome.

When they reached the house, an ivy-covered house of old-fashioned make, which stood a little back from the village street, she found the hall door open.

“Now, then, Harriet, come in,” she said, and Harriet and Ralph entered.

An untidy-looking servant was crossing the hall.

“Anastasia,” said Pattie, “will you get tea in the drawing-room, please?”

Anastasia stared at her.

“Indeed, I can’t, miss. Your ma is out, and all the older children have gone to the park with Miss Fry,”—Miss Fry was the much overworked nursery governess—“and the missis told me,” continued Anastasia, “that I was to wash the handkerchiefs and things this afternoon. I have no time to bring tea into the drawing-room, and why should I do it? You always has it in the school-room.”

“I’d much rather have tea in the school-room, Pattie,” said Harriet.

“And so would I,” echoed Ralph.

“You must get your own tea, miss,” continued Anastasia, by no means abashed by the sight of Harriet in her ordinary school frock, and not particularly struck by the beauty of little Ralph.

“I am ever so sorry,” said Pattie, colouring high; “but this is rather an unfortunate day. One of our maids is out, and Mother’s away; and, in short—do you greatly mind waiting in the drawing-room while I get the tea?”

“I don’t much care about tea at all,” said Harriet, who was not a bit gracious, and who was rather disgusted with the appearance of Pattie Pyke’s home. “You needn’t bother, as far as I am concerned.”

“And I don’t want no tea,” said Ralph; “I aren’t a bit hungry.”

He looked pleadingly and sorrowfully at Pattie, as much as to say: “Please, please, don’t trouble.”

Poor Pattie, whose face was scarlet with mortification, insisted on providing a meal.

“You can’t come into the school-room,” she said a little crossly. “The boys do leave it in such a mess. There is the rabbit-hutch in one corner, and I know Jim and Davie were washing Smut there this afternoon. You must come into the drawing-room. I will manage to get you some tea. Don’t stare, Anastasia. Go at once, and see that the kettle is boiling.”

Pattie conducted her guests into a small, very hot drawing-room. She then left them, and, after about a quarter of an hour, reappeared with a tray containing very poor tea and some stale cake. Oh, how hot was that little room! It faced due south, and scarcely a breath of air came through the open bay window. Ralph felt very tired; he did not know why. He had had a trying morning. Those sums had worried him, and Harriet’s conduct had also worried him, although he was not aware of that fact at present.

When the tea had come to an end Harriet said quickly:

“Now, the fun is really going to begin; you and I will hurry off to the fair, Pattie. I can’t stay late, as your know, for I must smuggle Ralph back before Miss Ford misses him. You will stay quietly here, Ralph. You will be a good boy? I couldn’t take you to the fair, even if I wished it; for, in the first place, I haven’t any money.”

“But I have a shilling—a whole shilling,” said Pattie, feeling all of a sudden quite grand and important.

“I am very sorry,” continued Harriet, speaking in a firm voice; “but I shall be obliged to borrow my entrance money from you, Pattie. I will pay you next week, when my pocket-money comes in. There will be enough for us both to go in and also to have a turn on the merry-go-round—”

“And we must see the fat lady and the man with two heads,” said Pattie.

“But why mustn’t I see them, too?” asked Ralph, whose little face was scarlet now, and his voice quite choky with anger and disappointment.

“No, you mustn’t, Ralph,” said Harriet. “And now I will tell you why! I, your mother, don’t choose it. You have got to obey me, you know. I am a big girl, and you are a very little boy; you must stay here quietly, and wait for me. I will return for you before long. Now, be a good child, and don’t cry: it is very babyish to cry.”

Ralph stood quite still. The scarlet flush had faded from his face. After a minute, he said:

“Course it’s babyish, and I aren’t crying.”

“Then that is all right,” said Harriet. “Stay here till I fetch you. Come, Pattie.”

The two little girls left the room.

Book One—Chapter Ten.

The Gipsies.

How hot was that drawing-room to the tired little boy! His head quite ached, he did not know why; he could not understand his own sensations. There was a very ugly look-out, too, for the bay window opened into a tiny garden, which was full now of clothes hanging on lines and flapping in what little breeze there was. Ralph could not see anything beyond the white line of clothes.

He went to the window, half inclined to go into the garden; but, as it was so uninviting, he did not venture. He returned to the ugly room, and looked at what was left of the make-shift tea. It certainly was hard that he had not been allowed to go to the fair. He would so have liked to have a ride on the merry-go-round, and to see the fat lady and the man with two heads. How was it possible for anyone to have two heads? He felt his own little soft neck, and wondered where the other head could appear. He sat down very thoughtfully to consider this problem. It was really more difficult than borrowing ten, and much, much more interesting. It seemed to him even more interesting than seeing gipsies: the brown, brown gipsies, with their house on wheels, had none of them two heads. He would love beyond anything to gaze at the person who possessed such treasures.

Certainly his school-mother was not too kind. He could not understand her to-day, but, having chosen her, he felt somehow that it was his bounden duty to be as good as possible, and to think as kindly as possible about her. So he very determinedly shut away from his little mind all unkind thoughts with regard to Harriet. Of course, he was a troublesome little boy, and he ought to have known all about borrowing ten, and he ought to understand now why little boys should stay in very hot rooms while big girls went away to fairs and merry-go-rounds, and delightful shows full of queer people. Oh, yes: of course, it was all right; only he did wish his head was not so swimmy—yes, that was how he expressed his feeling.

He sank down at last on a very uncomfortable sofa with a broken spring, and the next minute fell fast asleep. He did not know, poor little boy, how long he slept; but when he awoke he felt very much startled and puzzled, for it had grown quite late, and the sun had gone away, and the room was no longer so hot. The clothes, too, had all been taken down from their lines, and he could see across the ugly garden.

It was a very small garden; but there was a gate at the further end, and the gate was standing open; and beyond the gate was a field with a path leading across it; and, lo and behold! at the far, far end of the field was a very brown man standing quite still, and holding a lot of baskets in his hand. They were baskets of all sorts and shapes and sizes; and there was something about the man and the baskets which caused Ralph’s heart to beat.

He went cautiously to the window, and gazed across the garden and across the fields at the man. The man was very brown, and he carried baskets. Gipsies carried baskets; they always did; Ralph had heard so. He did not believe that there was ever a basket in the whole world that had not once been carried by a gipsy.

Suppose he went and talked to the man; there would be no harm in that; it would be interesting to him. Harriet had told him to stay where he was, but then Harriet did not know that there would be—first, an open window, and then an open gate, and beyond the gate a gipsy—the very person Ralph longed to see!

The temptation was too much for him. He was too tired, and too lonely, and too much a very little boy to resist it. Swiftly he rose from his uncomfortable sofa, pushed back his tumbled hair, and flying, first across the garden and then across the field, reached the brown man’s side.

“Please,” said Ralph earnestly, looking up with his brown eyes at the brown face, “is you a gipsy?”

“I be that, little master,” said the man, and he gazed down inquisitively and perhaps not unkindly at Ralph.

Ralph looked at him with great wonder and intense curiosity.

“Wot be yer wanting o’ me, little master?” said the man.

“I love gipsies!” said Ralph.

“Do yer, indeed? And wot’s yer name?”

“I am Ralph Durrant. I live at a school near. There are lots of girls in the school, and I’ve got a school-mother. My school-mother is at the fair, and I am alone here. I’m rather lonesome, and I’m so glad you have come, gipsy man, ’cause you can talk to me.”

“To be sure,” said the man, seating himself on a low stile, and taking from his pocket a very large clasp knife, with which he proceeded to sharpen a stick.

Ralph stood very near him without speaking, just glad to be close to him. From time to time the man looked at the child, and the child returned the man’s gaze.

“Where did yer say yer held out, youngster?” he remarked after a long pause.

“At a school with a lot of girls,” said Ralph. “Father sent me; it’s all right. How funny and sharp you make that stick, gipsy man!”

“I guess you mean you live at Abbeyfield?” said the man, now shutting up his knife and returning it to his pocket. “They be rich folks there, so I guess you must be rich. We gipsies is poor; our folks haven’t got any money.”

“Nor have I,” said Ralph eagerly. “I haven’t any money at all; if I had I ’spec’ I’d have been took to the fair. See, gipsy man, see, my pockets is quite empty.”

He turned out both his little pockets as he spoke, and looked at the man for sympathy.

“Dear, dear, dear!” said the man. “That is ’ard, now. But your folks is rich, bean’t they?”

“Father’s made of money; I’ve heard folks say so.”

“Well, now; that is nice for you; and he’s fond of a little chap like you, ain’t he?”

“Father?” said Ralph. He paused for a minute; then said with great force: “Yes, Father’s fond of me.”

The man looked to right of him and to left of him. There was no one in sight. There was only very pretty little Ralph, in his pretty and expensive dress. There was a wood behind them, a wood to right of them, and a wood to left of them, and the doctor’s little, old-fashioned house at the further end of the field; the house was to all appearance empty for the time being.

The gipsy man drew Ralph close and took his hand. Ralph felt that brown hand of the gipsy man’s as hard as iron. His little heart gave a sort of jump; but he was not going to be at all frightened. He was glad, he was very glad, he had seen a brown, brown gipsy man for himself; he had spoken to him; whatever Harriet might or might not do in the future, he had seen a gipsy man himself.

“I must be saying good-night, now,” he remarked in a very polite voice. “I am so glad I has met you. Please, good-night, Mr Gipsy Man. I am going back. I must wait in a horrid, ugly drawing-room for my school-mother: I must say good-night, Mr Gipsy.”

“Not so fast, master,” said the man. “How do you know that I wants to say good-night to you? I’ve took a sort of a fancy to yer, little master.”

“Have you?” said Ralph, looking up at him.

“Yes—’tain’t every little master as says such pretty words to us brown folks.”

“Oh, I love you all,” said Ralph.

“Now, see,” said the man, “that’s very pretty talk, very pretty, indeed; and how would little master like a basket for his very own to hold things—marbles and knives—”

“Oh—and matches!” said Ralph, intensely excited all in a minute.

“Yes, and matches.”

“And pocket-hankershers,” said Ralph.

“To be sure! How would little master like such a basket with a lid to it, now, and a little handle?”

“Oh—it would be lovely!” said Ralph.

“There’s my good wife ’as got one, not like these,”—he kicked his own baskets with a look of contempt—“but a pretty one, to home. You come along ’ome with me, and I’ll give you one.”

“How far off is your house?” asked Ralph, in great excitement.

“No way ’tall; just through this wood, and through another field, and there you be.”

“Is it a house on wheels?” asked Ralph.

“Now, ain’t you a ’cute little master! There are wheels to our house.”

“And does it move?”

“In course, it moves!”

“I should love it to move,” said Ralph—“and to feel it move.”

“Then, you shall, my pretty little dear. You come along with me, and we’ll harness old Dobbin to the house, and take you a bit across the field and give you a basket, and you shall be back again here in time for your school-mother afore she misses you.”

Ralph considered for a minute.

“We must be very, very quick,” he said. “I shouldn’t like to vex my school-mother. Shall we run, brown gipsy man?”

“Yes,” said the man.

The next minute he had sprung lightly over the stile, had lifted Ralph across, and hand-in-hand they were running through the wood. In a very short time they had also crossed a field, and beyond the field was a wide clearing, where were tents, and brown babies, and brown men and women, and some mongrel dogs that rose lazily and wagged their tails when the big brown man and the little brown boy approached. A very hideous old woman, nearly bent double, and with a toothless jaw, advanced towards the pair, and a very young woman with a handsome face and flashing black eyes followed her.

The young woman wore a scarlet shawl twisted round her head, and a lot of beads round her neck, and long ear-rings in her ears. The man spoke at once:

“Here’s a little master,” he said, “who wants a basket. Flavia—you choose him the very prettiest basket we ’as got, and put a knife into it and some coloured beads, and take him into our house on wheels, and put Dobbin to the house, and make the house move right across the field. You understand, Flavia?” Flavia’s eyes flashed. She knelt down by Ralph, and took his two little hands, and looked into his face.

“Eh, but you are a sweet little man!” she said, and she kissed him on his red lips. Then, lifting him bodily in her arms, she carried him up the steps into the house on wheels.

“Here we be!” said Flavia; “and I’ll just find the prettiest basket of all for you, and I’ll find a knife, too, and show you how to sharpen sticks so as to make them like arrows. I’ll show yer lots o’ things, and I’ll be real good to yer.”

“Only—I must be going home,” said Ralph, who, somehow, now that he had got into the house on wheels, was not quite so sure that he liked it. It was so full of smoke, and so crowded with furniture, and there were such a number of brown babies bobbing up their heads in every direction that at first he felt he could not breathe. And then he wondered why his eyes hurt so much.

“You shall go home,” said Flavia, “as soon as ever the house moves across the field.”

“Perhaps,” said Ralph, trying to be very polite and not to show the least scrap of fear, “perhaps, gipsy lady, it might be best for me not to wait just now for your pretty house to move. Perhaps I had best come ’nother day, pretty lady, ’cause my school-mother will be coming back, and she’ll be wanting me.”

“Where do you live?” asked Flavia.

“In a big school with a lot of girls. I’s the only boy, and I’s staying there till Father comes back to fetch me.”

“He must mean Abbeyfield,” said the toothless crone, raising her head from where she was lying on a bundle of old sacks.

She had a pipe in her mouth, and as she spoke she puffed out a volume of smoke.

“Now, to think of it,” said Flavia. “Is that the house, the pretty house, you’re in? We go past Abbeyfield: we’ll put you out when we get there; it’ll save a lot of time.”

“But,” said Ralph, very nearly crying, and very nearly losing his manhood, “I’s not to wait in that house; I’s to wait in the house of a doctor—in a hot drawing-room. Oh, please, let me out!”

“There,” said Flavia, “we’re off at last. Just once across the field, little master, and then back you’ll go, basket and all.”

It was exciting; with whoops, and shouts, and cracking of several whips, the house on wheels began slowly to go forward. Gipsy men ran by it, and gipsy children shouted at each side of it, and the mongrel dogs all barked in chorus; and one little boy sat very still inside with a sad, beating heart.

What was going to happen? It was lovely to be in a house that moved, and Flavia was very pretty. But, somehow, he was very nearly losing his manhood, and he did think that in another minute tears must rush to his eyes.

Book One—Chapter Eleven.

The Terror.

The fair was delightful. The merry-go-rounds were much more enchanting than anything Harriet had ever dreamed about. Pattie was very generous, too, with her shilling, and that shilling seemed to go a long way.

Pattie had made a careful calculation. A penny each to be admitted to the fair, a penny each for a turn on the merry-go-round; a penny each for a visit to the fat lady; a penny each for a peep at the man with two heads. All this fun, this intoxicating delight, could be obtained for eightpence. There would still be fourpence over. Pattie explained to Harriet as they were approaching the fair how she meant to spend her money. Harriet nodded. Pattie’s programme was carried out to perfection.

How delightful it was! Oh, the fascination of that rush through the air on those prancing horses! And oh—the mystery of looking at the fat woman, and the thrill which went through them when they gazed at the man with two heads!

But the delight was short, and quickly over. They had not been half an hour at the fair, but the whole of their programme had been carried through, and eight pence out of Pattie’s twelve had vanished. Still, there were four more to spend. They might have two more turns each on the merry-go-round, or they might buy some gingerbread at the gingerbread stall. That stall was a most fascinating one, for the gingerbread was made into all kinds of funny shapes. There were gingerbread dogs, gingerbread cats, gingerbread birds; and there were also horses of gingerbread, and elephants of gingerbread, and—what was more exciting than anything else—the wonderful and handsome lady who sold the gingerbread cakes could write anything to order on them. She had a sort of pencil which she dipped in liquid sugar, and behold, Pattie’s name could appear on the cake, or Harriet’s name, or any other thing that the girls happened to ask for.

Should they have a gingerbread each? Oh yes, they must. Harriet decided that she would have written on her gingerbread cat, “Harriet—the Queen of Hearts.” She could get all this for a penny. She borrowed a penny from Pattie, and the deed was done. She would not eat her treasure on any account—she would carry it home with her. By and by, she might show it to the children in the old house in the country, and describe to them how she of all others on that special morning had won the heart of a little boy. She was in ecstasies over her treasure.

Pattie also secured a gingerbread cake with a suitable inscription. But now there were only two pennies left. They might have one more ride on the merry-go-round, and then they would go home. Had they done this, that which happened would not have happened, for they would have found little Ralph asleep on the sofa, and Harriet would have rushed back to the school with him before Miss Ford had time to miss either of them. But, just as they were about to leave the fair, who should come up and speak to Pattie, but her father’s chemist, for Dr Pyke kept his own dispensary.

The chemist was a young man of the name of Frost, very much addicted to eating gingerbreads and amusing himself at fairs. He was delighted to see Pattie; and Pattie, with some pride, introduced Harriet to him.

Mr Frost was a fat, podgy young man, and he felt quite pleased to walk with the little girls. With one on his right hand and one on his left he perambulated round and round the fair with them now.

“What have you seen?” he asked, and when they explained, he told them that they had practically seen nothing at all, and that now it would be his pleasure to give them a good time. He described what he meant to do, and certainly his programme was delightful. He himself would go on the merry-go-round with a little girl on each side of him, and they would fly right round not once, but several times; and afterwards, they would go into a little theatre and witness a wonderful piece of acting in which there was a giant and a pigmy, and some acting dogs, and an elephant and even a lion. The entertainment was of a jumble order, but it would be intensely exciting. It would take, Mr Frost said, no time at all. They must not miss it, however, for it really was first-rate, of that he could assure them.

Before Harriet could even reply, he had provided tickets for all three—tickets which cost sixpence each. He really was a most generous young man.

“But,” said Harriet, turning to Pattie, “won’t this make me dreadfully late?”

“Late?” cried Mr Frost, overhearing her. “Not a bit of it. I tell you it will be over in no time at all. Here, take a hand each, girls, and we’ll squeeze well to the front. We mustn’t miss the beginning of the fun. The fat lady comes on first of all with the kangaroo; oh, it will be screamingly funny!”

The next minute, they were inside the tent where the great performance was to take place.

They were inside with a crush of people behind them, and Harriet forgot everything else. The entertainment was of the breathless order; before you had time to recover from one astounding surprise, another still more astounding followed on its heels. The fat lady’s performance was nothing at all to that done by the man with two heads—he really managed these double appendages with the greatest cleverness, nodding and winking simultaneously with both, and causing the people to shriek, holding their sides with mirth.

“He hasn’t two heads at all, you know,” said Mr Frost, “but it’s wonderfully cleverly managed for all that.”

Harriet and Pattie were almost sorry. They would much rather have believed that the man was possessed of the double head.

“Oh!” said Pattie, with a gasp. “I was thinking what a lot he could do if they were really two heads.”

Mr Frost roared with laughter.

“It would be convenient, wouldn’t it?” he said. “He could eat with one of his mouths, you know, and talk with the other; and he could keep one of his brains for amusement, and one for lessons. I say, though, let’s look at this! Here’s the elephant with the dancing dogs on his back!”

Oh, was there ever such a time? It flashed by in what seemed less than a minute, but in reality it took over an hour and a half. When Harriet and Pattie, two flushed and intensely happy little girls, left the small theatre Harriet knew at once by the changed light how long she must have been within.

“Oh please,” she said, turning to Mr Frost, “we have enjoyed ourselves tremendously; but what is the hour, please?—oh, I do hope it isn’t late: I wanted to take Ralph back to school before five o’clock.”

“Five o’clock!” said Mr Frost with a roaring laugh. Really he was rather a noisy young man. “Why, it’s long past seven. You don’t suppose we have had all that fun in no time at all?”

“Past seven!” said Harriet, in a tone of horror. “Oh, oh, don’t keep me!”

She rushed away. She never waited even to say good-bye; Pattie and Mr Frost both thought her rather rude. In a minute she was out of the fair and running along the road. When she had gone to the fair that afternoon with Pattie, the distance between the doctor’s house and the bit of common where the fair was held seemed no way at all. But now Harriet thought she had miles to travel.

At last, panting and terrified, she reached the doctor’s house. The door, which had been standing open in the afternoon, was now shut. She rang the bell furiously. Oh, why had they shut the door? Every minute of delay was intolerable. Why did not Anastasia hurry? What a horrid name to give a servant! and what a horrid servant she was. Harriet in her agony gave the bell another and more furious pull.

It was opened this time by a stout, red faced lady. “Now, little girl,” she said, “if you dare to ring the doctor’s bell again in this rude manner I shall complain to your—oh, my dear!” she continued, changing her voice, “I beg your pardon, I thought it was little Susan Wright from across the road. That child requires keeping in her place; she is always playing practical jokes. But what is it, my dear little girl? Come in, pray. Do you want Dr Tyke?”

“No, no!” said Harriet. “Don’t keep me, please. I have come for the little boy in the drawing-room.”

“The little boy in the drawing-room?” said Mrs Pyke, who wondered if Harriet were very ill and a little off her head. “But I know nothing of any little boy in the drawing-room.”

“Oh, please let me go for him,” said Harriet, trying to push past the stout lady. “He is there, I know, for I left him there. He is little Ralph—little Ralph Durrant. I told him to wait for me; I know I am late, but let me go for him at once, please.”

“You can go into the drawing-room, of course,” said Mrs Pyke; “although I must say you puzzle me very much, for I know of no little boy there. The doctor and I are having a cosy little supper in the drawing-room at the present moment; we often do of an evening to get away from the children, and I assure you there is no little boy in the room.”

Nevertheless, Harriet would go for herself. Ralph must be where she had desired him to stay. With her face very white, her whole appearance exceedingly wild, and her poor little heart beating almost to suffocation, she poked about the untidy and ugly drawing-room. She looked under sofas and behind curtains, and finally burst into tears.

“He is not here—he is gone! What will become of me?” she sobbed.

“Why,” said Dr Pyke, who had not recognised her at first, “why, surely I cannot be mistaken—you are one of the little girls from Abbeyfield! My dear child, sit down and tell my wife and me at once what is the matter.”

“Oh, I must not stay,” said Harriet, struggling to suppress her tears; “but I—oh, it is too dreadful!” And then she told, as best she could, the story of her day’s adventure. “I should not have done it,” she said in conclusion, “but it was so tempting, and I thought of course he would wait for me.”

“This, my dear,” said Dr Pyke, turning to his wife, when Harriet had finished speaking, “is one of my little patients at Abbeyfield. Her name is Harriet Lane, and I am thankful to say that, as a rule, she does not put many pennies into the doctor’s pocket; but, my dear child, if you give way like this you will be ill, and then I shall be the richer, and you the poorer. Come now, stop crying; of course you have done wrong, but doubtless you have no cause for alarm. The little boy, my dear wife, is little Ralph Durrant. His father—you must know his father’s name, of course—the Durrant, you know, the great African explorer. I have seen the little fellow, a most sweet little man. I am sure, my dear child, that we shall find your little friend safe at school. And now, if you will take my hand, I will bring you back to Abbeyfield, and try to explain what has occurred.”

“Oh, oh!” sobbed Harriet. “Oh, oh—I am too miserable. I am certain that Ralph—little Ralph, is lost!”

Book One—Chapter Twelve.

In the High Woods.

Alas! Harriet was right. When they reached the house, and when she wildly enquired of Miss Ford if Ralph were anywhere about, she was met by that astonished woman’s instant denial.

“Where have you been yourself?” said Miss Ford, speaking in great agitation. “We wondered what you and Ralph could be doing, and now you come here without him, and—and—Dr Pyke, you have brought her! Is anything wrong?”

“I greatly fear there is, Miss Ford,” said the doctor. “Please don’t scold this poor child at present. There is no doubt she has behaved very badly, but our immediate duty is to find the poor little fellow.”

“What poor little fellow? Oh, how you terrify me,” said Miss Ford.

“Little Ralph Durrant,” said the doctor. “The fact is, Harriet brought him to my house this afternoon—”

“You dared!” began Miss Ford.

“Oh yes,” said the doctor; “she dared a good deal. She was very naughty, we know that, but there’s no use in thinking of her at present. She left Ralph in my drawing-room, and when she came back for him, he was gone.”

“Oh!” said Miss Ford, “what is to be done?”

“You are certain he has not returned here?”

“Certain?” said the poor teacher; “of course I am certain. But I will go and enquire: I will look everywhere.”

Miss Ford did look. She searched the house; she questioned the maids, she went to Ralph’s own little bedroom, she even penetrated to that snug nest where Curly Pate lay like a ball of down. Nowhere was Ralph to be found. She came back at last, with a pale face, to the doctor.

“The child has not returned,” she said. “What is to be done?”

“We must lose no time,” said Dr Pyke. “Harriet—”

Harriet had seated herself on the first chair. She sat there huddled up. There is no other word to describe her appearance. Her hat was pushed forward over her eyes, and those eyes were red with crying. Now, however, her great terror prevented any further flow of tears.

“Harriet,” repeated the doctor, sternly.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know more about Ralph than I do. Have you the least—the slightest idea where he may have gone?”

Harriet thought of the gipsies. She remembered how she had promised Ralph to take him to see them; how she had failed in her promise.

“Perhaps,”—she said—“oh, I don’t know—but he was very much excited about the gipsies; he may have gone to them.”

“We will send at once to enquire,” said Miss Ford. “We must on no account wait until Mrs Burton returns; there is not an instant to lose.”

“I will go myself,” said the doctor. “I know where their encampment is. It is really scarcely likely that they have the child. Gipsies don’t often steal children now-a-days. We may find the little fellow anywhere. I will also call at the police station, and get the police to begin to search for him.”

When Dr Pyke left the house, Miss Ford turned to Harriet.

“A nice sort of school-mother you have made,” she said. “You don’t suppose that you will win your pony after this, you bad girl. Come with me at once into the third form parlour, and wait there until Mrs Burton returns. She will then decide what is to be done with you.”

“I don’t want any pony,” suddenly sobbed Harriet. “I only want Ralph. I know I am desperately naughty, but I don’t want anything in all the world now but Ralph.”

“It is easy for you to talk like that now that you have neglected the poor little fellow so shamefully, and disobeyed Mrs Burton’s strictest orders. Come with me at once, you bad child.”

Harriet went. So subdued was she, that she did not even hate Miss Ford for speaking to her in this way. A minute later, she found herself in the third form special parlour. One electric light was on. It threw a dim reflection over the scene. Harriet looked round at the familiar objects—the table in the middle, the story-books, the globes in their corner, the birds in their cages, and the parrot in his cage.

The small birds were all asleep. The books and toys, and tables and chairs could not move; but the parrot was wide awake, and very much alive. He hopped from side to side and looked hard at Harriet. At last, he screamed in a noisy, shrill tone:

“Mind what you’re about! Ha, ha! Mind what you’re about! Ha, ha!”

Poor Harriet. She flung herself down on the floor and cried as though her heart would break. She was only a little girl still, and not all bad. That pony with his side-saddle, that perfectly made habit, all the delights which she had sinned so deeply to obtain, would have been as ashes now in her mouth. She only wanted Ralph now, and Ralph was far away. Why had she behaved so badly? Oh what, what was happening?

Her agony became almost unendurable. Suddenly, she perceived that the door of the parlour had not been shut, that it was a little ajar. Why need she sit there? It was so awful to remain still; so frightful to do nothing at all.

She stole softly to the door, opened it, and peeped out. There was no one in the hall, and the hall door itself stood wide open.

“Mind what you’re about. Ha, ha!” shrieked the parrot.

But Harriet was in no mood to mind. She crossed the hall on tip-toe, rushed to the open door, drew a deep breath, and the next moment was skimming herself, light as a bird, over the ground in the direction of the gipsy encampment. Harriet could, indeed, run like the wind, and never had she ran faster than on this occasion.

“It was I,” she thought, “who caused him to be lost, so I will find him again; yes, I will find him if it kills me.”

Suddenly she drew up on the edge of a piece of common. Here only yesterday, surely, were many brown tents and many brown people. Here was this fascinating house on wheels of which she had spoken so much to little Ralph. But now—she could not believe her eyes!

The place was empty. She could see, even by the moonlight, patches of yellow grass which had been covered by the tents, and here and there she could also perceive a bone or two, or a scrap of broken bread. But not a gipsy was in sight, not a tent within view, not a dog, not a brown baby. The gipsies had gone! Why had they gone? They were there, she knew, that very afternoon, for she had seen the smoke curling up from the house on wheels, as she and Ralph had gone with Pattie to the village.

The gipsies had gone away quickly: of course they had taken Ralph with them. Now what was she to do? She stood still in a shadowy part of the field, and, as she did so, she distinctly heard the sound of wheels, and listening, there floated also to her ears the sound of many voices singing.

Her school-companions were returning from their picnic. They were coming back, as arranged, by moonlight. They were happy: they were enjoying themselves. Harriet distinctly heard Robina’s voice above the others. Robina had a clear voice like a bird. Her notes were very high. They seemed to rise up as though, like the larks, they would pierce the sky. Now they rose above the other voices in a sort of torrent of rejoicing. Harriet dug her fingers into her ears.

“Oh, how soon they will be back!” she thought; “and they will miss him, and they will know all about me, and oh—I can’t, can’t stand it! I will follow the gipsies. I wonder where they have gone.”

Harriet thought for a few minutes. The police had already been to visit that very field. They had gone there in Dr Pyke’s company, and they were taking steps to follow the gipsies on horseback. But Harriet knew something that the police did not know. One of the servants in the house had long ago been a gipsy girl herself; and Harriet, who was much fascinated by stories of the wild brown people, used to talk to this girl when she got a chance. The girl, from time to time, imparted some of the secrets of her people to Harriet. Amongst other things, she had told her of the favourite resting-places of her tribe. This special common was one. But there was another five miles away, in the very heart of a deep wood, where they used to go when they wanted to hide something. The police did not know of this place of refuge in the middle of the High Woods, as they were called; but Harriet remembered it now.

It was five miles away, and she was only a little girl, and she was tired. But what of that if it might be her privilege to find Ralph and bring him back? What mattered any amount of fatigue?

Cora had told her how to get to the hiding-place in the wood. She had described how difficult it was for an ordinary person to find it, but had given Harriet a full description of it in one of her moments of confidence.

“We often wanted to make ourselves scarce,” Cora would say, “and no one ever yet found us there. It was a bonny enough place, too, although the trees grew so thick around that we did not get much sunshine.”

Now Harriet started on her way to the gipsies’ hiding-place in the woods. She was glad of the moonlight, and glad to avoid the road. She crossed many fields, and by and by found herself in a lane with very, very high hedges. The hedges were so high that she could not see a scrap of the world on either side of her. She could only gaze at the stars overhead, and wonder, and wonder, what was going to happen. She might be going wrong for all she knew. But all of a sudden she saw something shining on the road. She stooped and picked it up. It was a child’s broken rattle—the sort of thing which a gipsy child might have.

Now she felt certain that she was on the track of the runaways, and this knowledge gave her confidence. It takes, however, a very long time for a small girl not twelve years of age to walk five miles; and it was long past midnight, and the moon in the sky had set, and real darkness had come over the world before Harriet reached the entrance to the woods.

The lane in which she found herself led straight to these very woods: and oh! if it had been dark in the lane, how black was it here. She found her heart beating, and for a short time had not courage to go on. But then she thought of Ralph. She thought of him so hard that he began to fill all her little world. She wanted him so badly that no pony that ever breathed was now of any consequence to her in comparison. Why should she fear the creatures in the wood? She had no room in her heart for fear.

So she moved gently forward, a little girl, all alone in the black wood! The creatures of the wood must have wondered, and no doubt most of them were very much afraid of her, and retired into their snug little wood homes on her approach. But she saw none of them.

At last she came to a clearing, and in the clearing she perceived what made her heart beat wildly. It was no less a creature than a dog. The gipsies must be close at hand.

The dog was lying on the ground dead asleep. But when Harriet approached, he started and growled. Harriet, led by she knew not what instinct, immediately put her hand on his head. He quivered all over. Whether he would have growled again or bitten her, no one can tell, but in despair she flung herself by his side, and whispered in his ear:

“Oh, do be quiet; I am so miserable!”

No one can quite tell what dogs understand, but certainly this dog growled no more. On the contrary, he licked Harriet’s hand with his hot tongue. She had at last found the gipsies, and she might stay where she was until the first light of the morning. Perhaps poor Harriet slept with her head on the dog’s shaggy neck, but even she herself was not quite sure on that point.

Early, very, very early in the morning, led by Jakes, the gipsies’ dog, she found the house on wheels. The gipsies were tired, and most of them asleep. But when Harriet approached the dogs all barked, and of course the gipsy men all started to their feet, and the toothless old crone came out of the house on wheels, and pretty Flavia followed her.

“What did the little lady want?” they asked. They were all quite inclined to be civil to the little girl.

“I want,” said Harriet, “my own little boy. I am his school-mother, and I want him back again.”

“Oh Harriet! Harriet!” cried Ralph’s little voice.

He popped his small head outside the house on wheels. Not even Flavia could keep him from Harriet now. In one minute he was in her arms, and she was kissing him—oh, with such a world of affection. Somehow, Ralph felt a difference in her kisses, and he loved her at last, and knew that he had not loved her at all before.

“Ralph, you must come home at once,” said Harriet.

“Now, my dear,” said the tall gipsy man who had lured Ralph away on the previous night; “this little boy belongs to us, don’t yer, little man?”

“No, I don’t,” said Ralph. “This is my school-mother, and I belong to her.”

“You had best let him come,” said Harriet, “for the police are looking for you, and you’ll get into dreadful hot water if you keep the little boy.”

“We took charge of him,” said the man, sulkily; but a frightened look crossed his face when Harriet spoke of the police. “He were a poor lonely little gent, and we took pity on him.”

“They were awfu’ kind to me!” said Ralph. “They’re very nice gipsy people; and see, they give me this.”

He showed his basket with great pride to Harriet.

“See!” he continued, “there’s things inside—a knife, and matches, and all sorts of other things.”

“That don’t matter now,” said Harriet. “You must come back; they’re dreadfully frightened about you at school, and so was I. Gipsy man,” said Harriet, looking up at the tall man, “will you please saddle a horse, and put Ralph on its back, and put me there too, for I am dreadfully tired, and take us to Abbeyfield, and please be quick.”

“When my father comes back,” said Ralph, “I will talk to him about you, gipsy man, and about you, pretty gipsy lady.” Here he took Flavia’s hand. “And he shall give you money—much—and big money; and I will come and see you again, for I love you all.”

“We’d best take him back,” said the man, looking at the toothless old crone, “or we’ll get into trouble with the per-lice.”

“Yes,” said Harriet, gravely, “and you had best be quick.”

So early in the morning the children went back to the school on the gipsy’s tall horse, and the gipsy himself led them. Ralph talked all the way back, and was very gay and very happy; and when he parted from the gipsy man he insisted on kissing him, which surprised that person very much.

“Good-bye, little master,” he said, in rather a shamefaced way.

“Good-bye,” said Ralph. “And Father will give you money: I’ll see he do.”

Thus Ralph returned after his great adventure and Harriet and he went together, side by side, into Mrs Burton’s private sitting-room. There Harriet told all.

“I don’t want the pony,” she said in conclusion; “and I’m not a bit fit to be a school-mother! But I love him all the same.”

“I must punish you, Harriet,” said Mrs Burton. “I should not do my duty else. For the remainder of the term, Robina will be Ralph’s school-mother; but you shall see him every day, and it remains with Ralph himself to decide whether he loves you in future or not.”

“Oh, don’t I love her just this very instant-minute,” said Ralph: and he flung his arms round Harriet’s neck. Thus Harriet found out what real love meant. She found it out in her pain, the pain she had suffered during that lonely night—she found it out also in her joy—the joy that had come to her when she saw Ralph again.

The pony and the habit and the side-saddle did not matter a bit to Harriet now, for she had more—the true heart of Ralph himself. Love can destroy jealousy and all bad things in the heart. So it was with Harriet, even though Robina became the little boy’s school-mother, and even though she won the big prize. Harriet was happy.

Book Two—Chapter One.

A Delightful Proposal.

When Ralph Durrant’s father came for him on the day of the great break-up at the school, he found a little boy who said with emphasis that he had several school-mothers, and that he did not wish to say good-bye to any of them. This state of things rather puzzled Mr Durrant, whose one desire in life was to make Ralph intensely happy.

“How am I to manage such a lot of mothers, little man?” he said.

“You must, Father,” replied Ralph. “There is my naughty school-mother—her name is Harriet. She is both naughty and good, and I love her like anything. And there is my beautiful, good school-mother—Robina; and I want not to say good-bye to either of them. I s’pose,” continued Ralph, “that Robina must have the pony; only I wish there were two ponies—”

But here Mrs Burton interfered.

“Ralph,” she said, “I have something to say to your father. Run away for a short time and play with Curly Pate, my dear.”

Ralph, who had been excellently trained by Robina, ran immediately out of the room. Mr Durrant turned and faced Mrs Burton.

“Well,” he said, with a smile, “my little scheme seems to have answered. Ralph was fretting a good deal when I brought him here. He had been badly managed at home: none of his aunts understood him. He missed his dear mother,—who died two years ago,—more than words can say. It was not that he fretted about her, for the dear little man was too young to fret, but he just missed the mothering part of life which all little children need and cannot do without. His aunts are good, but old-fashioned people, and they failed just where they most meant to succeed. Now, I see a dear, healthy, happy little boy, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes. I have to thank you, Mrs Burton, for a great deal.

“You know that I must leave him very soon to return to South Africa. You know, too, that my work while there, leads me into very possible dangers: in fact, I think I may add into certain dangers; and if it were possible to secure a permanent home for my little man in your house, I should love to do so.”

“But this is a school for girls,” said Mrs Burton, with a smile.

“Still, one little boy—my dear friend—one little motherless boy, not six years of age—”

“He is a baby,” said Mrs Burton, “and we all love him. I will think it over.”

“Do, my dear friend. I can scarcely tell you what a weight of care will be lifted from my mind if you will allow me to send Ralph back here at the end of the holidays. But in the meantime, what is this talk about several school-mothers, and in especial about two; one naughty—one whom he loves very dearly, and one good—one whom he also seems to adore? Am I really to give two ponies, two side-saddles, two habits, and provide for the keep of two of these little animals for many years? If you can prove to me that such an action on my part is necessary, I will gladly give not two, but twenty, ponies to Ralph’s little mothers in this school.”

“You are so generous, Mr Durrant, that you would really spoil all my little girls if you were allowed to have your own way,” said the headmistress. “The fact is, this your proposal with regard to the pony was so tempting and so unlooked for, that it very nearly turned the head and the heart of one child in this school. That child—your little boy will tell you her name, so there is no use in my withholding it—is called Harriet Lane. She behaved as she ought not to have done; and although circumstances occurred—which I will also tell you later on—that so terrified her and so appealed to her conscience that she is very much improved now; nevertheless it would never do to give her a pony. You must keep to your decision, Mr Durrant, one pony for one girl, and one school-mother for little Ralph.”

“Very well,” said Mr Durrant. “But I suppose I may do something else for the would-be school-mothers.”

He talked a little longer with Mrs Burton, and the result of this conference was that just before break-up on that lovely summer’s day, the great African explorer made a proposal to the school. It was this:

“I have heard a great deal,” said Mr Durrant, standing on a platform and looking at all the eager faces, “about your goodness to my little boy. I have further heard that the girls of the third form have each in turn acted as his school-mother.”

“Oh yes—oh yes!” said Ralph, coming forward now, and speaking with great eagerness: “I has got eight mothers, and I don’t want to lose one of them. My bestest mothers are my naughty one and my goodest one. Robina is my goodest one, and Harriet is my naughtiest one: I love them best, but I love all the others too.”

“You, I think, are Robina Starling,” said Mr Durrant, fixing his eyes on Robina’s face.

“Yes, sir;” she answered.

“And you have taken good care of my little boy.”

“I love Ralph very much, sir,” said Robina simply.

“And you, too, love him,” said Mr Durrant, turning his eyes by a sort of instinct in the direction where Harriet stood, Harriet still looking pale and lanky and different from the rest of her school-fellows.

“Yes,” said Harriet, with a sort of choke in her voice; “I care for Ralph.”

Little Ralph himself looked full at her. He ran up to her now and took her hand.

“Don’t think about your naughtiness,” he whispered to her. “You is forgived, you know.”

Harriet squeezed the little hand and then let it go. There was a lump in her throat. She could not imagine why Ralph Durrant—a little, little boy—had such power over her.

“And the rest of you are mothers too,” said Mr Durrant, looking from one to the other.

“We all love Ralph,” they answered.

“Well now: I have a proposal to make. I am taking a house at the seaside—a very nice country house for the holidays; and I want to know if all the school-mothers can come and stay with Ralph and me in my house. You are all invited. Will you come? There will be the pony for the special school-mother—for you, Robina. The pony which will be your property, and which you can ride as much as you like, and as long as you like, and lend to your companions when you wish to be good-natured, will be with you. And there will be donkeys—excellent donkeys for the rest of you, and also bicycles, and also a waggonette, and a governess cart; so I think there will be no difficulty in your getting about; and I can promise you beforehand that I am a first-rate person for managing picnics; and that my cook-housekeeper, Mrs Joseph, is famous for her cakes, pies, and puddings; and that my other housekeeper, Mrs Scott, will see to your wardrobes and look after your other comforts. But I wish to warn you beforehand, that there will be no lady in the house. There will be no grown-up lady-woman in my house, so you children will have to look out for storms; for I can be, when I like, a very fierce man, and if there are really naughty children, I can make it unpleasant for them. There, my dear little girls, I am only joking—”

“Father’s awful at his jokes,” interrupted Ralph at that moment. “You is silly, father; you know that you is never cross.”

“Perhaps,” said Mr Durrant, “you had better, girls, take Ralph’s estimate of my character. Anyhow, come those of you who wish to try me, and stay away, those of you who are afraid. The house will be ready to receive you in a fortnight from now. During that time, Ralph and I will enjoy ourselves together. This day fortnight, we shall both be prepared to welcome you at Sunshine Lodge. I am calling the house by that name in advance, for I mean to have the sunshine in it day and night; and by the special sort of sun that I allude to, I mean Kindness, Charity, Unselfishness, Forbearance; and last, but not least, Love. I mean, too, that Pleasure should enter the house—nice, jolly Pleasure—and that Care should keep her wrinkled old face out-of-doors. I mean, in order to secure these things, to have a certain amount of discipline in the house, but that I shall exercise myself, and in my own way. Now, all those who wish to come to Sunshine Lodge, have the kindness to hold up their hands. Those who do not wish to come can keep their hands down.”

“In course you will all come!” said Ralph. “It’s Father’s way to talk like that; but he’s awfu’ jolly, is Father!”

“Yes: I believe I am jolly,” said Mr Durrant. “You had best take Ralph’s estimate of me: it is fair, on the whole. Now girls: who’ll come? who’ll stay?”

Was there an instant’s hesitation? Every hand was raised: every eye said “Yes.” Every mouth shouted, “I am going!” Every little heart quivered with excitement.

“Then you will all come: you will all trust me,” said Mr Durrant. “Now you need not trouble any more about the matter. Get ready for the fun; for fun it will be, I assure you—fun, fast and furious; fun from morning till night, and in a certain sense from night till morning. I will get the addresses of your parents from Mrs Burton, and will write to them individually, and I think I can promise that there won’t be one refusal. The eight little mothers shall join Ralph and me at Sunshine Lodge in a fortnight. And now, my dears, good-bye for the present.”

Mr Durrant took Ralph’s hand as he spoke. Ralph turned, however, as they were leaving that sunny part of the grounds where this animated and exciting scene had just taken place.

“Good-bye, mothers: good-bye, all of you!” shouted Ralph, kissing his hand frantically to the eight little girls.

He disappeared round the corner, a proud little figure in his pretty costume, and the school-girls looked one at the other.

Book Two—Chapter Two.

Robina at Home.

The next day, the different girls went to their several homes. Robina had to make a longer journey than the others; but she arrived at length at the somewhat solitary house on the borders of Wales where she lived with her father and mother, and two little sisters.

Robina’s mother was one of those rather trying invalids who without ever being in any danger yet manage to make all those around them uncomfortable. Now, Robina loved her mother, but she never managed to be an hour in her presence without rubbing the poor invalid the wrong way. Mrs Starling said that this big, firm, almost manly sort of child was too much for her. She did not mind the two little girls sitting in her shaded room and playing quietly with their toys. Now and then, she even permitted them to climb up on her sofa and pat her pale cheeks, and kiss her hands. But Robina was too lively and too full of vitality for this sort of existence; and, as Mrs Starling was fond of remarking, she tired her out without meaning to do so.

Now poor little Robina loved her mother passionately, and it was one of her secret troubles that she could not manage to make that mother happy. Mrs Starling had been an invalid for so long that her sister, Miss Felicia Jennings, had charge of the house; and Miss Felicia was also the sort of person who had the power of rubbing Robina the wrong way.

She was a very fussy woman who was so fond of saying ‘Don’t’ that Robina wondered if she had any other word in her vocabulary.

“Now, Robina,” she said on the present occasion, the moment the little girl entered the house—“don’t make so much noise: walk quietly; go up to your room, and don’t slam the door; also—don’t neglect to put your boots outside on the mat, so that Fanny may take them down in good time to get them cleaned. And, Robina—don’t forget to wash your hands and brush your hair, and don’t on any account fail to remember that your mother has a bad headache and cannot have noise or excitement in her room.”

“I am not going to make any noise; and I will try not to be excited,” said Robina. “I have been very happy at school, Aunt Felice, and people haven’t said such a lot of ‘don’ts’ to me. I think it is ‘don’t’ makes me so naughty when I am at home.”

“Well—don’t oblige me to say ‘Don’t,’” was Aunt Felicia’s remark.

Robina ran upstairs. She was never cross at school. Why did she feel irritation the very moment she got home? She had looked forward very much to her holidays. She had all sorts of schemes in her practical little brain for improving and rendering life agreeable to little Violet and little Rose, her two small sisters.

She had quite expected that Violet and Rose would be waiting to welcome her. She had pictured them to herself all during the long, hot journey to Wales.

Violet was five years old, and a very pretty little girl. Curly Pate had always more or less reminded Robina of Violet. And then there was Rose, who was not yet four years old, and who was a very delicate little child and rather fractious. Rose in some sort of intangible manner recalled Harriet to Robina’s memory; for she was lanky, and thin, and had poor little weak legs, and a weak sort of crying voice, and people said that she took after her mother, and would never be specially good for anything.

Before she went to school, Robina had much preferred to play with Violet, and had often left Rose more or less out in the cold. But now she resolved to correct all this, and to try to get to understand little Rose, and to add to the happiness of her life.

“For if I don’t,” thought Robina, “she may grow up like Harriet: she may even learn to be deceitful, and that would never do. Oh, I know—I know quite well the person who is better than all the rest of us put together at the school, and that person is Ralph. Who else would have changed Harriet, and made her so that she could even bear to allow me to be Ralph’s school-mother, and yet to love little Ralph all the time? I must own that I do not love Harriet even now; but I suppose it is wrong of me; anyhow, I see that there are possibilities of good in her; and I will be very good to little Rose during the fortnight that I am at home because of Harriet.”

But Violet and Rose were both in bed, although they had pleaded very hard indeed to be let stay up, and Mrs Starling was not considered well enough to be disturbed by Robina that evening. Robina’s father was not at home, and there was no one, therefore, to welcome the little girl except Aunt Felicia.

“It is dull,” thought Robina. “I am glad that I am going to Sunshine Lodge in a fortnight: I wonder if the invitation has come yet. How jolly we shall all be when we are there! If mother were really glad to see me, and if Rose and Violet were up, I should be a very happy girl this evening; but as it is—”

Robina entered her rather bare and decidedly ugly bedroom, tossed her hat on the bed, went to the small cracked looking-glass in order to see how to put her thick hair straight, and then was preparing to run downstairs again, when she saw the nursery room door very softly opened, and a little figure peeped out.

“I am in my nighty, and so is Rose; but we’re both ’ide awake,” said Violet’s voice. “Oo’s come back, Wobbin. Come and kiss us; do, do!”

“Oh, you darlings! you pets!” said Robina.

She went noisily into the nursery, and alack! and alas! the next minute the door slammed after her. Violet’s little rosy face turned pale, and the real Rose began to cry.

“Aunt Felice will come up and scold!” said Violet. “Oh, put us into bed, do! and don’t go away—please, please, Wobina!”

“No, I won’t,” said Robina. “I don’t mind a bit whether I’m scolded or not. Of course, I didn’t mean to slam the door. You little darlings, both of you! You sweet pets! Here I am back again, and won’t we have good times! I have some chocolates for you in a corner of my school trunk: I bought it out of the savings of my pocket-money; and it is right good, I can tell you.”

“All keemy in middle?” enquired Rose, in a voice of great eagerness.

“Yes,” said Robina, “and browny outside.”

“Can’t us have some now?” asked Violet.

“I will try,” said Robina. “You lie quite still, and pretend to be asleep, and I’ll bring you some in a minute or two. Aunt Felice couldn’t have heard the door slam, or she would be up here on the landing by now. Oh dear! oh dear! I’ll creep out ever so quietly. Now, mum’s the word. Stay as still as mice, you two, until I return.”

Two eager pairs of eyes in the midst of two small wide awake faces followed Robina as she went to the nursery door. She opened it softly, and shut it behind her. In a minute or two, she was back with the chocolates, and each little child was made intensely happy. Robina promised all sorts of good things on the morrow—pick-a-back was one; and oh! there was a wonderful secret: something amazing was going to happen: for of course Robina knew well that the pony with the side-saddle and the habit would arrive early the next day. He could not be objected to, for part of the prize was that all his expenses were to be paid.

There was an old stable at the back of the house where he could lodge, and the services of a special man were to be secured to look after him. The thought of the pony comforted Robina immensely on that first evening at home. When she sat opposite to Aunt Felicia at supper, it occurred to her to mention it.

“Aunt Felice,” she said, “I have got a great piece of news for you.”

“What is that, my dear Robina? Don’t put your elbow on the table; it is so unladylike; and I wish, my dear, you would not have that habit of opening your mouth when you are not speaking. You ought to say the old phrase, ‘Papa, potatoes, prunes and prism’ constantly to yourself. There is nothing for keeping the mouth in a nice shape like uttering the word ‘prism.’”

“I can’t, really, Aunt Felice. I am not made that way,” said Robina. “I can’t be worried about my mouth.”

“There you are,” said Aunt Felice, “always so headstrong, rough, and disagreeable. Now, don’t frown! It really makes you look like a fright. Your poor mother quite dreads the thought of having you in the house; you are so undisciplined and wayward.”

“I was thought quite a good girl at school,” said Robina.

“Then that was because none of them really knew you.”

“I think they knew me very well. You have to be your real self at school, Aunt Felice.”

“Then may I ask, miss, if that is the case, why you are not your real self at home?”

“I am afraid I have got two selves, and I am my worst self at home, because I am rubbed the wrong way.”

“Indeed!” said Miss Jennings. “That is nice hearing. And who rubs you the wrong way?”

“I know you will be very angry with me, Aunt Felicia; but you do.”

“Robina: this is really more than I can stand. You don’t speak in that impertinent way to me any more: you have no respect for those older and better than yourself, Robina. I don’t say for a moment that you have not your good points. You are a clever, strong, intelligent child, but you are too independent: that is what is the matter with you.”

Robina fidgetted.

“Don’t push your things about on your plate like that!” said Miss Felicia: “and oh! don’t kick me with your long legs under the table! You really are most objectionable in your manners—such a rough sort of girl.”

“Come, Auntie,” said Robina suddenly, “I have been thinking a lot of my return home. I have never been to school before, and these are my very first holidays, and anyhow, there is jolly good news—”

“Don’t say jolly! It is a most unladylike expression.”

“Oh, I must talk a little slang. I can’t be too proper. Besides, ‘jolly’ is accepted now as the most correct English. ‘Awfully jolly’ is a lovely phrase.”

“It is a misnomer, and abominable. Don’t ever say ‘awfully jolly’ in my presence.”

“I will try not to,” said Robina aloud. To herself, she whispered: “I won’t be tempted: things never are awfully jolly when she is about.”

“May I tell you the nice thing that has happened?” she said, after a pause.

“Don’t spill that jam, Robina. See, you are dropping the juice on the table-cloth. Now then, what is your news? I don’t suppose it is worth anything.”

“To begin with: I am going away on a visit in a fortnight.”

“Indeed?” said Miss Jennings. “That is so likely: little girls do go away on visits without the permission of their elders. That is the modern tendency, I am well aware, but it has not taken root in this house so far.”

“Mr Durrant has invited me,” said Robina, “and I know father and mother will let me go: I am not a bit afraid on that point. Mr Durrant will manage it.”

“Who is Mr Durrant?”

“He is the Durrant, you know: everyone speaks of him. He is one of the greatest men in England at the present day.”

Miss Jennings stared hard at her niece.

“Up to the present,” she said, “I always did think you were truthful: but I cannot quite believe that the great African explorer, whose thrilling book I could scarcely lay down when once I began to read it, would take any notice of an inconsequent, silly little girl like yourself.”

“Oh, but he has,” said Robina, in a careless tone. “He is very fond of me. I am his little boy’s mother, you know.”

“Robina: don’t open your lips for the remainder of this meal. Lies I will not stand.”

Robina whispered ‘prism’ under her breath, and sat mute with her hands folded. After a time, Miss Jennings asked if she wished for anything more. She shook her head.

“Are you satisfied? Are you no longer hungry?” Robina nodded.

“Then leave the room.”

Robina did so. The next minute she was out of the house, and had rushed round to the stables.

“Jim!” she said to the man who had charge of the old grey horse and the very humble chaise which was the only conveyance known at Heather House—the name of Robina’s home. “Jim: there is a very beautiful pony coming here to-morrow; or he may not arrive till the next day. He is mine; and I want him to have a stable all to himself, and I want to hire a proper groom to see after him. Do you know any nice boy in the village who can be trained to look after my pony?”

Jim, who had always a secret admiration for Miss Robina as a fine, manly sort of young lady who could ride old Dobbin bareback from the time she could walk, and whom he had secretly provided with many a less safe seat on neighbours’ horses, now answered with alacrity:

“You don’t mean, miss, as Mr Starling has gone and bought you a pony of your own?”

“No, Jim; nothing of the sort. It is such a comfort to confide in you, Jim: I won the pony as a prize at school.”

“Lawk-a-mercy!” said Jim: “what queer prizes they do have at that school, now!”

“Shall I tell you how I won it? I was good to a child.”

“Lor! miss.”

“A dear little boy. I am his school-mother. He chose me—or rather, he didn’t choose me first, but I became his school-mother afterwards; and the prize was a pony and a side-saddle. You will have me skimming all over the country now when I am at home, Jim. I’ll be worse to manage than ever.”

“But miss, there is the master. How do you know as he’ll let you keep a pony?”

“Oh, that is all right,” said Robina. “The gentleman who has given him is going to pay all his expenses. He is quite a rich gentleman, and he doesn’t mind what he spends. So I want a very nice groom indeed.”

“I wish I could do for him, miss,” said Jim. “I would with a heart and a half, but the master wouldn’t spare a minute of my time; and even if he would. Miss Jennings wouldn’t hear of it. She is very particular, miss, and works a man real hard.”

“Robina, come in this minute!” called a shrill voice at that moment, “and don’t stand talking with Jim. Jim; how dare you idle your time! Have you cleaned out the hen’s roost? and have you put down fresh straw for the laying hen? and what about the ducks, Jim? and don’t forget that you are to go to the village early in the morning to get some fresh corn for the young turkeys. Robina, come here this minute: don’t dawdle: come quickly.”

“I was talking to Jim,” said Robina, “about my pony.”

“Your what?” asked Miss Felicia.

“My pony: you would not let me tell you at supper time: you snapped me up so short. I have got such a lovely pony as a prize!”

“You dare to tell me such things!”

“But, Aunt Felicia, it is true. I have got a pony. I haven’t seen him yet, but I know he is going to be a perfect darling, and there’s a side-saddle coming too, and a habit made from my own measurements. My measurements were taken before I left school, so the habit will fit me perfectly, and will allow room for growing.”

“The pony may come,” said Miss Felicia: “but if it comes, it goes. Do you suppose for a single moment—you silly, selfish, thoughtless child—that your poor father, who has such expenses owing to your dear mother’s sad condition of health, can afford to keep a pony for you? If anyone is fool enough to send the animal here it goes back again.”

“I am certain father won’t send it away,” said Robina, “for it will cost no one anything. Mr Durrant—the Durrant—for I have told no lies, Aunt Felicia—is going to provide for all the expenses of my pony. He spoke to me about it; and there is to be a groom engaged to look after my darling; and when I go away in a fortnight’s time to Sunshine Lodge, my pony comes with me, and father will never be one penny out of pocket as far as my pony is concerned.”

“Dear, dear! Tut, tut!” said Miss Felicia. “Go into the house, Robina. You are either telling the most shocking lies, or something too marvellous has happened. I am inclined to believe in your want of truth, Robina, and if this is proved to be the case, your punishment will be exceedingly heavy.”

Book Two—Chapter Three.

A Surprise.

Late that night, Mr Starling returned home. He was a heavily built, rather dull looking man. He was a gentleman living on his private means, and as these means were small, and he was far too lazy to add to them, the young Starlings had to do without the good things of life.

His house was decidedly ramshackle; his grounds neglected; his stables in shocking disorder, and his one groom and factotum, Jim, sadly overworked.

Nevertheless, Edward Starling managed on the whole to enjoy life. He was fond of golf, and spent nearly all his time over this fascinating and absorbing amusement. Had Robina been willing to take up golf, he would scarcely have induced himself to send her to school; but as it was, he did so for the sake of peace of mind.

Robina was troublesome at home. She was too large and strong and determined for the invalid mother, and she was always rubbing the excellent, indefatigable aunt the wrong way. Mr Starling was, however, fond of Robina. He liked her bold, free, frank manners. He enjoyed her little tiffs with Aunt Felicia, and rather encouraged them than otherwise, and the very first thing he asked now when he entered the house was if his daughter had returned.

“Yes;” said Miss Jennings, who made it an invariable rule to sit up for her brother-in-law, however late he returned home. “Yes,” she said, yawning, “Oh, dear me, Edward! Don’t leave that muddy mark in the hall; I have such trouble getting those flags kept in order: and oh—don’t put your pipe down there! I can’t endure the smell of smoke. I am very sorry that I am so sensitive, but neither I nor my dear sister can abide tobacco.”

Mr Starling slipped the pipe back into his pocket. “There!” said his sister-in-law, springing up. “It isn’t properly out, and will burn a hole, and then I shall have the trouble of mending it. You won’t consider things, Edward. You are so thoughtless. Oh, I am the very last person to complain, but what was I saying?”

“Talking about Robina. Is she home?”

“Home?” said Miss Jennings. “Yes; thank goodness, hours ago, and in bed and asleep.”

“I can’t take a peep at her, I suppose? How is the young monkey looking?”

“Whatever you do, Edward—don’t disturb her! She is such a queer, excitable creature.”

“She is well, I suppose?”

“Yes; that is—her body is; I am by no means sure about her mind.”

“Her mind?” said Starling. “Has anything gone wrong with that?”

“You will find out for yourself when you talk to her. She certainly has the most frightful cock-and-bull stories to tell us. What an extraordinary school it must be! Robina is full of an invitation she has received from some impostor who has taken the name of the great Mr Durrant, and she also speaks of a pony arriving here to-morrow. Of course the child is dreaming, but if her lies are proved to be lies, I shall punish her severely. I am, however, just, before all things, and wait before I administer the rod. On the whole, Edward, I do not congratulate you on Robina’s return: we shall have a sorry time with her during these holidays, and so far, school has the reverse of improved her.”

“You always were doleful, Felicia,” said her brother-in-law: “but as it is close on one o’clock, I will go to my room, and consider Robina’s iniquities in the morning—that is, if you have no objection.”

“Objection?” cried Miss Jennings—“when I am just dying for my bed! You men have no heart and no consideration. Here have I been sitting up waiting for you all this long, weary time, with my eyes weighted as though there was lead on the lids, and my back bowed with aching. But much you care.”

“I wish to goodness you would go to bed, and leave me alone,” said the irate man.

“Not I;” she replied, “to have the house burgled in your absence, or set on fire when you return, with the careless way you manage that pipe of yours.”

“Well: I’m off to bed now, Felicia. If you do choose to sit up, it isn’t my fault.” And the master of the house ran upstairs three steps at a time. Even his sister-in-law’s “Don’t make so much noise” failed to impress him in any way.

He reached his bedroom, got rapidly into bed, and fell asleep chuckling over “that monkey Robina,” as he called her.

By the first post the next morning, there arrived two letters, both of immense interest to Robina. She had got up early and was, if the truth must be known, eagerly watching for the post. She saw the letters when they arrived, and had a sort of intuition that they contained news which would be of vital interest to her. But as they were addressed to her father, she could do nothing towards gratifying her curiosity until he appeared.

She was dressed that morning in one of her neat school frocks, and looked very bonny, and strong, and self-reliant. The two little sisters were eagerly clamouring round her.

“Take my hand, Wobbin. Wobbin, let’s wun acwoss garden!” cried little Rose.

“Oh, Robin! I don’t talk as badly as that,” said the more important Violet.

Robina sat down on the window-sill, and played to her heart’s content with the two. In this attitude Miss Jennings found them.

“Now, Robina—I forbid you to spoil those children. Violet don’t attempt to cry, or you shall leave the room. Rose, put on your pinafore at once, miss. Now come to the table, all three of you, and let us begin breakfast.”

Miss Jennings seated herself by the tea-tray. She littered a short grace, and then porridge was dispensed. Little Rose could not bear porridge, and at once began to whimper.

“Don’t cry!” said Miss Jennings. “If you do, you leave the room.”

“Eat up just a little bit, darling,” whispered Robina. “I have such jolly things to tell you afterwards. Has father come home?” continued Robina, fixing her eyes on her aunt’s face.

“Of course he has come home, my dear: why shouldn’t he come home? Don’t, I beg of you, Robina, ask silly questions. Your father has no other house to sleep in, therefore when he is sleepy, he comes home. He is in bed at the present moment, and goodness only knows when he will come down to breakfast.”

“Oh, I hope he will come down soon!” said Robina, “for I want him to open his letters.”

“Very impertinent and forward of you! Your father’s letters are not your concern.”

“Not always,” replied Robina, calmly, and helping herself to strawberry jam: “but those two happen to be.”

“Have you been trying to read them through the envelopes?”

“No: but I looked at the postmarks.”

Miss Jennings was silent for an awful moment. Then she said, impressively:

“Little girls; listen to me.”

The two children looked up expectantly.

“Never at any time copy the ways of your elder sister unless you wish to be whipped.”

Violet smiled rather vaguely. Rose’s little pale face grew paler. She nestled close to Robina.

“I ’uv oo, Wobbin,” she said then, in a low, tremulous whisper.

“Bravely spoken, darling,” whispered Robina back to her; and at that moment, to the relief of every one, Mr Starling entered the room.

His big presence and bright personality made a pleasing diversion.

“Hullo, monkey!” he said, the minute he saw Robina. “So you are back once more—the proverbial bad penny, eh?”

He pinched her cheek. “’Pon my word, you are looking fine! And how do you like school, monkey? and how is every bit of you? Glad to have you back: expect we’ll have some fun now.”

“Sit down, Edward, and don’t keep Robina standing any longer,” said Miss Jennings.

Mr Starling winked solemnly at his daughter, and took his seat.

“Hallo! What are these?” he said, as he saw his letters.

“They are for you, father,” said Robina, eagerly: “but I think they are about me.”

“About you, monkey! How can you know?”

“Don’t encourage her. Edward, don’t read those letters at present,” said Miss Jennings.

“Oh, please do, father,” said Robina.

“Peese, farzer, peese!” said little Rose. And “Please, father!” came in a more pronounced voice from Violet.

To the relief of everyone at that moment Miss Jennings received a hasty summons to run upstairs to her invalid sister. The moment she left the room, Mr Starling seized the first letter.

“Here goes!” he said. “When the cat’s away—now then, monkey, and you two, listen to me.”

He tore open Mr Durrant’s letter, glanced through the contents, uttered a hasty exclamation, and then proceeded to read it aloud.

“My dear Sir:—I have a very great favour to ask of you. I want to know if you will spare your dear girl, Robina, to me for the greater part of these holidays. I have just secured a charming house at Eastbourne, quite above the town, and in a comparatively country place. I don’t know what its real name is, and what is more, I don’t care; but while Robina is with us, it is to be called Sunshine Lodge. I am expecting also a number of her young school-companions to visit me. Mine will be a bachelor’s establishment, but it will be enlivened by the presence of my little boy, who is Robina’s very great friend, and whom she has managed to be uncommonly kind to. She will doubtless herself tell you the story of her friendship for my little son. In consequence of that, I have the very great pleasure of awarding to her a prize which she has most justly won. It was open to the competition of all her form, and she out of the eight girls came first in the list. My little son, Ralph, himself decided the matter. This prize is a pony which I am forwarding to your residence, Heather House. I bought it at Tattersall’s yesterday, and believe that it is a thoroughly sound and well-trained animal, accustomed to carrying a lady in the saddle. It has no tricks, and is altogether safe, and also spirited. The animal is not too large, and at the same time, not too small, so that it can be made use of not only when your little girl is still a child, but by and by, when she reaches woman’s estate. A habit has been made for her, of the newest design, and safety pattern, and was forwarded yesterday from Poole’s, in London. It ought to reach her about the time when you receive this letter. A side-saddle, of the most comfortable make, accompanies the pony. I am sending the pony and saddle by a man of my own, whom I hope you will make arrangements to quarter either in your establishment or in rooms near. The man is part of the prize. He undertakes all the care of the pony, and is, of course, paid by me. His wages need not trouble you in any manner, for you, my dear sir, have nothing to do with them. I am well aware, that, delightful as ponies are, they may sometimes arrive at country houses where they are not welcome for reasons which need not be described. It would be a shabby present on my part, if I put you to any expense with regard to it. My man will provide the pony with all necessary provender, and will send me the bill monthly.

“All these things, my dear sir, your daughter has earned by her most admirable conduct; and believe me, I am very much her debtor, and shall always remain so, for she has done for the dearest being on earth to me, more than money can ever repay.

“Believe me, Dear Sir,—

“Yours faithfully,—

“Malcolm Durrant.”

“Oh!” said Robina, when the long letter had come to an end.

“Upon my word?” exclaimed her father.

He took up the other letter. It was merely an announcement that a horse of the name of “Bo-peep” was about to be forwarded by rail from Paddington that evening, and would arrive with his groom at the nearest station to Heather House at eleven o’clock the following morning.

“Why, the pony will be here in an hour!” said Mr Starling. “Dear! dear! dear! What a truly exciting, remarkable thing! Robina, monkey: what am I to make of you?”

Just then, Miss Jennings came into the room.

“Haven’t you done breakfast yet?” she said. “Oh, don’t make such confusion in the room, and don’t talk all of you at once.”

“We have something to talk about,” said her brother-in-law. “This child—this monkey of mine, has made her mark in the world already. She has got a pony of her own.”

“I have heard of it,” said Miss Jennings. “You do not intend to be such a fool as to keep it, Edward.”

“Keep it? I have nothing to do with it. The pony, Bo-peep by name, arrives with his own special groom, and the groom is found food and lodging and paid wages by Mr Durrant—Malcolm Durrant, the great traveller and explorer. I have no expense whatever with the pony. He belongs to Robina, and she has won him by doing some extraordinarily kind action—what, I cannot make out. For goodness’ sake, my dear Felicia, don’t get so excited. It is my turn to say ‘don’t’ to you now. Keep out of the way, if the news is not welcome to you. The pony is coming, and we can’t prevent its coming; it will be here in no time, and the children and Robina will, if I am not greatly mistaken, spend a small part of to-day trying his paces.”

“Then your two young children will be killed!” said Miss Felicia, folding her hands and standing stock-still for a minute and then preparing to leave the room.

A timid laugh from Violet, and a shriek of dismay from Rose greeted this utterance. But Robina clasped Rose in her arms.

“Oh, my pretty sweet!” she said. “Bo-peep won’t kill you. I will get into the side-saddle, and you shall sit in front of me, and I will put my arm round your waist, and you’ll be as steady and safe as old Time.”

“As Ole Time!” echoed Rose, the tears arrested in her eyes.

“There is another bit of news, and you may as well have it first as last,” said Miss Jennings’ brother-in-law. “Robina leaves us in less than a fortnight, to spend the rest of her holidays at a place called Sunshine Lodge.”

“And you permit this?” said Miss Felicia.

“Am I likely to refuse Malcolm Durrant?” was the response.

Miss Felicia felt vanquished; for even she respected Malcolm Durrant. She left the room.

Book Two—Chapter Four.

The Pony Conquers.

The pony was a beauty. He was a glossy chestnut, with a white star on his forehead. He had gentle and wonderful eyes, and a way of raising his feet from the ground, which showed his high breeding. His different points were pronounced first-rate. In short, Bo-peep was a success. He took not only Robina herself, but the entire family of Starlings by storm. The very moment he arrived, he walked straight into their hearts. But his most marvellous conquest was that of Miss Felicia Jennings. That lady would not admit it for the world, but the fact was, that Malcolm Durrant was her hero of heroes. For years she had followed his career with the deepest and most absorbing interest. She had lived in his adventures; she had read every word he ever wrote; her maiden heart had thrilled through and through over his dangers and wild adventures, and, in short, she could deny nothing to the person who had so captivated her fancy.

She pretended, it is true, to be snappish and disagreeable about Bo-peep; but when alone with this captivating little animal, she fed him on apples, carrots, and stroked his nose, and even said foolish nothings into his ear. Bo-peep also look a fancy to her, and trotted up to her when she came in view, and thrust his nose into her hand.

Robina was not more tolerated than usual, but that was of small consequence; for Bo-peep could do what he liked with the household. The first day of his arrival passed in a sort of universal rejoicing. Robina rode him with much majesty, and a lofty expression of face. Her little sisters in turn sat before her on the side-saddle. Her friends from the nearest house came to see, wonder, and congratulate.

The groom, Peter by name, was very nearly as much admired as was Bo-peep himself. Mr Starling openly announced that he had never enjoyed himself so much before. Peter was likely to prove a most valuable acquisition to the family, and the only thing that was regretted was the groom’s determination never to eat food in the kitchen.

“Your tea will be always ready for you in case you wish for it,” Miss Felicia was heard to say.

But Peter replied stoutly that he had his orders, and that, in fact, he had already secured for himself a room over the saddler’s shop in the village.

“But suppose Bo-peep should be ill in the night,” said Miss Felicia.

At this the man smiled.

“’Tain’t likely, madam,” he said. “The ’oss is a strong ’oss, and when I leave him, after grooming him down and giving him his mash, he won’t want no one else to interfere with him until the morning.”

Thus the arrival of Bo-peep was one of the happiest things that could have happened to Robina. The horse had, however, been two days at Heather House before Mrs Starling heard of the event. It was Robina who broke the news to her. She was busily engaged now getting ready her wardrobe for her delightful visit to Sunshine Lodge. Mrs Starling sent her a message to come to see her. The good lady was lying on a conch by the window.

“Come in very gently, Robina,” she said, “and try to make as little noise as possible.”

Robina advanced as quietly as she could. She sank down by her mother’s sofa, put one firm hand over the invalid’s tremulous one, and said, in a broken sort of voice:

“Oh, mummy!”

“Don’t be so intense, my dear; it makes my heart flutter.”

“But aren’t you better, mummy dear? I have such a lot of things to talk over with you.”

“I cannot bear them, Robina; that is, if they are exciting. Since you came, I don’t know how it is, but I have felt as though the whole house was in a flutter. This state of things is exceedingly bad for me, and my palpitations are much worse in consequence.”

“That is because you don’t know,” said Robina. She leaned out of the window. There was a struggle in her heart. If there was one thing more than another that she pined and longed for, it was to take possession of that poor, weak, suffering, nervous mother of hers, and give her some of her own strength, some of her own life. It was one of Robina’s hidden, unspoken griefs that her mother never understood her, and that she turned away from her child to Aunt Felicia for sympathy. Now Robina thought and wondered.

“Mummy,” she said, “I am going to speak in a very low voice, and you need not get a bit excited. But you see I am very happy.”

“Ah, yes;” said Mrs Starling, still speaking almost in a whisper. “I understand, and I am not envious. Happiness is very far from me, but I am glad my children enjoy it—my children and my husband.”

“But we want you to have it too.”

“It is the will of Providence that I should lie here very weak and suffering. I must submit without a murmur,” said the invalid.

“Mummy, let me talk to you. I know you sent me away to school—”

“I cannot go into those things now, Robina. I did not manage it; it was your aunt.”

“If Aunt Felicia were not here, you would depend on me; you know you would, mummy.”

“If your aunt were not here, I should die—if I had not her to comfort me.”

“Well, darling; she is here, and she does comfort you, I know; and we are glad—father and I and Violet and Rose.”

“Oh, the dear little children, they are quite sweet,” said Mrs Starling: “they are never strong and individual like you, Robin.”

“But I can’t help being individual, as you call it, mummy; and I am so much older than the others.”

“Yes; that is it: if you could only alway’s stay a baby.”

“Well, I cannot;” said Robina, losing some of her patience; “and what is more, I don’t wish to. God meant me to be strong and to have, as you call it, a personality. Now listen. I have got a pony—oh! I have such a pretty story to tell you about it, and how I won it.”

“I can’t listen to any story to-day.”

“Well, anyhow, it is here; and even Aunt Felicia loves Bo-peep and I want you to see him.”

“Really, this is most extraordinary,” said Mrs Starling. “You have got a pony? Such a very great expense! Who bought it for you?”

“Not father, mother. I won him as a prize at school. He has been sent here by a good gentleman who gave the prize, but he costs nobody else anything at all, and his name is Bo-peep: and what father and I think is this: that we might presently have a basket chair got and Bo-peep could draw you about the grounds. Then you would get better, my own mummy; and—and—I should be so happy!”

Robina waited tremblingly. She wondered how her mother would take her proposal.

“I am much too weak,” said the invalid, after a pause, “even to go downstairs, much less to venture outside to be drawn about by your pony. But I always was interested in horses; we had a great many at my old home; and if the pony could be brought where I could see him from this window, it would—well—gratify me. Can we manage it?”

“Oh yes, yes; I will go this minute.”

“Don’t rush wildly across the room and slam the door after you, I beg of you.”

“Oh, no, no. I won’t leave you at all. I mean, I will just go downstairs and give directions, and come back again myself.”

“Do, my dear: I am really interested in horses.” Robina came back after a minute or two, and by and by, there was a little commotion on the badly kept lawn outside the house, for Bo-peep was led forward by Peter the groom. He wore his side-saddle, and perched on his back were both little girls, who looked perfectly radiant, and who waved their hands frantically to their mother. Mr Starling stood by, so that the poor nervous woman was not afraid of any accident happening; and lo! and behold! also belonging to the group was Miss Jennings, and she held a bunch of carrots in her hand. This tempting bonne bouche was far too much for the greedy Bo-peep, who marched boldly up to the lady, rubbing his nose against her, and requesting, as clearly as pony could speak, more and more of his favourite dainties.

“What a pretty creature!” exclaimed Mrs Starling. “Really, he reminds me of my old favourite horse, Prince. How happy and strong I was—as strong as you are now, Robina—when I rode Prince.”

“Shall we open the window, mummy? You will see him better then.”

Robina did so, and Mrs Starling came quite close, and bent a little out of the window, and called Bo-peep once or twice in her faint voice.

“Oh, don’t catch cold, dear!” screamed Miss Jennings from below.

“Don’t interfere, dear?” responded Mrs Starling from above.

“Isn’t he a beauty, mummy? Isn’t he a darling?” called Violet.

“He’s Wobbin’s and mine too!” cried Rose, bending her little body forward, and clasping her arms round the pony’s neck.

“Robina,” said her mother, turning to her, “put on your habit, go downstairs at once, and let me see you mount Bo-peep. I do hope you know how to spring properly into your saddle: I should like to see how you manage it.”

Robina did manage it, and to her mother’s satisfaction. The invalid was better that evening, and the next day requested once again that Bo-peep should be brought round for inspection.

And now an extraordinary thing happened: for from seeing the horse at a distance, the good lady took an unreasonable desire—at least so it seemed to Miss Jennings—to see him near: and as this could only be accomplished by coming downstairs: downstairs she came, Bo-peep was then led up to the dining-room window, and graciously received a carrot from Mrs Starling’s own hand. By and by, she too was stroking his face, and looking into his eyes, and murmuring his name in tones of the deepest affection. In short, Bo-peep was bidding fair to cure Mrs Starling.

But the fortnight which Robina was to spend at home was drawing to an end, and the day was approaching when she, Bo-peep, and Peter, were to leave Heather House en route for Sunshine Lodge. Mrs Starling was unreasonable about this. She wanted Bo-peep to remain behind, and Robina was quite willing that it should be so.

“I have got so much,” she said; “and mother loves my little horse, and I can think of him as a delightful creature to return to before I go back to school.”

But on this occasion, it was no less a person than Miss Felicia Jennings who interfered.

“No, Robina,” she said: “you don’t do anything of the sort. That great man, Malcolm Durrant, has given his orders, and I for one should be the very last person to have them disregarded. He wishes you to go to him. A command from him is like a command from Royalty, my child, and must not for a moment be disregarded. He wishes that precious little animal, Bo-peep, to accompany you, and the animal is to go. Your mother did without the pony for years, and can do so still. If indeed we could afford to have a little carriage made for her, I believe we could induce her to drive out daily with Bo-peep as her steed. But as your father can barely afford to pay your school expenses, that is not to be thought of. Now, my dear, you go in the morning: I trust you will behave well. By the way, you have offered to you, Robina, a marvellous chance in life. You have won the goodwill and esteem of no less a person than Malcolm Durrant. Oh! if only the chance were mine! If sometime you have the opportunity, tell him, my dear, how a dull old maid in a country house in England revels in his work, and admires his character. Tell him that, if you like; and endeavour, Robina, to keep down those faults which will very naturally, if he perceives them, turn him against you. For you are headstrong, and rough, and self-reliant, and above all things, you need the grace of humility.”

“Thank you, Aunt Felicia,” said Robina. “I know you are exceedingly kind, and you mean well, but perhaps Mr Durrant understands me a little better than you do.”

“Now, there you are!” said her aunt; “as impertinent as ever! Don’t—I beseech of you—make speeches of that sort to Malcolm Durrant. Now go up to your mother: she wants to see you. She thinks you are improved. I don’t; but the opinion of an old maid never signifies.”

“Oh, Aunt Felicia!”

Book Two—Chapter Five.

Harriet’s Jealousy is Rekindled.

It is all very well for a little girl to repent as Harriet Lane repented on that night when she followed Ralph to the gipsies’ hiding-place. Such repentances make a deep impression in life. They are never, as a rule, forgotten. They influence the character, and if they are followed by earnest resolve and patient determination to conquer in the battle, they in the end lead to victory. But let no one suppose who reads this story that a girl with such a nature as Harriet possessed could easily overcome her various faults. It is true she was now really attached to Ralph. She had never cared for a little child before; but there was something about Ralph that won her heart. At the same time this very affection of hers for the little boy added to her feelings of dislike and envy towards Robina. In her first agony of remorse for what she had done; in her terror with regard to little Ralph, and her fear that he was lost to her and to all her friends forever, she even thought gently and kindly of Robina. When Robina was made Ralph’s school-mother, and when she obtained the pony as her prize, Harriet submitted to her fate. Nevertheless, the thought of Robina rankled in her mind, and when the little girls met at Sunshine Lodge, it was Robina who was the first thorn in Harriet’s side.

Outwardly, it would have been impossible to find a merrier group than those eight girls when they arrived in a waggonette at Sunshine Lodge. Ample preparations had been made for their welcome. Arches of evergreen and flowers were put up over the gates and along the avenue; and over the front door “Welcome, Welcome” appeared in letters of flowers. In every direction smiling faces were to be seen—smiling faces at the lodge gates, smiling faces at the front door; and Mr Durrant, strong, self-reliant, holding Ralph by the hand, was the most delightful sight of all.

“Now, my children, you have come,” he said. “Ralph, greet all your little mothers. Ralph, my son, do the honours of the occasion. There are servants, my children, to show you to your rooms. We shall meet at tea-time. You will be best alone with Ralph for the time being.”

“Oh, my naughty, naughty, darling school-mother!” cried Ralph, flinging himself into Harriet’s arms. He did go to her first, he did cling round her neck, he did press his kisses to her thin cheek. Before anyone else, he was hers; her heart swelled with triumph. But the next minute, it sank with a feeling of ugly jealousy; for was not his clasp still tighter round Robina’s neck, and did he not whisper something into Robina’s ear, and did not Robina flush with pleasure? The other mothers also came in for a share of his rapture: but Harriet, keen to notice and observe, felt that notwithstanding the fact that he had come to her first of all, Robina must be his favourite.

The first couple of hours, however, spent at Sunshine Lodge were too brilliantly, intoxicatingly happy for even jealousy to find much scope. Harriet was hurried along with her companions from one room to another, from one point of enjoyment to another.

When they had examined the house and expressed themselves satisfied with their sweet little bedrooms, and when they had glanced at the tea-table, and observed the numbers of cakes which it contained, and the vast piles of bread and butter and the dishes full of jam and the plates of fruit and the combs of honey, and all the other imaginable good things that go to make up that meal of all meals—an English nursery tea, they were hurried off to the stables.

Here were donkeys; donkeys enough for each girl to select one as her special property; and here was Bo-peep, and Ralph’s own lovely little pony, Bluefeather. Bluefeather was black as ink, and was only called blue because Ralph liked the colour, and because the pony’s mane was so thick and strong and waved so in the wind.

Now at the sight of Bo-peep and Bluefeather standing side by side and eyeing each other with considerable appreciation, Harriet’s smouldering jealousy woke into a fierce flame. She felt a sudden sense almost of sickness stealing over her. Jane Bush was standing not far off.

“Come, Janie,” she said, all of a sudden, speaking harshly and with something of her old tone. “I am tired of looking at stupid donkeys; I don’t want to choose my donkey this evening; come and let us take a walk all by ourselves before we have to go in to tea.”

“I say,” called Ralph, “naughty school-mother, we are going to tea almost immediately.”

“Well, you can call me when you are ready for me,” said Harriet, “I shan’t be far away.”

She tugged at Jane’s arm. Now Jane was not in the least jealous; she was charmed to possess a donkey. A pony was, of course, preferable, but to have a donkey all her own to call any name she liked for the whole of the rest of the holidays was quite enough to fill her heart with rejoicing.

“I shall call mine Thistle,” she said. “Don’t you think that is a good name, Harriet?”

“Oh, I am sure I don’t care,” said Harriet. “Call it Thistle or Nettle, or anything else you fancy; I am not interested in donkeys.”

“Well, I am,” said Jane, a little stoutly. “Why should we go away, Harriet?”

“Aren’t you going to be friends with me any more, Jane?”

“Of course, only I thought—”

“Oh, your thoughts! as if they signified,” said Harriet. “Look here, Jane; do let’s walk up and down in front of the house. Of course we’re going to have a jolly time; but I want to have a little chat with you, with you—my old, my oldest friend—all by ourselves.”

“Oh, well,” said Jane, mollified at once, “if you are going to make me your friend, like we used to be before that dreadful day when Ralph ran away, of course I shall be glad. But I thought you were quite changed, that you were the good-girl-for-evermore sort. You know you did repent—everyone in the school knew it, and on the whole, I was glad, although you gave me up.”

While Jane was speaking, the two girls had left the yard, and had entered a little bowery path which led round to the left side of the house. Here they could be seen from the house, but could not be heard. Harriet looked full at Jane when they found themselves in this bowery retreat.

“Look here,” she said, “I must out with it.”

“Well?” said Jane, expectantly. Jane looked stouter and rounder and broader than ever. “Well?” she repeated, fixing her black eyes on Harriet’s face.

“I am not a good-for-evermore sort of girl,” said Harriet. Then she stood very still, and waited for Jane to reply.

Jane could not tell at that moment whether she was most glad or sorry. Harriet had always rather frightened her, and since the date of Harriet’s repentance she, Jane, had had what might be expressed as a very good and comfortable time. She had got into no scrapes, she had had of course no adventures; but then she had worked at her studies, and had made such admirable progress that she even won a small prize at the break-up.

Nevertheless, Jane had her own little jealousies, and although they were not so marked as Harriet’s—for her character was nothing like as strong as the character of her friend—they did rankle in her breast. To be even the one confidante of the naughty girl of the third form was better than to be no one’s confidante at all; and from the moment of Harriet’s repentance, Jane had been feeling very safe, but just a little dull, and just a tiny bit forsaken. Now, therefore, to receive the old confidence back again, to notice the daring look in Harriet’s light blue eyes, and to hear the old ring in her voice, awoke a certain very naughty pleasure in Jane.

“Oh well,” she said; “I thought your good fit couldn’t last forever. But what is it now?”

“I am just madly jealous of that Robina,” whispered Harriet.

“Oh,” said Jane; “it’s the old thing! But why can’t you leave poor Robina alone?”

“I can’t: she has got Bo-peep.”

“Well; of course she has,” said Jane. “You knew quite well she would get Bo-peep from the moment that you made such a mess of things with poor little Ralph, and he was handed over to Robina to mother him. That is no news, surely you ought to have got over that by now.”

“I ought; but I haven’t,” said Harriet; “so where’s the good of ‘oughting’ me about it?”

“I see you are the same as ever,” said Jane in a low tone in which satisfaction and perplexity were mingled.

“I am,” said Harriet, “and what is more, if they think I am going to ride one of those horrid donkeys, they are very much mistaken. You can mount on your Thistle, or your Nettle all by yourself, as far as I am concerned. If I can’t have a pony like Bo-peep or Bluefeather, I shan’t ride at all.”

“Oh, Harriet; you will make us all so unhappy, and it will look so bad, and dear Mr Durrant won’t like it.”

“Dear Mr Durrant!” echoed Harriet in a tone of great contempt. “He ought not to expect a girl like me to ride a donkey; it is a sort of reproach to me, that it is!”

“Oh, Harriet! I never knew anyone quite so kind as Mr Durrant; and then you will vex little Ralph; think of that; you do love Ralph.”

“Yes,” said Harriet, thoughtfully. “On the whole, I love him very much. I never cared for a little boy before; he is quite the nicest child I have ever come across, but there are some things even about him that I cannot bear. I want him to stop calling me his naughty school-mother. It is like for ever and for ever bringing up my little adventure with him. I am going to speak to him about that. He shan’t go on with it; I mean to put a stop to it.”

“Oh, but he does it so innocently,” said Jane.

“It vexes me,” interrupted Harriet, “and he shan’t go on with it. Then I do want him not to show such a marked preference for Robina when I am by. I wish—I do wish—”

“What?” said Jane.

“That I could yet get him really to love me best. The fact is this, Janie. I don’t like Robina one little scrap more than I ever liked her; and if I could open Ralph’s eyes, and get him to see that she is not a bit nice really; why—that would be something worth living for.”

“I don’t know how you are to manage it,” said Jane; “and I think,” she added, “even if you could do it, it would be a very horrid thing to do.”

“Oh! what a goody you are turning into!” was Harriet’s response. “Well, I am going to put my wits in soak; I generally think out a way when I have pondered it long enough. Oh, trust me, Janie; and all I want from you is this—”

“What?” asked Janie.

“Your help when the time comes.”

“Oh, dear!” said Jane. “That means something wicked!”

“You have a nice opinion of me, Jane.”

“But it does, doesn’t it?” said Jane. “I cannot tell you how mean I felt when I had to praise you all day long that day when I was Ralph’s school-mother. I got positively sick of the feeling: I don’t want to have to do that again.”

“You won’t,” said Harriet. “It will be something quite different now. But there’s the tea-bell, and I am hungry. I am so thankful that we need not stand any longer in that yard looking at those hideous donkeys. Let us run to the house; let’s see who’ll be there first!”

The tea was quite as delightful as healthy appetites and cheerful faces round the board, and merry laughter and gay young voices could make it. Mr Durrant himself was present at the tea-table, but he did not preside. It was Robina who on this occasion was given the position of tea-maker.

“I am going to be fed and petted and fussed over,” said Mr Durrant. “I say, you eight little mothers, you have got to mother me a bit; you have got to keep my plate well supplied. I have a ravening wolf inside me, and he must be well fed. I am good for any amount of cakes, and jam, and bread and butter; so see you feed me. Don’t keep me waiting an instant when my plate gets empty; and I am a whale on tea, I can tell you; cup after cup I shall want. The little mothers must keep me going with fresh cups of tea. Yes, Robina shall preside to-day—she is the good school-mother—and Harriet to-morrow, and so on, and so on. Now then, let us fall into place. Ralph, my son, take the lead; you are the gentleman of the house on this occasion.”

Book Two—Chapter Six.

An Eventful Morning.

The tea came to an end without any special adventure and afterwards the children disported themselves to their hearts’ content in the gardens.

The gardens were very extensive. There were paddocks and lawns, and running streams where some of the little mothers declared they could see tiny minnows and other minute fish darting about; and there was a round pond with water-lilies on it and there were many swings, and hammocks in the trees. Besides these delights, there were walled-in fruit gardens, and great glass-houses inside which grew those rarest and most fascinating flowers, orchids.

The children were allowed to explore all the houses on condition that they picked nothing and invariably shut the doors behind them. They all had a great deal to see and to talk over, and even Harriet forgot her jealousy and laughed and joked with the others. Bed-time came all too soon. Eight sleepy little girls went up to their different rooms and laid their heads on their pillow’s, and fell sound asleep, and eight very happy little girls, thoroughly refreshed and full of joyful anticipation, awoke on the following morning.

They awoke to the fact that the sun was shining, that the sky was blue, and that the sea in the distance was one dazzling blaze of sparkling waves and exquisite colour.

At breakfast-time, Mr Durrant arranged that the entire party should ride down to the beach, where those who wished could bathe, and those who did not could play on the sands until it was time for early dinner. Dinner was to be at one o’clock, and this was to be followed by a long drive, which was to terminate in a vast picnic tea, where real tea was to be made, and cakes, bread and butter and other things consumed. The party were to return to Sunshine Lodge rather late, and then Mr Durrant would amuse them with a marvellous magic lantern which he possessed, and would show them, as he expressed it, some of his adventures in South Africa.

“Father doesn’t often do that sort of thing,” whispered Ralph to his school-mother Robina. “He doesn’t even like to talk ’bout his ’ventures, ’cept when he’s special pleased. So you’re all in good luck, I can tell you.”

“Oh, we are just too happy for anything!” said Robina.

“Now then, children,” called Mr Durrant’s voice from the other end of the table; “if you have had sufficient breakfast, will you disperse, please, and shall we all meet in the porch in a quarter of an hour? Our different steeds will be waiting for us, and we can each mount and ride away.”

It was at this moment that Jane cast a fearful, half-admiring, half-beseeching glance at Harriet. Now but for this glance of Jane’s it is quite possible that Harriet might have thought better of her conversation of the previous day, and might have even mounted on her donkey’s back and ridden off, a happy, laughing child to the sea-shore. Harriet adored the sea, having been brought up there when quite a little child. She could bathe; and swim like a little fish; and it did dart through her mind how very superior she would be to her companions when she was swimming about and they had to content themselves with simply ducking up and down in the water. Mr Durrant would be sure to admire her when he saw what a good swimmer she was. Harriet craved more for admiration than for anything else in the world. But now that look of Jane’s recalled her to her remark of the previous evening.

She had vowed that nothing would induce her to mount a donkey. At any sacrifice, therefore, she must keep her word. If Jane thought little of her, the world would indeed be coming to an end.

Accordingly, she sat very still, munching her bread and butter slowly, and looking straight before her. Robina, on the other hand, was in great excitement. She talked openly and, as Harriet said to herself, in the most abominable taste, of the delicious ride she would have on Bo-peep’s back to the sea-shore.

“You will ride with me on Bluefeather; won’t you, Ralph?” she said to the little boy.

“In course I will!” he said.

In his white drill sailor-suit Ralph made the most lovely little picture. Harriet looked up at that moment, and caught his eye. Ralph, quick to perceive when anyone was in trouble, immediately left Robina, and flew to Harriet’s side.

“What can I do for you, naughty school-mother?” he said.

“Look here, Ralph; I won’t be called by that name,” said Harriet. “I dislike it very much. If you think me naughty, you ought not to speak to me.”

“Oh—I—I love you!” said Ralph.

“Then show it in some less unpleasant way,” said Harriet, who now that she had given tongue to some of her grievance, flew in a regular passion; “and,” she added, rising as she spoke, “I don’t know what the rest of you mean to do, but I shan’t ride this morning. I don’t like riding donkeys, so that’s all about it.” She got up and marched from the room. Mr Durrant had already gone. The eyes of the rest of the school-mothers followed her, and Jane’s face grew first white and then pink.

“Oh Jane,” said Robina, the minute Harriet had gone, “what is the matter now? I am sure I don’t mind riding one of the donkeys and Harriet can have Bo-peep. Do run after her and tell her so; do, please, Jane. It’ll spoil all our fun if she doesn’t come down; please get her to come.”

“But,” said Ralph, “I know father will want you to ride Bo-peep, Robina; for he said so last night. He said he had not seen you yet on Bo-peep, and he was ever so anxious to, and ’sides—your habit wouldn’t fit Harriet: Harriet is much thinner than you.”

“Yes; I never thought of that,” replied Robina. “Well, I do wish she wouldn’t be so troublesome. Shall I go and find her, and try and bring her round to a proper sense of things; it is too hard that she should spoil all the fun.”

“No, don’t; there is no use in it,” said Jane.

“But I will,” said Robina; “she must not be so inconsiderate. Think what dear Mr Durrant will say. Ralph, my darling, come with me and coax poor Harriet. You know she loves you very much.”

“Yes; let’s coax her,” said Ralph.

He took Robina’s hand and they left the dining-room. As they were going upstairs Ralph said, still clinging hard to Robina’s hand:

“I love Harriet, but I love you much, much, much the best.”

“Love us both,” said Robina, “and don’t say which of us you love best.”

“Oh, I can’t help it,” said Ralph. “Harriet’s nice sometimes, but you are nice always, and I am very glad you have got Bo-peep.”

“Well, we must do our very best to make Harriet come with us to-day,” said Robina, and she knocked as she spoke at that young lady’s door.

A sulky voice from within murmured something, and Robina opened the door. Harriet was standing with her back to the door. She was pretending to gaze out of the window. When the knock came, she imagined that it was Jane, coming to expostulate with her. Had this happened, she would probably have given vent to her feelings in no measured language; but when she turned and saw Robina, the smouldering fire in her breast rose to white heat.

“Go away!” she said, just glancing at Robina and Ralph and then resuming her position with her back to them. “I am busy at present: go away.”

“You aren’t busy, Harriet,” said Ralph, laughing; “why, you’re doing nothing at all.”

“Yes I am; I am thinking; go away, both of you, I don’t wish to talk to you.”

“Oh, Harriet!” said Ralph. There was a cry of pain in his voice, and just for a minute Harriet’s resolve to be intensely disagreeable wavered; but Robina’s voice recalled her to her worst self.

“Ralph, I must!” she whispered. Then she said aloud: “I do want you to ride Bo-peep this morning, Harriet. And you can easily wear my habit, although it may be a little big for you. Please, Harriet, do come downstairs and be nice and jolly with us all. You shall ride Bo-peep, and I will ride whichever donkey you have selected. I love riding a donkey, it is such fun.”

“Oh!” said Harriet; “oh!—before I’d demean myself to tell such lies! You love to ride on a donkey, do you? Then ride one, I am sure I don’t care. But as to my demeaning myself by getting on your pony’s back—I may be small, but I’m not as small as all that! No: go, both of you; I hate and detest you both. Ralph, you need not consider me your mother any more. I am not your school-mother—I am nothing at all to you. I am just a very cross, angry girl and oh, do go away, please!”

“Come, Ralph,” said Robina.

She took the little boy to the door. She opened the door; she pushed Ralph outside.

“You are just angry, Harriet,” she said then; “but I know you will be sorry by and by; and indeed, indeed, neither Ralph nor I are what you think us.”

“Oh go—go!” said Harriet; and Robina went.

The moment this happened, Harriet flew to the door, and locked it.

“Now am I to be left in peace?” she thought. She was in a white heat of rage. At that moment, there was no bitter, angry, nor desperate thing she would not say. She knew perfectly well that she had injured her own cause; that now Ralph could never love her. Had she not told him to his face that she hated him?—little Ralph, who had never from his birth had one harsh word addressed to him. Had she not said—oh, with such vehemence, such hot, angry rage, that she detested him, that she could not bear him in her presence? Well, she did not care. She was in too great a fury at present to regret her own words. Robina and Ralph had taken her at her word: they had gone away. There was absolute stillness upstairs. Sunshine Lodge was a big house, and to Harriet’s bedroom not a sound penetrated. She could not even hear the merry voices of the gay cavalcade that must even now be starting for the sea-shore.

They would have to ride quite three miles to that part of Eastbourne where Mr Durrant had arranged that bathing tents were to be erected on the beach. Harriet sat down on the low window-sill, clasped her hands and looked out. Why was she here? She might have been as jolly as the others. Oh, no; of course she could not possibly be merry and gay like the rest of the children; it was not in her nature. Nevertheless, she had looked forward to her time at Sunshine Lodge. She had made a great boast to her brothers and sisters and to her home companions, of the gay and delightful time she was about to have. Well, why was not she having it? The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the distant sea looked, oh! so inviting. The crisp waves were even now coming up on the sands and retreating again with their everlasting ‘I wish, I wish’ sort of sound. There were the donkeys for the contented children to ride, and there was the kindest of all hosts to give them every happiness. Why was she out of it?

“Because I am so mad, and bad!” she thought; and then she covered her face with her hands and burst into angry tears.

Harriet was neither sorry nor repentant, as she had been on that occasion when little Ralph was lost. She was furious at once with herself and with Robina, and even with Ralph. Why did Robina come prying and spying to her room? and why did she dare to bring Ralph with her? and then why did she make that detestable, hypocritical offer to her? Harriet, indeed, to be seen riding Robina’s pony!—the pony given to Robina by Mr Durrant because she had been so kind to his little son! What a martyr Robina would look on one of the donkeys! and what a monster of selfishness she, Harriet, would appear riding on Bo-peep’s back! Oh, yes: Robina wanted to serve her own ends when she would bestow on Harriet the favour of letting her ride her pony.

“She thinks she is not sure of Ralph: she thinks she is not quite sure of Mr Durrant. She meant to clinch matters with both of them by her pretended unselfishness this morning,” thought the furious girl.

“But I have circumvented her: I am glad I have.” However angry one may be; however furious one’s passions may become, it is difficult to keep up the anger and the commotion and the fierce storm within the breast when there is no one to listen, no one to watch, no one, either, to sympathise or to blame. In the stillness of her little room Harriet’s angry heart cooled down. Her cheeks no longer blazed with fury, her eyes no longer flashed. After her time of storm, she felt a sort of reaction which made her cold and dull and miserable. She was not a bit repentant, except in as far as regarded her own pleasure. But she was weary, and came to the conclusion that her life at Sunshine Lodge would not be such a happy one after all.

When she had reached this stage of discomfort and depression, there came a tap at her room door, and one of the maids tried to turn the handle. Harriet then remembered that she had locked the door. She went and opened it. The girl asked with a smiling face if she could arrange the young lady’s room.

“Certainly,” said Harriet. “I am going out.”

She took a big straw hat from a peg on the door and put it on her head.

“I made sure, miss, that you were away to the shore with the others.”

“I did not go with them,” said Harriet.

“I hope, miss,” said the girl, glancing at Harriet, and observing the red rims round her eyes, “I hope that you ain’t ill, miss.”

“No, I am quite well, thank you; but the fact is, I don’t care for donkey rides. I am going out now, so you can arrange my room as soon as you like.”

“Thank you, miss,” replied the girl.

Harriet ran downstairs. The hall door stood wide open: a little gentle breeze came in and fluttered the leaves of some books on the hall table. The air was sun-laden, and Harriet was glad to get out-of-doors. The little place seemed still and undisturbed; but by and by she came to a gardener’s boy, and then to the gardener himself. They both touched their hats to her. She wandered on and on. Presently, she reached the round pond. Here the water-lilies grew in profusion—great yellow cups, and still larger white ones. Harriet felt that desire which comes to almost every child to possess herself of some of the great waxen blossoms. She bent forward and tried to pick one. She could not manage it, however, for the flowers with their thick stems were hard to gather, and she knew that were she to try any harder she might fall into the pond. This she had no wish to do, and contented herself with standing by the bank.

As she was thus standing, wondering what she should do next, she heard a clear little voice say:

“Hallo there!” and Ralph bounded out of a thick undergrowth close by.

“Ralph?” said Harriet. She felt herself colouring. Shame absolutely filled her eyes. She did not want to look at the boy, and yet, in spite of every effort, her heart bounded with delight at seeing him.

“Did you want some of those?” said Ralph, eagerly.

“I will pick them for you. I know quite well how I can manage. See,” he added eagerly, “do you notice that willow tree growing right over the pond? I will climb along that branch, just where it dips so near the water, and I’ll put my hand out, and cut off some of the beautiful blossoms for you. Aren’t they just lovely?”

“Yes,” said Harriet, “but I don’t want them. Don’t endanger your precious life for me, Ralph, it isn’t worth while.”

As Harriet spoke, she turned away, marching with her head in the air in the opposite direction. She heard a cry, or fancied she heard one; and a minute afterwards, eager steps followed her.

“Harriet,” said Ralph’s little voice. He slipped his hand inside her arm. “What has I done? Why do you hate me, Harriet? What has I done?”

Harriet looked round. Then for a minute she stood quite still. Then, all of a sudden, her eyes fell; they fell until they reached the brown beseeching eyes of Ralph. Over her whole heart there rushed such a sensation of love for the boy that she could not restrain herself another moment.

“Oh, Ralph!” she said, with a sob. “I am about the nastiest girl in all the world. But I do, I do love you! Oh Ralph, Ralph!”

She flung her arms around him, dropping on her knees to come nearer to him. Just for a minute, she gave him a fierce kiss; then she let him go.

“It is Robina I hate,” she said; “it is not you.” Ralph gave a sigh.

“I am glad you don’t hate me,” he said, “’cause you see I love you.”

“And why aren’t you with the others?” said Harriet, suddenly.

“Couldn’t,” said Ralph, shaking his head. “Stayed a-hint ’cause of you; wanted to be with you—couldn’t go.”

“Then you do really love me?”

“I has said so,” answered Ralph.

A warm glow such as a fire might make entered Harriet’s heart. She sank down on the mossy turf and drew Ralph to sit near her.

“You are very nice,” she said. “I am very, very glad you stayed. But what did your father—what did he do?”

“Father?” said Ralph, in a surprised tone. “Nothing, in course.”

“But he wanted you to go, surely?”

“I said to father I must stay home this morning ’cause of one of my school-mothers.”

“And then?” said Harriet.

“Father—he said, ‘Send Bluefeather back to the stables.’”

“Then, Ralph?—and was that all?” asked Harriet.

“’Course,” said Ralph. “Father don’t question ’less at something very naughty.”

“Oh,” answered Harriet. After a pause, she said: “He didn’t ask you which of your school-mothers?”

“No,” said Ralph. “Think he guessed, though.”

“Did your father go with the others to the sea-shore?”

“Oh, yes: he went in the governess cart. He drove the donkey that drew the governess cart his own self.”

“You must have been very sorry to give up your fun,” said Harriet.

“’Course,” said Ralph.

“But you did it for me?”

“’Course,” said Ralph again. He concealed nothing, denied nothing. He looked full now into Harriet’s face.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“You said you hated Robina and me; then you said afterwards that you did not hate me—you loved me, but you hated Robina. I want you to love us both. By the time Robina comes back, I want you to be a-loving of her as hard as you’re a-loving of me.”

“Well, I can’t do that,” said Harriet, “so there is no use wishing it.”

Ralph sighed. “She is very, very good,” he said. “Ralph,” said Harriet, suddenly; “there are some things I cannot bear.”

“What?” asked the little boy.

“I love you, and I can’t bear you to be fondest of Robina.”

“Very sorry,” said Ralph, shaking his curly head.

“Don’t you think,” said Harriet, drawing him close to her and fondling his chubby hand, “that you could manage to love me best? I want your love more than Robina does.”

“Sorry,” said Ralph again.

“Then you do love her best?”

“’Course,” said Ralph, “much best.”

Harriet pushed him away.

“Then I don’t want to sit with you,” she said, “nor talk to you. Go to Robina altogether. I—I suppose I am jealous; it is a horrid thing to be, but I suppose I am. You needn’t have stayed at home for me this morning. I don’t hate you; I was in a passion when I said I did; I love you very much but—I can’t stand a love like yours, the greater part of which is given to Robina.”

“Shall I tell you why I love her?” said Ralph. “’Cause she is strong and good and brave, and she teaches I lots of things; and she lets I look into her face; and she tells stories—wonderful stories!”

“Yes,” said Harriet. She was gazing intently at the child.

“Now you doesn’t,” said Ralph. “You did one day when I was with you, one day when you gave me picnic breakfast and we went to town and bought things for a picnic tea. But Robina does it every day; and I feel that she is strong, and—and—I can’t help it—I have to love her best.”

“I will tell you what I am,” said Harriet; “you had best know me for what I really am. I don’t like Robina just for the simple reason that she is stronger than me, and she can tell better stories, and she has got Bo-peep and I have not; and she is cleverer than me and has taken my place in the form. I was happy enough before she came to school, but I am not happy now.”

“I am so sorry,” said Ralph. “It seems an awfu’ pity, ’cause she can’t help being clever. My father’s clever: he can’t help it. Does you hate him ’cause of his big, big brains?”

“Oh, no, no—it’s quite different. You don’t understand what friendship means, Ralph.”

“Yes, I do: Robina tells me. When your friend isn’t happy, you’re not happy; that’s one thing ’bout friendship. And you would do anything for your friend—anything: that’s another. I heard father once speak of that. He did a wonderful big thing for a friend of his. I am always wanting to do a big thing for Robina, and a big thing for you. I know it isn’t much, but I did stay home for you this morning.”

“So you did; and you are a dear little boy; and I wish I wasn’t such a horror myself,” said Harriet suddenly. “Leave me, now. Ralph: after all, there is nothing you can do for me. I am cross, I suppose, but I’ll be better by-and-by.”

Ralph went away very sadly. He could not understand Harriet. His beautiful morning was wasted. Suddenly, he found himself back again by the round pond. The lilies were looking more lovely than ever in the sun. A dragon fly had just got out of his chrysalis, and Ralph watched him for a moment as he poised for flight.

All of a sudden, the wish to pick some water-lilies for Harriet returned to him. He would show her by this means how truly he loved her. She did want the lilies, he knew it, for he had seen her tugging so hard at one. “And she just lost her balance,” he said to himself. “Poor, poor Harriet: It would have been horrid if she had falled into the pond!”

The thought of getting some lilies for Harriet restored the little boy’s sense of happiness. He was his father’s own son, and knew no fear. Harriet was one of his school-mothers—the school-mother he loved second best. He made up his mind quickly to pluck three yellow lilies for her, and four white ones. That would be seven in all. Someone had told him that seven made a perfect number. He could easily reach the lilies if he climbed the willow tree, and gently pushed himself along that branch which bent over the pond.

No sooner did the thought come than he proceeded to put it into action. The supple bough, however, bent very low beneath his weight. Ralph was but a little boy, however, and the bough would undoubtedly hold him if he did not go too far along its slender stem. He had plucked one lily, and his little hand had grasped a second, when all of a sudden there was an ominous crack at the further end of the bough. It bent so low into the water now that Ralph’s balance was upset, and he found himself struggling in the deep pond. Ralph was not a minute in the water before Harriet, who was really not far off, rushed to the spot. Into the pond she plunged, seized the boy by his collar and dragged him with some slight difficulty to the shore. They were both very wet, but neither of them in the least hurt. Harriet stood by, dripping from head to foot.

“Oh, Ralph, Ralph!” she cried. “Did you do that to show that you loved me?”

“Yes; oh yes;” said Ralph. “Why, I nearly died for you, and you nearly died for me!”

“We must be the best and greatest of friends now,” said Harriet, quick to seize the opportunity. “But come into the house at once; you must get all your things off, or you will catch cold. Oh, and Ralph; promise me one thing—this shall be a secret between you and me. You will never tell anybody that you risked your life to get me the flowers, and I will never tell a soul that I risked mine to save you.”

“Oh—but you are splendid!” said Ralph. “Why, I should be dead now but for you, Harriet.”

“Of course you would, Ralph,” she answered; but she took care not to tell him that she was an excellent swimmer and had not risked her life in the very least when she sprang into the pond to save the little boy.

Book Two—Chapter Seven.

Mr Durrant’s New Plan.

Harriet took Ralph to her own room. There she changed all his things and made him get into her bed until she could fetch some fresh ones for him. He was cold, and shivering a great deal, but Harriet, quite unacquainted with the illnesses of young children, was not in the least alarmed. She ransacked Ralph’s wardrobe for another little drill suit, and he was dressed in new, dry clothes, and all trace of his ducking in the pond was removed before the party returned from their picnic.

Harriet herself had remained much longer than Ralph in her wet things, but she also was in fresh garments when they stood holding each other’s hands ready to welcome the others on their return.

Somehow, that ducking in the pond had quite managed to restore Harriet’s good humour. She and Ralph now held a secret between them, and she was firmly convinced that his friendship for Robina must be seriously weakened thereby.

“Why, Ralph, my little man,” said his father, “you do look well.”

He was pleased to see how bright his little son’s eyes were and what a high colour he had in his cheeks, and never guessed that the brightness of the eyes was caused by slight fever, and that the pretty cheeks were flushed for the same reason. At dinner time. Ralph, of his own accord elected to sit near Harriet, and at intervals during the meal he whispered in her ear:

“None of them knew ’cept you and me I risked my life for you, and you risked your life for me.”

“Yes, yes,” whispered Harriet back; “but none of the others must know. Don’t say those words so loud, Ralph, or they will hear us.”

Ralph snuggled close to Harriet, now in an ecstasy at the thought which the great secret they held between them caused. The rest of the day’s programme was carried out in all its entirety. But towards evening, Ralph’s feverish symptoms had increased. During the picnic tea he was unable to eat anything, and Harriet when questioned had to confess that her throat was sore.

The next day both Harriet and Ralph were ill, but Harriet was much worse than Ralph. To be in bed, to be unable to get up and enjoy the fresh air and the sunshine was a trial very hard for so small a boy as Ralph to bear; but when he was told that Harriet was worse than he, and that the doctor had to be sent for, he submitted to his own illness with a good grace. It was Robina who brought him the tidings.

“Harriet is really ill,” she said; “but Dr Fergusson says that you will very soon be all right again; you have only caught a little cold: I wonder how you managed it.”

“Oh, I know quite well all about it,” said Ralph.

“Do you, dear? then you ought to tell us,” said Robina.

Ralph’s soft brown eyes flashed with anger.

“Does you think I’d be so mean?” he said.

Robina looked at him in surprise. After a long time he made the following remark:

“Harriet is quite the most noble girl in the world. If it was not for Harriet, there’d be no me at all.”

Robina burst into a merry laugh.

“Oh, Ralph; you funny little boy!” she said; “what are you talking about?”

“You don’t understand Harriet,” was Ralph’s next speech, and he looked at Robina without the favour he used to bestow upon her. She was his school-mother and, of course, the one he loved best; but still she had never saved his life.

“I wish I could see my darling Harriet,” he said, after a pause. “I wish I could see her all by my lone self. I want to talk to her. We has a great secret atween us.”

The doctor, however, had forbidden Ralph to leave his bed that day, and certainly Harriet could not leave hers. In consequence, the children did not meet for a few days, and then it was rather a pale little boy who rushed into the arms of a thin, pale girl who, weak from the somewhat severe attack she had gone through, was seated in an easy chair not far from an open window.

“Now go ’way, all of you,” said Ralph, “I want to talk to my ownest school-mother. I has a great secret to talk over with her.”

The others obeyed without any protest. Robina, when she left the room, turned to Jane.

“I am sure of one thing,” she said: “something must have happened that day when Ralph and Harriet were left alone together. They were both quite well even although Harriet was cross when we started on our expedition to the beach; but they both got ill that very night, and since then, Ralph has altered: he is devoted to Harriet.”

“Perhaps he has learned to love Harriet best,” said Jane.

In spite of herself, there was a tone of triumph in her voice, for was not Harriet her friend, and did not every one else adore Robina?

“Would you mind?” she asked, fixing her round black eyes now on Robina’s face.

“Mind?” replied Robina. “Yes,” she said, after a little pause, “I don’t like to own to such a horrid feeling, but I am proud of Ralph’s love.”

She turned away as she spoke. She was going to her own room. In order to reach it, she had to pass the tiny chamber where Ralph slept. She found one of the maid-servants coming out. The woman had in her hand a little white drill suit all soaked through and much stained with the green weed which grows on ponds.

“I have just found this, miss,” she said, “in the cupboard in Master Ralph’s room. I wonder how it came there. Surely, little Master Ralph has not had a ducking in the pond.”

Robina felt the colour rushing into her face. For a minute, a sense of triumph filled her. Then she said, gently:

“Send that suit to the wash, please, Maria; and,” she added, “do not say anything about it.”

“There are stockings too, miss, all sopping, and shoes.”

“You can have the shoes dried, can’t you?” said Robina.

“Oh, yes, miss, certainly.”

“Well, send all the other things to the wash.”

“Yes, miss,” said the girl. “Perhaps,” she added, after a pause, “these things account for little Master Ralph not being well for the last few days.”

“They may or may not, Maria: anyhow, we won’t talk about that,” said Robina.

She went downstairs. Her heart was beating fast. The fierce desire to drag the truth from Harriet at any cost, which had overpowered her for a minute, had passed away. Her face was pale. She sat down on the nearest chair.

“Are you tired, my dear?” said Mr Durrant, approaching her at this minute, and sitting down by her side.

“No; not really tired,” she answered.

“I am glad to find you all by yourself, Robina; there are many things I want to say to you.” Robina waited expectantly. “You and Ralph are capital friends, aren’t you?”

“I hope so, indeed—indeed I love him dearly,” said Robina.

“And so does he love you. I cannot tell you, Robina, how thankful I am that he has made a girl of your sort one of his greatest friends; he might so very easily have chosen otherwise. There is Harriet Lane, for instance. Poor Harriet, I don’t want to speak against her, but she is not your sort, my dear. Now I like an open mind, generous—if you will have it, a manly sort of girl, one with no nonsense in her: one, in short, who will help Ralph to be the sort of man I desire him to be by and by. You, my dear, as far as I can tell, are that sort of girl. You have no fear in you. You have, I think, an open mind and a generous disposition. Compared to Ralph, you are old, although of course in yourself you are very young. I shall have to leave my little boy immediately after the summer holidays. My wish was to send him to school—to Mrs Burton’s school—where he could have had a little discipline, school life, and the companionship of many young people. But I have received a letter from Mrs Burton which obliges me to alter my plans.”

“Oh,” said Robina, speaking quickly, “I am very, very sorry—”

“So am I, dear, more sorry than I can express. I am terribly upset about this letter, and I do not think it wrong to confide my trouble to you.” Here Mr Durrant drew his chair close to Robina’s side.

“You see, my dear child, I treat you as though you were grown-up.”

“Please do, Mr Durrant,” said Robina, “for there is nothing I would not do for you.”

“Well, this is the position,” said Mr Durrant. “Mrs Burton won’t be able to conduct her own school for the next term. She has induced a lady, a great friend of hers, to take the school over, and her hope is that she may be able to return to it herself after Christmas. Even this, however, is doubtful. Mrs Burton’s friend, Miss Stackpole, has had much experience of schools, but she is a maiden lady; and, in short, will not admit dear little Ralph as one of her pupils. Mrs Burton is obliged to spend the next term with her only sister, who is dangerously ill, and must undergo a serious operation. My plans, therefore, for Ralph are completely knocked on the head. I cannot possibly take him with me to South Africa. I have undertaken an expedition to that country which is full of adventure and danger. No young child could accompany me. I cannot bear to send Ralph to the ordinary boys’ school; and, in fact, my dear Robina, it has occurred to me that if I could possibly get a lady, trustworthy, kind, sensible, to keep on this house, I might induce you to stay with her as Ralph’s companion. Were this the case, I would myself undertake all your future education. You should have the best masters, the best mistresses that money could secure, and eventually, if you wish it, you should go to Newnham or Girton. I would see your father, my dear Robina, on the subject, and arrange the matter with him. You would have a right good time, for the lady I have in my mind’s eye is a certain Miss Temple, a cousin of my own, a very gentle and sweet woman, who would do all she could for your comfort and happiness, and would not unduly coerce you. Being Ralph’s school-mother, and the girl he has chosen above all others as his special friend, I doubt not that he would love the arrangement. As to your fees at Mrs Burton’s school, those can, of course, be managed. What do you say, Robina? Are you willing to continue at Sunshine Lodge as my dear little boy’s greatest friend—in fact, as his little school-mother?”

“Oh, I should like it!” said Robina. “But does it not depend on Ralph?” she continued.

Mr Durrant moved rather impatiently. “I have never coerced Ralph in the least,” he answered. “My endeavour has been from his birth to allow my dear little boy to choose for himself. I believe in the young, clear judgment of extreme youth. I think that little children can penetrate far. Of all your school-fellows he chose you, Robina; and who, my dear child, could have been more worthy?”

“But I am full of faults,” said Robina, tears springing to her eyes; “you don’t really know me. At home I am often blamed. My Aunt Felicia doesn’t think highly of me. You ought to go to my home and ask my own people what they really think with regard to me.”

“It is my intention to do so. I must talk to your father and mother about this plan; but somehow, I do not think they will disappoint me, and as a matter of fact I do not believe any little girl could better help my little son than you can.”

“Only suppose—suppose,” said Robina, “that he prefers Harriet.”

“Harriet?” cried Mr Durrant; “but there is surely no chance of that?”

“I don’t know, I am not sure. He likes Harriet certainly next best after me; he may even like her better.”

“I think not: you are without doubt the favoured one. Robina, we are all alone now. Harriet Lane is your schoolfellow. Tell me honestly what you think about her.”

Robina sprang to her feet.

“As her schoolfellow,” she said, hastily, “I cannot tell you anything about her; please don’t ask me. This, Mr Durrant, is a very serious matter, and I—I would rather not say.”

“You have answered me, my child,” said Mr Durrant, “and as I thought you would. Now, we will talk no more on the matter.”

Robina left him, and went into the grounds. The happy summer days were slipping by. Why is it that summer days will rush past one so quickly on such swift wings, that almost before we know it, they have all gone—never, never to return?

The eight little school-mothers at Sunshine Lodge wanted no one good thing that could add to the joys of life. From morning till night, their cup of bliss seemed to overflow. In addition to all the pleasures provided for them, they had perfect weather, for that summer was long to be remembered in England—that summer when day by day the sun shone in the midst of a cloudless sky, and the warm, mellow air was a delight even to breathe.

While on this occasion Mr Durrant was having a long talk with Robina and giving her to understand what he really wished with regard to the future of his little son, that same little son was pouring out his heart to Harriet.

“You is better, isn’t you?” he said.

“Yes,” replied Harriet, who had resolved to make the very most of things. “But I was ill, very ill indeed: I don’t think the doctor expected me to live.”

“And you’d have died—you’d have become deaded for me?” said Ralph.

“Yes,” answered Harriet, patting the little brown hand. “But I am all right now,” she added; “I am only weak.”

“I love you like anything,” said Ralph.

“Of course you do, Ralph,” answered Harriet.

“There is nothing at all I wouldn’t do for you.”

Harriet longed to say: “Love me better than Robina, and I will have obtained my heart’s desire.” But she did not think the time for this speech had come yet; and as, in reality, notwithstanding her affection for Ralph, she found herself from time to time rather worried by his presence, she now requested him to leave her, and the little boy ran downstairs and out into the open air.

There the first person he saw was his father.

“Oh, dad!” said the boy, dancing up to his parent, and putting his little hand in his.

“Well Ralph, old man,” said the great traveller, lifting the boy to his shoulder, “and how are you this afternoon?”

“Werry well,” said Ralph, “nearly quite well,” he added.

“And how is our other invalid, Harriet Lane?”

“She is better, father. Dear Harriet has been awfu’ bad. Did you guess, father, how bad she was?”

“No, my son: and I don’t think she was as bad as all that, for the doctor did not tell me so.”

“But she telled me her own self. She wouldn’t tell a lie, would Harriet.”

“Only, Ralph, when people are ill, they imagine they are much worse than they really are. That was the case with Harriet. She will be all right now in a day or two, and you can enjoy yourself as soon as possible.”

“Oh yes; oh yes!” said Ralph. He clasped one arm round his father’s neck. “Why has you got such a big brown neck?”

“Because, I suppose, I am a big brown man.”

“I love brown men ever so,” said Ralph.

“That is right.”

“And I love you best of all; and—and Harriet, and Robina. I has got three very great special friends—you, and Harriet, and Robina.”

“Why do you put them like that, Ralph?” answered his father, a certain uneasiness in his tone. “You mean it this way: you love father first—that is quite right—then comes Robina, then Harriet.”

“It used to be like that,” said Ralph, in a very low tone.

“And it is still, my son; it is still.”

Ralph fidgetted, and was silent. After a time he said:

“Put me down please, father.”

Mr Durrant obeyed.

“Take my hand, father,” said Ralph, “I want to lead you somewhere.”

Mr Durrant took the little hand. Ralph conducted his father to the edge of the round pond.

“Does you see the water over there?” said Ralph, “just over there where the lilies grow?”

“Of course, my dear boy.”

“And does you see the branch of the willow tree?”

“Well, yes, Ralph; having eyes, I see both the lilies and the willow tree.”

“Could you make a great, great guess, father, about how deep the water is there?”

“Roughly speaking,” said Mr Durrant, “I should say the water in that part was from seven to eight feet deep.”

Ralph straightened himself and looked full up at his father.

“I isn’t eight feet high, is I?”

Mr Durrant laughed.

“You little man,” he said, “you are not four feet yet.”

“Then if I was to stand bolt upright in that water where the lilies grow, I’d be drownded dead as dead could be?”

“Were such a thing to happen, you would be.”

“But if somebody swimmed out, somebody very, very brave, and clutched me, and brought me back to shore, I wouldn’t be a drownded boy; I’d be a saved boy,” said Ralph.

“That is true.”

“I’d most likely,” continued Ralph, “love that person very much.”

“It would be a brave thing to do, certainly,” said Mr Durrant. “But then it has not happened, Ralph, so don’t let your imagination run away with you.”

“No father,” said Ralph; “I won’t let my ’magination run ’way with me. I don’t quite know what it means, father; but—I won’t let it,—’cause then I shouldn’t be close to you, father; and I love you best, and then Harriet, and then Robina.”

“Robina is a very fine girl,” said his parent. “I like her very much; I am glad she is your friend.”

“So does I like her: she was my school-mother. I like Harriet too, father: I like her awfu’ much. I mustn’t tell you nothing at all, but I like Harriet best of all my school-mothers.”

Mr Durrant thought for a short time over Ralph’s little speech to him. It puzzled the good man not a little. He did not, however, lay it deeply to heart. The boy was under the influence of Harriet, and, truth to tell, Mr Durrant did not take to that young lady. He was, however, sufficiently interested in her to pay her a visit that same evening in her own room.

She was a good deal startled and somewhat nonplussed when he first knocked at the door, then bent his tall head and entered the room.

“Well, Harriet,” he said, “I thought I would find out for myself how you are. I hope you are progressing well, and will soon be able to join the rest of us. It was strange how you and Ralph both caught cold the same day: it was very unlucky. How are you to-night, my dear girl?”

“Better,” said Harriet, changing colour as she spoke, for she was rather weak from her illness and was much excited by Mr Durrant’s visit. “I am better,” she continued; “I hope to be quite well by next week.”

“So do I hope you will be quite well, for time is speeding very fast, Harriet: the summer holidays go almost before we know they are with us. Now I have many expeditions in my mind’s eye—expeditions in which I want you and Ralph to join. This is Saturday night. To-morrow is Sunday. To-morrow, I am going to leave home for a day or two, but on Monday I shall be back again. I hope by then to find you quite well and enjoying yourself with the rest of your school-fellows. Everything that man can do will be done for your pleasure, and I trust I shall find my little party without any invalids amongst them waiting to welcome me back on Monday evening at the latest.”

“And what is going to happen on Tuesday?” asked Harriet, whose eyes began to sparkle now, for she had suddenly lost her fear of Mr Durrant.

“The weather is so fine at present,” was his reply, “that I have chartered a yacht and am going to take you all for a cruise. What do you say to that? You are not likely to be sea-sick, are you?”

“Never was sea-sick in the whole course of my life,” said Harriet, dimpling all over her face now with anticipation.

“I thought I’d discovered something to please you. The sea breezes will put colour into those pale cheeks. Ponies, donkeys, governess carts will all be left behind, and for one long perfect week we shall coast round the Isle of Wight, and other parts of this perfect country. What do you say? I have already mentioned the matter to the others, and I find that they are, without a single exception, good sailors.”

“I will be well enough, whoever else isn’t,” said Harriet, stoutly. “It’ll be lovely, lovely. You know I have spent all my early days at the seaside.”

“Have you? Then of course you are accustomed to yachting.”

“I am accustomed to going out in the fishing boats: I often did so at Yarmouth: I used to make great friends with the sailors.”

“Then that will be capital, my dear. Now I am leaving early to-morrow. You won’t guess where I am going, will you?”

“How can I guess, Mr Durrant?”

“To no less a place than Robina’s home.”

“Robina’s home,” said Harriet. She felt herself turning red, and one of her hands which had been lying idle on her lap, clenched itself tightly. “Why to Robina’s home?” she asked.

“That is just it. I have a little scheme in my head; why should not I tell you? I have told her—why should not you also be in the secret?”

“Oh, please, please tell me?” said Harriet. “I love secrets,” she added.

“Most girls do. Well, this is the state of things. You know that my first intention was to send Ralph back to Mrs Burton’s school with you and the other school-mothers. He was to be primarily under Robina’s care, and the rest of you were of course to be good to him. Dear, kind Mrs Burton had consented to the arrangement, and everything was going well, when, lo and behold! I was obliged to change my plans.”

“Oh!” said Harriet: “to change your plans—how? why?”

“I will tell you why, dear Harriet, and I am sure you will sympathise with me. I know you have a great regard for my little boy, and I believe he returns your regard; therefore anything connected with his future will be of interest to you. Mrs Burton cannot receive Ralph at her school as she at first promised to do. She will herself give you her reasons for this, but I need not trouble you about them at the present moment. Suffice it to say that Ralph cannot go back to Abbeyfield, and therefore I have to make other arrangements for him.”

“Yes,” said Harriet, in a breathless sort of voice. “Dear Ralph! He is such a sweet little boy. Have you made your arrangements, Mr Durrant?”

“I am going to South Africa early in October,” was his reply, “and cannot take my dear little son with me: he must remain in England. Now, this house is quite to my liking. It is large, and airy and well drained and not far from the seaside. I know a lady, a special friend of mine, who will come to look after Ralph, and he can have the best masters at Eastbourne and a daily tutor who will come out here to instruct him. But all these advantages are not sufficient. He must have a companion. There is in my opinion no companion so suitable for all that Ralph requires as Robina Starling; and I am going to see her father to-morrow in order to make arrangements for her to remain with him.”

“And not go back to Abbeyfield?” said Harriet.

Her voice was low. It was getting dusk too, and Mr Durrant could not very well see her face.

“Robina would not go back to school?” she repeated.

“In that case, no; but she would lose nothing thereby; for I should make it a personal matter, and would see that her education was thoroughly finished at my expense. She is a clever girl, and I can give her not only the very best masters, to develop what talent she possesses, but would eventually send her to Girton, where I understand she greatly longs to go.” Harriet was quite silent. “You approve, don’t you?” said Mr Durrant, scarcely knowing why he asked the question.

Harriet gave a little gasp.

“You are very, very good,” she said: “you have done a great deal for the girl that Ralph likes best. Is the girl who is to stay with him while you are away to be the girl he likes best, or the girl you like best? Hitherto, it has been the girl he likes best. Is that to be the case still?”

“I hope so, indeed I trust that he will like Robina best.”

“Because you do,” said Harriet.

“Yes, Harriet,” said Mr Durrant. “I like her; she is honest, and honourable. She has never, to my knowledge, done an underhand thing: I could not stand underhand ways in the companion who has to be so much in the society of my little son. I love honour before all things—honour and truth: they are the pillars in which the whole character must be raised to any sort of strength or perfection. I believe Robina to be both honourable and truthful.”

“Yes,” said Harriet: “you would not let her have the charge of Ralph if she had not these qualities.”

“Certainly not: but she has. I will wish you good-night now. I hope you will be quite well on Monday evening when I return from my visit to the Brown House.”

Mr Durrant left the room, and Harriet lay back in her deep, easy chair, lost in thought. Once again she said to herself:

“That horrid girl is about to supplant me. I wonder, oh, I wonder!”

She thought long and hard.

Book Two—Chapter Eight.

Mr Durrant Visits Brown House.

Mr Durrant arrived at the Brown House on Sunday afternoon. It was a day when few visitors were expected. Mr Starling, having gone to church in the morning, invariably spent the afternoon lying back in a cosy corner of the green-house, smoking and reading a Sunday newspaper. He was by no means an irreligious man, but he liked his ease on Sunday, being under the supposition that he worked extremely hard during the week days. Mrs Starling spent Sunday afternoon lying down and imagining herself a little worse than usual. Miss Felicia sat in the drawing-room, and Violet and Rose played on the lawn.

They were quite good little children and never made any unruly noise—that is, except when Robina was at home. Robina brought a disturbing element into their young lives: but now that she was gone, and Bo-peep was gone, the entire Starling family had settled down into their ordinary habits.

The day was an intensely hot one, and when Mr Durrant appeared on the scene, he stood still for a minute to wipe the moisture from his brow.

“Hallo, little ’un!” he said to Rose who, not at all shy, toddled up to him.

“What’s ’oo want, g’ate big man?” was her inquiry.

“I want your father, or your mother, or your aunt,” was Malcolm Durrant’s reply. “I want some one who can tell me something. Now I know you can’t, because you’re too small.”

“There’s my auntie in the drawing-room,” said Violet at that moment. Violet by no means wished Rose to monopolise the stranger. “She’ll say ‘Don’t’ if you has mud on your boots: but you hasn’t, they is quite clean.”

“Only dusty,” said Rose. “Let’s dust ’em.”

She knelt down as she spoke, and, taking the skirt of her little white frock, began to remove the dust from the stranger’s boots.

“Don’t, Rose! Rose, how dare you!” called a shrill voice from the drawing-room, and Miss Felicia made her appearance through the open window. “How do you do, sir,” she said. “I must apologise for my niece. Really, Rose, your conduct is disgraceful. Go away at once to the nursery and get your frock changed; what a dreadful mess you are in!”

“Poor little one!” said Malcolm Durrant. “She but did what her sex did before her for the Saviour of all the world. Forgive her, madam.”

He spoke in a very courteous tone, and, raising his hat, exhibited a noble brow and features which at once puzzled Miss Felicia and caused her heart to beat. “Won’t you come indoors, sir?” she said.

“And don’t ‘don’t’ him, please auntie!” said Violet.

But Miss Felicia, agitated, she knew not why, did not even hear her. She conducted the stranger into the little drawing-room.

“Sit down, sir,” she said. “And now, may I ask your name. You have, of course, come to see my brother-in-law on business. I can call him in a moment; but first, would you not like something to drink?”

“Very much, indeed,” said the stranger. “The fact is, I was never in such a thirsty place in the whole course of my life. A cup of tea or—or lemonade or—or—water—in fact, anything except spirits.”

“Dear sir, I am glad you are a teetotaller.”

“Dear madam, I drink wine in moderation; but that is neither here nor there. I should not like it at the present moment. You want to know my name? Malcolm Durrant. Your niece—for surely you are Miss Felicia Jennings—is at present honouring me by residing under my roof.”

“So you are the great traveller,” said Miss Felicia. She felt herself turning quite pale. “Sir,” she said, in a low reverent tone, “I honour you. It is a great, great privilege to have you under this roof. I will presently tell my brother-in-law and my sister of your arrival. My poor sister is a sad invalid; but to see you—I have not the slightest doubt—she will make an effort to come downstairs.”

“And I earnestly beg,” said Durrant, “she will do nothing of the kind. My business can be confided to you, madam. You can acquaint your sister and your brother-in-law with my desires, and they can either accept or refuse. But first of all—your hospitality was very much to the fore, dear madam, a minute ago; and I am terribly thirsty.”

Never did Miss Felicia Jennings in the whole course of her life feel happier than now. She tripped eagerly from the room, knocking against a chair as she did so. In a few minutes, she conveyed in her own fair hands a large glass of cool lemonade to her guest. He drank it off to the last drop, put down the empty glass, and told Miss Felicia in the most courteous language that she was a good Samaritan.

“Ah! my dear sir,” was her reply. “Who would not be a good Samaritan to you?”

Durrant settled himself comfortably in his easy chair.

“You have a nice little place here,” he said, “and a pretty out-look. How many sweet and peaceful homes there are in England!—and those two dear little maids to welcome me on the lawn. I only wish that they belonged to my party of young people who are at present enjoying life at Sunshine Lodge.”

“They are too young to leave home at present,” said Miss Felicia; “although I doubt not that being in your presence would do them a great deal of good. May I ask, my dear sir, how that precious little animal, Bo-peep, is progressing?”

“Bo-peep is, I believe, in admirable health, and so is Robina. You have not asked yet after the welfare of your niece.”

“Robina is a strong child: she never ails anything,” replied Miss Felicia.

“I am glad to be able to inform you that she remains in her normal, health,” answered Durrant. “And now for the purpose of this visit. I have, as you know, a little son.”

“I have heard of him; a child after your own heart—in fact, your Benjamin.”

“My little son; my only child,” said Durrant. “He is young—not yet quite six years old. I do not care to send children of such a tender age to school. I have many schemes for his future while I, alas! am forced to part from him, and my final desire is to leave him in his present home with a trustworthy lady whom I know, and who was my late dear wife’s relation—and with one young girl to be his constant companion. The girl I particularly wish to be with Ralph during my absence is, madam, your niece, Robina Starling.”

“Indeed!” said Miss Felicia. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘Don’t,’ but the word did not come.

“You look surprised,” said the traveller.

“Well,” said Miss Felicia, “I know you admire Robina, or you would not have given her that pony in such an extraordinary and munificent way. But surely, she is a little—a little rough—if I may so express it.”

“Hers is an upright character: she is upright, honest, truthful. My boy cares for her, and she cares for him: he cannot be under better influence. In short, if her father and mother consent, I want to make them an offer with regard to their child, Robina.”

“And what is that offer, Mr Durrant?”

“I want to take her from her present school, making arrangements with Mrs Burton, so that Mr Starling may be put to no expense by her transfer. I want to give her all the possible advantages of a good education. These can partly be supplied by Mrs Temple, who is a very polished and accomplished lady, and partly by masters and mistresses who visit Eastbourne weekly from London. Eventually, if she so desires it, I would pay all her expenses at Girton or Newnham.”

“It is a great chance for Robina: to be honest with you,” continued Miss Felicia, “we sent her from home because she was a little noisy, and upset her poor dear mother, who is a sad invalid; but she is a good girl on the whole.”

“I find her an excellent girl: I like her very much.”

“Well, sir,” said Miss Felicia; “I thank you for what you have told me. I will now go and acquaint my brother-in-law with the fact that he is deeply honoured by your visit to our humble roof.”

“Don’t put it in that way, I beg of you, madam. Try, please, and remember that when I am at home I may be just an ordinary individual, and in no sense wish to be lionised. You will oblige me by bearing this fact in mind.”

“I will endeavour to do so,” said Miss Felicia. She left the room, nodding many times to herself.

“Now he is under our roof—I have looked at him: I have heard his voice. I wonder if he will write his name in my birthday book. I should so prize it. I have not had one real celebrity to write in my book yet. Malcolm Durrant! How that great name would stand out amongst the inferior signatures of the people in our small neighbourhood. Oh, what a chance for Robina! Of course she will go. And her expenses lifted from her father’s head. He will grab at it. I can’t imagine myself what such a great man as Malcolm Durrant finds in the child. Still, these great people are very odd now and then in their preferences. I must go to wake Edward. Dear, dear! what a lot of sleep that man does require!”

She burst open the green-house door.

“Edward; how you are snoring! Do rouse yourself. Who do you think is in the drawing-room?”

“Dear me, Felicia! How can I tell,” replied Edward Starling, rubbing his eyes and looking at his sister-in-law in a dazed way. “You know perfectly well that I don’t see visitors on Sunday. It is my one day of rest after a week of toil.”

“A week of toil, indeed! Why, you do nothing. But rouse yourself now, if you don’t want your child to lose her golden chance in life. There is no less a person waiting for you in the drawing-room than the great traveller, Malcolm Durrant!”

Now the fame of this very great person had penetrated even to Edward Starling’s ears, and he roused himself at the news, fixing his eyes in some amazement on his sister-in-law.

“You must be dreaming,” he said. “It is quite impossible that Durrant should come here.”

“But he has come here! It is about Robina; he wants to settle her in life, to do everything for her. You had best go and clinch the bargain. What he sees in her is more than I can tell. If I had my way, and could speak honestly to the poor dear man, I would say ‘Don’t’ fast enough. But there—these geniuses always take strange fancies—do let me pull your collar down, Edward, and smooth that long lock of your front hair. It looks so queer half hanging down your back. Now then, you look better. Go in: make yourself agreeable. I will follow in a few minutes just to see that you don’t make a fool of yourself.”

Book Two—Chapter Nine.

A Discovery.

Malcolm Durrant might be a great traveller, and doubtless was; but all the same, Mr Starling felt annoyed at being disturbed in his Sunday nap. Great people did not raise enthusiasm within his breast: he believed in them, of course, and would have been quite interested to hear some of the said Malcolm Durrant’s adventures, had that gentleman been kind enough to tell them. But on a hot August afternoon, sleep was more refreshing than anything else, and he was not in the best of humours, when he entered the room where his guest was waiting for him.

Robina—Something was about to happen which would be to Robina’s advantage. As a matter of fact, she was his favourite child. He had a much better time when she was at home than when she was at school. She suited him, as he himself expressed it, down to the ground. She “ragged” him, as she called it. She was not at all afraid of him. She made him laugh. She encouraged him to be more noisy at meals than Miss Felicia thought was seemly in the house with a great invalid. He had yielded to Miss Felicia’s representations that school was necessary for Robina. She had gone to school, and some one else had discovered her virtues, for she had come back accompanied by a very valuable adjunct—no less a thing than a live pony, a spirited animal which could gallop and canter and trot and look all that was bright and intelligent. This animal, provided with a side-saddle and attendant groom whose wages were paid by some one else was a great addition to the ménage at the Brown House. When Robina went away to Sunshine Lodge, accompanied by the pony and the groom and the side-saddle, Edward Starling had missed his child and her belongings a great deal. He wondered what else was to be expected of him, and nodded curtly now to the stranger as he entered the room.

“Glad to see you, of course, sir,” he said. “How is Robina?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Durrant.

“You are a great person, Mr Durrant,” said Starling: “that is, you have made a great name for yourself. But be that as it may, I hold with the words, ‘A man’s a man for a’ that.’ You are a man, sir, and I am another, and Robina is my child. Now, my sister-in-law, who between ourselves is a right good sort but a bit of a goose, considers you not a man, but an archangel, with a halo round you. Now I see neither the archangel nor the halo, but a person who at present is enjoying the society of my pleasing young daughter. I understand that you have come to say something to me about her. What, Mr Durrant, may that something be?”

“A very outspoken something,” replied Durrant. “I am exceedingly glad, Mr Starling, that you speak to me as you do. I am not an archangel, and I wear no halo. I am an ordinary man. Circumstances have placed me, on several occasions, in positions of extreme danger where, if I had not used an Englishman’s pluck, I should have been worsted in the battle. I only did, sir, what you or any other man would have done under the circumstances. But now—to come to your child. I want to know if you will grant me a very great favour.”

“Well, let us hear it, let us hear it,” said Starling. “But why should we sit moped up in this fusty room? Let us come out into the garden and enjoy our pipes together: what do you say?”

“I shall be only too delighted,” said Durrant.

The two men immediately left the drawing-room. Miss Felicia, from a sheltered corner of her sister’s bedroom, watched them as they passed up and down.

“He has, my dear sister,” she remarked, “the most honourable carriage of the head: it is but to look at that man to see what he is. You, dear, at least, won’t throw any obstacle in the way of Robina’s good luck: all her life long it will be remembered in her favour that she was selected by Malcolm Durrant to be the companion of his little boy during his own absence.”

“I am not likely to put an obstacle in the way,” answered Mrs Starling, “seeing that I have small voice in any matters. Where you don’t rule me,—Felicia,—my husband does; and where my husband doesn’t, the little children do; and where the little children don’t, Robina does; and where Robina doesn’t, the servants do. I am ruled by everyone; I am the most ruled out person on earth; I have not a bit of colour or opinion left. When Bo-peep was here, I felt a little happier than I had done for some time, because the animal seemed to like me without wanting in the very least to get the upper hand of me. But there, it cannot be helped.”

“Don’t talk any more in that silly vein,” was Miss Felicia’s remark. “Each day after day as it goes, you make things quite disagreeable and contrary. I wanted to dress you nicely and bring you downstairs to tea, so that you might have the privilege of conversing yourself with the distinguished traveller; but really, what with hysterics in view, I doubt if it would not be better to leave you upstairs.”

“I am not going to have any hysterics,” said poor Mrs Starling. “I have passed all that. Perhaps Robina rules me rather less than the rest of you; but I should like to see the man who wants to be a sort of father to her. I can’t imagine why she should leave her own father; but you all think otherwise.”

“We all think otherwise,” retorted Miss Felicia with a sort of snort; “when golden chances do come in life, as a rule one isn’t such a fool as to throw them away. But now, my dear Agnes, your purple silk dress with the real lace collar will look exceedingly nice, and it will do you no harm to get into it, even if you don’t come downstairs.”

While Mrs Starling was being dressed, the men were having their smoke in the garden. Durrant made his proposal quite plainly before Mr Starling.

“I shall be absent for a year,” he said. “During that time, I want your daughter to be my little son’s companion; I, of course, paying all expenses. At the end of the year, she can, if you wish it, go back to Mrs Burton, and continue her education in that most excellent school, or she can still remain under my roof, looked after by my friend and relation, Mrs Temple, and given the best possible instruction that Eastbourne and the neighbourhood of London can supply. When she is old enough, I will myself send her to Newnham or Girton; or if she does not care for that sort of education I will give her two or three years’ foreign travel. It will be a great pleasure to me to do all this for the girl who helps my little boy during a rather lonely period of his life. I offer these advantages to your daughter because, in the first place, Ralph likes her better than any other girl he has ever seen, and in the second place, I respect and love her on her own account. During the holidays she will of course spend the time with you, unless you wish it otherwise.”

“There is no use whatever in that,” said Starling, interrupting Mr Durrant’s remarks in a somewhat gruff voice. “Robina is a good girl, and suits me uncommonly well, but she does not get on with the ladies here. Can’t tell why, I am sure—too outspoken—doesn’t suit Felicia Jennings. Felicia, between you and me, is somewhat of a bore—an excellent creature, but too much ‘don’t’ about her. Robina has got a high spirit, and she can’t stand it. That is why she went to school. Believe me, I didn’t want her to go: I miss the girl uncommonly. She takes after me—a little rough, you know.”

“I haven’t found her rough,” said Mr Durrant.

“Well, perhaps you would not call it so; but that is what the women here say. They have dinned it into my ear till at last I have got to believe it. Robina is so rough, they say, and so noisy, and so like a tomboy.”

“I need not tell you, my dear sir, that I found the child spirited and agreeable and an excellent companion. What I admire about her so much is her outspoken honesty and her truthfulness,” said Mr Durrant.

“Well, yes; she is all that: I have never found her out in a lie, never, although, to be sure, many a person might prevaricate a trifle to get away from the ‘don’ts’ of that old woman, Felicia. I am agreeable to your proposal, Mr Durrant: you can carry it out with my consent, and I have no doubt my poor wife will also fall in with your views: but I leave you, sir, to tackle the ladies yourself, for I am no match for them. Women are always slippery sort of creatures, hard to circumvent, sir, and mighty knowing. It is my belief they have twice the brains of us men. A woman can squeeze herself out of a corner where a man would be simply trapped. Now you know my opinion. Robina’s a good girl, and she may as well stay at Sunshine Lodge for a year as at Mrs Burton’s for a year. As to the holidays; if you would invite me to spend part of the time with her at Sunshine Lodge, it would save a lot of ructions; but I don’t make that a sine qua non. I am agreeable to any arrangement that suits you and the ladies.”

“Thank you; you are very kind,” said Mr Durrant.

The conversation languished a little after that, although Mr Starling tried to keep it lively by expatiating on Bo-peep’s many excellent points, and describing how truly his wife loved the little animal. Eventually, a small, clear voice interrupted the conversation, and Violet, dressed in her best and most starchy white frock, appeared on the scene. She announced in a prim little voice that tea was ready.

“You is to come in, and I may hold oo’s hand,” said Violet, giving hers at once with the utmost confidence to the stranger.

The men immediately entered the house, accompanied by the little maid. Rose was within, looking rather tearful, and seated close to her mother.

“I is not to ’peak, but I is ’onging to,” was her first remark as she fixed her cherubic eyes on the stranger’s face.

“Don’t, Rose! Keep silent,” said her aunt. “Mr Durrant, may I present you to my dear sister, Robina’s mother.”

Mr Durrant found a place close to Rose. He presently transferred this small person to his own knee, where she became radiantly happy, and then he entered into conversation with Mrs Starling. Mrs Starling, without in the least intending it, managed to convey to him the fact that she considered Robina a very rough, disobedient child, whom of course she loved, but to whom discipline was sadly necessary.

Mrs Starling was a very sweet looking woman, notwithstanding her illness, and Durrant became instantly much interested in her, and asked her a good many questions with regard to Robina. Finally, it was arranged that the momentous question of the little girl’s becoming Malcolm Durrant’s guest during his absence was to be deferred until the week after that spent by the entire happy party of school-mothers on the yacht; and Durrant promised to write to the Starlings on the subject at the end of that period.

He arrived back at Sunshine Lodge early on Monday morning, and then informed the different children that the weather report being excellent they would start on the cruise early on the following day. Nothing could exceed the delight of all the little school-mothers, and amongst them, no one was more cheerful than Harriet Lane. She had quite recovered her normal health, and was to all appearance in the highest of spirits.

That evening, she and Jane had a short conversation together.

Jane, said Harriet; “I mean, if possible, to be the girl left in charge of Ralph during his father’s absence. I know quite well all that has happened with regard to Robina. Mr Durrant wants Robina to stay with Ralph here; and he went to see her people, because he told me so; but all the same, matters won’t be quite settled until Ralph himself arranges the matter. Now Ralph wishes for me, not Robina, and I think Ralph’s wishes will in the end carry the day.”

Jane looked somewhat unhappy. After a pause, she said:

“Nothing could be more delightful than our life here, and I am looking forward to our time on board the yacht more than anything else in all the world; but you manage somehow always to give an unpleasant tone to things. I thought after the fright you got with regard to Ralph when we were at school that you would let him alone in the future; but you are just as bad as ever.”

“I am,” said Harriet; “I am worse than ever. I am not very happy at home, and I have not the advantages that Robina has.”

“Robina has one thing that you have not,” said Jane, stoutly. “She really and truly loves little children. Don’t you remember how sweet she was to Curly Pate? She has a way about her that all little children like: I suppose it is partly because she has got two little sisters of her own. Now, you do not care for children—not in your heart of hearts.”

“I don’t care for the ordinary child, and I certainly began by not loving Ralph at all,” was Harriet’s response; “but certainly I do care for him now better than I ever did for any other child. If I were left here, I should be good to him, and he would be happy. But that is not the point. I want the advantages that Mr Durrant offers—oh yes! Robina can keep her pony; that wonderful Bo-peep can go back to the Brown House and delight them all, and Robina can ride Bo-peep in the holidays. I don’t grudge her her pony, but I do grudge her Ralph. Why I—oh, but you don’t know about that.”

She stopped abruptly.

“You may as well tell me,” said Jane. “I guessed—I think we all guessed that something happened that day when you were so horribly cross and would not come with us to the sea-shore. You got poor little Ralph into no end of mischief that day, or why should you both have been taken ill that evening?”

“I will tell you, Jane,” said Harriet, “if you will promise never, never to let it out to anybody else.”

There was a girl lying in a hammock close by. That girl was Robina. She had been fast asleep. The day was hot, and she was tired from much exercise, for Mr Durrant’s parties never did let the grass grow under their feet. But she awoke now to find that Harriet and Jane were standing a few feet away. Her impulse was to say, “I am here.” The next moment, she would have uttered the words, but, hearing her own name spoken, arrested the speech that was on her lips. She did not know why, but a swift and horrible temptation came over her. She bent a little forward, and, unperceived by the two who were standing two or three feet off, could hear every word that was spoken.

“You will never tell,” began Harriet.

“No, no,” said Jane, a trifle impatiently; “if I wanted to begin to tell all the things you have confided in me, I’d have a pretty bad time of it. You know you have always plotted and planned against Robina. Well, what did you do against her that day?”

“The only thing I could do, and that was not much. You know all about the gipsies, and my following Ralph and bringing him home and my real sorrow, and my giving Ralph up to Robina; and you know how Robina won the pony?”

“Yes,” said Jane; “I know that story, I am perfectly sick of it,” she added.

“Well, that story has somehow come to an end, but another story has begun. It is this: I will tell you what really did happen. I was, oh! in such a rage; and I wouldn’t ride the horrid donkey, and you all went off without me, only Ralph—he stayed.”

“He is a dear little boy,” said Jane. “He did not want to stay, I can tell you; but he could not stand the thought of your being left all alone, so he asked his father if he might stay, and Mr Durrant said, ‘Of course.’ Mr Durrant never makes much of people being self-sacrificing; he seems to think it only right. Well, anyhow, he stayed.”

“He did,” said Harriet. “In some ways he was rather a little nuisance. He talked to me and I talked to him; and he—he—told me that he loved Robina the best.”

The girl in the hammock gave a quick catch in her breath, then a sigh of relief, but too faint to reach the girls who were talking eagerly in the shrubbery below.

“He said he loved her best; and you know that sort of little chap,” said Harriet, “he never, never could tell a lie—that is quite outside his category.”

“Oh quite, dear little man!” said Jane.

“Well, I wanted some water-lilies; and what do you think? I tried to pull some, but I couldn’t, and he—he crept along a bough. I could have prevented him, but I didn’t, for a thought got into my head.”

“What was that?”

“I knew quite well that if he crept along that bough—that willow bough that hangs over the round pond, that it wouldn’t hold his weight, and that he would fall in.”

“You knew it!” said Jane, gasping, “and you let him do it?”

“I did. I let him do it on purpose. He didn’t see me. He wanted to get the water-lilies for me, and he thought he would manage—oh, so fine! and I watched behind a shrub.”

“Oh, Harriet!”

“Well, my dear; you needn’t go on like that. The bough dipped lower and lower, and Ralph, he is not a bit frightened—you know he never was, he is as plucky as his father. I did feel inclined to say, ‘oh, do go back, Ralph—’”

“And you didn’t say the words, Harriet?”

“No, no; you goose, I didn’t; well, anyhow, he tumbled into the water where it was pretty deep too; and he would have sunk, poor little man, for there are such a lot of weeds about just there—only of course I was close by, and I rushed down to the edge of the pond and flung myself in, and swam out to him. I saved him—oh, it was quite easy; he was not even unconscious when I got him out of the water; only of course we were both drenched to the skin.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jane. “It seemed a horrid mean thing to do, and you speak as though it was something fine.”

“Ralph thinks it awfully fine. You see, he takes it in this way. He thinks he tried to get the lilies for me at the risk of his life.”

“That’s true enough,” said Jane.

“And that I saved him at the risk of mine.”

“Which is not a bit true,” said Jane, “for you can swim like a duck anywhere.”

“Ah, but Ralph does not know that, and there is no one who will dare to tell him. We both got ill afterwards, and I was more ill than Ralph, because I was longer in my dripping wet clothes; and now Ralph loves me much, much better than Robina, for you see I saved his life.”

“Oh! I think you are a horrid girl!” said Jane.

“Do you? do you? Well, perhaps you won’t think me quite so horrid when I get you invited here, say, for Christmas, and when we have a jolly, jolly time, with that old Mr Durrant safe in Africa and Ralph just obliged to put up with us. I’ll always be good to him, you may be sure of that, but I shan’t molly-coddle him: I’ll look after number one, see if I don’t.”

“All the same,” said Jane, “Robina is the one who will be invited to take care of Ralph, and you haven’t a chance.”

“I know better,” said Harriet. “I have my own plans. You will have to help me, for if you don’t, I won’t give you that five pounds that my god-mother allows me on each of my birthdays.”

“Five pounds!” said Jane, with a gasp.

“Yes; if I am allowed to stay as Ralph’s companion, I will give you that money this year. Think what that will mean.”

Jane was absolutely silent. The girls went away from under the shadow of the thick plantation, and walked like any other innocent little pair in the sunshine. Robina, after a long time, crept out of her hammock and went to the house. She had a dreadful feeling at her heart. She must be alone. She reached her bedroom and locked herself in.

Book Two—Chapter Ten.

Harriet Pleads.

Half an hour afterwards, Robina went downstairs. It was a perfect summer’s afternoon. She felt she could not stand the house. She went out. The great heat of the day was over. The stars were beginning to come out in the sky. They could hardly be seen as yet for there was too much light, but by-and-by they would shine brilliantly.

Robina raised her head to the sky, and wondered in a vague, girlish sort of fashion what sort of life it was up there, and if God really understood people, and if, in God’s other worlds, things were right, not wrong. She felt depressed as she had never been depressed before.

Ralph was playing eagerly with the three Amberleys. He looked a bonny, happy little boy. The rich colour had returned to his cheeks, he had lost that slight look of delicacy which had characterised him for a short time after his illness.

His illness! Robina knew about it now. She had guessed about it before, but now, she knew. Those wet clothes which the maid servant had shown her, were explained. The feverish chill which both Ralph and Harriet had suffered from was also explained. Everything was made clear to Robina. She felt herself almost shuddering. Such wickedness! such deceit! such a deeply laid plot to steal the affections of one little boy seemed too horrible to poor Robina! She felt she could scarcely go on in her present position.

“Harriet is too clever for me,” she thought. “I ought to tell Mr Durrant that I listened: I ought to explain to him what really happened. Oh, what—what am I to do! Ralph of course loves Harriet best now. He naturally thinks her conduct heroic. He is the sort of boy to be enraptured with a deed of that sort; and she did it all on purpose—on purpose—and just to win his love from me. Oh, how am I to bear it! Why did I ever know Ralph? Why was I ever sent to school? I was happy enough at home. There were troubles, of course. There was poor Aunt Felicia, and there was mother—darling mother, who never did understand me, much as I cared for her. But all the same, compared to this life, things were peaceful enough.”

“Hullo, Robina!” said a voice at that moment. “A penny for your thoughts, my dear!”

Robina turned swiftly. Her honest grey eyes flashed, then grew a little dim. Mr Durrant came up to her.

“Do you want to walk about with me for a little, my child, or would you rather I left you by yourself?”

“I will walk with you, of course,” said Robina—“that is, if you care to be with me. But,” she added, “I am not a good companion to-night.”

“And why not? is anything wrong?”

“There is something wrong, and I cannot tell it you. Please don’t ask me.”

“Of course I won’t, my dear girl. In a little company of this sort there are sure to be small jars, but what I feel about your character is this—that there is nothing mean about you. You naturally have your faults. I could imagine, for instance, that you were exceedingly high-spirited—too high-spirited at times. I could also imagine that you yourself needed a little discipline in life.”

“I do,” said Robina, suddenly. “I need everything—every sort of training. You don’t know, you can’t realise, what a wild sort of heart I have. It seems to be too difficult at times to control. I thought when I was at school, and when I was given the charge of Ralph, and when I won that dear pony, that I could never know unhappiness again; and then when you asked me here, I felt sure that I could never know unhappiness again.”

“And you did know it once again?” said Mr Durrant, looking kindly and yet with anxiety at the girl.

“Yes,” she said, nodding her head, and tears filling her eyes as she turned away.

“Listen to me, Robina. There are some things about you that appeal to me very forcibly. I know you are not perfect. I have been to your home and have heard the opinion of your father and aunt, and of your mother with regard to you. They have given their true opinions. Your father admires those things in you which try your mother and aunt very much. But I, my dear child, take you on my own valuation. I see in you one inestimable quality. I do not believe under any circumstances you would tell me a lie. That, to me, is the unpardonable sin. A girl who could do anything deceitful would be an impossible companion for my little Ralph. I do not believe you would be that.”

Robina was quite silent. Her silence, and the extreme moodiness of her appearance, rather surprised Mr Durrant.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “if I am to be able to carry out my plan, which I am exceedingly desirous to do, I shall have to choose between you and Harriet as a companion for my little boy. All my inclinations tend towards you, Robina; but, on the other hand, I have been speaking to Ralph, and Ralph seems to wish me to choose Harriet as his school-mother during the year of my absence. Now the wishes of so young a child cannot altogether guide me in this matter, and I do not mean to come to a decision for at least a week on the subject. During that time, I shall watch you both—not obtrusively in any way, but still with a keen observation, for a great deal depends on the choice which I am forced to make. I am, to tell you the truth, a good deal puzzled at Ralph’s preference for Harriet, and feel, without being able to lay my hand on the mystery, that there is a mystery with regard to it, and that Harriet has a power over him which I am not permitted to know anything about.”

Mr Durrant paused and looked at Robina. She was quite silent.

“It would,” said the traveller, after a long pause, “be a very, very serious thing—in fact, it would be exceedingly wrong for me to entrust my boy to the companionship of a girl who was not truthful, who had the elements of deceit in her composition; and I do beseech of you, Robina, not to consider yourself in the matter, but if you know anything against Harriet, to confide that something to me.”

“You must not ask me,” said Robina, suddenly. “I do not say I know anything; she is my school companion. She is clever; she is not cleverer than I am, but she is undoubtedly clever. You never can tell why a person cares for another. Ralph was fond of Harriet when he was at school, then he turned to me because poor Harriet was tempted to take him away to visit a friend of hers—but you know all about that story.”

“Yes, I know all about it, and about poor Harriet’s subsequent repentance. The incident has, therefore, quite faded from my mind, and cannot influence me in my present decision in the very least.”

“Of course not,” said Robina. “Well, I cannot tell you any more.”

“I am much puzzled,” said Mr Durrant, “and your manner to-night is the reverse of reassuring.” He left Robina a few minutes afterwards, and she walked by herself for a short time. She was just going back to the house when a hand was laid on her arm, and a girl looked eagerly into her face.

“So you were talking to him?”

“What do you mean?” said Robina. She almost flung Harriet’s hand aside.

“I have discovered something,” said Harriet. Harriet’s face was absolutely white. It looked curious and almost dreadful in the light caused by the moon which was now rising. “It was Jane who found out,” she said. “You were in the hammock all the time. You heard us; you listened; you are an eavesdropper. Have you told Mr Durrant what I said to Jane?”

“No,” replied Robina, in a low tone.

“But you did listen?”

“I did: I was in the hammock. How did you find out?”

“We found your handkerchief on the ground when we were passing a few moments afterwards; and you left your book behind you. Your book was in the hammock; your handkerchief on the ground; you dare not deny it; you heard every word.”

“I heard every word,” said Robina.

“Then what do you mean to do?” said Harriet.

“Nothing,” replied Robina.

“Nothing?” said Harriet. “That is so like you. You mean to give up your golden chance?”

Robina folded her hands. She stood and faced Harriet.

“If I can keep straight, I will,” she said—“if by any means it is possible for me to keep straight in the company of a girl like you, I will do so. I believe, hard as it may seem, that that would be better for me in the long run even than spending a whole year with Ralph.”

“Do you indeed think so?” said Harriet. She spoke eagerly. “In that case, Robina, you can help me.”

“No,” said Robina, starting back.

“Don’t be silly,” said Harriet. “Come down this path, no one will hear us; we must talk. On board the yacht, there will be so little opportunity, but here we are alone and together. The choice lies between you and me. Now, you think you want all that Mr Durrant is about to offer, but, compared to me, you don’t want it at all. My home, compared to yours, is, oh! so rough; and my people are oh! so poor! You don’t know, perhaps, that I am supported at Mrs Burton’s school by an aunt who grudges every penny of the money she spends on me. To be educated by a man like that, to be able to live here until I am quite grown-up—oh, it would make such a difference! You don’t want these advantages as badly as I want them. Give up your chance, you have but to help me with Ralph. He loves me better than you now; you have but to say a few words to Mr Durrant, and the deed is done.”

“And what words are those?” said Robina.

“Tell him what you think about me.”

“What I think?” said Robina.

“Yes, yes, yes! Don’t you understand? You haven’t said anything yet—I mean, you haven’t betrayed me?”

“I haven’t.”

“Well, his great idea is that Ralph should be under the care of a truthful girl. Make out to him that I am the most truthful girl, the most honourable, the most upright in all the world.”

“Sell my soul, in fact?” said Robina. She turned and faced her companion. “O Harriet! How I despise you! I tell you what I will do. I will give up this whole thing. I will tell Mr Durrant that I won’t be Ralph’s companion; that I prefer to go back to Mrs Burton’s school, and to take my chance there; that I can have nothing further to do with Ralph, that I can tell him what I know about you, and he can choose Rose Amberley, or Vivian, or Patience Chetwold, or one of the other girls as Ralph’s school-mother. When I put you out of court, I shall put myself out of court. Oh, yes; that is what I will do. You are just dreadful, Harriet, dreadful.”

“You won’t dare to do such a thing,” said Harriet. “You must not; oh, I beseech of you!” Harriet’s whole tone altered. “Robina, I was only joking. Oh, please, please, please don’t betray me. Of course, I will do nothing, only don’t betray me. Let us have our chance, let us both be above-board: probably Mr Durrant and Ralph will choose you, and if they do, I will promise not to say a word.”

“But you will have nothing to say,” replied Robina, in some astonishment.

“That is true; but oh! do nothing, nothing until the week is up!”

“You distract me,” said Robina. “I want to go to him now—at once. He thinks me truthful; perhaps I am; I have been up to the present. Now it seems that, knowing what I know—knowing that you did that thing with regard to the pond—”

“Oh, hush!” said Harriet.

”—That I ought to tell him. It lies on my conscience: I am most miserable!”

“Well, at least promise that you will say nothing until we have been on board the yacht and the time there is over.”

Harriet argued. Robina pleaded; but in spite of herself, the girl who was quite straight, who had no crooked thoughts, whose one desire was to do to others as she would be done by, was no match for the girl who was deceitful and intensely selfish. In the end, Robina was forced by her companion to give the promise that she would say nothing until the week was up.

Book Two—Chapter Eleven.

On Board the “Sea-Gull.”

The next day dawned gloriously, and soon after ten o’clock the entire party were on board the pretty yacht which was known by the name of the “Sea-Gull.” She had been hired by Mr Durrant for the occasion, and was as charming a sea home as any girls could live in. The eight girls who now took possession of the pretty little cabins and who ran up and down the “companion” stairs and walked on the deck, and disported themselves so happily with the sea breezes blowing on their cheeks, and the white sails of the yacht fluttering in the breeze had never known a more enjoyable time than that first day on board the “Sea-Gull.”

The “Sea-Gull,” like a large white bird, skimmed lightly over the water. The girls were all excellent sailors. The sky was cloudless. Mr Durrant seemed absolutely to have recovered his serene good humour. Ralph was in the highest spirits, and even the school-mothers were so absorbed in their new surroundings that they had no time for trouble or care.

It was after dinner, on the first evening of their sojourn on board the “Sea-Gull” that Mr Durrant, rising from his place at the head of the table, spoke to his little party.

“Now, my children,” he said, “we have entered on a week which I hope will remain long in the memories of each and all of you—a week which it will be my endeavour to make one of pure and perfect happiness. There is no time like youth for the enjoyment of such. As we get older, we cannot quite get away from our cares, however hard we try to do so; but when we are young, we are meant to be like the young birds and the young lambs and the young puppy dogs and the young kittens—all gaiety and sunshine, and lightness of heart. I have on board this yacht with me, a crew and an excellent sea-worthy captain and a first mate and all the rest, and I also have nine young people who none of them exceed twelve years of age. This expedition is entirely carried out for the sake of one little boy and his eight school-mothers, and I trust, therefore, we shall have a very jolly time.

“On the night of our return to Sunshine Lodge, I shall have a very important decision to announce, but in the meantime, my children, let us forget all about it; let us be happy while we may; let us banish dull care; let us be, from the oldest to the youngest, each a truly happy child at heart.”

“Oh, yes,” said Robina’s voice.

The others looked round rather startled when she spoke. She was wearing a brown holland frock, which Aunt Felicia had made for her, and which was not exactly becoming, but nothing could take from the bonny expression of her open face, and her very words brought comfort to Mr Durrant’s heart.

“That girl is the girl for me,” he said to himself. “Who would compare her to Harriet Lane?” But then he noticed—and he gave a quick sigh—that Ralph’s little hand was locked in Harriet’s, and that he was standing close to the tall, thin girl.

Soon afterwards, the entire party went on deck, and Ralph, after sitting up for some time, was obliged to go down to the pretty cabin which he shared with his father.

“Oh—I am so sleepy!” he said. “I shan’t sleep without rocking, for I’ll be rocked all night by the sea, won’t I, father?”

“Yes, my son,” replied his father; “and may you sleep without dreams.”

He kissed the little brown face as he spoke. The brown eyes looked into the browner eyes of the man, and the man felt that in all the wide world there was no one so precious to him as that little child who was not yet six years of age.

“If only I could give up my life of adventure for his sake! Dare I leave him?” thought Mr Durrant. “I could, with Robina,” was his next thought.

He looked across at the group of girls, who, on different deck-chairs, were gently swaying to the pleasant rhythmic motion of the yacht. There were certainly prettier girls on board, but there was no one, to Mr Durrant’s mind, so altogether satisfactory as Robina. How was it that even at this juncture, Ralph scarcely kissed Robina at all, but clasped his arms round Harriet’s neck, and whispered something in her ear? and why did Harriet return his kiss with a sort of eager passion and then turn and talk to Jane in an undertone? Mr Durrant felt he did not like it. He was restless, in spite of himself, and though he had vowed that dull Care should not enter the “Sea-Gull,” and that during the happy week on board no contretemps should take place, he was all the time thinking, first of Harriet, and then again of Robina, and then again of Harriet.

The first two days on board passed without any sort of adventure. The party landed and saw almost all the places of interest on the Isle of Wight, and generally entered some little harbour to spend the night. The weather continued to be most propitious. There was no one either sea-sick or sorry; nevertheless, Mr Durrant felt more and more as though that choice which he was about to make were becoming one of greater anxiety each moment.

On the third day of the little party’s residence on board the “Sea-Gull,” Ralph, who woke very early, left his own berth and climbed into his father’s.

“Is you waking up, father?” he said. “Is you going to talk to your little brown boy?”

“Of course I am, Ralph,” answered Durrant, opening one sleepy eye, and glancing comically at Ralph as he perched himself on one side of the bed.

Ralph sat very still for a minute: then he said, in a very low, determined voice:

“I promised I’d say it: so I am going to.”

“You dear little man—you promised you’d say it:—what do you mean by that?”

“Well,” said Ralph, “it is this. I want you to choose Harriet to live with me when you is going to South Africa. I don’t want Robina: I like her next best to Harriet, but I don’t like her as well.”

“Now this is a very serious matter, Ralph,” said his father, changing his tone and becoming wide awake and alert at the moment, and taking his little boy’s hand. “You know, my dear son, that I shall be absent from home for several months.”

“I know,” said Ralph.

“You will have Mrs Temple to look after you.”

“I know,” said Ralph again.

“And being a manly boy, you won’t fret.”

“’Course not,” said Ralph. Whatever feeling there was in his heart, he would not let it come to the surface. “I is your own boy,” he said, after a pause. “You didn’t fret ever, did you?”

“Not to show it,” replied Mr Durrant, after a minute’s pause.

“Sank ’oo,” said Ralph. “I understand,” he repeated.

“Well, my dear boy, that part is all right: but now, to be frank with you: I prefer Robina.”

“And I like Harriet,” said Ralph.

“Do you think, Ralph, that a little boy so young as you are is the best judge of who ought really to be his companion?”

“I don’t understand,” said Ralph then. “I like Harriet best, ’cause she’s so—”

“Ah, yes?” said Mr Durrant, in an encouraging voice. “Give me your reasons, my son; I shall listen with the greatest possible attention.”

“’Cause she is so splendid—and—and brave,” said Ralph, “and—and—noble—”

“Is she?” said Mr Durrant. “Can you prove that?”

“Does you want me to prove it, father?”

“Yes,” said Mr Durrant then. “If Harriet is really the bravest girl of all your school-mothers, and the noblest, then—she shall stay with you as your school-mother. But it has got to be proved to me.”

“And if I can prove it,” said Ralph, “you will really, really let her stay with me as my very own school-mother?”

“Yes, Ralph.”

“Sankoo so much,” said Ralph. His little face looked very much excited and the colour flushed into his cheeks.

“Now then, that is settled,” said Mr Durrant. “You have got to prove the thing, and I have got to see that I believe all about it. We won’t worry any more for the present, for the decision is not to be come to until we return to Sunshine Lodge. Go back to your own berth, Ralph. Turn round and have another hour’s sleep, for it is too early for anyone to be up.” Ralph, quite satisfied with what he had done, immediately obeyed his father. He was just like a little sailor, and instant obedience was his watch-word. But while a small brown boy slept, the big brown man lay awake, consumed with anxious thought.

“I wish I had never given my sanction to this plan; there is something behind the scenes. Harriet brave; Harriet noble? I never yet was mistaken in a face,” was his thought. “Well, little Ralph, you have to prove it to my satisfaction, that is one comfort.” That day the little party landed at Lymington and went for a time into the New Forest under the shade of the “Immemorial Elms.” Ralph and Harriet had time to be alone for a short period. It was rather difficult now for the boy and the girl to be unobserved on these occasions. It seemed to Harriet that the eyes of all the school-mothers watched them, that Robina, in particular, followed them about with those grey eyes of hers.

Robina was true to her word. She tried to enjoy herself and was great friends with all her companions with the exception of Jane, whom she left to Harriet entirely, and with the exception of Ralph, whom, from a motive which she could not define, she left more or less to himself. This very fact distressed Mr Durrant not a little. Now, Robina and the Amberley girls were all walking under the trees, chatting and talking, and Harriet and Ralph found themselves alone.

“I has done it,” said Ralph. “I spoke to father and telled him that I wished him to choose you.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” said Harriet. She pulled Ralph’s little hand through her arm. “You will never be sorry for that, I can tell you, Ralph. I mean to give you a beautiful time when I am your school-mother.”

“Oh, yes,” said Ralph; “but ’tisn’t ’cause of the beautiful time that you’re to be my school-mother, is it, Harriet?”

Harriet looked puzzled.

“I mean,” said Ralph, “that I is going to be a big boy. Next birthday I’ll be six, then seven, then eight—I’ll be growed up in no time. When a person is growed up, then a person hasn’t to think only just of nice things. I telled father that I wanted you to be my school-mother, to stay with me all the time, ’cause you’re so brave and so noble.”

“You told him that?” said Harriet, with a short laugh: “nothing more, I hope?”

“No, nothing more, ’cause you wouldn’t let me. But, Harriet,” he said, “father did—”

“What, dear?”

“That I had got to prove to him that you was brave, and was noble—he likes people who are that; and his eyes flashed. Don’t you like father’s eyes when they grow all of a sudden so very bright? Well, they growed like that when I said you was brave, and noble; only he said you must prove it.”

“Oh! you did put your foot into things,” said Harriet. “How on earth am I to prove it.”

“Why, do something brave and noble,” said Ralph. “I thought I’d tell you, ’cause father said he must know his own self, and then he’ll decide. He is going to decide as soon as ever we get back to Sunshine Lodge—oh! and there he is calling me! Now I must run to him. Coming, father, coming—this instant-minute!” and Ralph lost his hold of Harriet’s hand and flew off to meet his parent.

“Does you want me to swarm up to the top of that tall tree, father? I can, you know: I isn’t a bit frighted,” said Ralph.

Mr Durrant stood and smiled.

“You mustn’t go too far,” he said, “I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.”

“No,” said Ralph, “that wouldn’t be right, would it? Special ’cause there’s no water underneath. If I was to run up this tree, and run along that bough that bends over so, and it cracked, same as willow bough cracked, I—”

Then he stopped and turned very red. Durrant was standing very upright and apparently not listening. Ralph felt a choking sensation in his throat. How very nearly he had betrayed himself!

“Was you listening, father?” he said, after a pause; and he came up and pulled the brown man by the sleeve.

“To what, my boy?”

“To a sort of nonsense I was talking.”

Instantly Mr Durrant’s face grew very stern.

“You were not talking nonsense, Ralph,” he said. “You were telling something that happened: but I don’t want to hear the rest. What I have heard doesn’t matter, for a half story is no story all: but it is not exactly true to call what really happened nonsense, and I don’t like those words from the lips of my little son. Now go up your tree; climb along any branch you like: I am below watching you.”

“Yes, yes,” said the boy, the weight of the words he had inadvertently used slipping from his mind. “Father’s below, waiting for me,” he repeated.

He climbed the tall elm tree, springing from branch to branch with the alertness of a little squirrel, and presently came down again, radiant and triumphant.

“Pluckily done, Ralph!” said his father, and he took the boy’s hand and continued to walk with him through the Forest.

“Father,” said Ralph, after a pause, “I have been telling Harriet that you must have it proved that she is both brave and noble.”

“That is right, my boy. Now let us talk of something else. There’ll be a bit of a breeze to-night: we must run the ‘Sea-Gull’ into Yarmouth Harbour. We must run in before long in order that we may be snug and in port before we have any dirty weather.” If there was one girl who was not perfectly happy during this week of sunshine, it was Jane Bush. Poor Jane was completely under Harriet’s influence. If Harriet was poor, Jane was a little poorer. Mrs Burton was one of those good Christian women who took girls, whose parents were poor, on special terms; both Harriet and Jane were girls of this sort. She had long ago made up her mind that those girls who could not afford to pay for a good education should nevertheless, if there was a vacancy at Abbeyfield, receive all the advantages of the best education she could offer.

Harriet was the daughter of an old friend, and Jane Bush was the child of a man who had once done her a service. Both these girls were received at Abbeyfield on very special terms, and Jane, in particular, was at the school almost free of any expense. Mrs Burton was not especially fond of Jane, but she remembered the time when Jane’s father had been kind to her in her need, and she was determined to give the girl all the advantages of a good education; no one knew this; it was never whispered in the school that Harriet and Jane were taken on very different terms from their companions. Their rooms were just as comfortable, their education just as complete: but the girls themselves knew, and the thought rankled sorely in each young breast.

Harriet had an aunt, it is true, who paid something for her schooling, but Jane Bush’s father paid practically nothing at all. He was a very poor artist who could scarcely make two ends meet. Jane’s mother was dead, and the girl would have been absolutely neglected but for Mrs Burton’s great kindness to her.

Jane Bush had a little brother and sister who were cared for, after a fashion, by an aunt, and, with the exception of her school-companions, they were the only people she loved in the world.

Now, the thought of that five pounds, which was to be hers if Harriet was lucky enough to be selected as school-mother to Ralph, visited her heart again and again. What wonders could she not achieve with so large a sum? Why, five pounds! Five pounds meant one hundred shillings, and one hundred shillings meant two hundred sixpences and four hundred threepences! and as to the pennies which that mighty sum represented—Jane felt that she was not old enough yet even to begin to calculate the magnitude of the amount! Yes, if she helped Harriet—she, who had always helped her more or less, would be the happy possessor of that sum. What could she not do for little Bobbie and small, round, black-eyed Miriam if she had five pounds of her own? She remembered too well the sordid condition of these poor little ones; how many things they wanted; how shabby were their little wardrobes; how thin their winter frocks; how bitterly Miriam complained of the cold, and how Bobbie cried when his chilblains hurt him!

While the others were singing and laughing and making merry on board the “Sea-Gull,” and Jane’s very round cheeks got rounder and browner and her eyes blacker and more staring, and people said to themselves, “What a commonplace, careless sort of little girl that is and what an uninteresting face she has,” they little guessed that Jane’s heart was full of care, that she was thinking of Bobbie and Miriam and the things that might be done for their happiness if only she was the possessor of five pounds.

She was completely under Harriet’s spell, and never more so than at the present moment when Harriet dangled before her so tempting a bait. Now Harriet, exceedingly annoyed at what Ralph had communicated, sought her chosen friend.

“Well, Jane,” she said, “this is Friday. We shall be back at Sunshine Lodge on Tuesday next, and then the great decision has to be made. Have you thought of anything?”

“Have I thought of anything?” said Jane, almost crossly. “I am always thinking of things, Harriet, you know very well.”

“But if you don’t think of something good and clever, you may as well not think at all,” said Harriet. “Now, do you know that I don’t like my present position at all. There’s that horrid Robina—she is exactly the sort of girl who, to spoil my chances, would equally spoil her own. She said as much, and if we don’t manage to circumvent her between now and Tuesday, all will be up.”

“I would do anything in all the world to help you, as you know, Harriet,” said Jane; “but please tell me what circumvent means?”

“Why, get the better of her, of course, you goose! You really are too silly,” said Harriet. “Well, how are we to get the better of her? I want you to tell me.”

“I wish I could!”

“Oh, you don’t think at all!” said Harriet in a fretful tone. “If, instead of romping and joking and laughing all day with that silly Vivian or Rose or any of the other girls, you were to put on your considering cap, you would soon find a way to earn your five pounds.”

“I want it most dreadfully,” said Jane: “but please tell me how I am to earn it, Harriet. What is it you want me to do?”

“Well, I tell you what I want you to do. I want you to do; two things. To prove in some sort of fashion to Mr Durrant that Robina is deceitful—yes, that is it, deceitful; he thinks more of truth than of anything under the sun—and that I am exceedingly brave, and exceedingly noble. I gave Ralph the hint to tell his father that I was both brave and noble—you know all about that as far as is connected with the pond. Well, what do you think Mr Durrant has said? He says that if Ralph can prove his words, he will elect me as the school-mother. The deed will be done. There will be no getting out of it; but it has got to be proved—how? I leave you, Jane, to find out a way.”

“Oh, it isn’t so easy,” said Poor Jane.

“You want your five pounds, don’t you?” said Harriet, with a sneer.

“Yes, I want it awfully. I heard from Bobbie and Miriam this morning and—”

“I don’t want to hear about those tiresome children. Now let us come to the boat; they are calling us: don’t you hear them?”

Book Two—Chapter Twelve.

Edged Tools.

Mr Durrant’s prophecies with regard to the weather turned out true. The “Sea-Gull” made with some difficulty into Yarmouth harbour, where it remained snugly ensconced for the night. But even there, although securely at anchor, it tossed about a good deal, and none of the children slept particularly well.

Towards morning, however, the storm abated: the wind went down almost as suddenly as it rose, and Mr Durrant determined to take the yacht as far as Totland Bay, and to give the children a run on the shore. They were all pleased with this decision, and when they landed on the pier, were much delighted to find themselves again on terra firma.

The day was a very hot one; and, except for the swell after the storm, all traces of the tempest of the preceding night had vanished. The entire party went into the hotel for lunch, and afterwards took a long walk on the beach in the direction of the far-famed Needles.

It was so fine and warm that the girls begged to be allowed to bathe. There was a sheltered cove about a mile beyond Totland Bay where they could go into the water; and all the party, provided with their bathing things, started on their expedition.

Harriet and Jane walked on a little in front of the others: Robina, on this occasion, found herself with the Amberley girls: Mr Durrant, Patience and Frederica Chetwold and Ralph brought up the rear. Jane turned now and spoke eagerly to Harriet.

“I have thought of something,” she said.

“Well, what is it?” asked Harriet.

“We are all going to bathe, aren’t we?”

“I suppose so,” said Harriet: “not that I much care for the look of the water,” she added. “There is an awful swell, and I remember my father once telling me that there were strong currents all round this part of the coast. Only very good swimmers ought to go out; but of course we are safe enough, those of us who choose to stay in our depths.”

“Yes,”—said Jane—“those of us who choose; but you won’t, you know—it will be your chance.”

“My chance? of what?” asked Harriet.

“Why, of proving what you want to prove to Mr Durrant.”

Harriet turned and looked full at her companion. It is true she was a good swimmer, and she was not a coward; but she knew enough about the water to understand that even the best swimmer cannot cope against a sea which is still perturbed by a recent storm. She said, after a pause:

“I always knew you were clever enough, Jane, when you chose to put your brains in soak. Now, what is your thought? Out with it.”

“Well,” said Jane; “it is this way. They’re all going to bathe—all of them—Ralph and Mr Durrant, and all the girls. You coax Ralph to get a little out of his depth, and then you save him. Why, it’s done as easy as possible. Why, Mr Durrant, he’ll feel then just as Ralph feels for you—that there’s nothing in all the world that he won’t do for you, and Robina won’t be in it at all.”

Harriet was so astonished at these words, that she stood stock-still and turned and stared at her companion.

“But if Mr Durrant is in the water himself, he will save Ralph. Besides, he won’t allow him to go out of his depth; he will just keep him to himself. Why, Ralph is the apple of his eye, you goose!”

“Yes,” said Jane; “but suppose he isn’t with him.”

“Now what are you talking about?”

“If something was to happen to make him go back and just let the rest of us wait in the cove for him and oh! I know that I am a very bad girl; but I think that if you were to make up a message of some sort he might go back to the yacht, and while he is away, we could go into the water, and then you will do that fine, splendid thing and—and—all will be right.”

“Yes,” said Harriet; “yes.” She looked at the sea. Each moment the waves seemed to be going down; there were no “white horses” anywhere. The whole sea as far as the distant horizon was a blue expanse. There was not much, if any, danger, and people said it was so safe to bathe in the cove, which they were approaching. “But what can we do to make Mr Durrant go back?” said Harriet.

“I have thought of that too,” said Jane, her colour changing. “You remember the letter you got about your father?”

“The letter that reached me this morning?”

“Yes, you said he was ill.”

“Oh, dad is often ill,” said Harriet; “I mean that he is fanciful.”

“Well,” said Jane; “let’s pretend for the time at least that he is not fanciful, and that you are nervous about him, and that you want to hear, and that you think there may be a telegram waiting for you on board the ‘Sea-Gull.’ Mr Durrant is so kind that he would think nothing of going back to find out, and I would speak to him my own self if you would let me. Do let me, please do, Harriet!”

“You want your five pounds,” said Harriet. “It’s a jolly mean way to earn it. But still, I suppose, we are both as mean as we can be and the idea in itself may succeed. I have asked you to manage this thing for me, Janie, it is only fair, as you get such a lot of money by it, so do your best, now; I leave it in your hands.”

The moment Harriet said this, Jane rushed away from her. She joined Mr Durrant, and they talked together for some minutes with great apparent earnestness. Meanwhile, Ralph rushed up to Harriet.

“Isn’t the day lovely?” he said; “won’t it be nice when we are bobbing up and down in the water? I’ll show you how well I can swim, Harriet. I can swim, you know, but I can float better than I can swim.”

“You must be careful not to go out of your depth,” said Harriet. “Of course you can swim, although you are such a little boy, and when you are tired, your father will let you ride on his back. What fun that will be! Your father is so strong, and big.”

“Yes, isn’t he just splendid?” said Ralph.

At that moment, Jane came back.

“Mr Durrant has gone to the yacht,” she whispered to Harriet, “but he doesn’t wish any of us to bathe until he returns.”

Ralph, who was quite uninterested in Jane’s whispered communication now ran down to the edge of the water and began to amuse himself shying pebbles into the sea.

“Of course there will be no telegram,” said Harriet to Jane. “Father’s in all probability as well as usual, still, that was a good idea of yours, and it isn’t likely to be found out.”

“I don’t think it is likely,” said Jane. “I am awfully wicked,” she continued, “and it is you, Harriet, who have made me so. I told Mr Durrant that you were almost certain a telegram would come. It was a lie, of course, but I have done it for Bobbie’s sake, and Miriam’s sake, and now you have got to earn my five pounds for me; now is your chance.”

“But you have spoilt it with that message,” said Harriet. “Mr Durrant said we were none of us to bathe until he came back.”

“You must bathe,” said Jane. “I am going to pretend that I forgot all about the message. You must act as though you never got it.”

“Then you, Jane, will be punished.”

“I can only be in disgrace,” said Jane; “and I don’t mind if I get my money. In any case, I shan’t bathe; I am going to walk about very slowly along the beach, and will wait for you near the yacht. If any of the sailors see me, they will take me on board, and I can wait for you there. I shall be much too miserable to look on. Don’t let Ralph go far into the sea—just a wee, wee bit out of his depth: then catch him very quickly; only be sure you let Robina and the other girls see you do it. Things will be all right for us both now, won’t they?”

“Yes,” said Harriet, in an excited tone. She too felt that her chance had come. Her conscience was dulled to sleep. Not for worlds would she awaken it.

Jane immediately began to walk back to Totland Bay, and Harriet turned to the other girls who had come up now to join her.

“When,”—said Ralph, who was softly jumping up and down and holding Vivian’s hand—“when is we all going into the nice, cool, lovely blue water?”

“But where can Mr Durrant be?” said Robina.

“He said that he would come with us because the current would certainly be a little strong to-day. Perhaps we had better not bathe.”

“Oh, of course those who are frightened need not bathe,” said Harriet: “but I am going into the water for one.”

“But where is father? where is my father?” asked Ralph.

“He has gone,” said Harriet, “out of great kindness to me to find out if a telegram has come on board the ‘Sea-Gull’ to tell me about my own father, who isn’t well. Isn’t it good of him?”

“Just like father,” said Ralph. “And is your father very, very bad, Harriet?”

“Oh, I hope he is much better now,” said Harriet. “But he sometimes does get ill, and then of course I am anxious.”

“’Course you are, poor Harriet,” said Ralph, taking her hand and stroking it softly.

“Well, girls,” said Harriet, looking at the others; “who’s going to bathe, and who isn’t?”

Two or three elected to get into their bathing things, and go into the water. The little cove was absolutely sheltered. The water was like glass. Some of the children were accustomed to sea-bathing, some were not. Harriet began eagerly to question.

“Who can swim?” she asked.

“I can,” said Frederica.

“And I a little bit,” said Rose Amberley.

“And I can’t,” said Robina; “but all the same, I am going to bathe if the rest of you do.”

“And who said you were not to bathe?” asked Harriet. “It will do you good, I think, for you look so hot and dusty.”

“Yes, I believe it would do me a lot of good,” said Robina, and as she spoke she took off her hat and twisting up her thick hair, knotted it firmly at the back of her head.

The girls then packed their bathing things, and Robina, Harriet and the others prepared to get into the water. Little Ralph, looking prettier than he had ever done before, in a little tight-fitting brown bathing suit, skipped about on the edge of the waves.

“Oh! won’t it be jolly!” he cried; “won’t it be jolly in the water! Come, Harriet.”

On his lips the words were almost bubbling, “You can swim splendid,” but he kept them back.

“Let me hold your hand, Ralph,” said Robina. “We mustn’t go far because your father is not with us, and your father wouldn’t like it.”

“Nonsense!” said Harriet, who was standing up to her knees in the water, which was quite warm, and as still as possible. “Those who are cowards,” she said, “need not come on; but from the little I know of Mr Durrant, I should say that of all things in the world, he would wish Ralph to prove himself a brave boy. Come along with me, Ralph; hold my hand; poor silly Robina can’t swim, you know.”

“Can’t you, Robina? Oh, I forgot,” said Ralph. He looked pityingly at her.

“I can swim quite a little bit,” he said. “Father taught me; only I can’t keep up very long, but leastways I can float. Can’t you even float, Robina? You has to turn on your back—so.”

As Ralph spoke, he suited the action to the words, lying perfectly still on his back, his head slightly lower than his chest. Harriet laughed; put her hand under the said little head, and forced him on to his feet again.

“Why, you are a splendid boy,” she said. “You and I will see together what we can do. The water is quite warm. Now, Ralph, you know the stroke. Come along; I will help you. All of you who can swim, come with me, won’t you. I thought before I got into the water that the current might be a little strong, but I see I am mistaken. We can easily go as far as the entrance to the cove. What fun it will be to look at the outside world from the edge of the cove.”

Harriet began to swim out boldly, and Ralph for a time kept pace with her, laughing as he did so. Suddenly, a girl cried out:

“Don’t go any further, Harriet; there’s a fisherman beckoning to us. Turn back, Harriet; turn back!” Harriet turned quickly. She saw a man on the cliff gesticulating and waving his hand. She looked at Ralph. Ralph was still swimming close to her. The other girls had not even gone out of their depths. Robina, however, with her face white as death, was struggling into deep water.

“No, no!” cried Harriet. “Turn back, turn back, Robina! It’s all right—it really is. Don’t come any further, you’ll be drowned if you do!”

“Ralph, Ralph, Ralph!” pleaded Robina. “Come back to me, come back!”

The little boy looked at her and smiled.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said. “I is all right. I is just going as far as Harriet, and then I’ll swim back to you. It’s lovely in the water, it is so warm and—”

A tiny white curling wave came up to him at that moment as though it were a play-fellow and broke over him as though it were laughing at him, and carried him imperceptibly so far from Harriet that she could no longer reach out her hand to touch him. Oh, still of course he was quite safe. He was nowhere near the entrance to the cove, and even though there was another white wave coming on, he was safe, as safe could be. But why had all the waves in a moment, as it were, got little tiny white crests on them? and why was the sea not quite so blue? and why was there a wind which took the heat out of the water? Why had all these things happened? But of course there was not the slightest danger? Still, perhaps Harriet might as well keep near to Ralph. She wanted him to be in a little bit of danger. She wanted him to cry out to her, and then she wanted to catch him and bring him back, and she wanted the people on the shore to say: “Well done, Harriet! Well done, brave, brave girl! You have saved the little chap’s life!”

So she delayed, trifling just a minute, and now another play-fellow wave—a bigger and a rougher one than the first two, caught the gallant tiny swimmer, and turned him right over this time and suddenly filled his lungs with water. Ralph threw up his arms. There was a sharp scream from the girls on the shore. Harriet saw the fisherman flying down from the cliffs above, and, turning herself, swam as fast as ever she could in Ralph’s direction. But now she was about to test her own foolhardiness, for alas! poor little Ralph had got into the current—one of those terribly dangerous currents which have wrecked not only brave swimmers, but even boats at sea when they got within the neighbourhood of the treacherous Needles.

The little brown head bobbed one minute on the surface of the waves and then disappeared. Harriet gave a frantic cry. She swam after the boy, putting out all her strength. Her hand was stretched out, and when he reappeared, she caught him by his little bathing suit.

By this time, one of the fishermen had got into the water, and a minute or two later, both girl and boy were lying exhausted on the beach.

“You did a mighty silly thing, young folks—daring to go into the water on a day like this!” said the man. “Why, little master was just drownding!”

“O Harriet!” said Frederica; “you were brave!” Harriet heard the words, and then sank away into a swoon. Had she earned her reward? These were the last thoughts she took with her into the world of unconsciousness.

When she came to herself, Mr Durrant was bending over her. Ralph, very pale, but quite well, was seated close to her side and all the other girls were gazing at her from a respectful distance.

“I don’t understand this story at all,” said Mr Durrant. “Sit up, Harriet, my dear. You have received a great shock; you must drink some of this.” He held a cup of hot coffee to her lips. One of the fishermen had brought it from his own cottage near by.

“Now, that’s better,” said Mr Durrant, when the girl had sipped a little and looked round her. “But, my dear Harriet, my last instructions were that none of you were to go into the water. Of course, I know what a dangerous coast this is, and after the storm of last night, you ran the most fearful risk.”

“But she was brave! she was noble! She did, she did try to save me!” said Ralph, clasping Harriet’s hand and fondling it as his brown eyes filled with tears.

“Oh yes; that is quite true,” said Mr Durrant. He spoke quietly. “Still,” he said, “I don’t understand why my message was disobeyed.”

“But we never heard anything about it. We shouldn’t have dreamed of going into the water,” said Frederica, “if we had known that you did not approve.”

“I told Jane that you were none of you to bathe until I came back. Harriet, there is no telegram from your father: you must consider no news as good news.”

“Oh yes,” said Harriet, in a faint voice. She took Ralph’s hand and whispered to him: “Stay close to me. When you are close to me, I won’t be seeing all the time your little head going under the water.”

“We have a great deal to be thankful for,” said Mr Durrant.

“But I cannot understand Jane Bush. She seemed in great distress about you, Harriet, and said that you were fretting terribly about your father. She wanted herself to go back to try and get news from the yacht, but of course I offered to go. Still, I gave implicit directions that you were none of you to bathe. Where is Jane?”

“I think she had a headache,” said Harriet. “Anyhow, she said she would go back and stay near the yacht. She thought, perhaps, one of the boatmen would see her and take her on board.”

“And she never gave you my message?”

“Certainly not,” said Harriet.

“Well, my dear,” said Mr Durrant after a pause, “I am exceedingly sorry that this should have happened; but nevertheless we have much to be thankful for. I have given that poor brave sailor what I hope he will consider a suitable reward. And now, children, I think we will get back to the yacht: the sooner Harriet lies down the better. I can see, my dear, that your own head is aching badly.”

“It is; I feel queer and rather sick,” said Harriet.

“I have ordered a waggonette to meet us, and we will drive back to Totland Bay: you are all much too tired to walk,” said Mr Durrant; “all except you, you plucky little man,” he added, looking at his little son. “You don’t seem a bit the worse.”

“I wasn’t a bit frighted, father,” said Ralph, speaking with great excitement, “’cause I knew.”

“What did you know, my boy?”

“That Harriet would save me, ’cause she,”—the words came out with a rush—“did it afore!”

Everyone looked at Harriet, who turned very pale. “Is this the second time you have saved Ralph, my dear Harriet?” asked Mr Durrant.

“Ralph?” said Harriet. “You know you ought not to speak—”

“Don’t ask her, father,” said Ralph.

“I ask her nothing. She has saved your life this time, that I can testify. You are a brave girl, Harriet; forgive me for having doubted you. Bravery like yours must be accompanied by other noble traits of character. I will say no more for the present except to add that you ran a terrible risk, and that whatever your good intentions, you could not possibly have saved Ralph but for the aid of that brave sailor who brought you both back to shore.”

The said sailor now appeared on the scene to announce the approach of the carriage which was to convey the party to the yacht. They all got in, and in a short time were back again on board the “Sea-Gull.” The first person they saw when they stood on the deck of the pretty little yacht was Jane, whose white face and anxious eyes would have told too much of her story had not Harriet rushed up to her, squeezed her hand and managed to whisper:

“It is all right; and you have but to say boldly now that you forgot to give me the message about not bathing.”

“Is that you, Jane Bush?” said Mr Durrant at that moment.

“Yes, sir,” said Jane, coming forward.

Harriet gave her fingers a squeeze. That squeeze seemed to say:

“Five pounds will be yours—five beautiful, lovely, golden sovereigns! Don’t lose your courage now.”

“I particularly gave you a message, Jane, when you were so anxious for me to return to the yacht on Harriet’s behalf. Did you forget it?”

“What message, sir?” asked Jane.

“I requested the young people—in fact, I did much more than request, I desired the young people not on any account to go into the water until my return.”

“O, sir—so you did!” said Jane.

“And you never gave the message?”

“No, sir,” said Jane, dropping her head.

“And why not, pray? It was very important.”

“I—I had a headache, sir.”

“You—in fact—forgot?”

“Yes, Mr Durrant, I—I forgot,” said Jane.

“Another time, please remember. You might be an intensely miserable girl now but for the exceeding bravery of a man who happened to see our little party from one of the cliffs. Two lives were in extreme danger—the life of your own special friend, Harriet Lane, and the life of my little son. Harriet was bravest of the brave, and did manage to come to his rescue and to hold his head above water at the critical moment, but neither of the children could have possibly resisted the current had not this man swum into the water in his clothes and brought them back to land. So be more careful in future, Jane, that is all.” Mr Durrant turned away.

“You have earned your five pounds, I am sure and certain of that,” said Harriet to her companion on the evening of that same day.

Book Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Robina’s Decision.

The swimming adventure took place on Friday. Saturday passed without anything special occurring. Sunday was a lovely day, when they all steamed about and enjoyed the fresh breezes, and, as Mr Durrant expressed it, forgot dull Care. Monday also passed without excitement, and on Tuesday, the little party returned in a body to Sunshine Lodge.

Now the crucial moment was close at hand, and what might have occurred but for an unexpected obstacle, no one can quite say; for there is little doubt that Mr Durrant was deeply impressed by Harriet’s conduct. He was such a brave man himself, that he could not but admire bravery in others, and the girl who had risked her life for his son was not to be lightly regarded. He still continued to feel much puzzled about her, and still, in his heart of hearts, much preferred Robina.

But Robina Starling was by no means at her best just now. She looked dull and sad and, notwithstanding every effort, care would sit upon her young brow and visit her frank, although troubled, eyes. Still, the person who really quite upset the whole scheme which had been so carefully planned by Harriet Lane was the one who, under ordinary circumstances, might have been least expected to do so. Her own familiar friend was the obstacle who made matters just in the moment of apparent victory exceedingly difficult.

Jane Bush was supposed to be a very commonplace little girl. In one sense, this was true. She was not particularly clever: she was not at all good-looking: she had few chances in life. She had, however, her good points. She was devoted to the little brother and sister, who, much younger than herself, had none of the advantages which she enjoyed. While Harriet, in her way, was fearless and bold, Jane was a little bit of a coward. Now cowards are extremely useful to wicked, designing people. They are so easily entrapped, and when once they are in the toils, it is almost impossible for them to get out again.

Jane felt herself in the toils as far as Harriet was concerned. Nevertheless, she was very unhappy. Harriet, who must have a confidante, had given Jane a graphic account of what really occurred in the little cove not far from Totland Bay. Jane had listened with her usual, absorbed attention, her round black eyes fixed on her companion’s pale face. In the excitement of the narrative, Harriet had squeezed Jane’s hand, and had said, with passionate emphasis:

“Oh! it was such a near thing! and when I saw him throw up his dear little hands, and when I noticed that his little brown head went under the waves, I thought I should go mad. Your five pounds, my own future, all the happiness that I had planned for myself, seemed to me as nothing at all—as nothing at all at that awful moment.”

“I understand,” said Jane. She spoke in a very low voice. “You don’t know, Harriet,” she said then, “what I felt on board the yacht. They let me on at once, of course, for the second mate saw me and sent a boat to the pier, and I was on deck with nothing to do only just to look at the sea and think. You must have all been in the water at the time, for there came up a cloud, and the sea got quite rough, and I heard the second mate say to one of the officers that there was a squall coming on. Oh! I was nearly mad!”

“Yes; that was about the time,” said Harriet, calmly. “It was a very fearful time. It was then, just then, that I was earning my happy, happy time with Ralph; my splendid future with all my educational expenses paid: and you, you silly Jane, were earning your five pounds. We were getting these things through our pain. I suppose it was worth it.”

“I don’t know,” said Jane, in a listless voice, “perhaps so.”

She got up as she spoke and walked to the other side of the deck. This conversation took place on Monday evening. It was overheard by no one. The other girls were absorbed in their own interests, and Ralph was with his father. Robina was reading by herself.

The week on board the yacht had not been a success as far as she was concerned. Had she listened, as once before she was forced to listen to a conversation between Harriet and Jane, she might have made up her mind to a line of conduct which was now far from her thoughts.

As Jane lay down in her little berth in her pretty state cabin on that last night on board the “Sea-Gull” she could not help thinking over again of Harriet’s graphic narrative; and she could not help reflecting on her own most awful feelings, had anything really happened to Ralph. Had anything really happened! Poor Jane trembled from head to foot. She knew only too well what that “anything” would have been. There would no longer have been in this wide world a little boy called Ralph—a little brown-eyed boy with brown hair, and the sweetest smile in the world, and the most gallant spirit. He would have gone away. No little school-mother would have been needed to look after him. Harriet herself might or might not be dead; but if Ralph had been drowned that time, poor little Jane felt that she would have gone mad. Five pounds! They were not so much after all. She felt dreadful: she could not sleep. In the visions of the night, ugly things seemed to come and visit her. She started up, pressing her hands to her eyes. Could she go on with this? Could she allow a girl like Harriet to be companion, friend, and to a certain extent protector of such a very precious little boy as Ralph. Oh! how in her heart of hearts Jane did admire Robina! How earnestly she wished that it had been her lot to have Robina as her friend!

“She would have made me strong,” thought poor Jane. “She is never a scrap afraid. Now I am always afraid. Perhaps it will be better for me at school if Harriet is not there. Of course I am fond of Harriet: I ought to be, for she and I are chums; and a girl must be a mean sort to forsake her chum. But still—oh! she does make me feel wicked! I almost wish I had not earned that five pounds. I don’t think it will bring any luck to Bobbie and Miriam.”

Jane tried to force her thoughts to dwell upon the very shabby condition of her little brother and sister; but, notwithstanding all her efforts, she could not manage to do this. Miriam’s lack of nice clothes, and Bobbie’s lack of shoes and socks could not appeal to her, for were not their consciences quite contented and calm and happy? After all, was there anything, anything so nice in the whole world as a contented conscience?

The next day, when all the children went back to Sunshine Lodge, Jane was greeted by a letter from the aunt who had charge of little Miriam and Bobbie. It was a wonderfully cheerful letter. The aunt—Polly by name—assured Jane that the children were particularly well, and that a kind lady had taken a fancy to them and had given them a lot of clothes. These clothes belonged to some of her own children who had outgrown them, but they were of such good quality and so well made that both Bobbie and Miriam looked almost stylish in them. Bobbie had got shoes, and Miriam pretty frocks; and, in short, for a time at least, the little ones wanted for nothing.

Jane felt as she read this letter that she quite hated it. It seemed to take the ground from under her feet. Her five pounds could have been done without. Ralph’s life need not have been risked, and Jane herself need not have been so fearfully deceitful, and need not have told a lie.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” she said to herself. Her face looked so comical in its distress that Vivian Amberley, who was standing near, asked her if anything was the matter.

“Oh yes,” said Jane; “I have had a letter about the children.”

“Are they ill?” asked Vivian.

“No, no,” answered Jane. “They never were better; and they have got such a lot of beautiful clothes—oh dear, oh dear!”

She gave a deep sigh, and went away.

“Well,” said Vivian, turning to her companion; “I never heard of such a funny reason as that for Jane to be so dismal. The children are well, and have got a lot of new clothes! What can be up?”

“It’s something to do with Harriet, of that I am sure,” said Frederica.

Vivian lowered her voice. “I can’t make out what is wrong,” she said.

“There is something wrong: we all feel it,” said Patience. “Why, look at Robina.”

Robina was not present, so no one could look at her. Patience went on excitedly:

“From the very first, there has been something up with Robina, and she looks worse than ever now. You know what a thoroughly jolly girl she is. She won’t tell us why, but she is not enjoying herself.”

“I suppose she is excited,” said Frederica, “about Mr Durrant’s decision. He is quite certain sure to choose her as school-mother for Ralph.”

“Quite certain sure?” repeated Patience. “You know very little when you say that. I am equally certain that he won’t choose her. Anyhow, we are all to know to-morrow morning. This is Tuesday: he will tell us what he has decided after breakfast to-morrow. It is exciting, isn’t it?”

“Well,” said Rose, “I do love Mr Durrant, but I think he’ll be an awful goose if he chooses that Harriet to be Ralph’s school-mother.”

“She is very brave, whatever she is,” said Vivian. “She was magnificent that time when she got into the dangerous current and tried to save Ralph. That sailor said it was touch and go, and that although he brought them back to shore, Ralph might have been drowned but for Harriet.”

“Yes, it was brave enough,” said Frederica then; “but somehow I don’t like the state of things. There’s something up with Jane, there’s something up with Harriet. Now I don’t care twopence either for Jane or Harriet, but there’s something up with Robina, and I love Robina.”

“We all love her! Who could help it?” said the others.

“There is one good thing,” said Rose; “if by any chance she is not elected to be Ralph’s school-mother, she will be back with us at Mrs Burton’s school next term. How splendid it would be if Harriet was not always making mischief! How queer Harriet is!”

Just then, Harriet herself appeared. She was walking with Jane by her side. Whether it was her immersion in the sea, and the excitement of Jane through which she had lived, or whether it was that she was really feeling things more than she cared to own, she looked paler than ever, her blue eyes lighter, and the shadows under them more intense: her long straight hair seemed to grow longer and more lanky, and her narrow figure taller. She hardly glanced at the other girls, but went past them, accompanied by Jane.

“There they go,” said Frederica: “they are going to have a big confab now somewhere. Why will Harriet never join the rest of us and be jolly and merry? We are meant to have such a beautiful time at Sunshine Lodge, but she really takes the fun out of things: her queer melancholy face and her odd ways of going on would depress any party. I know Mr Durrant feels it, and that he is dreadfully puzzled what to do.”

“Oh! Here is Robina!”

These words were uttered by two or three of the girls who ran up to Robina at that moment. Robina also was looking ill at ease, but her face by no means wore the expression which characterised either Jane’s or Harriet’s. The frank look could never leave her grey eyes. She always held herself very erect, and her fine young figure, in consequence, showed on every occasion to the best advantage. She wore a pretty white frock now, and her fine brown hair fell in masses far below her waist.

“Dear Robina!” said Rose, running up to her and taking her hand. “Do sit down and be cosy with us all. Isn’t it nice to be back again at Sunshine Lodge! We have ten more happy days to spend here before school begins.”

“I haven’t,” said Robina, gently; “I am going away to-morrow.”

“You are going away to-morrow!” cried several voices; while others said, “What?” and others again exclaimed: “Oh Robina! what do you mean?” and yet others cried, “No, no, we can’t stand this, we are no: going to allow it; we couldn’t live without you, Robina!”

“You are all sweet,” said Robina, “and I love you very much; and perhaps—I am not quite sure what may happen now—but perhaps I may meet you again at Abbeyfield. But that is not the point. I am leaving here to-morrow: I am going home.”

“But Robina, Robina, why? tell us why.”

“There is no special secret,” said Robina. “I did not mean to say anything about it to you—at least, not quite so soon; but as I have met you, I may as well say I have made up my mind—I love Ralph very dearly, but I am not going to be his school-mother. I mean,” she added proudly, “that I shan’t compete. I haven’t the slightest doubt that the decision will be made against me, but now, whether it is made for or against me, I shan’t compete. I am just going to tell Harriet that she need not have any fear, and then I shall speak to Mr Durrant and I will ask him to let me go back to father and mother. I can’t explain any more than that. It—it isn’t exactly my fault: I am puzzled a good deal; and perhaps if I were one of you, I could do differently, but being myself, there is nothing for it but to withdraw.”

“But there is something for it,” said Patience Chetwold. “You are withdrawing because you know something, and because you won’t say it, and is that right or fair either to Mr Durrant or Ralph? Robina, before you leave us, you have got to answer one question, and to answer it truthfully.”

“Well, what is it?” said Robina.

“You have never told a lie, and you know that,” said Patience.

“I don’t think I ever have,” said Robina, thoughtfully. “No, I am sure I never have told even the tiniest little half lie.”

“Very well,” said Patience, in a voice of triumph; “you will tell the truth now.”

“Or be silent,” said Robina.

“Oh well, we will take your silence for what it is worth. Anyhow,” said Patience, “have I the permission of the rest of you girls to ask Robina a question in all our names?”

“Certainly, certainly!” they said; and they crowded round Patience, who placed herself in the middle of the group.

Patience was a tall, fair-haired girl with a great deal of quiet power and dignity in her own way.

“This is a question which appeals to all us school-mothers,” she said. “We all feel ourselves more or less responsible for little Ralph. Mr Durrant put him, as it were, under our charge when he brought him to Abbeyfield School. Ralph chose Harriet to be his favourite school-mother. Then we all know what happened, and Harriet, as we hoped, repented, and we were glad; and you, Robina, were chosen as the real school-mother, and you won the pony, and we were glad of that too. But now things are changed. Still that fact does not alter the other fact that we are still Ralph’s school-mothers, and that we are bound, if necessary, to protect him.

“Mr Durrant is one of the nicest men in all the world, and he has asked us here for love of Ralph, and has given us the most glorious time, and has done all that man could for our pleasure; and is this the return we will make him—to allow him to choose a girl like Harriet to be school-mother to Ralph? for of course we know—and he has said so—that the choice lies between you,—Robina, and Harriet; and now you, just before the moment of decision, back out of the whole thing and say you won’t be Ralph’s school-mother, and that you are going home. The rest of us think that a very cowardly and wrong thing to do: therefore we demand from you, as being ourselves Ralph’s school-mothers, an answer to our question.”

“Yes, yes!” here interrupted the others. “You have put the case very well, Patience; and the question you are about to ask ought to be answered.”

“Our question is this,” said Patience, raising her voice a little. “Are you, or are you not, prepared to say that Harriet, as far as you know, will be a kind and truthful and honourable school-mother to Ralph? Are you happy in giving Ralph up yourself to Harriet’s care? or do you know anything against her?”

“I can’t say, and I won’t say,” replied Robina, turning very red. “There are things that even a girl placed in my position cannot do.”

“Very well,” said Patience, “you have answered. You can go now, Robina, and tell Harriet your decision. But between now and to-morrow morning, when the great decision is publicly made, we, the rest of the school-mothers, will have something to say with regard to the matter.”

Robina immediately left her companions. Her head was aching; her heart was throbbing hard. Nevertheless, her mind was fully made up. She found Jane and Harriet walking side by side in the neighbourhood of the round pond. She approached quite close to them before they heard her. She did not want to listen to their conversation.

“I eavesdropped once,” she thought, “unintentionally of course; nevertheless, I did such a horrid, such a mean, such a despicable thing, and oh! how I have suffered in consequence! But I won’t eavesdrop again—not if I know it.”

Nevertheless, as she came close to the other girls, she had time to look at the pond, and to notice the exact position of that willow bough along whose slender branch little Ralph had crept in order to gather the water-lilies. The water-lilies were there still in great abundance with all their delicate wax-like cups closed, for it was the time of their slumber. The pond, too, looked still and glassy on its surface, except when the duck-weed, and many parasites of the pond threw an unwholesome glamour over its depths. Robina seemed to realise the whole scene that had taken place there—the child who had dropped into the water, the immediate power of the clinging weeds, the impossibility for the little fellow to swim in his clothes. She saw again Harriet rushing to the rescue, and she well guessed the storm of devotion which she had aroused in the heart of the brave little child. But since that scene, which, without its explanation, sounded innocent enough, another had taken place—one that Robina herself had witnessed. Could she ever forget the agony of that moment when, almost out of her depth, she had longed in vain for the power to swim out to save Ralph! Would she at such a moment have thought of any possible reward except that most divine reward of all—that of giving up her very life for his?

Robina shook herself as though from a day-dream, and it was at this instant that Harriet and Jane, turning, saw her standing in the path.

Jane’s round face was quite pale, and there were tears in her black eyes. She had been letting off some of the soreness of her heart to Harriet, and Harriet had been the reverse of sympathising. Harriet had said once or twice:

“All right, Jane: if you don’t want the five pounds, you need not have them. I can assure you it is an immense sacrifice on my part to give you so much money; but when I make a promise, I keep it. You haven’t done much for me, so don’t you think it: but I promised you five pounds. My birthday will be this week: god-mother never forgets me. When the five pound note comes, it will be handed over to you: you can take it or leave it.”

Why was it that the last words of Harriet’s sentence were wafted to Robina’s ears? “When the five pound note comes, you can take it or leave it.” Harriet turned pale and drew herself up abruptly.

“Well,” she said, “have you been eavesdropping again?”

“No,” said Robina, stoutly. “I came to speak to you as I heard that you and Jane were walking in the shrubbery. I did hear your last sentence; I heard you say to Jane, ‘When the five pounds comes, you can take it or leave it.’ I haven’t an idea what that sentence means, nor does it concern me. I want to speak to you, however, Harriet. Will you kindly listen, please.”

“Hadn’t I better go?” said Jane, who felt exceedingly uncomfortable.

“No,” said Robina; “unless Harriet greatly minds, I should prefer you to stay, Jane. You are her special friend, and you ought to witness what I am about to say to her. I don’t think that you, Harriet, and you, Jane, have many secrets from each other.”

The two other girls were silent, but they both felt uncomfortable.

“What I have to say,” continued Robina, “can be said in a very few words indeed. I have just to tell you this, Harriet. I have made up my mind to withdraw from the competition which was set to all the school-girls who came to this house, but which was especially intended to be a competition between you and me. I do not now wish to be Ralph Durrant’s school-mother: you will therefore have no difficulty to-morrow morning, for there will be no one to compete with you. I am now going to tell Mr Durrant what I have decided.”

“But I say,” cried Harriet, “you must have some reason for this!”

“I have my reasons, but those I am not prepared to give,” said Robina.

“I know,” continued Harriet, speaking in great excitement; “you nasty, horrid spitfire! You find that you have utterly failed—that you have not a chance of getting the position that you so covet; therefore you think you will make an imposing appearance if you withdraw from the competition. But let me tell you, that is monstrously unfair! You ought not to withdraw at the eleventh hour.”

“That is my affair,” said Robina. “Even if I were elected school-mother to-morrow, I should not accept the position.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you?” said Harriet. “It is so fine to hear you talking in that way; you know perfectly well that you would just give your eyes for it.”

“If that is your opinion, you are welcome to keep it,” said Robina. “But anyhow, my mind is quite made up.”

She was turning to go, when Harriet ran after her.

“Robina,” she said, “do you mean—that is, you will go without saying anything?”

“Ask me no questions; when you are made school-mother, I suppose you will be content: and I suppose—at least I hope you will be good to little Ralph.”

Robina’s lips quivered. Before Harriet could utter another word she had pushed her brusquely aside, and disappeared in the direction towards the house.

Book Two—Chapter Fourteen.

Patience Interferes.

It was now early in September, and although the weather was quite warm, the days were of course shortening considerably. Mrs Burton’s school was to re-open on the fifteenth of September. It was now the fourth day of the month; there was, therefore, practically ten days’ holiday still remaining for the girls.

These last few days, as all school-girls know, are very precious: each one, as it arrives, seems more valuable than its predecessor. More and more pleasures seem to crowd into these last hours, more and more things are there to talk about, more and more matters to arrange. There is at once pain and pleasure mingled in each young breast: the pain of parting from the beloved friends who have been with one during the long summer vacation, the pain of giving up pleasure for discipline, of giving up freedom for a certain amount of restraint. But the girl who really longs to do her best in life does not go back to school with unmixed sensations of regret. Healthier feelings than these visit her heart. She will accomplish much in the weeks that lie before her. She will get to the other side of this and that difficulty. She will take an honourable place in the report which is sent to her parents at the end of the term. She will enjoy the healthy life of routine and wholesome discipline.

The young girls who were inmates now of Sunshine Lodge were all of them, with the exception of Harriet Lane and Jane Bush, healthy-minded. They liked their pleasant school life: they were devoted to their parents and guardians: but they were also devoted to Mrs Burton and to the teachers in that delightful home of culture, Abbeyfield School. They therefore talked much of their future as they wandered about now in the dusk before coming in to late supper; and for a time even Robina and Harriet and Jane and little Ralph were forgotten.

Had not Patience to make the very most of her last term at school? and how soon would Cecil Amberley be moved from the third to the sixth form? What would be the big prize to be competed for next Christmas? What would the new French Mademoiselle be like? and would their dear old Fräulein return once more to the school? Such and such questions occupied them: but by-and-by it was time to go indoors to dress for supper, and when they entered the house a shadow seemed to fall over their bright young spirits and they looked one at the other questioningly.

“How selfish I am?” whispered Patience Chetwold to her sister. “I forgot in the excitement of our chat all about poor Robina. Girls, we must stick to our promise and worry out this thing to the very bottom.”

“But if Robina has spoken to Mr Durrant, what is there to be done?” remarked Rose. “Mr Durrant is a very determined man, and hates anything that he considers small and mean: he will not like our interfering. You see,” continued Rose, “we have been out of this matter from the very first; the whole thing has rested between Harriet and Robina.”

“Yes,” said Patience; “and very, very cleverly has Harriet played her cards. Well, all that I can say is that if I can circumvent that horrid sly creature in favour of poor dear true-hearted Robina, I shall do so. But now, let us run upstairs and get tidy for supper. This may be Liberty Hall, girls, but Mr Durrant likes form and ceremony as much as anyone I know; and if the girls of Sunshine Lodge—as he calls us—don’t make a presentable appearance at the last meal in the day, he is always somewhat annoyed.” The different girls went off immediately to their rooms, where they arrayed themselves in pretty evening dress. The shortness of the evenings by no means took from the pleasure of being at Sunshine Lodge; in fact, of late, the evenings had been almost the most delightful part of the day. With such a host as Mr Durrant it was quite impossible to be dull. He was the best story teller and the best comrade in the world. He had a way of making every child with whom he came in contact feel perfectly at home with him. But, at the same time, that child would not dare to take an undue liberty. He expected the child to be happy—very, very happy—but he also expected and insisted on instant obedience.

“When I put my foot down, it is down,” he was heard to say; “when I order a thing to be done, that thing is to be done; there is no walking round it, or squeezing out of it, or circumventing it in any way whatsoever. My object is the pleasure of all these young people; but I am the captain of this ship—if I may be permitted to use the simile—and the general in this battlefield. The captain must be obeyed, or the ship founders; and the general must give his orders, or the battle is lost.”

The girls knew all these things, and the very fact that there was unseen discipline at Sunshine Lodge gave the final zest to their enjoyments. Ralph would not have been the charming boy he was, but for this admirable trait of his father’s. Ralph, from his earliest days had obeyed at a word, at a nod. When he was told to go to bed, he went. He was never heard to plead for one minute or two minutes more. When he was ordered to get up, he rose. When he was expected to attend to his lessons, he did so. All the same, Ralph felt himself free as a little bird in the air, and happy as any child will be who clings to his beloved father’s hand. Even when parted from his father, Ralph had metaphorically clung to that strong brown hand. When he found things difficult in his little life, he remembered it,—how firm it was, how supporting. Even when his father was not present, he did instinctively what that father wished.

The happy little party at Sunshine Lodge came downstairs on this special evening with a certain feeling of expectancy. The Chetwolds and the Amberleys were very much concerned to know if anything decisive had yet taken place; if Robina had met Mr Durrant and had told him her decision, if Harriet knew, and if when they all met—first of all in the pleasant drawing-room and then in the still more delightful dining-room—they would see Robina’s proud calm face looking a little prouder and a little more resolved than usual, and Harriet’s queer pale face somewhat triumphant in its expression and Jane looking queer and frightened and worried as she had always done of late.

But when they all did come downstairs, the first thing they noticed was that although Robina was in the room, and Harriet and Jane, Mr Durrant was absent. Robina was seated in a distant corner where the electric light fell full on the pages of her open book. She wore a white frock, but had not taken otherwise much pains with her appearance. Robina did not even look up when her companions entered the room. Harriet, dressed in all the finery she could lay hands on, was standing by a table talking in a low tone to Jane. Ralph, who, as a rule, never sat up to supper, was also present on this occasion. He was dancing about in that radiant fashion he had, flying excitedly from one object of interest to another.

“Oh, what do you think, Patience?” he said. “I’s got to sit up to supper to-night!”

“Have you, indeed, Ralph?” replied Patience in some surprise, “but it’s rather late for you, isn’t it?”

“It’s not at all too late,” said Harriet, just raising her eyes and glancing defiantly at Patience and then turning to Ralph. “In the absence of your father, Ralph, I give you leave to sit up,” she said.

“Sankoo, Harriet,” said Ralph, taking her hand, and giving it a most affectionate squeeze. “Oh! I is glad!” he said. “I feel quite a grown-up person to-night.”

Robina did not take the slightest notice, but Frederica now enquired eagerly if Mr Durrant were really absent.

“Yes,” said Jane; “when we came in, expecting to find him here as usual, we were told that he was obliged to go suddenly to London, but would be back here by a very early train in the morning.”

“John told us,” continued Harriet, “that Mr Durrant will return in time for breakfast; we must spend this evening as best we can without him.”

Here she glanced at Robina. Ralph, who had been pulling excitedly at Harriet’s hand without receiving any attention, now left her and ran up to Robina.

“Is you sad about anything, Robin?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” replied Robina. She laid down her book and looked full at him. He looted full back at her.

“Don’t,” he said suddenly, in a low voice.

“Why did you ask me that?” she responded.

Her tone was dropping to a whisper.

“Your eyes hurt,” said the little fellow; “they go inside me and—and—burn something.”

He touched his little breast. Robina bent forward and without a moment’s warning gave him a quick and passionate kiss.

“Hypocrite!” whispered Harriet under her breath. She called Ralph to her.

“Come here,” she said.

He went slowly and with manifest unwillingness.

“Sit there for a minute,” said Harriet.

She stalked across the room and stood in front of Robina’s chair.

“Did you mean,” she said, in a very low voice, “to do what you said you would just now?”

“Did I mean it?” replied Robina. “Yes; I meant it.”

“But Mr Durrant is away,” continued Harriet.

“Yes.”

“You will see him in the morning, will you not—I mean as soon as he comes back?”

“Yes,” said Robina again.

None of the others could hear this low-voiced conversation, but Harriet went back to the centre of the room with a satisfied expression. Ralph, who had been watching the two girls, now said in a tone of excitement:

“Has you found out what is wrong with Robin?”

“There is nothing whatever wrong with her: don’t be a goose, Ralph,” said Harriet.

But Ralph’s longing brown eyes went straight to the sorrowful girl seated by herself in the distant corner. His little child fancy returned to her in her trouble. Harriet, however, who felt now quite sure of her own position, was not going to permit Ralph to forsake her. She sat down in a chair and called him to her side.

“Who allowed you to sit up to supper?”

“Why, you, in course, Harriet.”

“Which of the school-mothers do you love best?”

“Harriet,” said Ralph, glancing again at Robina’s bowed head: “I has said it so often.”

“All right, say it once more, or you go to bed.”

“I love you,” said the child.

“Put your arms tight around me, and kiss me, as you did round Robina just now.”

“No,” said Ralph. He put both his little hands to his sides, standing still very near Harriet, but not touching her.

“If you refuse, you go to bed.”

“All wight, Harriet,” replied the little chap.

“Then you won’t kiss me—you, who love me so dearly—you won’t kiss the Harriet who saved your life?”

“Oh—’course I love you,” said Ralph, “does you want me to kiss you like that? I only kiss when I—I—can’t help it. I am not a sort of kissing boy at all. I am like father—I think just a look is enough, and a sort of smile now and then, and a sort of feel—oh, you know it—down—deep, deep here. I doesn’t kiss father much; he doesn’t think it man-like for boys to kiss.”

“Kiss me the way you kissed Robina, and do it at once,” said Harriet, “or you go to bed.”

“No,” said Ralph again.

The other girls were scarcely listening, but this little scene between the two was drawing general attention. Patience, in particular, guessed that there was some struggle going on between Harriet and Ralph, and although she pretended to talk to her companions, she could not help listening.

“Kiss me,” repeated Harriet, guessing that she was drawing the attention of the room, and getting excited in her determination to win the victory. “Kiss me, or you go to bed!”

“No,” said Ralph again. Then he added, now putting his two hands behind him, “I won’t ever kiss you, Harriet, because you threat me—that isn’t me at all. I wouldn’t be a man-like boy if I did things ’cause o’ threats.”

“Well,” said Harriet, who was terribly afraid of not scoring the victory in this encounter, and being forced therefore to change her tactics, “kiss me because twice I risked my life for you and because I want your kiss. Do you remember when you went down beneath the soft wave and when you came up again and I caught you and—and—saved you?”

“Yes, yes!” said Ralph in a ferment of admiration. “Dear Harriet!” His arms went tightly round her neck. He kissed her twice. “And now I’s going to bed,” he said.

“What in the world do you mean by that, you little silly?”

“’Cause you said I was to go to bed if I didn’t kiss you. I didn’t kiss you ’cause of your threat; I kissed you ’cause you ’minded me of the great thing you had done. But I is going to bed, all the same.”

“No, you sit up because I order it; now don’t be a goose, and don’t paw me any more.”

Harriet stood up, yawning as she did so. Ralph sunk on to the next chair. He felt very despondent, he knew not why. Again he could not help glancing at Robina and wishing that she would not keep on reading. He found himself watching her. What a long time she was before she turned a page. Ralph thought he would count the seconds. He knew the clock, and glanced at it. Five whole minutes passed. Still Robina sat with her head of thick hair bent and without a page being turned. Ralph would have given worlds to say: “Is that a very difficult book, Robina, and can’t you read it any quicker than I can read my ‘Reading without Tears’ book?” But somehow or other, Harriet’s presence prevented his approaching Robina.

The next minute, there came the welcome relief of hearing that supper was served, and all the girls trooped into the dining-room.

Ralph had a high chair close to Harriet’s side; who told him at once carelessly that he might eat anything he liked for supper, and then devoted herself to telling amusing stories to two of the Amberleys and to Jane. But Ralph was not hungry. He was sleepy, and really wanted his bed. He was thinking very hard of his father. If only father were at home, things would be quite different. He would have said good-night long ago, and father would have come just before going downstairs, and would have kissed him, and would have said, “Good-night Ralph, old boy, sleep well, and dream good dreams, and remember to-morrow morning that you are some hours older than when you went to sleep, and ought to be some hours wiser.” And then father would go away, and Ralph would whisper to himself the old childish charm which his nurse had taught him—his nurse who died long ago, and which he had never forgotten:

“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John

Bless the bed I lie on.

Four corners to my bed:

Five angels be there spread.

Two at my head:

Two at my feet:

One at my heart, my soul to keep...”

And then in a few minutes he would have been sound asleep. He nodded his head once or twice now, and finally upset a cup of chocolate which had been placed by his side. Some of the chocolate streamed over Harriet’s white dress. She did not possess many clothes, and was consequently exceedingly angry. She tried to keep in her anger as best she could, but showed it notwithstanding all her efforts, by the colour in her cheeks and the way her pale blue eyes flashed.

“Oh Ralph, how careless and awkward you are! Really, you must not do this sort of thing again.”

“I is seepy: I really want to go to bed,” said Ralph. “I am awfu’ sorry, Harriet, and when you saved my life and all! Oh, let me sop it up.”

He took his own table-napkin and tried to repair the mischief, but Harriet pulled her dress roughly out of his hands and, telling the other girls that she must go away to wash the stains out, left the room.

“Now, Ralph,” said Patience, when this had happened; “if I were you I would go straight off to my by-by downy nest; you know you are just longing to be in it.”

“I is,” said Ralph, “but I mustn’t go, must I, Robina?”

He looked straight at Robina for guidance.

“I don’t know,” replied Robina, just glancing at him, and then looking away.

“But Robina, do tell him to go,” said Patience. “If any two people at the present moment are supposed to have authority over Ralph, you and Harriet are those individuals. Harriet has gone away to mop her dress, and Ralph looks quite white with fatigue.”

“I cannot interfere,” said Robina.

“Very well,” said Patience; “then I will: I am a school-mother too. This sort of thing has got to end. Come, Ralph, I shall take you to bed.”

“But won’t Harriet be—be—angry?” said the little fellow, his lips quivering.

“You leave the matter to me,” said Patience. She looked strong and determined. “Your father would wish it,” she said; and at these words and at the cool feel of her hand, Ralph yielded to his own inclinations and left the room with her.

When they got upstairs, however, he asked her once or twice rather piteously if she thought Harriet would mind.

“I will see that she doesn’t,” said Patience. “You leave it to me, Ralph.”

“Oh but,” said Ralph, as he got into his little pyjamas, “she has been so awfully brave, you know—saved my life, you know.”

“Yes, I know all that,” said Patience, “and I know of course that you are very grateful to her; but I do wonder something, Ralph.”

“What is that?” asked the child.

“If you understand the difference between very grateful to a person and loving a person very dearly?” Ralph looked immensely puzzled.

“I mean this,” said Patience, wondering at her own audacity. “You say that Harriet saved your life.”

“Yes,” said Ralph, with great determination. “Her did.”

“But before she saved your life, you didn’t care for her so very, very much, did you?”

“Not so awfully as all that,” said Ralph, considering his words.

“But afterwards?” continued Patience.

“Couldn’t help it arterards,” said Ralph. “Her did it twice, you know.”

Patience did not know, but she was determined to treasure up the information given unwittingly by Ralph.

“Well,” she said after a minute’s pause, “I understand of course quite well that you are awfully obliged to her and all that, and that perhaps you do love her. But you don’t love her better than your father, do you?”

“Better nor father?” said Ralph. “In course not?”

“But did he ever save your life?”

“No,” said Ralph; “but then he is father.”

“I see quite well, my wise little man,” said Patience, tucking him up and kissing him. “Now Robina never saved your life: but you—you love her notwithstanding that?”

“Awful much!” said Ralph.

“I saw you kiss her to-night,” said Patience.

“Cause I love her so much,” said Ralph.

“Good-night now, Ralph. Sleep very sound.”

“Wait till I say my ‘Matthew, Mark,’” said Ralph.

He closed his eyes, repeated the old song rapidly and, before the last words had come to an end, was asleep.

Patience went downstairs. By this time Harriet had returned. She had been forced to remove the poor chocolate-stained white frock and to put on another, which did not make her look half so well dressed. She was still feeling cross and sore. As soon as she entered the room, her first exclamation was, “Where is Ralph?”

“Gone to bed,” said Frederica Chetwold.

“Gone to bed?” said Harriet. “Who has given Ralph leave to go to bed?”

“Patience took him to bed. You had better not interfere about it,” said Frederica: “for if you do,” she continued, “we’ll all tell Mr Durrant in the morning. You are not school-mother yet, so don’t be over sure of things.”

At that moment, Robina got up and left the room. Harriet sank down in a chair. She was trembling with suppressed passion.

“I wonder,” she said, after a pause, “why you all dislike me as you do. Of course,” she added, “there can be but one explanation, and that is, jealousy.”

“Not at all,” said Patience. “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe there is a girl amongst us who would change with you; for to change with you, Harriet Lane, would be to possess your nature, and that is what none of us wish for. But we are quite determined to see justice done to Ralph.”

“Justice done to Ralph?” said Harriet.

“Yes: and to Robina. We know what has happened to-night, for Robina told us.”

“Oh, she told you!” said Harriet. “That is so like her.”

“Yes; she said she was not going to compete. Now, she must have a reason for that, and Frederica and I and Rose and Cecil and Vivian are all absolutely resolved to find out what that reason is. We have been invited to this house and have been given this happy time, because in a sort of way we also are Ralph’s school-mothers. You expect a great triumph in the morning, Harriet. Well all I can say is this: look out for storms.”

“It is that horrid, horrid Robina! There is no spiteful thing she would not do against me,” said Harriet. “But Ralph loves me best. I don’t pretend that I don’t want the post: I do want it. I haven’t a happy home like most of you: and to be Ralph’s school-mother, and to live here would be of great moment to me. It would mean all my future being assured. You can’t think what it would mean; for you don’t any of you know what it is to be—oh—poor!” Harriet’s face turned very pale.

“Ralph does love me, and why should not he? and if Mr Durrant is contented to choose me, and Robina doesn’t want to be school-mother—”

“Robina doesn’t want to be school-mother!” interrupted Patience. “You are either a goose or a liar, Harriet; for you know that in her heart of hearts, Robina is dying to be school-mother to little Ralph—and not for your horrid worldly reasons, but because she—she loves him! Oh, we did think that you repented that time at school, but your conduct since you came here has puzzled us dreadfully.”

Harriet, however, had now recovered herself. This attack on the part of her school-fellows was unexpected, and at first she was almost thrown off her usual balance of mind. Her customary self-possession very nearly deserted her, but now she recovered it.

“After all,” she said, “you may think what you please. By this time to-morrow I shall be established in my position, and I don’t think either Ralph or his father will regret it. As you, Patience, have taken it upon you to order Ralph to bed—a thing which I imagine you will never have the power to do again—I shall not disturb him to-night: but when I am his school-mother, he will do what I wish, please understand: he will have passed out of your life, Patience, and out of the lives of all the rest of you, and you need not call yourselves by the ridiculous name of school-mothers any longer. You will be back to your horrid school life, and I wish you joy of it. I shall stay here, and be happy. I wish, however, to say one thing. I think it exceedingly shabby of Robina to give up the contest at the eleventh hour. It shows that notwithstanding your high opinion of her she is a coward at heart. She is so certain that she will be beaten, that she won’t wait to witness her own discomfiture. Ralph choose Robina, indeed! There never was any chance of that.”

“No,” said Patience, “and that brings us to another thing. Dear little Ralph told me that you saved his life—”

“Good gracious!” said Harriet: “didn’t you all see me do it?”

“Yes, but he said you saved his life twice. When was the first occasion?”

Harriet bit her lips.

“Children exaggerate things,” she said after a pause. “I did risk my own life for Ralph at Totland Bay, and the dear little man got confused.”

“I don’t think so,” said Patience; “he is never confused about things. Well, at any rate, Harriet, we should like you to explain that remark of Ralph’s to-morrow to Mr Durrant before the great decision is finally come to.”

“Your likings or not likings, Patience Chetwold, will probably not be of the slightest consequence,” said Harriet, leaving the room as she spoke with her head in the air.

The moment she had gone, the rest of the girls drew close together.

“Now listen,” said Patience. “I have talked to that poor child. In his heart of hearts he doesn’t really love Harriet. She would be a cruel and dreadful girl to leave him with. Didn’t you watch her to-night, and didn’t you see how she was forcing him to do something, and how he was refusing, and how she was making him do it in the end? and didn’t you notice the way he hugged Robina? Oh! it’s Robina he loves in his heart of hearts: he doesn’t care for Harriet, but she has got the poor little darling into her power, and he is such a brave pet, and is so impressed by his sense of gratitude to her, he will do anything for her. Now, girls, we have a great deal to do between now and eleven o’clock to-morrow morning. We have to get our evidence together.”

“Oh what, Patience, what?” asked Rose: while the others clustered round her.

“Let me see,” said Patience. “You, of course, Frederica, and you three Amberley girls will help me. There are five of us in all. Robina must not lose this chance: Harriet must not get the victory. The person to approach on the subject is Jane Bush.”

Book Two—Chapter Fifteen.

Anxious Times.

The other girls started when Patience delivered herself of this last remark.

“Jane Bush?” they said, looking at one another as though they thought Patience Chetwold—Patience, the most down-right, matter-of-fact, sensible girl on earth—had suddenly taken leave of her senses. “What do you mean, Patience?” they said, almost in chorus. “What can poor Jane have to do with it?”

“Anyone can see,” remarked Rose, “that Jane is terribly afraid of Harriet, but she herself, poor little thing, has done nothing.”

“Yes, she has,” remarked Patience; “Jane has done a great deal more than any of the rest of you have the least idea of. And now, girls,” she added, “I am going to prove my words.”

As Patience finished speaking, she abruptly left the room. She was only gone a few minutes, and when she came back, she was holding the unwilling hand of poor terrified looking Jane Bush. Jane had said good-night to Harriet, and had gone away to her own room. It so happened that the chamber in which she reposed was nowhere near Harriet’s, which, as Patience remarked, was a good thing on the present occasion; and Harriet being certain that nothing could really happen further to damage her cause, had gone safely and comfortably to bed. Little did she guess that Jane, when in the very act of preparing for her own night’s rest, was forcibly conducted to be cross-questioned by five very determined school-mothers.

As soon as Patience got into the room, she quite calmly locked the door.

“Now,” she said, looking at the others, “we shall be quite undisturbed. Sit down, Jane,” she said; “you need not be frightened, you have only just to tell the truth, and we, between us, will look after you. There is no possible way of shirking the truth, Jane Bush; you may as well out with it, sooner or later. If you tell it without difficulty and at once, you will suffer less than if you struggled to keep it to yourself: you will be less miserable afterwards than you are now, for it is only to look at your face, Jane, to know that you are a thoroughly wretched girl. Well, here you are, quite outside Harriet’s influence for the time being, and here are we five of us, all full of suspicion with regard to you, and I think,” continued Patience, glancing at the rest of the girls,—“that we have got quite as much brains as you, Jane Bush; so five sets of brains against one set of brains must win the victory, mustn’t they? That’s common-sense, isn’t it, Jane? Now then; let us begin. Which amongst us girls will begin to question Jane first?”

“I don’t want any of you to talk to me; I have nothing to say at all: I want to go back to my bed,” said Jane, who was so terribly frightened that she forgot all that remorse which troubled her, her only present desire being to fly from the presence of the dreadful five girls who had entrapped her into their power.

“Come, come,” said Patience; “there’s no good in giving way: it will be all right if you only tell us the truth. Sit down in that chair and make yourself comfy. Now then, you poor little thing, we know quite well that you are the cat’s-paw, and that your poor little paw is dreadfully burnt. But never mind, Janie, you will be out of all this misery if you will take the advice of girls who at least have a shadow of honour in their disposition.”

At these words, Jane stopped crying, raised her head, and looked with her round black eyes full into the faces of all five. It was true what they had said: they were honourable and she, if left to herself, would much rather not walk in deceit’s crooked ways. She gave a sigh deep from her heart. A memory stole over her of the little children who were really all her world—little Miriam, little Bobbie, they thought their own Jane perfect; but if they could look into her heart, would even such tiny children trust her? She shivered, and sat very still.

“You had best do the questioning, Patience,” said Frederica; “you have taken this matter in hand, and you had best pull it through.”

“Very well,” said Patience; “then I will make short work of it. It is this way, Jane. You know quite well that Harriet wants to be elected school-mother to Ralph. She wants to live here and to have all the advantages of the home Mr Durrant means to offer to the girl who is elected to the post. You know that at least, don’t you?”

Jane nodded her head.

“So far, so good,” said Patience. “You will please note on a piece of paper, Frederica, that Jane Bush admits that Harriet is anxious to be Ralph’s school-mother.”

Frederica, seeing that the proceedings were to take such an orderly course, immediately approached the centre-table and wrote down Jane’s reply on a piece of paper.

“That is statement one,” continued Patience. “Now statement two is this: another girl equally wishes for the post, and that girl is Robina Starling. You admit that also, don’t you, Jane?”

“Yes,” said Jane.

“Note it down, please, Frederica,” said Patience. “Now, Jane,” continued Patience, “we come to the really important part. For some extraordinary reason Robina, who is admirably suited to become Ralph’s school-mother is likely—more than likely—to be worsted in this conflict by Harriet, who is not suitable at all. Now, there is not the slightest doubt in the minds of us five girls that there is foul play in this matter: yes, Jane, foul play. Is there foul play or is there not?”

Jane grew scarlet and fidgetted in her chair.

“Is there foul play?” repeated Patience.

“I am not going to say,” remarked Jane.

“Note that down, please, Frederica,” said Patience.

Frederica did so.

“Can you state now,” continued Patience, very solemnly, “can you as a Christian child who has been baptised and has gone to church every Sunday and who hopes to be confirmed next year—can you state solemnly that to your certain knowledge there is no foul play in this matter? If, after careful consideration, you will tell us that, we shall be inclined to believe you. But pause a minute first,” continued Patience; “we want you to consider very carefully what such a statement on your part means. It means that Harriet, who is unsuited in every respect to look after Ralph, will be elected as his school-mother, and it means, if you state a false thing, that you can never, never, as long as you live, be a truly happy girl again. Now, tell us the truth. We promise to believe you as far as we can. Yes or no, Jane? yes or no?”

“You frighten me,” said Jane.

“That is not the point. What do you mean to say?”

“I—I can’t—” Jane wriggled.

“Look up,” said Patience. “You are not a coward by nature. Can you positively declare that there is no foul play?”

“I can’t,” said Jane then; and at these words she subsided into her seat sobbing, not loudly, but in the most heart-broken and terrible manner, swaying from side to side, bemoaning her own lot, and then suddenly springing up and confronting the five girls.

“Oh, you are cruel!” she said. “You persecute me! You have not got a little Bobbie and a little Miriam waiting and wanting—waiting and wanting all you can get for them.”

“You poor child!” said Patience. Her tone changed. She went straight up to the culprit and put her arms round her neck. “Come along here, Janie,” she said. “You are a weak sort, but when all is said and done, you are not half bad. You have had the misfortune since you came to school to choose a friend who worked on your worst not your best feelings. Now, suppose Vivian and Rose and Cecil and Frederica and I take the place of Harriet Lane in your friendship; don’t you think you will do fifty times better?”

“Oh, but you can’t be my friends,” said Jane, wonderfully comforted in spite of herself. “You can’t, for you don’t know me. You don’t know half nor quarter how bad I am, nor,—nor—what I have done nor how—how I was tempted, nor—nor—the half nor the quarter of what has happened.”

“Look here,” said Patience. “I tell you what I personally know. I know this; that on the day when we all landed at Totland Bay, you were seen by me talking very earnestly with Harriet. I also saw you run away from the rest of the party and meet Mr Durrant, who was coming to join us in the little bay where we were all to bathe. I could not hear what you said to him; but you said something, and he went back to the yacht instead of joining us. You also went back yourself: you did not appear again that day, and when we saw you afterwards you seemed to us to be a most miserable little girl. Now, what occurred between you and Mr Durrant will have to be explained to-morrow morning when the great decision is come to; for we girls don’t mean Robina to have no innings in this matter. You need not tell us anything about it now, all we want you to do is to proclaim the simple truth to-morrow morning. Of course there are other things, for doubtless you know the whole matter from beginning to end; but if you tell what really occurred between you and Mr Durrant that will probably save the situation and secure the post of Ralph’s school-mother for Robina.”

“But—Harriet—what will she think of me?” said Jane.

“What we five think of you seems more to the point,” said Patience. “Now look here, Janie; you are not going to lose your pluck. You think it very dreadful to betray Harriet, but let me tell you that it is fifty thousand times more dreadful to allow a wicked girl like Harriet to have the control and the guidance of a sweet, dear little boy like Ralph. We ask you for Ralph’s sake, therefore, to be brave in this matter, to confess your own sin, and to throw yourself—first on the mercy of God, who is always willing to forgive us when we repent, and next on the mercy of Mr Durrant and your school-fellows. You have done terribly wrong, of course we know that, but you are not the worst culprit. Harriet won’t confess; we have tried her and she is obdurate; you have therefore got to save the situation. And now, please, you will come and sleep in my room to-night, for I don’t want you to see Harriet again between now and eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” said Jane. “Oh, I am too miserable and too frightened!”

“I have one last thing to say,” said Patience. “Would you like your own Bobbie to be under the care of Harriet Lane with no chance of getting away from her?”

“No, no! a thousand times no!” cried Jane, her face turning white, and her words trembling on her lips, so great was her anxiety.

“Well, then; if that is the case, you could not be so mean as to subject Ralph to her influence. But come along to bed; you are tired, you poor little thing.” Patience hardly glanced at the other school-mothers but, taking Jane’s hand, went upstairs with her, and popped her into her own bed at once and presently lay down by her side, wondering what the morrow would bring forth, but feeling on the whole that the odds were marvellously once again in favour of Robina.

Now Robina herself little guessed what her school-fellows were doing, for she slept the sleep of one who is tired out and who owns herself defeated. She slept heavily for several hours and when she awoke the sun was shining into the room. She sprang up in bed, and looked at her little watch, which proclaimed the hour of six. So the night had gone by, and the morning had come. Robina pressed her hand to her forehead. Her own future was quite clear to her; but she was not exactly sorry for herself just then; she was thinking all the time of Ralph. Within her heart there had awakened a love, so passionate, so deep, so true, for that little brown-eyed, brown haired boy that her agony at leaving him was the one and sole thought within her. She had no time just then to spare for thoughts of personal loss: she was only thinking of Ralph. She could not betray Harriet: noblesse oblige forbade. She must go, and Ralph must suffer. But she felt that she could not endure to be present when Mr Durrant made his decision. She would tell him in advance that she withdrew from the conflict. He would be home early that morning.

Robina sprang out of bed and dressed. She ran downstairs. There was a servant up who told her that a carriage had been sent to meet Mr Durrant at the railway station, and that he would, in all probability, be back at Sunshine Lodge a little before eight o’clock.

“Then I will go to meet him,” thought Robina. “He must see me alone, for he must make arrangements to send me home to-day. I will just see him and tell him, and then there will be an end, as far as I am concerned. I will ask him to let me go by the very first train, so that I need not say good-bye to the other girls; only I should like just to see Ralph once again.”

Robina thought for a time. It was only a little after seven: she would have time: she ran softly upstairs and swiftly down one of the long corridors until she reached Ralph’s room. Very, very softly she unfastened the door, and very gently did she steal in. Without making a scrap of noise, she knelt down by the little white bed and looked with all her heart in her eyes at the boy as he lay asleep. She gazed on this beautiful little face as though she would impress it on her memory for evermore. Then, bending forward, she pressed a kiss, light as air, on the sleeper’s forehead, whispered “Good-bye, Ralph; God bless you always,” and then she stole away. She had made her entrance into the room and her exit from it without in the least disturbing the little lad who was so happily enjoying himself in Slumberland. But the minute she had left, he began to dream of Robina, and when he awoke some little time afterwards, it was with her name on his lips.

He rubbed his brown eyes and looked around him in a puzzled way and said aloud:

“I thought darling Robina had been turned into an angel and that she had come to kiss me, and help me to become an angel too.”

As he uttered the words, there was Harriet in the room; she had come to dress him; although this was an office she need not have taken upon herself; but it was her object to be exceedingly petting to Ralph on this all-important occasion.

“What are you muttering to yourself?” she said.

“I thought darling Robina was in the room, and that she was turned into an angel,” said Ralph. He looked in a puzzled way at Harriet. “Will you ever be turned into an angel, Harriet?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Harriet. She spoke crossly. “I have enough to do to keep myself a good girl down in this world, without worrying myself about angels,” she continued.

“Oh, yes!” said Ralph, in a sad little whisper. “Darling Robina.”

“Why do you talk of her like that?” said Harriet, rather frightened at his tone. “It is me you love best, isn’t it?”

“’Course,” said Ralph, a little wearily; “only,” he added, “I don’t see why I am to be saying it every minute. I love Robina too,—awful much!”

After this speech, which was uttered with such heart fervour that Harriet must have been a great fool if she did not guess the real state of Ralph’s heart, the process of dressing became—to say the least of it—contrary.

In the meantime, Robina herself had gone up the avenue to meet Mr Durrant.

He was just about to drive down to Sunshine Lodge when he met a pale girl with those remarkably steadfast and beautiful eyes which had always attracted him and which had always won his heart. She was waiting for him at the gates.

“Why, Robina!” he said.

“I want to speak to you, Mr Durrant, please,” said Robina.

Mr Durrant immediately motioned to the coachman to stop and sprang out of the carriage.

“What is it, dear?” he said. “Is anything wrong? Will you get in and drive down to the house or—what shall we do?”

“I would rather talk to you before we get to the house. I want to see you alone,” said Robina.

“Very well,” said Mr Durrant. He gave his servant directions, and the carriage disappeared towards the stables.

Mr Durrant then took Robina’s hand.

“Now what is it, my dear child?” he said. “You don’t look well, dear. Robina, what is wrong with you?”

“You know what is going to happen to-day, don’t you?” said Robina.

“Yes,” said Mr Durrant. “I have got to choose between you and Harriet. The decision will be forced to rest a good deal with Ralph, but—”

“Listen,” said Robina. “Please don’t say any more. I am awfully sorry, but I want you to believe as long as you live, I want you always to believe that Robina Starling loves you and loves Ralph, and that I can never, never forget your kindness to me; but I cannot be Ralph’s school-mother.”

“My clear child!”

“I can’t—I can’t give you any reason: I want you to let me go away. I have been unhappy about this, and there is nothing for me to do but—but to go away, and I want to go away to-day and not to see Ralph again, nor the other girls again until we meet at school. And please keep Bo-peep, because I don’t think I ought to have him; and forget that you ever knew me, except just keep the one little bit of memory that, although I can’t explain anything, I love you and Ralph just awfully.”

“But Robina—this is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of! You accepted the position of standing on trial for this post. I have spoken to your parents; I have practically made up my mind to elect you, unless Ralph himself by his conduct makes it impossible for me to do so. How can you, my dear Robina, give the thing up now, and without a reason of any sort? This is unfair to me; this is unjust to yourself; this is more than unjust to Ralph.”

“I have made up my mind,” said Robina. “I may be right, or I may be wrong; but I have made up my mind; I am not going to compete. There is not only Harriet,” she continued; “there is Patience, and there is Frederica, and there are the three Amberleys—you have other girls to choose from, and I am going out of it. Please let me go home; I cannot be Ralph’s school-mother: I really, really cannot.”

Mr Durrant looked now not only puzzled but annoyed.

“You disappoint me,” he said. “I don’t understand you.”

They had come at this moment to the margin of the round pond, and there were the water-lilies with all their cups of white and gold wide open, the sun shining on them, and there was the water itself glistening in the sunlight; and there was the willow bough. Robina turned away with a sick heart.

“I mean you could not understand,” she said, “and that is the worst thing of all: and I can’t explain, I can’t! Let me go back please, to-day: and as you cannot love me after this, forget me utterly.”

“It must be as you wish, of course,” said Mr Durrant, very coldly. “I will order a carriage, and see that an escort is provided to take you back to the Brown House. As to my disappointment, we won’t speak of it: what must be, must be.”

He had held out his hand as he led her in the direction of the pond. Now, he let that same hand go. They walked together to the house. Robina went up to her room, Mr Durrant to his study.

“I never was so puzzled in all my life,” thought the good man. “Robina Starling, of all people!”

Book Two—Chapter Sixteen.

Jane Confesses.

At eleven o’clock sharp, all the girls, with the exception of Robina, were assembled in Mr Durrant’s study. He had asked them to meet him there, and they had come. Ralph was also present. The absence of Robina was noticed. The thought of Robina was in every heart, and the words: “Where is she? Can she really have gone away? Has she really told Mr Durrant?” were framing themselves on all lips. But the words were not uttered aloud, and the thoughts in the hearts were unspoken.

Mr Durrant looked very pale and grave. Amongst the girls who had entered the room was Jane Bush. But there was something extraordinary about Jane which Harriet—could she have time to think of anything at such a crucial moment except herself—must have remarked. In the first place Jane, who was never noticed at all by the older girls of the third form, was now practically in Patience Chetwold’s pocket. Frederica Chetwold was at her other side, and behind her were the three Amberleys. Jane’s face was terribly disfigured by crying, and she looked altogether a most woe-begone little spectacle.

Ralph was standing by his father’s side. He wore that very pretty little brown velveteen suit which made him look something between the prettiest of all brownies and the most beautiful of all boys. His eager, loving eyes travelled from one face to another. They fixed themselves for a minute on Jane with that world of sorrow in them which such eyes as his will always show when their sympathy is fully roused. For Ralph belonged to those heroes who take the sorrows of the world on their shoulders, and live for others, not for themselves. But on this occasion, even little Ralph was absorbed with the thought of what was to happen in the future; and then, he was missing Robina: he was finding out at each moment that it was Robina he really loved. Was she not his dream mother? and was not a dream mother greater even than a school-mother? and had she not seemed like an angel to him when he lay in slumberland that morning, and when she had somehow or other kissed him, not only on his forehead, but on his heart of hearts. He fidgetted, therefore, and looked disconsolate. Mr Durrant, on the contrary, was pale and cold and determined.

Girls, he said, “an extraordinary thing has happened I wish to announce it before I proceed to the little business which forms the subject of this meeting. Robina Starling, by her own express wish, has withdrawn from the contest between herself and Harriet Lane and the rest of you. She declines to become my little son’s school-mother, and she wants to go home at once, and she will go in about half an hour. She would, in fact, have left the house before now, but there was no convenient train. As, by her own express intention, she is not present on this occasion, and as she has already said good-bye to me and does not wish to see anything of you, and as I have made all arrangements with regard to a proper escort to convey her safely to her home, we can dismiss Robina from our minds.”

“But we can’t,” said Ralph, turning very white and facing his father and looking at him with his brown eyes full of intense sorrow.

“But we can, and must, my boy,” said the man.

“There are times in life, and the sooner you learn the lesson the better, Ralph,—when we can and must do most disagreeable things. It is, I am sure, painful to you to give Robina up. I do not profess to understand her. I liked her well, but she has gone out of our lives: we must therefore proceed to the business in hand. Ralph! tears? Are those manly?”

“I will be a man-like boy,” said Ralph. He shook his little head and turned away from the gaze of the rest of the school-mothers, and then all of a sudden a sob, just like the one which he was strangling in his own throat, was heard distinctly to proceed from someone else.

He turned abruptly, and there was Jane Bush, crying very hard. It could not be wrong even for a man-like boy to comfort someone in distress. So without waiting for his father’s permission, he flew to Jane and put his arms round her neck and kissed her many times, and said:

“Don’t, don’t be unhappy! I will love you if you will try not to be unhappy!”

Now there was something exceedingly like Bobbie in the way Ralph kissed Jane, and Jane, to relieve her feelings, gave one sob louder than the rest and turned quickly to Patience Chetwold and said:

“I will do everything you wish.”

Mr Durrant was greatly amazed at this little scene, and Harriet, who was standing alone—for not one of the others wished to have anything to do with her—was a good deal puzzled and disturbed, and made up her mind to give it very soundly to Jane later on for her ridiculous conduct. Mr Durrant paused for a minute at the unexpected interruption caused by Ralph. Then he said, still in that cold, stern voice:

“Come back immediately, and stand by my side, Ralph. Robina Starling, being out of the question, you have got to choose another school-mother. Whom do you love best in this room? Think well, my boy, and don’t allow false ideas even of bravery and of unselfishness to blind your eyes to those still nobler qualities of truth and integrity. A few days ago, the contest seemed to me to rest entirely between Harriet Lane and Robina Starling. But now that Robina has withdrawn, you are at liberty to choose any girl here present. Make your choice freely, my son; choose without fear or compunction, the one who in all respects will help you to be good, to be true, to be honourable.”

“She saved my life twice,” murmured Ralph under his breath, and then he looked full at Harriet and came a step forward. “I don’t quite understand, father,” he said, “all that you said about being very true, and very, very good. But I do know when a girl nearly gets drownded herself to save a boy like me; and I therefore choose—” again he went a step forward.

But just at that moment there came an interruption. It came from Patience Chetwold.

“Before Ralph makes his choice, Mr Durrant, I think that Jane Bush has something to tell you.”

“Jane Bush!” exclaimed Harriet, too amazed at this interruption, just when she was about to reach the pinnacle of all her hopes, to keep silent.

“Never mind,” said Ralph, hotly, “I choose Harriet.” There was a look of disappointment in Harriet’s eyes which fired his very soul. “I think, after all—p’raps I love Robina; but I love Harriet next best—far next best; and she did save me, and I choose her. Yes, Harriet—I choose you.”

“Nevertheless,” said Patience, in a very steadfast voice, “it is absolutely necessary before Mr Durrant confirms your choice, Ralph, that he should hear something Jane Bush has to say. The fact is this, sir,” continued Patience. “Frederica and I and the three Amberleys have not felt at all satisfied for some weeks past at the conduct of Harriet Lane and Robina Starling. We have felt quite absolutely sure, sir, that there was something going on behind the scenes. We were more certain than ever of that when Robina, who loves Ralph so truly, gave up the contest with Harriet last evening.”

“Oh,” said Mr Durrant; “she told you last evening, did she?”

“She did, sir,” said Patience. “She came to us when we were walking in the grounds, and told us what her decision was. Afterwards she went and told Harriet.”

“Oh!” said Mr Durrant. He looked at Harriet, whose face was very white, except where patches of angry colour starred each cheek. “I thought we had done with Robina,” he said, “but still—”

“No, we haven’t done with her,” said Patience; “that is just the point. Now Jane, tell what you have got to tell, and don’t be frightened.”

“It was my fault from the beginning,” began Jane. “Come, speak out, Jane,” said Patience, “and don’t sob any more.”

“You had better not say anything,” interrupted Harriet. “How dare you talk and force yourself on Mr Durrant’s notice? you horrid little sneak!”

“Those are not at all pretty words, Harriet,” said Mr Durrant; “and they absolutely force me to listen to whatever Jane Bush may have to say. What is it, Jane? Speak.”

“Well, sir; it was this,” said Jane. “It was this. Harriet didn’t expect any telegram to be waiting for her on board the ‘Sea-Gull.’”

“What?” said Mr Durrant.

“No, sir: but she told me to go to you and to tell you that there might be one; and it was I that thought of it, sir. I thought of a plan for Harriet to prove to you and to all the world that she was very brave and could save Ralph’s life. She asked me if I could think of a plan, and I thought of that. And you told me to tell the girls not to bathe; and I only told Harriet, and she would not tell the others; she wanted to prove to you, sir, that she was brave and could save Ralph’s life, and—and—I could not bear it any longer, and—and—I went back to the yacht; and oh—oh—she was to give me five pounds, and I don’t want it now—and I am the most awfully miserable girl in all the wide world!”

This story, which came from Jane with bursts of tears and unutterable sobs, at first sounded like mere confusion; but Mr Durrant, who had got a very orderly—indeed, almost lawyer-like mind,—soon put the broken and jagged edges of this queer narrative together; and by slow degrees and careful investigation, the whole naked truth came out. And as is the way with such truths, a great deal more came out than Jane had at first intended to reveal; for the whole incident of the pond, and the willow tree, and Ralph’s fall into the pond, and Harriet’s apparently noble conduct in trying to save him, came also to the fore; and the fact that poor Robina had overheard some of Harriet’s and Jane’s plottings and plannings was also brought to the light of day; so that a very, very ugly story was revealed to the astonished ears of the good man who thought that he was providing so very well for his little son.

Quite early, however, in the narrative, he did a somewhat queer thing. He took Ralph by the hand, and led him to the door.

“You need not listen to any more of this,” he said. “You will find Robina somewhere in the house; go to her.”

The amazed little boy found himself in the hall, shut away from all the school-mothers—from Harriet, who looked so terrible, and who had done such queer things that he certainly could not love her any longer; from Jane Bush, who seemed nearly as bad, and yet whom he, in his childish and affectionate way, pitied; and from Patience and the others, who were quite nice, but who had only, somehow or other, seen the outside of his heart. But there was Robina, and she had not gone. He would find her.

He went slowly up the wide stairs, and when he found himself on the first landing, he looked round him. There one of the housemaids saw him. Of course she loved him: every woman in the house loved Ralph.

“What is it, little master?” she said, wondering at his pale cheeks and at the anxious expression in his eyes.

“I want Robina,” he said.

“She is shut up in her own room, little master.”

Off trotted Ralph, and knocked at the door.

“Robina, Robin; let me in!” he said.

There was silence at first in answer to his imperative summons. Then there came a broken-down voice from within.

“I can’t, Ralph: go away, please.”

“But why won’t you? I must get in,” said Ralph.

Robina now made no answer of any sort, and Ralph, after waiting outside the door for a few minutes, very disconsolately retreated and went into the garden.

Now the whole of the side of the house where Robina’s room was situated was covered with an old magnolia tree, and this magnolia had a very thick trunk—quite thick enough and firm enough to hold the weight of a little boy, and as Ralph had no fear, and was an excellent climber—in fact, this small person could climb like a monkey—he soon scaled the magnolia, and appeared outside Robina’s window; and as the window happened to be wide open—for she certainly did not expect a visitor by that entrance—a little brown boy with brown eyes looked in at her from the enclosure made by the magnolia, and the next minute, he was inside the room, and pressed to Robina’s heart.

“I love you much—much best of all!” he said; “and father has sent me to you, and—and—I don’t, know anything—but there’s an awful fuss downstairs, and Jane Bush is crying, and Harriet is looking awfully angry—and—I don’t understand half nor quarter what it’s all about. But I love you best; and I choose you; for I know that I can be good with you—and oh! love me, love me a little, for I love you so much?”

Book Two—Chapter Seventeen.

Virtue Rewarded.

When Mr Durrant had at last got quite clearly at the truth of things, and when Harriet, brought to bay, at first struggled to deny, but at last was forced to confess the truth of Jane’s statements, his manner became very decided and summary.

“Jane,” he said; “I have nothing to do with you except to thank you. I leave you your own conscience to punish you for what you did. You were guilty of the great sin of moral weakness. You yielded to the wishes of a companion who was stronger than yourself: but at the eleventh hour you have saved the situation for me, and whoever else punishes you, Jane Bush, I am not the one. I believe, too, in the law of kindness, and I fully believe in that everlasting law of God’s forgiveness. I trust, Jane, that this will prove a lesson to you, and that you will turn over a new leaf; and if, in the future, I can help you, I will: and I know your kind school-fellows will not forsake you. Patience Chetwold, my dear, you have earned my undying gratitude. By your promptness and decision and cleverness and bravery you have saved my dear little son from the greatest catastrophe which could ever have occurred to him. Now, as to you, Harriet Lane—but I would rather speak to you not in the presence of your companions.”

At these words, all the other school-mothers went out of the room, Jane still completely surrounded by a phalanx of her companions. When the door was shut behind them and Mr Durrant and Harriet were alone, he turned to her.

“Some day, you will understand what you have done,” he said.

“I understand now,” said Harriet. “It is all up,” she added. “I wouldn’t have been such a bad school-mother as you think. There was nothing heroic or noble about me; but I wanted the post very badly; you should not have tempted me, Mr Durrant, by offering it. You began by offering a pony, which we all wanted very badly; and I did wrong to try to secure that. I failed, and I was sorry; and Robina won it. Then you offered something much more important than a pony. My feelings of jealousy towards Robina returned, and I thought I would try hard to become school-mother to Ralph; for we are poor at home, and I am not very happy, and you offered things which would have made my success in life—”

“You don’t suppose for a single moment that the path you choose to walk in could have conduced to success—real success in life, Harriet Lane?” said Mr Durrant. “Did ever deceit really prosper? I tell you what it is, Harriet,” he said, changing his tone now and going up to the girl and taking her hand, “that you ought to be down on your knees thanking Providence that at that terrible moment which you so cleverly and wickedly planned in order to show off your own bravery, little Ralph was not drowned. Had that sailor not unexpectedly come to the rescue, Ralph could certainly never have reached the shore, and it is even doubtful whether you could have done so yourself. You played with edged tools, my child, and you may be thankful you were not more severely punished.”

There was no answer from Harriet, whose eyes were fixed on the ground.

“You may be thankful, too,” continued Mr Durrant, “for the painful events of this day. Had things not turned out as they have, you might have got the post you so coveted, and where it would have ended—God only knows! Do not interrupt me by speaking: I have always known your character, although I did not dare, even to myself, say what I feared about it. You would not have been, even in the most ordinary sense, a good school-mother to Ralph: you would not even have been kind to him, for you never really loved him. You would both have been miserable; you, who only saw your own aggrandisement, would not have taken any trouble for my little son, and as you have no idea at present of truth and honour, you would but have stepped deeper into the mire. Be thankful that you have not gone further, and that you have been pulled up in your wicked ways in time. It is not my place to say anything to Mrs Burton, or you would be expelled from the school. With regard to your school life, I have nothing to say, and you will in all probability return to Abbeyfield at the end of the holidays. Make the best of your chance, and pray to God to soften your heart.

“As to poor little Jane, your victim, I myself shall take steps to have her removed to another school. She must not be subject to the chance of your cruelty after her confession of to-day. You can leave me, now, Harriet. I commit you to God’s mercy, and trust that you may repent of your evil ways. The carriage which was to convey Robina Starling to the railway station will take you there, and the escort which was to conduct her home will take you instead to your home. Good-bye. I cannot shake hands with you: nevertheless, I earnestly pray and hope that you will repent in the best sense of the word.”

Harriet left the room with her head bowed down. Mr Durrant waited until she had gone. Then he rang the bell. A servant appeared.

“Tell Mrs Martin that she is to take Miss Harriet Lane instead of Miss Robina Starling,” was his order. “Tell her to see that a comfortable luncheon basket is packed and on no account to lose the next train.” Accordingly, a few minutes later it was Harriet Lane and not Robina Starling who left Sunshine Lodge. The three Amberley girls and the two Chetwolds watched her as she departed. They were standing in a cluster in a bay window and holding each other’s hands tightly and feeling—not at all triumphant, but very, very sad; and Jane Bush was crying in a corner with her head buried in a cushion.

Just then, Mr Durrant entered the room.

“Cheer up, girls; cheer up!” he said. “A marvellous and very wonderful thing has happened to-day. Harriet Lane has left us, and we cannot regret it. I have written a line to her father who will receive her, I believe, not unkindly. You girls, who will meet her at the school, will, I am certain, do your utmost to help her to retrieve the past. As far as Ralph and I are concerned, she has gone as completely out of our lives as dear Robina wanted to go when I met her to-day before breakfast.

“Now, Jane Bush; I mean to take you in hand. You are not a good child by any means, but I think you have the making of one, and I know a school where you can be well and happily educated; and I mean to make enquiries about your little brother and sister and,—who knows? but Miriam may be allowed to join you later on at the same school. Anyhow, it is best for you and Harriet not to be together at present. And now please, all the rest of you, come back immediately to the study, for the election of the school-mother has not yet taken place.”

They all followed Mr Durrant back again to the same room. The windows were wide open, and the delicious autumn air, all fragrant with flowers and sunshine, was coming in, and there, standing close together, his arm around her waist, his hand clasping hers, was that small boy, who seemed to divide the attributes of a fairy boy and a human boy in all his ways and thoughts and doings. And there was Robina, the colour in her cheeks, and the light in her eyes.

“Ralph’s school-mother. Congratulate her and Ralph,” said Mr Durrant.

“Oh! how glad I am!” said Patience.

“And how glad we all are!” cried the others, even Jane Bush joining in the chorus.

So Robina was surrounded by her companions; and so the clouds rolled away and the sun came truly out once more at Sunshine Lodge.

The End.

| Book 1 Chapter 1 | | Book 1 Chapter 2 | | Book 1 Chapter 3 | | Book 1 Chapter 4 | | Book 1 Chapter 5 | | Book 1 Chapter 6 | | Book 1 Chapter 7 | | Book 1 Chapter 8 | | Book 1 Chapter 9 | | Book 1 Chapter 10 | | Book 1 Chapter 11 | | Book 1 Chapter 12 | | Book 2 Chapter 13 | | Book 2 Chapter 14 | | Book 2 Chapter 15 | | Book 2 Chapter 16 | | Book 2 Chapter 17 |

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Table of Contents

L.T. Meade "The Little School-Mothers"

Book One—Chapter One.

The Girls of the Third Form.

Book One—Chapter Two.

Robina.

Book One—Chapter Three.

Developments.

Book One—Chapter Four.

An Unusual Prize.

Book One—Chapter Five.

Explained.

Book One—Chapter Six.

Beguiled by Promises.

Book One—Chapter Seven.

The Choice.

Book One—Chapter Eight.

Consequences.

Book One—Chapter Nine.

A Visit to the Fair.

Book One—Chapter Ten.

The Gipsies.

Book One—Chapter Eleven.

The Terror.

Book One—Chapter Twelve.

In the High Woods.

Book Two—Chapter One.

A Delightful Proposal.

Book Two—Chapter Two.

Robina at Home.

Book Two—Chapter Three.

A Surprise.

Book Two—Chapter Four.

The Pony Conquers.

Book Two—Chapter Five.

Harriet’s Jealousy is Rekindled.

Book Two—Chapter Six.

An Eventful Morning.

Book Two—Chapter Seven.

Mr Durrant’s New Plan.

Book Two—Chapter Eight.

Mr Durrant Visits Brown House.

Book Two—Chapter Nine.

A Discovery.

Book Two—Chapter Ten.

Harriet Pleads.

Book Two—Chapter Eleven.

On Board the “Sea-Gull.”

Book Two—Chapter Twelve.

Edged Tools.

Book Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Robina’s Decision.

Book Two—Chapter Fourteen.

Patience Interferes.

Book Two—Chapter Fifteen.

Anxious Times.

Book Two—Chapter Sixteen.

Jane Confesses.

Book Two—Chapter Seventeen.

Virtue Rewarded.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE