Chapter Five.

Chapter Five.Sunshine Again!The next day brought reassuring news of Robbie, who had had a good night, and was distinctly better. Mildred was devoutly thankful; but now that the strain of anxiety was relieved, the loneliness of her position began to weigh upon her with all the old intensity. She grew tired of reading and writing letters, and the silence of the big, empty house weighed upon her spirits.“Three days—and already it seemed like a month! Then what will a month feel like? and two months?” she asked herself in a tremor of alarm. “It is all very well for Mardie to say, ‘Take one day at a time, and don’t worry about the future.’ She wouldn’t find it so easy in my place! Bertha might send me a letter! I didn’t expect her to write the first day she was at home, but she might have managed it the second, under the circumstances!”Miss Margaret was engaged with callers; the servants busy at their work. Mildred was at her wits’ end to know what to do with herself. She flattened her face against the window, and stared gloomily down the drive.“Two more visitors coming to see Mardie. That means another half-hour at the least before I can go downstairs to have tea. An old lady, and a young one in a light dress, and a hat with pink roses. She doesn’t look a bit nice!” pronounced Mildred in critical spirit; “I shall dress much better than that when I am grown up. Her boots are awful!—old, shabby things beneath a grand dress. I would rather spend less on finery and have respectable feet. The old lady is as broad as she is long; her bonnet is crooked! Why doesn’t the girl put it straight before they go into the house? I wouldn’t allow my mother to be so untidy! She looks fearfully hot!”Mildred stared at the old lady and her daughter until a sweep of the drive hid them from sight, and felt more lonely than ever when they had disappeared. For ten minutes or more not another soul could be seen, then the postman came briskly trotting towards the house. Mildred heard the peal of the bell, and became fired with curiosity to know whether any of the letters were for herself. Probably, almost certainly; for this was the post from the south, in which direction almost all the girls had their homes. There might be one from Bertha among the number. How aggravating to know that they were lying in the letter-box at the present moment, and to be obliged to wait until the visitors took their departure before Mardie could come out and unlock it.“He had five or six in his hand; some of them must be for me. Suppose now, just suppose I could have whatever I liked—what should I choose? A letter from a lawyer to say I had come in for a fortune of a million pounds? That would be rather nice. What should I do with it, I wonder? Mother couldn’t come away with me just now, which would be a nuisance. I think I would travel about with Mardie, and look at all the big estates that were for sale, and buy one with a tower and a beautiful big park, with deer, and peacocks, and sun-dials on the grass. I’d go up to London to buy the furniture,—the most artistic furniture that was ever seen. The drawing-room and library should be left for Mother to arrange, but I’d finish all the rest, so that she could come the first moment it was safe. I’d have a suite of rooms for myself next to hers. A big sitting-room,—blue,—with white wood arches over the windows; dear little bookcases fitting into the corners, and electric lights hanging like lilies from the wall. Opening out of that there would be another little room where I could amuse myself as I liked, without being so awfully tidy. I’d do wood-carving there, and painting, and sewing. I might have a little cooking-stove in one corner to make toffee and caramels whenever I felt inclined, but I’m not quite decided about that. It would be rather sticky, and I could always go down to the kitchen. Then there would be my bedroom—pink,—with the sweetest little bed, with curtains draped across from one side of the top to the other side of the bottom. I saw one like that once, and it was lovely. I’d have all sorts of nice things out-of-doors, too—horses for Mother and myself to ride, and long-tailed ponies for the children. I’d like to send the little ones to boarding-schools, but I am afraid Mother wouldn’t consent to that; but they could have governesses and tutors, and a school-room right at the other end of the house. I should have nothing to do with teaching them, of course. I should be called ‘The Heiress of the Grange’, and all the village children would bob as I passed by. It would be rather nice. I would give them a treat in the grounds every year on my birthday, and they would drink my health. It seems a great deal of happiness for a million pounds. I wish I had someone to leave it to me—an old uncle in Australia or Africa; someone I had never seen, then I could enjoy it without feeling sorry.”The prospect of inheriting a million pounds was so engrossing that it was with quite a shock of surprise that Mildred perceived the old lady and her daughter retracing their steps down the drive. Downstairs she flew, two steps at a time, and discovered Miss Margaret emptying the letter-box of its contents.“Oh, Mardie, I saw the postman coming, ages ago! I’ve been dying to get that key for the last half-hour!”“Have you, really? I am sorry; but you are well repaid. Three letters for you, and only one for me. You are fortunate to-day.”“Bertha—Carrie—Norah!” Mildred turned over the envelopes one by one, and skipped into the drawing-room with dancing tread. “Now for a treat. I love letters. I shall keep Bertha’s to the last, and see what these other young ladies have to say for themselves.”She settled herself comfortably in an armchair, and Miss Margaret, having read her own note, watched her with an expression of expectant curiosity. The two first letters were short and obviously unexciting; the third contained several inclosures at which Mildred stared with puzzled eyes. One looked like a telegram, but the flash of fear on her face was quickly superseded by amazement, as she read the words of the message. Last of all came Bertha’s own communication, and when that had been mastered the reader’s cheeks were aglow, her eyes bright with excitement. She raised her head, and there was Mardie staring at her from the other end of the room, and smiling as though she knew all about it.“Oh, Mardie, the most wonderful thing! It’s from Mrs Faucit; an invitation to go and stay with them for a whole month! She has written to Mother, and here is a telegram which came in reply, saying that she is delighted to allow me to accept. I am to go at once. There is a note from Mrs Faucit as well as one from Bertha. So kind! She says they are to be at home for a month before taking the girls to Switzerland for a few weeks, and that it will be a great pleasure to have me. I wish—I wish—”She stopped short, staring at Miss Margaret with an expression of comical penitence. Even when that lady inquired, “Well, what do you wish now, you dissatisfied child?” it was several minutes before she replied.“Nothing; only when you have made a great fuss about a thing, and it turns out in the end that you haven’t to do it after all, you feel rather—small. I wish now that I had been good and resigned; I should feel so much more comfortable. I suppose my going won’t make any difference to you, Mardie?”“Only this, that I shall hurry through my work as quickly as possible, and go away now instead of waiting until my sister returns. I am delighted, Mildred! it’s just as nice as it can be. I have had a letter from Mrs Faucit, too. She asks you to go at once, but I am not sure if we can manage that.” She hesitated, looking at her pupil with uncertain eyes. “She is so pretty, bless her!” she was saying to herself, “that she always manages to look well; but she is shabby! I should think her mother would wish her to have one or two new dresses before she goes. I must speak about it. You see, Mildred,” she said aloud, “I am thinking about your clothes. You will probably be asked to a great many tennis and garden parties while you are at The Deanery, and you will have to be more particular than at school. Do you think you can go with what you have, or shall we get something new? We might call at the dressmaker’s to-morrow.”Mildred shook her head.“Oh, no! I must go as I am, Mardie, or stay at school. I wouldn’t ask Mother for money just now, not for the world. There will be doctors’ bills, and a dozen extra expenses to meet, and she has a hard enough time as it is. I can buy some little things—shoes, and gloves, and a sailor hat—with the money I have: nearly twenty-five shillings altogether; but it is no use thinking about a dress. I shall do very well. I have the blue crepe, and the brown, and the dyed green, and this good old serge to wear with blouses. If I see people examining my clothes, I shall shake my hair all over my back, and stare as hard as I can, so that they will be obliged to turn away... If we go into town to-morrow, I could go on Wednesday, couldn’t I?”“Say Friday, dear; it will give us a little more time.” For, to herself, Miss Margaret was saying: “I will engage that clever little sewing-woman to come in for a couple of days and look over her dresses. She is quite right to consider her mother’s purse, but she will feel her own shortcomings when she is among the Faucit’s friends. I must do all I can to make it easier for the child. There is one comfort, she is easy to dress.”Mildred danced away to answer her friend’s letter in overflowing spirits. She had never before paid a visit on her own account, and it seemed delightfully grown-up to be going to a strange house by herself. A Deanery, too! There was something so imposing about the sound. One Deanery was worth a dozen ordinary, commonplace houses, just as Bertha was worth a hundred other friends. Dear, darling Bertha—this was her idea, of course! It took three sheets of note-paper to contain all Mildred’s expressions of delight.The next day was set apart for the shopping expedition, an occasion calling for anxious consideration. At Miss Margaret’s suggestion Mildred drew out a list of the articles which she wished to purchase out of her twenty-five shillings of capital. It was neatly written on a sheet of note-paper, with descriptive notes attached to the various items, and red lines ruled between, so that it presented quite a superior appearance. The list ran as follows:—New shoes (pretty ones this time,—not thick).Slippers (with buckles).Gloves (light and dark).Ribbons.Something to do up the hat.Sashes.Lace things for evening.Scent.P.F.M.Miss Margaret read the list, and shook with laughter.“Are you sure there is nothing else?” she inquired. “How much more do you expect from those poor twenty-five shillings? They can never, by any possibility, be induced to buy so much. What is the mysterious P.F.M.?”“A necessity; can’t be crossed out. Oh, dear,” groaned Mildred, “what a bother it is!” She tore off half a sheet of paper this time, and did not attempt any decorations. Then she went over the items one by one, sighing heavily as she did so.“I can’t do without shoes; I can’t do without slippers; I can’t do without gloves. I might get silk ones, of course, but they make me feel creepy-creepy all over. I daren’t touch anything when I have them on. I should look like one of those wax figures in shop windows, with my arms sticking out on either side! I can’t do without ribbons; I can’t do—well, I suppose Icouldwear the old hat as it is, and do without scent, and a sash, and laces, or any single pretty thing to put on at night, but I don’t want to! They are the most interesting things... Oh, dear, here goes!” and list number two was dashed off in disgusted haste.Shoes.Slippers.Sailor Hat.Gloves. P.F.M.“That’s short enough now! All the fripperies cut out, and the dull necessities left. I can get these, I suppose, Mardie?”Miss Margaret believed that she could “with care”, whereupon Mildred wrinkled her saucy nose, and said she should never have any respect for twenty-five shillings again, since it appeared that so very little could be obtained in exchange.The shopping expedition was a great success, however, in spite of all drawbacks. The purchases were pretty and good of their kind, and Mildred felt an agreeable sense of virtue in having chosen useful things rather than ornamental. She had still a little plan of her own which she was anxious to execute before returning home, and took the opportunity to make a request while waiting for change in a large drapery establishment.“I want to go to another department, Mardie. Do you mind if I leave you for a few minutes?”“Not at all. I have some little things to get too. Suppose we arrange to meet at the door in ten minutes from now?”Mildred dashed off in her usual impetuous fashion, but presently came to a standstill before a long, glass-covered counter, on which was displayed a fascinating assortment of silver and enamel goods. For the first few moments the assistant in charge took no further notice than a glance of kindly admiration. School-girls in short dresses, and with clouds of golden hair hanging loose round their shoulders, are not given to the purchase of valuable articles such as these; but Mildred proceeded to ask the price of one thing after another, with an air of such serious consideration as made it seem likely that she was to be the exception to the rule.The glass case was opened, little heart-shaped trays and boxes brought forth, and such rhapsodies indulged in concerning silver-backed mirrors that the assistant felt certain of a sale. She was stretching underneath the glass to reach a mirror of another pattern, when Mildred suddenly glanced up at a clock, ejaculated “Oh, I must go! Thank you so much!” and rushed off at full speed in another direction. The ten minutes were nearly over, and Mildred had not executed the private business which she had on hand. She turned the corner where parasols hung in tempting array, passed the fancy work with resolute indifference, and making a dash for the perfumery counter came into collision with a lady who was just turning away, parcel in hand.The lady lifted her eyes in surprise. By all that was mysterious and unexpected, it was Miss Margaret herself! Mildred blushed, Mardie laughed.“What are you doing here, Ubiquitous Person?” she cried, but immediately turned aside in tactful fashion, and made her way to the door.No reference to this encounter was made on either side, but later in the day a comical incident occurred. When Miss Margaret went upstairs to dress for dinner, she found a small box lying upon her dressing-table, on the paper covering of which an inscription was written in well-known, straggly writing:“Mardie, with heaps of love and many thanks, from Mildred.”Inside the box was a bottle of White Rose perfume, at the sight of which Miss Margaret began to laugh with mysterious enjoyment. When Mildred appeared a few minutes later, blushing and embarrassed, she said never a word of thanks, but led her across the room towards a table which had been specially devoted to her use. Mildred stared around, and then began to laugh in her turn, for there lay a parcel of precisely the same shape and size as that which she had addressed a few minutes earlier, and her own name was written on the cover.“Great minds think alike!” cried Mardie. “So this is the explanation of that mysterious ‘P.F.M.’! But what are the thanks for, dear?”“Oh, everything! You are so nice, you know, and I’ve been so nasty!” said Mildred.

The next day brought reassuring news of Robbie, who had had a good night, and was distinctly better. Mildred was devoutly thankful; but now that the strain of anxiety was relieved, the loneliness of her position began to weigh upon her with all the old intensity. She grew tired of reading and writing letters, and the silence of the big, empty house weighed upon her spirits.

“Three days—and already it seemed like a month! Then what will a month feel like? and two months?” she asked herself in a tremor of alarm. “It is all very well for Mardie to say, ‘Take one day at a time, and don’t worry about the future.’ She wouldn’t find it so easy in my place! Bertha might send me a letter! I didn’t expect her to write the first day she was at home, but she might have managed it the second, under the circumstances!”

Miss Margaret was engaged with callers; the servants busy at their work. Mildred was at her wits’ end to know what to do with herself. She flattened her face against the window, and stared gloomily down the drive.

“Two more visitors coming to see Mardie. That means another half-hour at the least before I can go downstairs to have tea. An old lady, and a young one in a light dress, and a hat with pink roses. She doesn’t look a bit nice!” pronounced Mildred in critical spirit; “I shall dress much better than that when I am grown up. Her boots are awful!—old, shabby things beneath a grand dress. I would rather spend less on finery and have respectable feet. The old lady is as broad as she is long; her bonnet is crooked! Why doesn’t the girl put it straight before they go into the house? I wouldn’t allow my mother to be so untidy! She looks fearfully hot!”

Mildred stared at the old lady and her daughter until a sweep of the drive hid them from sight, and felt more lonely than ever when they had disappeared. For ten minutes or more not another soul could be seen, then the postman came briskly trotting towards the house. Mildred heard the peal of the bell, and became fired with curiosity to know whether any of the letters were for herself. Probably, almost certainly; for this was the post from the south, in which direction almost all the girls had their homes. There might be one from Bertha among the number. How aggravating to know that they were lying in the letter-box at the present moment, and to be obliged to wait until the visitors took their departure before Mardie could come out and unlock it.

“He had five or six in his hand; some of them must be for me. Suppose now, just suppose I could have whatever I liked—what should I choose? A letter from a lawyer to say I had come in for a fortune of a million pounds? That would be rather nice. What should I do with it, I wonder? Mother couldn’t come away with me just now, which would be a nuisance. I think I would travel about with Mardie, and look at all the big estates that were for sale, and buy one with a tower and a beautiful big park, with deer, and peacocks, and sun-dials on the grass. I’d go up to London to buy the furniture,—the most artistic furniture that was ever seen. The drawing-room and library should be left for Mother to arrange, but I’d finish all the rest, so that she could come the first moment it was safe. I’d have a suite of rooms for myself next to hers. A big sitting-room,—blue,—with white wood arches over the windows; dear little bookcases fitting into the corners, and electric lights hanging like lilies from the wall. Opening out of that there would be another little room where I could amuse myself as I liked, without being so awfully tidy. I’d do wood-carving there, and painting, and sewing. I might have a little cooking-stove in one corner to make toffee and caramels whenever I felt inclined, but I’m not quite decided about that. It would be rather sticky, and I could always go down to the kitchen. Then there would be my bedroom—pink,—with the sweetest little bed, with curtains draped across from one side of the top to the other side of the bottom. I saw one like that once, and it was lovely. I’d have all sorts of nice things out-of-doors, too—horses for Mother and myself to ride, and long-tailed ponies for the children. I’d like to send the little ones to boarding-schools, but I am afraid Mother wouldn’t consent to that; but they could have governesses and tutors, and a school-room right at the other end of the house. I should have nothing to do with teaching them, of course. I should be called ‘The Heiress of the Grange’, and all the village children would bob as I passed by. It would be rather nice. I would give them a treat in the grounds every year on my birthday, and they would drink my health. It seems a great deal of happiness for a million pounds. I wish I had someone to leave it to me—an old uncle in Australia or Africa; someone I had never seen, then I could enjoy it without feeling sorry.”

The prospect of inheriting a million pounds was so engrossing that it was with quite a shock of surprise that Mildred perceived the old lady and her daughter retracing their steps down the drive. Downstairs she flew, two steps at a time, and discovered Miss Margaret emptying the letter-box of its contents.

“Oh, Mardie, I saw the postman coming, ages ago! I’ve been dying to get that key for the last half-hour!”

“Have you, really? I am sorry; but you are well repaid. Three letters for you, and only one for me. You are fortunate to-day.”

“Bertha—Carrie—Norah!” Mildred turned over the envelopes one by one, and skipped into the drawing-room with dancing tread. “Now for a treat. I love letters. I shall keep Bertha’s to the last, and see what these other young ladies have to say for themselves.”

She settled herself comfortably in an armchair, and Miss Margaret, having read her own note, watched her with an expression of expectant curiosity. The two first letters were short and obviously unexciting; the third contained several inclosures at which Mildred stared with puzzled eyes. One looked like a telegram, but the flash of fear on her face was quickly superseded by amazement, as she read the words of the message. Last of all came Bertha’s own communication, and when that had been mastered the reader’s cheeks were aglow, her eyes bright with excitement. She raised her head, and there was Mardie staring at her from the other end of the room, and smiling as though she knew all about it.

“Oh, Mardie, the most wonderful thing! It’s from Mrs Faucit; an invitation to go and stay with them for a whole month! She has written to Mother, and here is a telegram which came in reply, saying that she is delighted to allow me to accept. I am to go at once. There is a note from Mrs Faucit as well as one from Bertha. So kind! She says they are to be at home for a month before taking the girls to Switzerland for a few weeks, and that it will be a great pleasure to have me. I wish—I wish—”

She stopped short, staring at Miss Margaret with an expression of comical penitence. Even when that lady inquired, “Well, what do you wish now, you dissatisfied child?” it was several minutes before she replied.

“Nothing; only when you have made a great fuss about a thing, and it turns out in the end that you haven’t to do it after all, you feel rather—small. I wish now that I had been good and resigned; I should feel so much more comfortable. I suppose my going won’t make any difference to you, Mardie?”

“Only this, that I shall hurry through my work as quickly as possible, and go away now instead of waiting until my sister returns. I am delighted, Mildred! it’s just as nice as it can be. I have had a letter from Mrs Faucit, too. She asks you to go at once, but I am not sure if we can manage that.” She hesitated, looking at her pupil with uncertain eyes. “She is so pretty, bless her!” she was saying to herself, “that she always manages to look well; but she is shabby! I should think her mother would wish her to have one or two new dresses before she goes. I must speak about it. You see, Mildred,” she said aloud, “I am thinking about your clothes. You will probably be asked to a great many tennis and garden parties while you are at The Deanery, and you will have to be more particular than at school. Do you think you can go with what you have, or shall we get something new? We might call at the dressmaker’s to-morrow.”

Mildred shook her head.

“Oh, no! I must go as I am, Mardie, or stay at school. I wouldn’t ask Mother for money just now, not for the world. There will be doctors’ bills, and a dozen extra expenses to meet, and she has a hard enough time as it is. I can buy some little things—shoes, and gloves, and a sailor hat—with the money I have: nearly twenty-five shillings altogether; but it is no use thinking about a dress. I shall do very well. I have the blue crepe, and the brown, and the dyed green, and this good old serge to wear with blouses. If I see people examining my clothes, I shall shake my hair all over my back, and stare as hard as I can, so that they will be obliged to turn away... If we go into town to-morrow, I could go on Wednesday, couldn’t I?”

“Say Friday, dear; it will give us a little more time.” For, to herself, Miss Margaret was saying: “I will engage that clever little sewing-woman to come in for a couple of days and look over her dresses. She is quite right to consider her mother’s purse, but she will feel her own shortcomings when she is among the Faucit’s friends. I must do all I can to make it easier for the child. There is one comfort, she is easy to dress.”

Mildred danced away to answer her friend’s letter in overflowing spirits. She had never before paid a visit on her own account, and it seemed delightfully grown-up to be going to a strange house by herself. A Deanery, too! There was something so imposing about the sound. One Deanery was worth a dozen ordinary, commonplace houses, just as Bertha was worth a hundred other friends. Dear, darling Bertha—this was her idea, of course! It took three sheets of note-paper to contain all Mildred’s expressions of delight.

The next day was set apart for the shopping expedition, an occasion calling for anxious consideration. At Miss Margaret’s suggestion Mildred drew out a list of the articles which she wished to purchase out of her twenty-five shillings of capital. It was neatly written on a sheet of note-paper, with descriptive notes attached to the various items, and red lines ruled between, so that it presented quite a superior appearance. The list ran as follows:—

New shoes (pretty ones this time,—not thick).

Slippers (with buckles).

Gloves (light and dark).

Ribbons.

Something to do up the hat.

Sashes.

Lace things for evening.

Scent.

P.F.M.

Miss Margaret read the list, and shook with laughter.

“Are you sure there is nothing else?” she inquired. “How much more do you expect from those poor twenty-five shillings? They can never, by any possibility, be induced to buy so much. What is the mysterious P.F.M.?”

“A necessity; can’t be crossed out. Oh, dear,” groaned Mildred, “what a bother it is!” She tore off half a sheet of paper this time, and did not attempt any decorations. Then she went over the items one by one, sighing heavily as she did so.

“I can’t do without shoes; I can’t do without slippers; I can’t do without gloves. I might get silk ones, of course, but they make me feel creepy-creepy all over. I daren’t touch anything when I have them on. I should look like one of those wax figures in shop windows, with my arms sticking out on either side! I can’t do without ribbons; I can’t do—well, I suppose Icouldwear the old hat as it is, and do without scent, and a sash, and laces, or any single pretty thing to put on at night, but I don’t want to! They are the most interesting things... Oh, dear, here goes!” and list number two was dashed off in disgusted haste.

Shoes.

Slippers.

Sailor Hat.

Gloves. P.F.M.

“That’s short enough now! All the fripperies cut out, and the dull necessities left. I can get these, I suppose, Mardie?”

Miss Margaret believed that she could “with care”, whereupon Mildred wrinkled her saucy nose, and said she should never have any respect for twenty-five shillings again, since it appeared that so very little could be obtained in exchange.

The shopping expedition was a great success, however, in spite of all drawbacks. The purchases were pretty and good of their kind, and Mildred felt an agreeable sense of virtue in having chosen useful things rather than ornamental. She had still a little plan of her own which she was anxious to execute before returning home, and took the opportunity to make a request while waiting for change in a large drapery establishment.

“I want to go to another department, Mardie. Do you mind if I leave you for a few minutes?”

“Not at all. I have some little things to get too. Suppose we arrange to meet at the door in ten minutes from now?”

Mildred dashed off in her usual impetuous fashion, but presently came to a standstill before a long, glass-covered counter, on which was displayed a fascinating assortment of silver and enamel goods. For the first few moments the assistant in charge took no further notice than a glance of kindly admiration. School-girls in short dresses, and with clouds of golden hair hanging loose round their shoulders, are not given to the purchase of valuable articles such as these; but Mildred proceeded to ask the price of one thing after another, with an air of such serious consideration as made it seem likely that she was to be the exception to the rule.

The glass case was opened, little heart-shaped trays and boxes brought forth, and such rhapsodies indulged in concerning silver-backed mirrors that the assistant felt certain of a sale. She was stretching underneath the glass to reach a mirror of another pattern, when Mildred suddenly glanced up at a clock, ejaculated “Oh, I must go! Thank you so much!” and rushed off at full speed in another direction. The ten minutes were nearly over, and Mildred had not executed the private business which she had on hand. She turned the corner where parasols hung in tempting array, passed the fancy work with resolute indifference, and making a dash for the perfumery counter came into collision with a lady who was just turning away, parcel in hand.

The lady lifted her eyes in surprise. By all that was mysterious and unexpected, it was Miss Margaret herself! Mildred blushed, Mardie laughed.

“What are you doing here, Ubiquitous Person?” she cried, but immediately turned aside in tactful fashion, and made her way to the door.

No reference to this encounter was made on either side, but later in the day a comical incident occurred. When Miss Margaret went upstairs to dress for dinner, she found a small box lying upon her dressing-table, on the paper covering of which an inscription was written in well-known, straggly writing:

“Mardie, with heaps of love and many thanks, from Mildred.”

Inside the box was a bottle of White Rose perfume, at the sight of which Miss Margaret began to laugh with mysterious enjoyment. When Mildred appeared a few minutes later, blushing and embarrassed, she said never a word of thanks, but led her across the room towards a table which had been specially devoted to her use. Mildred stared around, and then began to laugh in her turn, for there lay a parcel of precisely the same shape and size as that which she had addressed a few minutes earlier, and her own name was written on the cover.

“Great minds think alike!” cried Mardie. “So this is the explanation of that mysterious ‘P.F.M.’! But what are the thanks for, dear?”

“Oh, everything! You are so nice, you know, and I’ve been so nasty!” said Mildred.

Chapter Six.The Journey to the Deanery.Friday arrived in a bustle of work and excitement. For the last two days Miss Margaret’s little sewing-woman had taken possession of the work-room, and Mildred’s well-worn dresses had been sponged and pressed, with such wholesale renewals of braid and buttons as brought back a remembrance of their lost youth. And now all was ready. Letters from home announced further improvements in Robbie’s condition; Miss Margaret was radiant in the prospect of her own holiday; there was nothing to shadow Mildred’s expectation, and it really seemed as if it had been worth while having those days of disappointment and anxiety, so delightful was the reaction.Miss Margaret and her pupil had a great many nice things to say to each other in the few minutes before the train steamed out of the station. Mildred had said “thank you” so many times during the last few days, that there was little left to be done in that direction, but she was full of warm-hearted affection.“I shall always remember how good you have been to me, Mardie. I think you are the nicest person in the world next to Mother. I shouldn’t mind being old if I could be like you.”“But my dear child, I don’t consider myself old at all! When you get to my age you will have discovered that you are just beginning to be young. I wonder if,—when,—if you would—”Mardie checked herself suddenly, and Mildred, scenting one of those secrets which are the delight of a school-girl’s existence, called out an eager: “What? What? What?”“Oh, nothing! I only wondered if you would be very much shocked if I were betrayed into doing something very foolish and youthful one of these days.”Mildred stared down from the altitude of the carriage window.What could Mardie mean? There was no secret about her age. It was inscribed in every birth-day-book in the school, and thirty seemed venerable in the estimation of fourteen. It did occur to the girl at this moment that Miss Margaret looked unusually charming for an elderly lady—those sweet eyes of hers were sweeter than ever when lighted by a happy smile.“I am sure you will never be foolish, Mardie!” she said reassuringly, and then the engine whistled, the guard waved his flag, and there was only time for a hurried embrace before the train was off.So long as the platform remained in sight Mildred’s head was out of the window; then she sat down to find herself confronted by the mild-faced old lady into whose charge she had been committed.She was an ideal old lady so far as appearances went. Her hair was white as snow; her chin nestled upon bows of lavender ribbon, and her face beamed with good nature; nevertheless Mildred found her fixed scrutiny a trifle discomposing, and stared out of the window by way of escape. For ten minutes on end the old lady gazed away with unblushing composure, then suddenly burst into conversation.“Dear me, my love, you have a great deal of it! Are you not afraid that it may injure your health?”Mildred fairly jumped with astonishment.“Afraid? Of what? I beg your pardon—I don’t understand—”“Your hair, my dear!—so much of it. They say, you know, that it saps the strength. A young friend of mine had hair just like yours—you remind me very much of her—and she died! Consumption, they called it. The doctors said all her strength went into her hair!”Mildred laughed merrily.“Oh, well! it’s quite different with me, I have plenty of strength left over for myself. I am as strong as a horse, and have hardly been ill a day in my life.”“Dear! Dear!” ejaculated the old lady. “And with that complexion too—pink and white. Now I should have been afraid—”She fell to shaking her head in lugubrious fashion, and watched the girl’s movements with anxious scrutiny.“Do you think you are quite wise to sit next the window, love?” she asked presently. “You look a little flushed, and there is always a draught. Won’t you come over and sit by me? Just as you like, of course; but I assure you you can’t be too careful. I noticed that you cleared your throat just now. Ah, that’s just what a young friend of mine used to say, ‘It’s only a little tickling in my throat,’ but it grew worse and worse, my dear, till the doctors could do nothing for her. I am always nervous about colds—”“She has been very unfortunate in her ‘young friends’!” commented Mildred to herself, but she made no reply, and the old lady waited fully two minutes before venturing another remark.“Your—er—aunt seems a very sweet creature, my dear! You must be sorry to part from her.”“I am. Very! But she is not my aunt.”“You don’t say so! Not a sister, surely? I never should have thought it—”“She is not a sister either.” (Now, what in the world can it matter to her whether we are relations or not! I suppose I had better tell her, or she will be suggesting ‘mother’ next). “She is one of the school-mistresses. I am just leaving school.”The old lady appeared overwhelmed by this intelligence. Her placid expression vanished, her forehead became fretted with lines, and she looked so distressed that it was all Mildred could do to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter.“A boarding-school! Oh, my dear!” she cried. Then in a tone of breathless eagerness, “Now tell me—quite in confidence, you know, absolutely in confidence,—do they give you enough to eat? Oh, my love, I could tell you such stories—the saddest experiences—”“Dear young friends of her own, starved to death! I know,” said Mildred to herself, and she broke in hastily upon the reminiscences, to give such glowing accounts of the management of Milvern House as made the old lady open her eyes in astonishment.“Four courses for dinner, and a second helping whenever you like. Now really, my dear, you must write down the address of that school for me. I have so many young friends. And have you any idea of the terms?”She was certainly an inquisitive old lady, but she was very kind-hearted, and when one o’clock arrived she insisted upon Mildred sharing the contents of her well-filled luncheon-basket. Her endless questions served another purpose too, for they filled up the time, and made the journey seem shorter than it would otherwise have done. It came as quite a surprise when the train steamed into the station at B—, and Mildred had not time to lower the window before it had come to a standstill. She caught a glimpse of her friends upon the platform, however, and in another minute was out of the carriage, waving her hand to attract attention.Bertha and Lois were accompanied by a lady who was so evidently their mother that there could be no doubt upon the subject. She had the same pale complexion and dark eyes, the same small features and dainty, well-finished appearance. As Mildred advanced along the platform to meet the three figures in their trim, tweed suits, she became suddenly conscious of flying locks, wrinkled gloves, and loose shoe-laces, and blushed for her own deficiencies. She could not hear Bertha’s rapturous “There she is! Look, Mother! Do you wonder that we call her the ‘Norse Princess?’” or Mrs Faucit’s “Is that Mildred? She looks charming, Bertha. It is a very good description;” but the greetings which she received were so cordial as to set her completely at ease.On the drive home Mrs Faucit leant back in her corner of the carriage, and listened to the conversation which went on between the three girls in smiling silence. She soon heard enough to prove that it was the attraction of opposites which drew the stranger and her own daughters so closely together, but though Mildred’s impetuosity was a trifle startling, she was irresistibly attracted, not only by her beauty, but by the frank, open expression of the grey eyes.“Plenty of spirit,” she said to herself, “as well as honest and true-hearted! Miss Chilton was right. She will do the girls good. They are a little too quiet for their age. I am glad I asked her—”“What did you think, Mildred, when Mother’s letter arrived with the invitation?” Lois asked, and Mildred clasped her hands in ecstatic remembrance.“Oh-h, I can’t tell you! I had just been longing for a letter, and wondering what sort of one I would have if I could chose. I decided that I would hear that I had inherited a fortune, and I was just arranging how to spend it when your letter arrived. Lovely! lovely! I wanted to come off the next day, but Mardie objected. She has been so good to me, and I was a perfect horror for the first few days. I was ashamed of myself when your invitation came. Oh, what a funny old place this is! What curious houses—what narrow little streets!”Mrs Faucit smiled.“We are very proud of our old city, Mildred,” she said. “We must show you all the sights—the walls, and the castle, and the old streets down which the mail-coaches used to pass on their way to London. Some of them are so narrow that you would hardly believe there was room for a coach. These newer streets seem to us quite wide and fashionable in comparison.”Even as she was speaking the carriage suddenly wheeled round a corner, and turned up a road leading to the Deanery gates. Mildred was not familiar with the peculiarities of old cathedral cities, and she stared in bewilderment at the sudden change of scene. One moment they had been in a busy, shop-lined thoroughfare; the next they were apparently in the depths of the country—avenues of beech-trees rising on either side; moss growing between the stones on the walls; and such an air of still solemnity all around, as can be found nowhere in the world but in the precincts of a cathedral.The Deanery itself was in character with its surroundings. The entrance hall was large and dim; furnished in oak, with an array of old armour upon the walls. In winter time, when a large fire blazed in the grate, it looked cheerful and home-like enough, but coming in from the bright summer sunshine the effect was decidedly chilling, and Mildred’s eyes grew large and awe-stricken as she glanced around. The next moment, however, Mrs Faucit threw open a door to the right, and ushered her guest into the most charming room she had ever seen.Whatever of cheerfulness was wanting in the hall without was abundantly present here. One bay window looked out on to the lawn, and the row of old beeches in the distance; another opened into a conservatory ablaze with flowering plants, while over the mantel-piece was a third window, raising perplexing questions in the mind concerning the position of the chimney. Wherever the eye turned there was some beautiful object to hold it entranced, and Mildred was just saying to herself, “I shall have one of my drawing-rooms furnished exactly like this!” when she became aware that someone was seated in an armchair close to where she herself was standing.“Well, Lady Sarah, we have brought back our little friend. This is Mildred. She has accomplished her journey in safety. Mildred, I must introduce you to our other guest, Lady Sarah Monckton.”“How do you do?” murmured Mildred politely. Lady Sarah put up a pair of eye-glasses mounted on a tortoise-shell stick, and stared at her critically from head to foot. Then she dropped them with a sharp click, as if what she saw was not worth the trouble of regarding, and addressed herself to Mrs Faucit in accents of commiseration.“My dear, you look shockingly tired! Train late, as usual, I suppose! It is always the way with this wretched service. I know nothing more exhausting than hanging about a platform waiting for people who are behind their time. Bertha looks white too. You have had no tea, of course. You must be longing for it?”“Oh! I am always ready for tea, but we had only a few minutes to wait. Sit down, Mildred dear, you must be the hungry one after your long journey. James will bring in the tray in another moment.”Mrs Faucit smiled in an encouraging manner, for she had seen a blank expression overspread the girl’s face as she listened to Lady Sarah’s remarks. “She speaks as if it were my fault!” Mildred was saying to herself. “How could I help it if the train was late? She never even said, ‘How do you do?’ I wonder who she can be?”It was her turn to stare now, and once having begun to look at Lady Sarah, it was difficult to turn away, for such an extraordinary looking individual she had never seen before in the whole course of her life. Her face was wan and haggard, and a perfect net-work of wrinkles; but it was surmounted by a profusion of light-brown hair, curled and waved in the latest fashion; her skinny hands glittered with rings, and her dress was light in colour, and elaborately trimmed. She had a small waist, wide sleeves, and high-heeled shoes peeping out from beneath the frills of her skirt. If it had not been for her face, she might have passed for a fashionable young lady, but her face was beyond the reach of art, and looked pitifully out of keeping with its surroundings.Country-bred Mildred could not conceal her amazement. She sat on her high-backed chair, her golden hair falling in a shower over her shoulders, her grey eyes wider than ever as she stared transfixed at this extraordinary spectacle. Even when tea was handed round, she continued to cast surreptitious glances over the brim of her cup, and to eat bread-and-butter with divided attention.Mrs Faucit noticed her absorption, and tried to engage her in conversation, but in vain. Mildred murmured a polite little answer of half a dozen words, and turned back to stare at Lady Sarah with fascinated curiosity. It was a relief to her hostess when the girl refused a second cup of tea, and she lost no time in suggesting an adjournment upstairs.“Bertha, I am sure Mildred will be glad to go to her own room now. Will you show the way, dear? We will not expect to see you again until dinner-time, as I know you will enjoy being alone!”Outside in the hall Mildred stood still, and pointed through the closed door with an outstretched finger.“What in the world is—That?”“‘That!’ What? Do you mean lady Sarah? Oh, Mildred, do be careful!” chorused the twins. “She might come out. She might open the door and hear you! She is Lady Sarah Monckton. Her husband died in India. He was a sort of connection of Father’s, so she comes here once or twice a year to consult him about her affairs.”“A sort of connection! What sort? Near or far? Do you know her well? Shall I hurt your feelings if I say anything disagreeable? No. I’m so glad. I’ll tell you then—I—don’t—like—her—at all!”The sisters looked at each other and smiled. They had evidently expected something more scathing in the way of denunciation, and were not inclined to condemn Mildred for her opinion.“Well, no; of course not. Nobody could! We always look upon her as a Trial!” said Bertha pensively. “She makes Mother ever so much stricter than she would be if she were left alone, and thinks it improper for a young lady to do anything that is nice. We were sorry that your visits should have come together, but it could not be helped. Perhaps she won’t interfere so much when we have a visitor!”“She has taken a dislike to me, so I expect I shall have the benefit! Didn’t you see the way she glowered at me through those awful glasses? Why does she look like that? Is she a young woman with an old face, or an old one with young clothes? Why can’t she be contented to be one thing at a time? Is she going to make a long visit?”“I don’t know. She has brought a maid and heaps of dresses, so I suppose she is. Mother says we must remember that she is very old, and has had a great many troubles, and try not to annoy her—”“Your mother is a dear!” Mildred cried enthusiastically. “I will be nice to Lady Sarah to please her, but I don’t believe she is at all inclined to be nice to me. We will see.”

Friday arrived in a bustle of work and excitement. For the last two days Miss Margaret’s little sewing-woman had taken possession of the work-room, and Mildred’s well-worn dresses had been sponged and pressed, with such wholesale renewals of braid and buttons as brought back a remembrance of their lost youth. And now all was ready. Letters from home announced further improvements in Robbie’s condition; Miss Margaret was radiant in the prospect of her own holiday; there was nothing to shadow Mildred’s expectation, and it really seemed as if it had been worth while having those days of disappointment and anxiety, so delightful was the reaction.

Miss Margaret and her pupil had a great many nice things to say to each other in the few minutes before the train steamed out of the station. Mildred had said “thank you” so many times during the last few days, that there was little left to be done in that direction, but she was full of warm-hearted affection.

“I shall always remember how good you have been to me, Mardie. I think you are the nicest person in the world next to Mother. I shouldn’t mind being old if I could be like you.”

“But my dear child, I don’t consider myself old at all! When you get to my age you will have discovered that you are just beginning to be young. I wonder if,—when,—if you would—”

Mardie checked herself suddenly, and Mildred, scenting one of those secrets which are the delight of a school-girl’s existence, called out an eager: “What? What? What?”

“Oh, nothing! I only wondered if you would be very much shocked if I were betrayed into doing something very foolish and youthful one of these days.”

Mildred stared down from the altitude of the carriage window.

What could Mardie mean? There was no secret about her age. It was inscribed in every birth-day-book in the school, and thirty seemed venerable in the estimation of fourteen. It did occur to the girl at this moment that Miss Margaret looked unusually charming for an elderly lady—those sweet eyes of hers were sweeter than ever when lighted by a happy smile.

“I am sure you will never be foolish, Mardie!” she said reassuringly, and then the engine whistled, the guard waved his flag, and there was only time for a hurried embrace before the train was off.

So long as the platform remained in sight Mildred’s head was out of the window; then she sat down to find herself confronted by the mild-faced old lady into whose charge she had been committed.

She was an ideal old lady so far as appearances went. Her hair was white as snow; her chin nestled upon bows of lavender ribbon, and her face beamed with good nature; nevertheless Mildred found her fixed scrutiny a trifle discomposing, and stared out of the window by way of escape. For ten minutes on end the old lady gazed away with unblushing composure, then suddenly burst into conversation.

“Dear me, my love, you have a great deal of it! Are you not afraid that it may injure your health?”

Mildred fairly jumped with astonishment.

“Afraid? Of what? I beg your pardon—I don’t understand—”

“Your hair, my dear!—so much of it. They say, you know, that it saps the strength. A young friend of mine had hair just like yours—you remind me very much of her—and she died! Consumption, they called it. The doctors said all her strength went into her hair!”

Mildred laughed merrily.

“Oh, well! it’s quite different with me, I have plenty of strength left over for myself. I am as strong as a horse, and have hardly been ill a day in my life.”

“Dear! Dear!” ejaculated the old lady. “And with that complexion too—pink and white. Now I should have been afraid—”

She fell to shaking her head in lugubrious fashion, and watched the girl’s movements with anxious scrutiny.

“Do you think you are quite wise to sit next the window, love?” she asked presently. “You look a little flushed, and there is always a draught. Won’t you come over and sit by me? Just as you like, of course; but I assure you you can’t be too careful. I noticed that you cleared your throat just now. Ah, that’s just what a young friend of mine used to say, ‘It’s only a little tickling in my throat,’ but it grew worse and worse, my dear, till the doctors could do nothing for her. I am always nervous about colds—”

“She has been very unfortunate in her ‘young friends’!” commented Mildred to herself, but she made no reply, and the old lady waited fully two minutes before venturing another remark.

“Your—er—aunt seems a very sweet creature, my dear! You must be sorry to part from her.”

“I am. Very! But she is not my aunt.”

“You don’t say so! Not a sister, surely? I never should have thought it—”

“She is not a sister either.” (Now, what in the world can it matter to her whether we are relations or not! I suppose I had better tell her, or she will be suggesting ‘mother’ next). “She is one of the school-mistresses. I am just leaving school.”

The old lady appeared overwhelmed by this intelligence. Her placid expression vanished, her forehead became fretted with lines, and she looked so distressed that it was all Mildred could do to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter.

“A boarding-school! Oh, my dear!” she cried. Then in a tone of breathless eagerness, “Now tell me—quite in confidence, you know, absolutely in confidence,—do they give you enough to eat? Oh, my love, I could tell you such stories—the saddest experiences—”

“Dear young friends of her own, starved to death! I know,” said Mildred to herself, and she broke in hastily upon the reminiscences, to give such glowing accounts of the management of Milvern House as made the old lady open her eyes in astonishment.

“Four courses for dinner, and a second helping whenever you like. Now really, my dear, you must write down the address of that school for me. I have so many young friends. And have you any idea of the terms?”

She was certainly an inquisitive old lady, but she was very kind-hearted, and when one o’clock arrived she insisted upon Mildred sharing the contents of her well-filled luncheon-basket. Her endless questions served another purpose too, for they filled up the time, and made the journey seem shorter than it would otherwise have done. It came as quite a surprise when the train steamed into the station at B—, and Mildred had not time to lower the window before it had come to a standstill. She caught a glimpse of her friends upon the platform, however, and in another minute was out of the carriage, waving her hand to attract attention.

Bertha and Lois were accompanied by a lady who was so evidently their mother that there could be no doubt upon the subject. She had the same pale complexion and dark eyes, the same small features and dainty, well-finished appearance. As Mildred advanced along the platform to meet the three figures in their trim, tweed suits, she became suddenly conscious of flying locks, wrinkled gloves, and loose shoe-laces, and blushed for her own deficiencies. She could not hear Bertha’s rapturous “There she is! Look, Mother! Do you wonder that we call her the ‘Norse Princess?’” or Mrs Faucit’s “Is that Mildred? She looks charming, Bertha. It is a very good description;” but the greetings which she received were so cordial as to set her completely at ease.

On the drive home Mrs Faucit leant back in her corner of the carriage, and listened to the conversation which went on between the three girls in smiling silence. She soon heard enough to prove that it was the attraction of opposites which drew the stranger and her own daughters so closely together, but though Mildred’s impetuosity was a trifle startling, she was irresistibly attracted, not only by her beauty, but by the frank, open expression of the grey eyes.

“Plenty of spirit,” she said to herself, “as well as honest and true-hearted! Miss Chilton was right. She will do the girls good. They are a little too quiet for their age. I am glad I asked her—”

“What did you think, Mildred, when Mother’s letter arrived with the invitation?” Lois asked, and Mildred clasped her hands in ecstatic remembrance.

“Oh-h, I can’t tell you! I had just been longing for a letter, and wondering what sort of one I would have if I could chose. I decided that I would hear that I had inherited a fortune, and I was just arranging how to spend it when your letter arrived. Lovely! lovely! I wanted to come off the next day, but Mardie objected. She has been so good to me, and I was a perfect horror for the first few days. I was ashamed of myself when your invitation came. Oh, what a funny old place this is! What curious houses—what narrow little streets!”

Mrs Faucit smiled.

“We are very proud of our old city, Mildred,” she said. “We must show you all the sights—the walls, and the castle, and the old streets down which the mail-coaches used to pass on their way to London. Some of them are so narrow that you would hardly believe there was room for a coach. These newer streets seem to us quite wide and fashionable in comparison.”

Even as she was speaking the carriage suddenly wheeled round a corner, and turned up a road leading to the Deanery gates. Mildred was not familiar with the peculiarities of old cathedral cities, and she stared in bewilderment at the sudden change of scene. One moment they had been in a busy, shop-lined thoroughfare; the next they were apparently in the depths of the country—avenues of beech-trees rising on either side; moss growing between the stones on the walls; and such an air of still solemnity all around, as can be found nowhere in the world but in the precincts of a cathedral.

The Deanery itself was in character with its surroundings. The entrance hall was large and dim; furnished in oak, with an array of old armour upon the walls. In winter time, when a large fire blazed in the grate, it looked cheerful and home-like enough, but coming in from the bright summer sunshine the effect was decidedly chilling, and Mildred’s eyes grew large and awe-stricken as she glanced around. The next moment, however, Mrs Faucit threw open a door to the right, and ushered her guest into the most charming room she had ever seen.

Whatever of cheerfulness was wanting in the hall without was abundantly present here. One bay window looked out on to the lawn, and the row of old beeches in the distance; another opened into a conservatory ablaze with flowering plants, while over the mantel-piece was a third window, raising perplexing questions in the mind concerning the position of the chimney. Wherever the eye turned there was some beautiful object to hold it entranced, and Mildred was just saying to herself, “I shall have one of my drawing-rooms furnished exactly like this!” when she became aware that someone was seated in an armchair close to where she herself was standing.

“Well, Lady Sarah, we have brought back our little friend. This is Mildred. She has accomplished her journey in safety. Mildred, I must introduce you to our other guest, Lady Sarah Monckton.”

“How do you do?” murmured Mildred politely. Lady Sarah put up a pair of eye-glasses mounted on a tortoise-shell stick, and stared at her critically from head to foot. Then she dropped them with a sharp click, as if what she saw was not worth the trouble of regarding, and addressed herself to Mrs Faucit in accents of commiseration.

“My dear, you look shockingly tired! Train late, as usual, I suppose! It is always the way with this wretched service. I know nothing more exhausting than hanging about a platform waiting for people who are behind their time. Bertha looks white too. You have had no tea, of course. You must be longing for it?”

“Oh! I am always ready for tea, but we had only a few minutes to wait. Sit down, Mildred dear, you must be the hungry one after your long journey. James will bring in the tray in another moment.”

Mrs Faucit smiled in an encouraging manner, for she had seen a blank expression overspread the girl’s face as she listened to Lady Sarah’s remarks. “She speaks as if it were my fault!” Mildred was saying to herself. “How could I help it if the train was late? She never even said, ‘How do you do?’ I wonder who she can be?”

It was her turn to stare now, and once having begun to look at Lady Sarah, it was difficult to turn away, for such an extraordinary looking individual she had never seen before in the whole course of her life. Her face was wan and haggard, and a perfect net-work of wrinkles; but it was surmounted by a profusion of light-brown hair, curled and waved in the latest fashion; her skinny hands glittered with rings, and her dress was light in colour, and elaborately trimmed. She had a small waist, wide sleeves, and high-heeled shoes peeping out from beneath the frills of her skirt. If it had not been for her face, she might have passed for a fashionable young lady, but her face was beyond the reach of art, and looked pitifully out of keeping with its surroundings.

Country-bred Mildred could not conceal her amazement. She sat on her high-backed chair, her golden hair falling in a shower over her shoulders, her grey eyes wider than ever as she stared transfixed at this extraordinary spectacle. Even when tea was handed round, she continued to cast surreptitious glances over the brim of her cup, and to eat bread-and-butter with divided attention.

Mrs Faucit noticed her absorption, and tried to engage her in conversation, but in vain. Mildred murmured a polite little answer of half a dozen words, and turned back to stare at Lady Sarah with fascinated curiosity. It was a relief to her hostess when the girl refused a second cup of tea, and she lost no time in suggesting an adjournment upstairs.

“Bertha, I am sure Mildred will be glad to go to her own room now. Will you show the way, dear? We will not expect to see you again until dinner-time, as I know you will enjoy being alone!”

Outside in the hall Mildred stood still, and pointed through the closed door with an outstretched finger.

“What in the world is—That?”

“‘That!’ What? Do you mean lady Sarah? Oh, Mildred, do be careful!” chorused the twins. “She might come out. She might open the door and hear you! She is Lady Sarah Monckton. Her husband died in India. He was a sort of connection of Father’s, so she comes here once or twice a year to consult him about her affairs.”

“A sort of connection! What sort? Near or far? Do you know her well? Shall I hurt your feelings if I say anything disagreeable? No. I’m so glad. I’ll tell you then—I—don’t—like—her—at all!”

The sisters looked at each other and smiled. They had evidently expected something more scathing in the way of denunciation, and were not inclined to condemn Mildred for her opinion.

“Well, no; of course not. Nobody could! We always look upon her as a Trial!” said Bertha pensively. “She makes Mother ever so much stricter than she would be if she were left alone, and thinks it improper for a young lady to do anything that is nice. We were sorry that your visits should have come together, but it could not be helped. Perhaps she won’t interfere so much when we have a visitor!”

“She has taken a dislike to me, so I expect I shall have the benefit! Didn’t you see the way she glowered at me through those awful glasses? Why does she look like that? Is she a young woman with an old face, or an old one with young clothes? Why can’t she be contented to be one thing at a time? Is she going to make a long visit?”

“I don’t know. She has brought a maid and heaps of dresses, so I suppose she is. Mother says we must remember that she is very old, and has had a great many troubles, and try not to annoy her—”

“Your mother is a dear!” Mildred cried enthusiastically. “I will be nice to Lady Sarah to please her, but I don’t believe she is at all inclined to be nice to me. We will see.”

Chapter Seven.Lady Sarah.Mildred had been a week at The Deanery, and if her enjoyment during that time had not been entirely unalloyed, the fault lay without question with Lady Sarah, for all the members of the family vied with each other as to who could show the young guest the most kindness. Even the Dean himself fell a victim to the “Norse Princess”, much to his wife’s amusement, for he was, as a rule, the most unnoticing of men. Mildred had written to her mother that Bertha’s father was “exactly like a Dean.” She had never met such a dignitary before, it is true, but she had an impression that he ought to look wise and studious, and Dean Faucit fulfilled these requirements to the uttermost.He had a thin face, with grave eyes set in a net-work of lines; his shoulders were bowed with poring over the study-desk; and he was, moreover, so absent-minded that he made two separate attempts before he succeeded in grasping Mildred’s hand on the occasion of their first introduction. She had been several days in the house before he had the vaguest idea of her appearance, but one morning it chanced that he raised his eyes from the breakfast-table to complain of the sunlight which was pouring in at the window; and right opposite sat Mildred, her eyes dancing with happiness, a soft pink flush on her cheeks, and her hair shining like threads of gold. The Dean started, and drew his brows together, staring at her in curious, short-sighted fashion. He was so accustomed to the dim light of the Cathedral, and to the pale faces of his wife and children, that Mildred, with her bright colouring, seemed the embodiment of the sunshine itself. He fumbled for his glasses, scrutinised her furtively from time to time as the meal progressed, and when it was over, lingered behind to speak of her to his wife.“That friend of Bertha’s seems to he—er—a nice little girl, dear! There is something in her face which affects me very pleasantly. I—er—I hope you are doing all you can to give her a pleasant time. Do you—er—think she would like to look at my book plates?”Mrs Faucit laughed, and slipped her hand inside his arm.“No, my dear old man!” she said. “I don’t think she would like it all. I think she would be profoundly bored. Leave her to the girls. They are as happy as the day is long, wandering about together.”“Ah, well, you know best! but I should like the child to enjoy herself. It has struck me once or twice that Sarah Monckton—eh?—not quite so sympathetic to the young folks as she might be, I’m afraid. There was something at dinner the other night—I didn’t hear it all, but I had an impression—an impression—. It distressed me very much. I—er—hope she doesn’t interfere with the girls’ enjoyment.”“Oh, no! Don’t worry yourself, dear. They are quite happy,” protested Mrs Faucit soothingly; but when her husband had returned to his study she sighed a little, as though she were not altogether so easy in her mind as she had led him to believe.The scene at the dinner-table to which the Dean had referred was uncomfortably fresh in her own memory. It had arisen through Mildred’s horrified surprise at the sight of Lady Sarah in evening dress, and the unconscious manner in which she showed her disapproval. Mrs Faucit made up her mind that she would take an early opportunity of suggesting to her young visitor that she had better not stare at the old lady in so marked a manner, but she was too late, for before the meal was over Lady Sarah suddenly laid her knife and fork on her plate, and transfixed Mildred with an awful frown.“Well, Miss Moore, what is it all about? Pray let me hear what is wrong, so that I may put it right at once. If I am to have my dinner, this sort of thing cannot go on any longer.”The girl’s start of amazement was painful to behold. The sharp voice struck her like a blow, and she was absolutely ignorant as to her offence.“I—I don’t understand! What have I done?”“Only kept your eyes fixed upon me from the moment you sat down until now. It is most ill-bred to stare in that undisguised manner. Pray, is there anything extraordinary in my appearance that you find it so impossible to look at anyone else?”The blood rushed into Mildred’s cheeks, but she made no reply.“Is there anything extraordinary in my appearance, I ask you?” repeated Lady Sarah shrilly.It was impossible to avoid answering a second time, but while the listeners were trembling at the thought of what might happen next, Mildred raised her head, and answered, with suddenly-regained composure:“I did not know I was staring. I hope you will forgive me—I am very sorry if I have been rude.”She spoke with a certain grave dignity, which sat well upon her, and Lady Sarah could not do otherwise than accept an apology so gracefully offered. Nevertheless the marked way in which the girl had avoided answering her question was, if possible, more galling than the original offence, and the glances which she sent across the table were the reverse of friendly.From this time forth it seemed impossible for Mildred to do anything right in Lady Sarah’s eyes. Bertha and Lois were allowed to go on their way undisturbed, while the sharp tongue, which had been wont to vent its spleen upon them half a dozen times a day, found occupation in criticising their friend.She was rough, clumsy, awkward, Lady Sarah declared. She came into a room like a whirlwind; she ran up and downstairs more like a schoolboy than a young lady. As to her hair—that cloudy, golden hair which the others so much admired,—there was no end to the lectures poor Mildred received on this subject. It was disgracefully untidy—such a head of hair as no lady could possibly reconcile herself to possessing. In vain Mildred protested that the so-called untidiness was natural, and that no amount of brushing or damping could reduce those rebellious waves to order. Lady Sarah arched her eyebrows, and wished she might only have a chance of trying. She would guarantee to make it smooth enough.Mildred bit her lip and flushed indignantly. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would be happy to grant the opportunity, run upstairs for her brushes, and force the old lady to prove the fallacy of her statements; but she restrained herself, and felt more than repaid for the effort when Mrs Faucit followed her out of the room a few moments later, and said:“I was so glad to see you keep your temper just now, dear. It was trying for you, for of course we all know that what you said was perfectly true. You couldn’t possibly make your hair smooth, and it would be a pity if you could—it is far prettier as it is, but I don’t want you to think too hardly of poor Lady Sarah. You must remember that she is old and ailing, and has had a lonely life in spite of all her riches. It is difficult to be amiable when one is old and frail, but it is very easy when you are young and happy. Isn’t it, Mildred?”“I don’t know,” said Mildred slowly. “It isn’t for me, because I am so quick-tempered. You don’t know how dreadful I feel when anyone vexes me like that. My blood all goes fizz! It seems as if I couldn’t help answering back.”“Well, that makes it all the better when you do control yourself!” Mrs Faucit answered, laughing a little in her gentle, amused fashion; and Mildred ran upstairs, feeling delightfully virtuous.At that moment she was prepared to declare that no amount of aggravation on the part of Lady Sarah should ever induce her to answer hastily in return.

Mildred had been a week at The Deanery, and if her enjoyment during that time had not been entirely unalloyed, the fault lay without question with Lady Sarah, for all the members of the family vied with each other as to who could show the young guest the most kindness. Even the Dean himself fell a victim to the “Norse Princess”, much to his wife’s amusement, for he was, as a rule, the most unnoticing of men. Mildred had written to her mother that Bertha’s father was “exactly like a Dean.” She had never met such a dignitary before, it is true, but she had an impression that he ought to look wise and studious, and Dean Faucit fulfilled these requirements to the uttermost.

He had a thin face, with grave eyes set in a net-work of lines; his shoulders were bowed with poring over the study-desk; and he was, moreover, so absent-minded that he made two separate attempts before he succeeded in grasping Mildred’s hand on the occasion of their first introduction. She had been several days in the house before he had the vaguest idea of her appearance, but one morning it chanced that he raised his eyes from the breakfast-table to complain of the sunlight which was pouring in at the window; and right opposite sat Mildred, her eyes dancing with happiness, a soft pink flush on her cheeks, and her hair shining like threads of gold. The Dean started, and drew his brows together, staring at her in curious, short-sighted fashion. He was so accustomed to the dim light of the Cathedral, and to the pale faces of his wife and children, that Mildred, with her bright colouring, seemed the embodiment of the sunshine itself. He fumbled for his glasses, scrutinised her furtively from time to time as the meal progressed, and when it was over, lingered behind to speak of her to his wife.

“That friend of Bertha’s seems to he—er—a nice little girl, dear! There is something in her face which affects me very pleasantly. I—er—I hope you are doing all you can to give her a pleasant time. Do you—er—think she would like to look at my book plates?”

Mrs Faucit laughed, and slipped her hand inside his arm.

“No, my dear old man!” she said. “I don’t think she would like it all. I think she would be profoundly bored. Leave her to the girls. They are as happy as the day is long, wandering about together.”

“Ah, well, you know best! but I should like the child to enjoy herself. It has struck me once or twice that Sarah Monckton—eh?—not quite so sympathetic to the young folks as she might be, I’m afraid. There was something at dinner the other night—I didn’t hear it all, but I had an impression—an impression—. It distressed me very much. I—er—hope she doesn’t interfere with the girls’ enjoyment.”

“Oh, no! Don’t worry yourself, dear. They are quite happy,” protested Mrs Faucit soothingly; but when her husband had returned to his study she sighed a little, as though she were not altogether so easy in her mind as she had led him to believe.

The scene at the dinner-table to which the Dean had referred was uncomfortably fresh in her own memory. It had arisen through Mildred’s horrified surprise at the sight of Lady Sarah in evening dress, and the unconscious manner in which she showed her disapproval. Mrs Faucit made up her mind that she would take an early opportunity of suggesting to her young visitor that she had better not stare at the old lady in so marked a manner, but she was too late, for before the meal was over Lady Sarah suddenly laid her knife and fork on her plate, and transfixed Mildred with an awful frown.

“Well, Miss Moore, what is it all about? Pray let me hear what is wrong, so that I may put it right at once. If I am to have my dinner, this sort of thing cannot go on any longer.”

The girl’s start of amazement was painful to behold. The sharp voice struck her like a blow, and she was absolutely ignorant as to her offence.

“I—I don’t understand! What have I done?”

“Only kept your eyes fixed upon me from the moment you sat down until now. It is most ill-bred to stare in that undisguised manner. Pray, is there anything extraordinary in my appearance that you find it so impossible to look at anyone else?”

The blood rushed into Mildred’s cheeks, but she made no reply.

“Is there anything extraordinary in my appearance, I ask you?” repeated Lady Sarah shrilly.

It was impossible to avoid answering a second time, but while the listeners were trembling at the thought of what might happen next, Mildred raised her head, and answered, with suddenly-regained composure:

“I did not know I was staring. I hope you will forgive me—I am very sorry if I have been rude.”

She spoke with a certain grave dignity, which sat well upon her, and Lady Sarah could not do otherwise than accept an apology so gracefully offered. Nevertheless the marked way in which the girl had avoided answering her question was, if possible, more galling than the original offence, and the glances which she sent across the table were the reverse of friendly.

From this time forth it seemed impossible for Mildred to do anything right in Lady Sarah’s eyes. Bertha and Lois were allowed to go on their way undisturbed, while the sharp tongue, which had been wont to vent its spleen upon them half a dozen times a day, found occupation in criticising their friend.

She was rough, clumsy, awkward, Lady Sarah declared. She came into a room like a whirlwind; she ran up and downstairs more like a schoolboy than a young lady. As to her hair—that cloudy, golden hair which the others so much admired,—there was no end to the lectures poor Mildred received on this subject. It was disgracefully untidy—such a head of hair as no lady could possibly reconcile herself to possessing. In vain Mildred protested that the so-called untidiness was natural, and that no amount of brushing or damping could reduce those rebellious waves to order. Lady Sarah arched her eyebrows, and wished she might only have a chance of trying. She would guarantee to make it smooth enough.

Mildred bit her lip and flushed indignantly. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would be happy to grant the opportunity, run upstairs for her brushes, and force the old lady to prove the fallacy of her statements; but she restrained herself, and felt more than repaid for the effort when Mrs Faucit followed her out of the room a few moments later, and said:

“I was so glad to see you keep your temper just now, dear. It was trying for you, for of course we all know that what you said was perfectly true. You couldn’t possibly make your hair smooth, and it would be a pity if you could—it is far prettier as it is, but I don’t want you to think too hardly of poor Lady Sarah. You must remember that she is old and ailing, and has had a lonely life in spite of all her riches. It is difficult to be amiable when one is old and frail, but it is very easy when you are young and happy. Isn’t it, Mildred?”

“I don’t know,” said Mildred slowly. “It isn’t for me, because I am so quick-tempered. You don’t know how dreadful I feel when anyone vexes me like that. My blood all goes fizz! It seems as if I couldn’t help answering back.”

“Well, that makes it all the better when you do control yourself!” Mrs Faucit answered, laughing a little in her gentle, amused fashion; and Mildred ran upstairs, feeling delightfully virtuous.

At that moment she was prepared to declare that no amount of aggravation on the part of Lady Sarah should ever induce her to answer hastily in return.

Chapter Eight.An Exciting Prospect.When Mildred had been staying for a fortnight at the Deanery, a letter arrived one morning which filled Bertha and Lois with delight, inasmuch as it contained an invitation to what they exultantly described as “the picnic of the year.”The girls had already attended several tennis parties, and had organised small excursions on their own account, driving off in the pony carriage to spend an afternoon in the country in charge of the children’s governess, but this picnic was to be on a very different scale. Mrs Newland, it appeared, gave one every summer, and understood how to do things in proper style. Her guests were to assemble at the station at a certain hour, as the first stage of the journey was by rail, but a couple of coaches were to be in readiness to convey them the remainder of the way.Their destination was a lovely little village, nestled among the hills, where a river wound in and out, and there were woods, and dells, and waterfalls, and caverns; everything in fact that the most exacting mind could desire for a well-regulated picnic.“And such delightful people—quite grown up! You must not imagine that it is a children’s picnic,” explained Bertha anxiously. “We are always the youngest there. We would not be allowed to go at all except that the Newlands are very old friends, and that Mother chaperones us herself. Mrs Newland takes two or three of the servants with her, and they carry hampers, and clear away the things while we amuse ourselves. We sit on the rocks in the middle of the river, and come home late at night, singing part songs on the top of the coach, with mandolin and guitar accompaniments. Oh, it’s lovely! You will enjoy yourself, Mildred!”There was no question about that, for Mildred had the faculty of enjoying every little pleasure which came in her way, and that with a whole-heartedness and forgetfulness of drawbacks which would have been shared by few girls of her age.Bertha and Lois had a private consultation the first time they found themselves alone after the arrival of the invitation.“I am so glad Mil is to be with us for Mrs Newland’s picnic,” said the former. “I want her to see all the people, and I want them to see her. She will chatter away and not be in the least shy, and they will be charmed with her, for she does say such funny things! Even Father has to laugh sometimes. Er—Lois! I wonder what she is going to wear.”“So do I!” said Lois calmly. “I’ve been wondering about that ever since the invitation came, and yet I don’t see why we should, for she has nothing with her but the old school dresses, so how can there be any choice? She is certainly very shabby. It must be horrid to have no pretty clothes. I suppose they are very poor.”“Oh, yes, I know they are! Mildred makes no secret of it. Poor dear! it is hard for her, when she is so well-connected, too,” returned the dean’s eldest daughter, in her funny, consequential, little voice. “Her grandmother was the daughter of a very well-known man—I forget who he was, but she told me one day, and I know it was someone important. She married without her parents’ consent, and they never acknowledged her afterwards. When Mildred’s mother was grown up, one of the aunts wished to adopt her as a companion, but Mrs Moore refused to go, because she would have had to promise to have nothing more to do with her parents. The old lady was dreadfully offended, and they have never heard of her since that day.”“And a good thing, too, if she was like some old ladies we could mention!” said Lois sharply, whereat her sister first laughed, and then sighed.“Oh, well, it’s no use saying anything about that! What were we talking about before—Mildred’s dress? Well, there is one comfort—she always looks sweet. I dare say she will look one of the nicest there, though Mrs Newland’s friends are so smart. Don’t say anything to her about our new dresses. It might make her feel uncomfortable.”There were no signs of discomfiture in Mildred’s manner, however, when the new dresses arrived from town a week later on. She had been romping with the children in the garden, and came dancing in through the open window of the library to find Mrs Faucit, Lady Sarah, and the two girls grouped round the table on which lay two large cardboard boxes. The lids were thrown open, the tissue paper wrappings strewn over the floor, and Mildred, looking at the contents, gave a cry of pleasure and comprehension.“New dresses for the picnic! Oh, how lovely! Do let me look,”—and Lady Sarah’s eye-glasses went up in horrified fashion as she swung herself on to the corner of the table in her anxiety to have a good view.The new dresses were charming, everything that the heart of girlhood could desire for the occasion; soft, creamy white, with lemon-coloured ribbons arranged in the most Frenchified style, and with big leghorn hats to match. Even Lady Sarah smiled approval, but the exclamations of the other onlookers were feeble, as compared with Mildred’s ecstatic rhapsodies.“Oh, the darlings! Oh, the beauties! Aren’t they sweet? Look at the ducky little bows at the elbows, and the little crinkly ruchings at the neck! And the sashes!—oh, goodness, what yards of ribbon!—and yellow silk frills round the bottom—oh-h! And the hats—Bertha, you will look an angel! If I had a dress like that I should sit up all night—I’m sure I should! I could never bring myself to take it off. Oh-h!”Mrs Faucit looked at the fair, flushed face with mingled approval and pity. “Poor, dear child!” she said to herself as she left the room in answer to a summons from a servant; “very few girls of her age would be so entirely free from envy. I wish I had ventured to order a dress for her at the same time; but I was afraid she might not like it. I wonder what she is going to wear?”The same question had occurred to another person, and not being possessed of the same delicacy of mind as the dean’s wife, Lady Sarah saw no reason why her curiosity should not be gratified.“And when is your dress to arrive?” she inquired. “What have you ordered for yourself, my dear?”“I—I ordered!” Mildred fairly gasped. The idea of “ordering” anything was so supremely ridiculous. “I haven’t ordered anything!”“Indeed! You brought your dress with you, I presume. Still I think, Miss Mildred, that you might have honoured your hostess by making the same preparation for yourself which she thinks it necessary to make for her own daughters.”“Why, dear me,” cried Mildred, still too much swallowed up with amazement at the extraordinary suggestion to have room for indignation. “Why, dear me, I’d be only too delighted to order a dozen if I could; but where on earth should I get the money to pay for them? I never had a dress like that in my life. I don’t suppose I ever shall have one!”“Then what are you going to wear, if one may ask?”Poor Mildred smoothed down the folds of the blue crepe dress. The romp in the garden had not improved its condition; it was looking sadly crumpled and out of condition, but it had been washed a dozen times, and had a delightful knack of issuing from the ordeal a softer and more becoming shade than before. With certain little accessories, already planned, she did not despair of a satisfactory result.“Well, I thought Mrs Faucit would be so kind as to allow the laundress to get up this dress. It is the only suitable thing I have, and I was going to—”“Suitable! That thing! Do you mean to say that you seriously intend to wear the dress you have on to a picnic given by Mrs Newland?”Lois bit her lip and turned aside. Bertha began hastily to cover up the dainty white folds which showed the crumpled blue in such unfavourable contrast. Mildred drooped her eyelids, and answered with that smouldering calm which precedes a storm.“I am. That is certainly my intention.”“And you mean to say you have no better dress than that in your possession?”“This is my best dress. Yes! I have no better.”“And your mother actually allowed you to come away with such a wardrobe! Preposterous, I call it! People who cannot provide for themselves respectably have no business to accept invitations, in my opinion!”Now it happened that this morning Lady Sarah had risen with a bad headache, one of the consequences of which had been to make her even more fault-finding towards Mildred than usual. The old discussion about her hair had been resumed after breakfast; she had been reproved for leaving the door open; for shutting the door, for speaking too loudly; for mumbling so indistinctly that it was impossible to hear; for one imaginary offence after another, until finally she had run away in despair and taken refuge with the children in the garden. It was not only the present annoyance, therefore, it was the accumulated irritation of the morning, with which the girl had to fight at this moment, and the conflict was too hard for her strength.As she herself would have described it, she went hot and cold all over, something went “fizz” in her brain, and the next moment she leapt down from the table and confronted Lady Sarah with flaming cheeks and eyes ablaze with anger.“And—who—asked—your—opinion? What business is it of yours what I wear? I didn’t come here on your invitation—I was asked by Mrs Faucit, and so long as she is satisfied you have no right to say a word. How dare you find fault with my mother before my face? How dare you question what she thinks right to do? you—you unkind, interfering,—disagreeable old woman!”There was an awful silence. Lady Sarah appeared transfixed with astonishment; her jaw fell, her eyes protruded from their sockets. The twins instinctively clasped hands, and Mrs Faucit, arrested, in the act of re-entering the room, by the sound of the last few words, stood motionless in the doorway, her face eloquent of pained surprise.Mildred glanced from one to the other. She was trembling from head to foot, her heart beat with suffocating throbs. For one moment she succeeded in maintaining her attitude of defiance; but when she met the grave scrutiny of Mrs Faucit’s eyes, she burst into a storm of tears and rushed from the room. Reaction had set in, and her own irritation was as nothing to the shock which followed as she realised that—fresh from Mrs Faucit’s praise and her own congratulations,—she had given way to an outburst of temper which must have horrified all who heard it.She crouched down on a corner of her bedroom sofa and sobbed as if her heart would break. The old intolerable pangs of homesickness woke up again and dragged at her heart; the longing for her own place, her own people, above all, for the precious mother who always sympathised and understood.Perhaps Mrs Faucit would be so disgusted that she would send her straight back to school. Well! at this moment the thought of the quiet house and of Mardie’s loving kindness was by no means unwelcome. At school, at least, everyone was kind—the very servants went out of their way to give her pleasure—there was no terrible Lady Sarah to stare at her through gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and criticise and find fault from morning till night.It was in reality less than ten minutes, but it seemed like hours to Mildred before the door opened to admit Bertha and Lois, and a fresh outburst of sobbing was the only notice which she took of their entrance.Bertha slipped an arm round her waist. Lois sniffed in sympathy from afar.“Never mind her, Mil!” she cried. “Don’t cry. You couldn’t possibly have anything prettier than the blue crepe,” but at this Mildred raised her face in eager protest.“Oh, I’m not crying about that! I don’t care a rap about the dress, but—but she made me so furious. It had been going on all morning, and I c-couldn’t bear it any longer. I am so ashamed. I can’t bear to think of it. I don’t know what I said.”The twins exchanged furtive glances.“You called her ‘an interfering, disagreeable old woman’!” whispered Bertha with bated breath, glancing half fearfully at the door as she spoke. “I—I felt as if the world were coming to an end! As if the ceiling would fall down over our heads! Oh, Mil, you should have seen her face! I never saw anyone look so astonished in my life, but the curious part of it is that I don’t think she was angry. She knew she had no right to speak as she had done, and I believe she admired you for being indignant. Perhaps you will be better friends after this.”“No, we won’t!” said Mildred, setting her chin stubbornly; “because I won’t, if she will. I’ll never forgive her. It is not Lady Sarah I care about—it is your mother. Oh, I can’t forget her face, she looked so shocked! She stared at me with such horrified eyes. Is she awfully angry, do you think?”“I haven’t spoken to her. She sent us out of the room directly after you left, but she didn’t seem angry, only quiet and grieved.”“Oh, oh, oh! what shall I do? I hate people to be grieved! I detest it! It’s fifty thousand times worse than being angry. If people are angry you can defend yourself and take your own part, but if they are ‘grieved’ you can only feel a wretch, as if you had no right to live. Oh, dear, what will she think of me! It was only the other day she was saying that I kept my temper so well, and now I’ve disgraced myself for ever! She will never, never forgive me!”Before the girls could say anything by way of comfort, Mrs Faucit herself entered the room and walked straight towards the couch on which Mildred was sitting. She looked pale and distressed, but the manner in which she put her arm round the girl’s waist was certainly not suggestive of anger.“I am so very sorry that this scene should have occurred, Mildred,” she said; “but I have been having a talk with Lady Sarah, and she takes all the blame upon herself. She is sorry that she spoke as she did, and I think she will be more considerate of your feelings for the future. I said the other day that I knew you must often feel provoked, and how pleased I felt to know that you controlled your temper. I wish, dear,” she sighed heavily, “I wish you had gone on as you began! It would have been a great relief to me; but perhaps it was too much to expect. You are young and impulsive.”“Oh, no, no! don’t make excuses! I am a wretch, I know I am!” sobbed Mildred penitently. “It was hateful of me to speak rudely to a guest of yours—so old, too. Mother would be miserable if she knew. But it was so maddening! I bore it as long as she found fault with me, but when she began criticising Mother—saying that she didn’t dress me properly, and had no right to allow me to come here,—I couldn’t keep quiet any longer—I couldn’t! It made me too furious. I was obliged to explode.”“I know! I know. I am sorry the girls’ dresses were ever brought down—that was the beginning of it all. Mildred, dear, I hope you won’t think any more of what Lady Sarah said on that subject. I noticed how pretty your dress looked when you first arrived, and we will see that it is made fresh and bright again for the picnic. It came into my mind to order a dress for you like the ones which the girls are to wear, but I was not sure if you would like it, or if it would seem as if I were dissatisfied with what your mother had provided.”Mildred threw her arms round the speaker with one of her bear-like hugs.“All, you know! you understand!” she cried; “you are so different. It was sweet and lovely of you to think of it, but I’d rather not. If people don’t care to have me in my old clothes, I’d rather stay away altogether. But I have ever so many pretty things stored away in my box—new gloves,—ribbons,—a lace collar. I can make myself quite respectable. Don’t be worried, Mrs Faucit, please! I’ll try to be good and not vex you again. Do please take your forehead out of crinkles.”Mrs Faucit laughed at that, and stroked the golden head with a caressing hand. She had grown very fond of her young visitor during the last few weeks, and found her coaxing ways quite irresistible.“Dear Mildred!” she cried, “Poor Mildred! I am so sorry that your visit should be spoiled in this way, but remember what I told you the other day, dear, and try to avoid harsh judgments. It is a great concession for Lady Sarah to have acknowledged herself in the wrong in a dispute with a girl of your age; you must show how generous and forbearing you can be in return. I hope that after this you may be really good friends.”Mildred said nothing, but her lips closed with an expression which Bertha and Lois recognised. They had seen it at school on more than one memorable occasion. Mildred was the dearest girl in the world, but she did not find it easy to forgive when her animosity had been aroused.

When Mildred had been staying for a fortnight at the Deanery, a letter arrived one morning which filled Bertha and Lois with delight, inasmuch as it contained an invitation to what they exultantly described as “the picnic of the year.”

The girls had already attended several tennis parties, and had organised small excursions on their own account, driving off in the pony carriage to spend an afternoon in the country in charge of the children’s governess, but this picnic was to be on a very different scale. Mrs Newland, it appeared, gave one every summer, and understood how to do things in proper style. Her guests were to assemble at the station at a certain hour, as the first stage of the journey was by rail, but a couple of coaches were to be in readiness to convey them the remainder of the way.

Their destination was a lovely little village, nestled among the hills, where a river wound in and out, and there were woods, and dells, and waterfalls, and caverns; everything in fact that the most exacting mind could desire for a well-regulated picnic.

“And such delightful people—quite grown up! You must not imagine that it is a children’s picnic,” explained Bertha anxiously. “We are always the youngest there. We would not be allowed to go at all except that the Newlands are very old friends, and that Mother chaperones us herself. Mrs Newland takes two or three of the servants with her, and they carry hampers, and clear away the things while we amuse ourselves. We sit on the rocks in the middle of the river, and come home late at night, singing part songs on the top of the coach, with mandolin and guitar accompaniments. Oh, it’s lovely! You will enjoy yourself, Mildred!”

There was no question about that, for Mildred had the faculty of enjoying every little pleasure which came in her way, and that with a whole-heartedness and forgetfulness of drawbacks which would have been shared by few girls of her age.

Bertha and Lois had a private consultation the first time they found themselves alone after the arrival of the invitation.

“I am so glad Mil is to be with us for Mrs Newland’s picnic,” said the former. “I want her to see all the people, and I want them to see her. She will chatter away and not be in the least shy, and they will be charmed with her, for she does say such funny things! Even Father has to laugh sometimes. Er—Lois! I wonder what she is going to wear.”

“So do I!” said Lois calmly. “I’ve been wondering about that ever since the invitation came, and yet I don’t see why we should, for she has nothing with her but the old school dresses, so how can there be any choice? She is certainly very shabby. It must be horrid to have no pretty clothes. I suppose they are very poor.”

“Oh, yes, I know they are! Mildred makes no secret of it. Poor dear! it is hard for her, when she is so well-connected, too,” returned the dean’s eldest daughter, in her funny, consequential, little voice. “Her grandmother was the daughter of a very well-known man—I forget who he was, but she told me one day, and I know it was someone important. She married without her parents’ consent, and they never acknowledged her afterwards. When Mildred’s mother was grown up, one of the aunts wished to adopt her as a companion, but Mrs Moore refused to go, because she would have had to promise to have nothing more to do with her parents. The old lady was dreadfully offended, and they have never heard of her since that day.”

“And a good thing, too, if she was like some old ladies we could mention!” said Lois sharply, whereat her sister first laughed, and then sighed.

“Oh, well, it’s no use saying anything about that! What were we talking about before—Mildred’s dress? Well, there is one comfort—she always looks sweet. I dare say she will look one of the nicest there, though Mrs Newland’s friends are so smart. Don’t say anything to her about our new dresses. It might make her feel uncomfortable.”

There were no signs of discomfiture in Mildred’s manner, however, when the new dresses arrived from town a week later on. She had been romping with the children in the garden, and came dancing in through the open window of the library to find Mrs Faucit, Lady Sarah, and the two girls grouped round the table on which lay two large cardboard boxes. The lids were thrown open, the tissue paper wrappings strewn over the floor, and Mildred, looking at the contents, gave a cry of pleasure and comprehension.

“New dresses for the picnic! Oh, how lovely! Do let me look,”—and Lady Sarah’s eye-glasses went up in horrified fashion as she swung herself on to the corner of the table in her anxiety to have a good view.

The new dresses were charming, everything that the heart of girlhood could desire for the occasion; soft, creamy white, with lemon-coloured ribbons arranged in the most Frenchified style, and with big leghorn hats to match. Even Lady Sarah smiled approval, but the exclamations of the other onlookers were feeble, as compared with Mildred’s ecstatic rhapsodies.

“Oh, the darlings! Oh, the beauties! Aren’t they sweet? Look at the ducky little bows at the elbows, and the little crinkly ruchings at the neck! And the sashes!—oh, goodness, what yards of ribbon!—and yellow silk frills round the bottom—oh-h! And the hats—Bertha, you will look an angel! If I had a dress like that I should sit up all night—I’m sure I should! I could never bring myself to take it off. Oh-h!”

Mrs Faucit looked at the fair, flushed face with mingled approval and pity. “Poor, dear child!” she said to herself as she left the room in answer to a summons from a servant; “very few girls of her age would be so entirely free from envy. I wish I had ventured to order a dress for her at the same time; but I was afraid she might not like it. I wonder what she is going to wear?”

The same question had occurred to another person, and not being possessed of the same delicacy of mind as the dean’s wife, Lady Sarah saw no reason why her curiosity should not be gratified.

“And when is your dress to arrive?” she inquired. “What have you ordered for yourself, my dear?”

“I—I ordered!” Mildred fairly gasped. The idea of “ordering” anything was so supremely ridiculous. “I haven’t ordered anything!”

“Indeed! You brought your dress with you, I presume. Still I think, Miss Mildred, that you might have honoured your hostess by making the same preparation for yourself which she thinks it necessary to make for her own daughters.”

“Why, dear me,” cried Mildred, still too much swallowed up with amazement at the extraordinary suggestion to have room for indignation. “Why, dear me, I’d be only too delighted to order a dozen if I could; but where on earth should I get the money to pay for them? I never had a dress like that in my life. I don’t suppose I ever shall have one!”

“Then what are you going to wear, if one may ask?”

Poor Mildred smoothed down the folds of the blue crepe dress. The romp in the garden had not improved its condition; it was looking sadly crumpled and out of condition, but it had been washed a dozen times, and had a delightful knack of issuing from the ordeal a softer and more becoming shade than before. With certain little accessories, already planned, she did not despair of a satisfactory result.

“Well, I thought Mrs Faucit would be so kind as to allow the laundress to get up this dress. It is the only suitable thing I have, and I was going to—”

“Suitable! That thing! Do you mean to say that you seriously intend to wear the dress you have on to a picnic given by Mrs Newland?”

Lois bit her lip and turned aside. Bertha began hastily to cover up the dainty white folds which showed the crumpled blue in such unfavourable contrast. Mildred drooped her eyelids, and answered with that smouldering calm which precedes a storm.

“I am. That is certainly my intention.”

“And you mean to say you have no better dress than that in your possession?”

“This is my best dress. Yes! I have no better.”

“And your mother actually allowed you to come away with such a wardrobe! Preposterous, I call it! People who cannot provide for themselves respectably have no business to accept invitations, in my opinion!”

Now it happened that this morning Lady Sarah had risen with a bad headache, one of the consequences of which had been to make her even more fault-finding towards Mildred than usual. The old discussion about her hair had been resumed after breakfast; she had been reproved for leaving the door open; for shutting the door, for speaking too loudly; for mumbling so indistinctly that it was impossible to hear; for one imaginary offence after another, until finally she had run away in despair and taken refuge with the children in the garden. It was not only the present annoyance, therefore, it was the accumulated irritation of the morning, with which the girl had to fight at this moment, and the conflict was too hard for her strength.

As she herself would have described it, she went hot and cold all over, something went “fizz” in her brain, and the next moment she leapt down from the table and confronted Lady Sarah with flaming cheeks and eyes ablaze with anger.

“And—who—asked—your—opinion? What business is it of yours what I wear? I didn’t come here on your invitation—I was asked by Mrs Faucit, and so long as she is satisfied you have no right to say a word. How dare you find fault with my mother before my face? How dare you question what she thinks right to do? you—you unkind, interfering,—disagreeable old woman!”

There was an awful silence. Lady Sarah appeared transfixed with astonishment; her jaw fell, her eyes protruded from their sockets. The twins instinctively clasped hands, and Mrs Faucit, arrested, in the act of re-entering the room, by the sound of the last few words, stood motionless in the doorway, her face eloquent of pained surprise.

Mildred glanced from one to the other. She was trembling from head to foot, her heart beat with suffocating throbs. For one moment she succeeded in maintaining her attitude of defiance; but when she met the grave scrutiny of Mrs Faucit’s eyes, she burst into a storm of tears and rushed from the room. Reaction had set in, and her own irritation was as nothing to the shock which followed as she realised that—fresh from Mrs Faucit’s praise and her own congratulations,—she had given way to an outburst of temper which must have horrified all who heard it.

She crouched down on a corner of her bedroom sofa and sobbed as if her heart would break. The old intolerable pangs of homesickness woke up again and dragged at her heart; the longing for her own place, her own people, above all, for the precious mother who always sympathised and understood.

Perhaps Mrs Faucit would be so disgusted that she would send her straight back to school. Well! at this moment the thought of the quiet house and of Mardie’s loving kindness was by no means unwelcome. At school, at least, everyone was kind—the very servants went out of their way to give her pleasure—there was no terrible Lady Sarah to stare at her through gold-rimmed eye-glasses, and criticise and find fault from morning till night.

It was in reality less than ten minutes, but it seemed like hours to Mildred before the door opened to admit Bertha and Lois, and a fresh outburst of sobbing was the only notice which she took of their entrance.

Bertha slipped an arm round her waist. Lois sniffed in sympathy from afar.

“Never mind her, Mil!” she cried. “Don’t cry. You couldn’t possibly have anything prettier than the blue crepe,” but at this Mildred raised her face in eager protest.

“Oh, I’m not crying about that! I don’t care a rap about the dress, but—but she made me so furious. It had been going on all morning, and I c-couldn’t bear it any longer. I am so ashamed. I can’t bear to think of it. I don’t know what I said.”

The twins exchanged furtive glances.

“You called her ‘an interfering, disagreeable old woman’!” whispered Bertha with bated breath, glancing half fearfully at the door as she spoke. “I—I felt as if the world were coming to an end! As if the ceiling would fall down over our heads! Oh, Mil, you should have seen her face! I never saw anyone look so astonished in my life, but the curious part of it is that I don’t think she was angry. She knew she had no right to speak as she had done, and I believe she admired you for being indignant. Perhaps you will be better friends after this.”

“No, we won’t!” said Mildred, setting her chin stubbornly; “because I won’t, if she will. I’ll never forgive her. It is not Lady Sarah I care about—it is your mother. Oh, I can’t forget her face, she looked so shocked! She stared at me with such horrified eyes. Is she awfully angry, do you think?”

“I haven’t spoken to her. She sent us out of the room directly after you left, but she didn’t seem angry, only quiet and grieved.”

“Oh, oh, oh! what shall I do? I hate people to be grieved! I detest it! It’s fifty thousand times worse than being angry. If people are angry you can defend yourself and take your own part, but if they are ‘grieved’ you can only feel a wretch, as if you had no right to live. Oh, dear, what will she think of me! It was only the other day she was saying that I kept my temper so well, and now I’ve disgraced myself for ever! She will never, never forgive me!”

Before the girls could say anything by way of comfort, Mrs Faucit herself entered the room and walked straight towards the couch on which Mildred was sitting. She looked pale and distressed, but the manner in which she put her arm round the girl’s waist was certainly not suggestive of anger.

“I am so very sorry that this scene should have occurred, Mildred,” she said; “but I have been having a talk with Lady Sarah, and she takes all the blame upon herself. She is sorry that she spoke as she did, and I think she will be more considerate of your feelings for the future. I said the other day that I knew you must often feel provoked, and how pleased I felt to know that you controlled your temper. I wish, dear,” she sighed heavily, “I wish you had gone on as you began! It would have been a great relief to me; but perhaps it was too much to expect. You are young and impulsive.”

“Oh, no, no! don’t make excuses! I am a wretch, I know I am!” sobbed Mildred penitently. “It was hateful of me to speak rudely to a guest of yours—so old, too. Mother would be miserable if she knew. But it was so maddening! I bore it as long as she found fault with me, but when she began criticising Mother—saying that she didn’t dress me properly, and had no right to allow me to come here,—I couldn’t keep quiet any longer—I couldn’t! It made me too furious. I was obliged to explode.”

“I know! I know. I am sorry the girls’ dresses were ever brought down—that was the beginning of it all. Mildred, dear, I hope you won’t think any more of what Lady Sarah said on that subject. I noticed how pretty your dress looked when you first arrived, and we will see that it is made fresh and bright again for the picnic. It came into my mind to order a dress for you like the ones which the girls are to wear, but I was not sure if you would like it, or if it would seem as if I were dissatisfied with what your mother had provided.”

Mildred threw her arms round the speaker with one of her bear-like hugs.

“All, you know! you understand!” she cried; “you are so different. It was sweet and lovely of you to think of it, but I’d rather not. If people don’t care to have me in my old clothes, I’d rather stay away altogether. But I have ever so many pretty things stored away in my box—new gloves,—ribbons,—a lace collar. I can make myself quite respectable. Don’t be worried, Mrs Faucit, please! I’ll try to be good and not vex you again. Do please take your forehead out of crinkles.”

Mrs Faucit laughed at that, and stroked the golden head with a caressing hand. She had grown very fond of her young visitor during the last few weeks, and found her coaxing ways quite irresistible.

“Dear Mildred!” she cried, “Poor Mildred! I am so sorry that your visit should be spoiled in this way, but remember what I told you the other day, dear, and try to avoid harsh judgments. It is a great concession for Lady Sarah to have acknowledged herself in the wrong in a dispute with a girl of your age; you must show how generous and forbearing you can be in return. I hope that after this you may be really good friends.”

Mildred said nothing, but her lips closed with an expression which Bertha and Lois recognised. They had seen it at school on more than one memorable occasion. Mildred was the dearest girl in the world, but she did not find it easy to forgive when her animosity had been aroused.

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