"But how can he?" Angel questioned, looking distressed.
Mr. Bailey was silent for a few minutes. He watched the little girl carefully recover the picture, then he replied—
"I want him to give up these lodgings altogether and make his home with me at Haresdown House; I should like you all to come and live with me, for you are the only relations I have in the world. One thing is quite certain, your father must not be allowed to spend the spring in town, and he could not find a milder, more salubrious climate anywhere than at Wreyford. I believe he would soon get well there. Gerald could attend the Grammar School, and you—"
"Oh, Uncle Edward!" Angel interrupted excitedly, "do you really mean it? Do you really want us all to come?"
"Yes, I do. Haresdown House is a big abode for one man; and I feel, child, that it would be for your father's benefit if he will only agree to my plan. We must manage to break it to him gradually; but he will not be strong enough to consider the matter yet."
The first time Angel was allowed to see her father after he had taken a turn for the better, she was shocked at the alteration in his appearance, for he looked terribly ill, his cheeks had fallen in, and there were deep hollows beneath his eyes. He did not seem inclined to talk, but only smiled at her and whispered her name; and it was the same when Gerald went in to see him. But as the days glided on, he grew stronger, and the children were delighted when he began to ask them questions, and take an interest in things generally again. At last, there came a day when he broached the subject of his picture to Angel, and said he would not be able to finish it by the time he had intended it to be completed.
"I don't believe I could use a brush, my hand shakes so," he acknowledged ruefully, "and so end all my hopes of success for the present. I trust I shall soon get well, Angel, for we must have been running in debt during my illness."
"No, I don't think we have," she answered simply. "Uncle Edward has seen to everything, and he told me yesterday we didn't owe a penny!"
The invalid's wan face lit up with a smile, and he drew a deep breath of relief. "I would rather be indebted to Uncle Edward than to any one else in the world," he confessed; "my illness must have been a great expense. I must work hard when I am stronger."
"The doctor says you ought not to stay in London," Angel said, thinking this a suitable opportunity for telling him the truth; "he says you must go to a warmer climate, almost directly."
"That is impossible, my dear."
"Oh no, father, indeed it is not! Uncle Edward wants us all to go and live with him at Haresdown House; he has spoken to the doctor about the climate of Wreyford, and he says it will just suit you, for it is beautifully mild and dry. Oh, father, we want you to get well quickly, and you never will if you stay in London!"
"Is Uncle Edward in the house now?" Mr. Willis asked, his voice trembling with mingled weakness and excitement.
"Yes; I think he is in the sitting-room."
"Then, run and ask him to come here, say I wish most particularly to speak to him."
Angel obeyed, and in a few words explained the situation to Mr. Bailey.
"I am very glad you have mentioned the matter to him, my dear," he said; "I will certainly go and hear what he has to say, and I have little fear but that he will do as I wish him. He will see that for his children's sake his health ought to be his first consideration."
Angel sat down, and waited impatiently till Mr. Bailey returned. He was absent what appeared to her a very long time; but when he did at last reappear, his face was beaming with pleasure, and his manner triumphant. "It is all settled, Angel," he told her; "your father has promised as soon as ever he is well enough to leave here for Haresdown House. I must run down to Wreyford in the course of a few days, and see everything is in readiness. And I think Mrs. Steer had better be informed of our plans, so that she may look out for fresh lodgers."
Mr. Bailey was evidently much elated at the prospect of having his own way; he told Gerald the news the moment the latter returned from school, and was pleased at the boy's intense delight.
"I shall have to leave school before the end of the term," Gerald remarked, "for Easter will not be here till the beginning of April, and it is only the middle of March now!"
"Never mind, never mind!" Mr. Bailey told him. "It will not be much loss for you to miss a week or so."
"But father will have to pay a term's fees, as he hasn't given a term's notice for Gerald to leave!" Angel cried anxiously.
"What a little woman of business it is!" Mr. Bailey exclaimed, laughing amusedly. "Don't worry that wise head of yours about details. Leave everything to me."
Angel was quite ready to do that, as was her father now that he had consented to his uncle's plan; he was still far too weak to be troubled about business matters, and appeared perfectly satisfied with the existing state of affairs.
The only person who was not entirely pleased at the prospect of the exodus of the Willis family from London was Mrs. Steer. She shed tears when discussing the subject with Angel, and only cheered up when the little girl promised to write to her when they were all settled at Wreyford.
"It isn't only that I'm sorry to lose you as lodgers, Miss Angel," she said, "for I take a real interest in you all. Your pa's as pleasant spoken a gentleman as I ever knew, and during the two years and more he's been beneath my roof, I don't think he's once spoken a cross word to me, much less complained that his food hasn't been properly cooked, as some folks are so fond of doing. And I don't know that I ever came across any one so hopeful when things go wrong as he is. I wish him good health, and every success in the future, that I do; and I'm only sorry he wasn't brought to some good trade or profession, so that he might have had a chance of making a comfortable income, instead of having to paint for a living—and a poor living it is, I take it!"
"Ah, but some day, when father has finished his great picture, as he would have done before now if only he had not fallen ill, he will make a good living!" Angel declared, her eyes glistening at the thought.
"I am sure I hope he may," Mrs. Steer replied, her face expressive of the doubt she felt, "for I'm very certain he deserves success; but folks don't always get what they deserve in this world, and it's as well not to expect too much."
This was not a very cheering sentiment, but Angel was far too happy to allow herself to be depressed, or to be annoyed because Mrs. Steer did not fully appreciate her father's abilities.
Mr. Bailey paid a short visit to Wreyford within a few days, and on his return reported that everything had been done at Haresdown House according to his instructions, and the house was now fit to be occupied. He had been recommended a middle-aged woman as housekeeper, and he had seen her installed and left her with orders to prepare for the reception of his family.
"So our home is ready for us," Mr. Bailey said, "and we need only wait for the doctor's permission to allow you to travel, John. There is no necessity for you to worry, or even think about the packing of your belongings, for I will superintend everything myself."
By that time Mr. Willis was able to go into the sitting-room every day; his nurses had left him; and he was slowly but surely gaining strength. He had been sitting by the fire listening to his uncle's remarks, and there was deep feeling in his voice as he replied—
"You are our good angel, Uncle Edward; it seems as though God sent you home to be with us in our time of need. I dare not imagine what would have become of us but for you! I can never thank you for all you have done, and I can never repay you for your kindness—"
"Nonsense, nonsense!" Mr. Bailey interrupted. "I want no thanks—I have only done for you what, if our positions had been reversed, you would have done for me."
His face was very red as he spoke, and there was certainly a mistiness in his eyes, to hide which he blew his nose, and then went on to make plans for their move into the country.
They were all eager to leave London, Angel as much so as either of the others, yet when she came to say good-bye to the dingy lodgings which had been home to her for more than two long years, there were tears in her eyes. She thought how, in all probability, she would never more look out on the miles of roofs, and listen to the city's roar; and she wept aloud as she kissed Mrs. Steer, whilst that good woman was not less moved, and declared that she had never had lodgers she had felt parting with before.
IT was a beautiful morning, towards the end of March, as Miss Goodwin, suitably equipped for gardening in a short skirt, shady hat, and thick gloves, bent over the diamond-shaped flower-beds cut in the grass plot in front of her house, and carefully hoed the rich mould between clumps of daffodils and various other spring flowers.
March, which had come in with blustering winds, was going out like the proverbial lamb. The air was balmy, and sweet with the delicate scent of hyacinths, and violets; and the gentle rain which had fallen during the night had washed all traces of dust from the budding foliage of trees and shrubs; whilst, save for a few fleecy clouds in the far distance, the sky was one great curtain of blue. It was what Miss Goodwin mentally called a "growing day;" the whole world seemed—astir with young life; and the sparrows twittered noisily beneath the eaves of the roof of the house, where they were busily preparing nurseries for the reception of their broods.
Miss Goodwin's back was towards the garden gate, so she did not see a little girl and boy coming down the road from Haresdown Hill; but they caught sight of her as they were passing the house; and as they were unobserved, paused to look at the pretty garden with its show of gay flowers, and the small figure so busily at work.
"Oh, what a lovely place!" whispered the little girl. "I think I never saw such beautiful flowers growing before, did you, Gerald? But what a queer old lady! I suppose she lives here. Do look at her white stockings and elastic-side boots!"
At that moment Miss Goodwin glanced around, becoming suddenly conscious that she was being watched, and perceived the children. She guessed who they must be, the great niece and nephew of the new owner of Haresdown House, who had arrived only the preceding night; and as she knew all about them, she jumped to the conclusion that they must know all about her.
Angel and Gerald were moving away with flaming cheeks, ashamed at having been caught staring, and afraid the old lady would consider them very rude, when she hastened to the gate and called to them to stop.
"Oh, wait a minute!" she cried. "How do you do, my dears? I am very glad to see you, very glad. I cannot shake hands because, as you perceive, my gardening gloves are earthy; you must take the will for the deed."
They paused, and looked in astonishment at the withered face beneath the big, shady hat; there was a distinctly friendly light in the old lady's blue eyes, and she nodded and smiled in a most genial fashion.
"How is your father?" she continued affably. "Was he much tired after his journey yesterday? I heard he had been very ill; but I trust he will soon be set up in health."
"He was very tired last night," Angel answered, "and he is rather tired this morning, but Uncle Edward said he bore the journey very well, considering how ill he has been."
"Ah, he will soon get well in this beautiful air!" Miss Goodwin declared. "You have always lived in London, have you not?"
"Yes, always!" they answered.
"Ah, I was never there in my life; I have always lived at Wreyford. In London they tell me you might not know your next-door neighbours! I should not like that." And she shook her head decidedly.
"We did not know our next-door neighbours," Angel admitted with a smile.
"Really? How strange! I know every one in Wreyford, and every one knows me. Now, which of you is the elder?"
"I am," the little girl answered, thinking the old lady was very fond of asking questions, "although Gerald is so much taller than I am."
"Gerald, is he called? And you? What is your name?"
"Angelica."
"But we always call her Angel," Gerald explained; "Angelica, is such a mouthful."
"Angel is a very sweet name, to my mind," Miss Goodwin said gravely. "Are you on your way to the town?"
"Yes," Angel assented. She hesitated, and then said apologetically, "I hope you did not think us very rude for stopping, and looking in at the gate. We were admiring your pretty house, and beautiful garden; we never saw such lovely flowers growing before!"
"Come in, and I will give you some with great pleasure," Miss Goodwin said, with an inviting smile as she opened the gate for them to enter. "I did not think you rude at all. You are fond of flowers?"
"Oh yes!" they both replied eagerly; and Angel added, "Father loves them too."
Suspended from Miss Goodwin's waist was a chatelaine, from which she detached a pair of scissors, and proceeded to cut some of her finest blooms.
"I am going to make a nosegay for your father," she informed the children, "because he is an invalid, and sick folks like to have little attentions paid them."
"Oh, he will be so pleased!" Angel cried, her eyes shining with gratitude, "How very kind of you!"
"Kind? Not at all! It is always a pleasure to me to give flowers to those who appreciate them. Some people do not care for flowers; once I heard them called useless. Useless! Would God have created them if not for some good purpose? He knew the longing of our souls for beauty. Look at these wind flowers—anemones they are really notice how delicately they are made! And these daffodils—golden glories, I call them. Do you see how the tender green of the stalks is softly shaded off over the backs of the blooms? Here are wallflowers; we will have some of these for our posy because of their scent."
"Their colours are lovely, too," Angel said; "but are we to have all these flowers for father? Oh, how good of you! What pretty variegated grass!"
"It is called lady's grass or ladies' ribbons," Miss Goodwin told her, as she added a few strands to the bunch of flowers, and then tied all the stalks together with a piece of bass which she produced from the capacious pocket of the big, gardening apron she wore to protect her gown. "I am glad you like my garden," she proceeded, her blue eyes sparkling with pride as she noted the admiring glances the children were casting on every side; "will you come in and look at my house?"
"It is very kind of you to ask us," Angel replied, "but we must not stay any longer, for we have some errands to do for Uncle Edward in the town."
"Come again another day," said the old lady hospitably, as she placed the nosegay in the little girl's hand. "Pray give the flowers to your father with my compliments, and say I hope to have the pleasure of calling on him and Mr. Bailey before long."
"Who shall we say sent them?" asked Gerald, thinking this was a capital opportunity of finding out the name of their new acquaintance.
Miss Goodwin did not perceive the drift of his question, though she looked a trifle surprised as she answered—
"Why, say I sent them, of course!"
The children exchanged amused glances; then, after a moment's hesitation, Angel explained the situation.
"You see, we do not know who you are," she said. "Won't you, please, tell us your name?"
"You don't know who I am!" the old lady cried in amazement. "Well, I never! And I have lived in Wreyford all my life!"
"But we only came last night," Angel reminded her, "and we don't know any one in Wreyford yet, except the Mickles; I know them because I went to their house when I spent a week here with Uncle Edward before Christmas, but I did not see you then. Father will like to know who sent him these lovely flowers!"
"I am called Goodwin—Anna Goodwin—Miss Anna Goodwin," the little lady informed them with a slight stress upon the "miss." "I knew Mr. Bailey when he was a boy, and I knew your grandfather too! Well, if you really must go, good-bye! Come and see me again soon."
They promised, and took their departure with their faces wreathed in smiles, whilst Miss Goodwin watched them out of sight, and then returned to her gardening. When they passed Myrtle Villa on their way back to Haresdown House, after having executed their errands in the town, the quaint little figure of the gardener had disappeared.
So far Angel had kept possession of the flowers, occasionally lifting them to her face to enjoy their fragrance; but as they commenced the ascent of Haresdown Hill, Gerald said—
"I say, Angel, I think it's about time I had a turn at carrying those flowers. You've had them all the way!"
"I didn't know you wanted to carry them," Angel responded quickly, as she willingly delivered them up to her brother.
He had had no desire to do so, but it had suddenly occurred to him that he would like to be the one to present the bouquet to their father; and in his eagerness to be the first to reach home, he got a few steps in advance of his sister.
"Wait for me, Gerald!" she cried. "How fast you are going!"
She was rather breathless, for she was unaccustomed to walking much, and the hill tried her. But Gerald, instead of waiting, only laughed, and hastened on ahead. They were now within sight of Haresdown House, which, situated on the slope of the hill, was bathed in sunshine; and with new blinds and curtained windows presented a very different appearance to that it had done when Angel had first seen it four months previously.
Suddenly Gerald commenced to run, and before Angel had reached the garden gate, he had disappeared under the porch into the house. She thought it was rather unkind of him to leave her, and tears rose to her eyes because she had so much wanted to witness her father's look when he caught sight of the nosegay, and now she would be too late for that; but the next moment she told herself how very foolish she must be, for Gerald could not have thought she would be disappointed.
She entered the house very soberly, and turned immediately into the dining-room, a long, low apartment, in which were two windows reaching to the ground. Mr. Willis lay on a sofa close to one of the windows, through which the sun was streaming and Gerald had already given him the flowers.
"Come here, Angel," Mr. Willis said as his little daughter appeared, "and tell me what good fairy sent me these. Gerald says they are a present from a lady!"
"So they are," Angel replied, her face brightening as she met her father's smiling gaze. "Are they not beautiful?"
"Most beautiful! And freshly gathered, I see. Then the scent—how fragrant! Wall-flowers! Hyacinths! Anemones! Scarlet japonica! How marvellously well the colours blend! And daffodils too!"
"That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty."
"Surely you must have met with some very kind-hearted person to get all these!"
"Oh, father, I wish you could have seen her, she was so funny!" Gerald exclaimed, laughing merrily at the remembrance of Miss Goodwin's quaint figure. "Such a queer little woman she looked with an odd, old face, and wearing a short frock, and a big apron!"
"And she has the kindest, bluest eyes I ever saw," Angel cried eagerly; "and a bright, clear voice—like a silver bell! She said we were to come and see her often; and she's going to call on you and Uncle Edward. Her name is Miss Anna Goodwin, and she lives in a dear little house called Myrtle Villa, at the bottom of the hill—we passed it as we drove from the station last night, only, of course, you wouldn't notice it in the dark."
"I am sure she must be a charming old lady," Mr. Willis said earnestly; "but what made her think of sending these flowers to me?" he asked, looking puzzled.
"Oh, because you are an invalid! She seemed to know all about us, and was quite surprised when we told her we did not know what she was called." And Angel repeated almost word for word the conversation they had held with Miss Goodwin.
"Well, I feel most grateful to her," Mr. Willis said, when his little daughter had finished her tale, "and I hope she will keep her word, and come to see me. Now, in what can I arrange my flowers?"
He glanced around the room, which was comfortably and substantially furnished; but there were no vases or jars to be seen. Angel went to the kitchen, and explained their need to the housekeeper, Mrs. Vallance, who told her to look into the china cupboard, and take whatever she wanted. Accordingly, she selected a big blue bowl, finding nothing more suitable, and returned with it to the dining-room. Mr. Willis declared it was just the thing he required, and when he had arranged the flowers in it to his satisfaction, had it placed on a small table close by the side of his sofa.
The children were delighted to see how much brighter their father was looking; his voice was more cheerful, and he spoke hopefully of a speedy recovery.
When Mr. Bailey came in from the back garden, where he had been giving directions to a gardener the story of Angel and Gerald's interview with Miss Goodwin had to be told again.
"Goodwin—Goodwin," he repeated thoughtfully, "why, of course I remember there was a Miss Goodwin in Wreyford! Is it possible she is still alive? She must be a great age!"
"She said she used to know you, and grandfather too," Gerald said; "and I should think she is awfully old, her face is covered with wrinkles, and her hair is perfectly white."
"Then I dare say it is the same Miss Goodwin. Where does she live? At Myrtle Villa? Of course I ought to have remembered! To think that she should be still alive!" And Mr. Bailey looked quite excited.
"She must be a dear old soul, I am sure!" Mr. Willis exclaimed. "I only hope she did not rob her garden of all its flowers!"
"Oh no, there were plenty left," Angel assured him; "you could hardly see where those were gathered. And she seemed so pleased to cut them for you."
"I wish she knew what pleasure they are giving me; I must tell her if she calls. I feel as if I have made a friend in Wreyford, though I have never met her yet." And the smile which lit up Mr. Willis' face as he spoke was full of gratification.
Angel met her uncle's eyes saw that he too had noticed how much brighter the invalid was looking; but neither realized how much the little old maid's spontaneous act of kindness had to do with his better spirits; perhaps he did not realize it himself, although his eyes constantly wandered to the flowers in their fresh, spring beauty, and he repeated many times ere the day was done, "It was very good of her to send them to me."
THE Wreyford Grammar School stood in the main street of the town. It was a substantial grey stone building, with a large playground at the back, which, on a certain April morning, presented a decidedly uproarious scene, some sixty boys of all sizes and ages being assembled there, talking, shouting, and laughing at the top of their voices. Some of the boys were boarders, but the majority was comprised of day pupils, who represented not only the leading families of the town, but the small traders and farmers of the surrounding districts as well, for the Wreyford Grammar School was open to all whose parents could pay the very moderate fees demanded.
The boys had just been dismissed for the Easter holidays; and presently a door in the wall leading into a lane at the back of Fore Street was opened, and they began gradually to disperse through that exit. Almost the first to leave was Gilbert Mickle: No one attempted to speak to him as he passed through the crowd of boys except his brother, who was talking to a group composed of his boon companions, and shouted to him to ask if he was going home already.
"Yes," answered Gilbert sourly; "I don't want to remain here in this hubbub."
"All right!" was the cheerful response. "Don't wait for me; I'm not coming yet."
Gilbert turned away, conscious that Tom's friends were whispering about him; he did not suppose their remarks were very flattering, and a dull angry flush rose to his face, whilst the ill-tempered lines between his brows deepened as he hurried between the knots of boys, and at last found himself in the lane. He moved more slowly then, and reflected bitterly on the scene he had left. Not one of his school-fellows had so much as wished him enjoyable holidays, he was thinking, when the sound of quick footsteps behind him made him glance around.
"I say, Mickle," said a hearty, jovial voice, "I'm awfully glad you've won the form-prize as I haven't. I thought all along you would, although I tried hard to get it myself. But I was fairly beaten. I'd rather be licked by you than any of the other fellows."
Gilbert looked at the speaker—Richard Higgs, the son of a bookseller and stationer in Wreyford, and his chief rival at school—and made no reply. Higgs was a tall, wiry youth with a crop of orange-coloured hair surmounting a round, freckled face, out of which a pair of honest green eyes smiled good-naturedly at his school-fellow.
"I hope you'll have a jolly fine time these holidays," he proceeded; "I mean to."
"Thank you," Gilbert responded, speaking more graciously than usual; "it's awfully good of you to speak so—so generously about the form-prize, for I know you worked very hard to win it."
At that moment several other boys overtook them; and, with a nod to Higgs, Gilbert turned away and proceeded alone. Presently he came to the end of the lane, and passed through a narrow opening between two houses into the main street. He had intended going straight home; but reflecting that there was still an hour before dinner-time, he took the opposite direction, and had soon left the town and reached the old stone bridge which crossed the Wrey.
It was a beautiful day; the river sparkled like silver in the sunshine, whilst the meadows stretching on either side of the water were yellow with cowslips. Gilbert leaned over the bridge, and gazed into the shadows beneath, watching the small fish which darted hither and thither as though at play. A red-breasted stickleback aroused his interest by turning viciously upon its companions every now and then with wide open mouth, making them flee out of its way at a great rate, as though for their lives. Approaching footsteps caused him to glance up presently, when he saw the figure of a man coming towards him slowly, from the direction of the town—a stranger; he was clad in a thick overcoat although the weather was warm. When he reached the bridge he sat down on one of its low stone walls as if glad to rest awhile, and then Gilbert noticed he looked as though he had been ill, and knew he must be Mr. Willis. The lame boy had never seen the artist before, although Haresdown House had now been inhabited three weeks, and Tom had been there several times, having set up a friendship with Gerald Willis, who had been introduced to him, in the town one day, by Mr. Bailey. Mr. and Mrs. Mickle had called on the newcomers, and Dinah and Dora had renewed their acquaintance with Angel; but hitherto Gilbert had avoided Haresdown House and its inmates; he hated strangers, and would have certainly moved quickly away on this occasion if his curiosity had not prompted him to linger.
He glanced at Mr. Willis furtively from under his sullen brows for a few seconds, and saw that the artist looked much younger than he had pictured him; then, seizing his crutches, prepared to move.
"I hope I have not disturbed you," said Mr. Willis, smiling; "you are Gilbert Mickle, are you not?"
"Yes," the boy answered shortly.
"Then I think you and I ought to know each other," Mr. Willis remarked cordially, holding out his hand; "I believe I have met all the other members of your family. My name is John Willis."
"I thought so," Gilbert exclaimed. He could not refuse to grasp the extended hand, though his one idea was to get away as soon as possible. "I hope you are better?" he inquired awkwardly.
"Oh, much better, thank you. Are you in a hurry? Will you not sit down and talk to me for a bit?"
"Well—if you like."
It was scarcely a gracious answer. Gilbert seated himself a few steps away from his companion, and rested his crutches by his side; his self-consciousness made him nervous, so that he clumsily allowed one crutch to slip, and crimsoned with vexation as he stooped to pick it up.
"I can't go far without my props," he said, with the bitter intonation in his voice which it always pained his mother to hear.
"So I understand," Mr. Willis replied in matter-of-fact tones. Being a tactful man and a keen judge of character, he deemed it best not to enlarge upon the other's lameness, or show the sympathy he felt; but calmly changed the conversation by saying, "I have now come from the town, and whilst I was making a few purchases from Mr. Higgs, the stationer, asked him some questions about the Grammar School—I mean, my boy to go there after Easter—and he told me you and his son have been rivals this term."
"Yes. Higgs and I both wanted to win the form-prize."
"And you won it, I understand! I congratulate you."
"Thank you. I thought Higgs would be mad—I know I should have been in his place—but he wasn't a bit. He spoke to me about it after the school had broken up this morning; said he'd rather be licked by me than by any of the other fellows, and I really believe he meant what he said."
"He has evidently learnt how to take a defeat in the proper spirit. I suppose you are very elated at being the victor?"
"No, I don't think I am. Mother and father are pleased, but I'm not so glad as I thought I should be."
The boy spoke in a depressed tone, as though he took a jaundiced view of things in general.
"Your mother was telling me the other day that you are fond of drawing and painting," Mr. Willis said, after a lengthened pause, during which he had been debating what subject would be likely to interest his young companion.
Gilbert's face brightened as he admitted the truth of his mother's statement.
"I haven't touched a brush for nearly two months myself," Mr. Willis continued, with a faint sigh; "my illness has been a great drawback, but now I am so much better and stronger, I shall soon be at work again: I have chosen a pleasant room at Haresdown House for a studio. You must come and see it."
"I should like to." Gilbert looked greatly pleased. He had heard of the artist's disappointment at not being able to finish his picture in time for exhibition at the Royal Academy that year, and longed to question him about it. "Your little girl told us about the beautiful picture you have been painting," he proceeded hesitatingly. "Did you—did you bring it with you?"
"Yes," Mr. Willis answered. His face saddened for a moment, then brightened again.
"Yes," he repeated more briskly, "I brought it with me—we have no home in London now—and one day I hope to finish it. So Angel told you about it, did she? What did she say? But, there, I won't ask, for I know my little maid has an exalted idea of her father's abilities. Poor child, she has always kept her faith in me. Would you like to see my picture?"
"Oh, indeed I should!" Gilbert cried, a flush of delight rising to his sallow face at the thought.
"Then, you shall; but not to-day. I don't think I shall feel up to much this afternoon. How about to-morrow?"
"I could come then—any time."
"In the afternoon? We shall all be glad to see you."
"Thank you, so much. I will be at Haresdown House about three o'clock. Are you going to walk home?" Gilbert inquired, for his companion looked pale and tired, he thought.
"Oh no! I am going to wait here until my uncle joins me. He has set up a pony-carriage, you know, and will arrive from the town to drive me home. I can't face that hill yet."
"I should think not."
"But I hope to do so very soon. What a pretty place Wreyford is! This bridge is very old, I imagine?"
"Yes; it is one of the old county bridges. Have you seen the church?"
"Only from the distance; I have not been there yet—perhaps I may next Sunday. It is a grand old building, my uncle tells me, and my little girl is simply charmed with the view from the churchyard."
"It is beautiful!" the boy cried. "You can see for miles and miles around from Haresdown Hill—the church is right at the top, you know. And the town looks so pretty in the valley, and the river—" He broke off abruptly, as though rather ashamed of his enthusiasm; and then added briefly, "But you'll see for yourself."
The artist nodded. He had taken a large size notebook from the side pocket of his overcoat, and was glancing through the pages of it.
"I am going to show you a sketch I made a few days ago," he said, smiling. "I wonder if you will be able to recognize the original!" And he handed the book open to Gilbert.
"Oh, I say, how awfully clever of you!" the boy exclaimed. "Oh, what a capital likeness!" With a few strokes of his pencil Mr. Willis had succeeded in depicting Miss Goodwin's little figure in her old-fashioned cloak and poke bonnet, with her waterproof over her arm.
"I am glad you see whom it is intended to represent," Mr. Willis said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "She was our first caller. I made that sketch of her from memory; of course it is a caricature, but not an unkindly one, I hope. She is a dear old soul!"
"Oh yes," Gilbert agreed. "Every one likes Miss Goodwin. This is a very good likeness of her, Mr. Willis—goloshes and all!"
It was wonderful how much better looking the boy's face appeared when he laughed, as he did at that moment. Mr. Willis told him he might look at the other sketches in the book if he liked, and as he turned over the pages, explained their contents to him.
"I wish I could draw like this," Gilbert said earnestly, as he at last closed the book and returned it to its owner. "I should so much like to be an artist; but father wants me to be a lawyer like himself, and—"
He broke off in the midst of the sentence as the sound of wheels was heard, and a pony-carriage driven by Mr. Bailey, drawn by a strong Exmoor pony, appeared in sight from the direction of the town.
"We will continue our conversation to-morrow afternoon," said Mr. Willis pleasantly, as his uncle drove up, and brought the pony to a standstill. "I am afraid I have kept you waiting a long time, John," Mr. Bailey observed apologetically. "I was unexpectedly delayed at several places—How do you do, my lad?" he said, holding out his hand to Gilbert, who reached for his crutches and came forward to shake hands with him.
"I'm quite well, thank you," the boy answered. "What a nice little carriage! And, oh, I say, what a jolly little pony!"
"Yes," Mr. Bailey nodded complacently as his nephew took the seat by his side; "it's a trim turn-out altogether, isn't it? The pony is a rare one to travel, and such a strong, sure-footed little beast. Pixy, he's called. Why haven't you been to see us yet, eh?"
"He is coming to-morrow afternoon," Mr. Willis answered quickly; "I have been arranging it with him."
"That's right! That's right!"
Mr. Bailey gathered up the reins, and Pixy started off at a swift pace. Mr. Willis looked back and waved his hand to Gilbert, who, leaning on his crutches, stood gazing after the pony-carriage.
"That's a cross-grained boy, if I'm not much mistaken," the artist remarked shrewdly, "and a very unhappy one too. He is very different to the other Mickle children—perhaps his affliction has soured him."
"Perhaps so," Mr. Bailey agreed, "but I thought he looked bright enough to-day."
Meanwhile Gilbert had glanced at his watch, and had discovered that it was half-past one o'clock, which was his dinner-time. How the last hour had simply flown! What an interesting companion the artist was. And what good spirits he appeared to be in, considering his recent severe illness, and the disappointment which had attended it. Gilbert felt sure, under similar circumstances, he himself would be in a most depressed condition.
He turned towards the town, still thinking of Mr. Willis. He was glad he had met him, for now he had made his acquaintance he would not mind seeing him again, and although he had really desired to know him, he had dreaded the first interview. As a rule strangers were greatly struck by the boy's lameness, and if they did not remark on it in words, generally showed their sympathy for his affliction in their faces, which only annoyed him, for he strongly resented pity in any form. Certainly Gilbert Mickle's character was a strange one. On his return home he found his family already seated at the dinner-table, and his father, who liked punctuality, reproved him sharply for his tardy appearance. Contrary to his custom on such occasions, Gilbert explained how it was he had been delayed, and told how the time had flown.
"Old Gilbert's in a rare good temper," whispered Tom to Dinah, for he was an adept at reading his brother's countenance, "you can see that by his face; I hope he means to keep in the same humour during the holidays. I expect he's more pleased at having won his form-prize than he pretends!"
"ANGEL, I want to speak to you!"
Angel, who was engaged in industriously weeding a corner of the back garden which her uncle had allotted to her as her own, turned her face towards her brother, and paused in her work as she asked—
"Well, Gerald, what is it?"
Both children had greatly improved in appearance since their arrival at Wreyford, Angel more noticeably so; already her cheeks were rounder, and their old pallor was giving place to a ruddier, healthier hue.
"What is it?" she repeated, as Gerald did not immediately reply. "I'm listening. But, be quick, and tell me what you want, for I'm very busy; Miss Goodwin is going to give me some flower seeds, and I must get the ground ready for them, because Uncle Edward says it's high time they were tilled."
"I want to know if you can lend me some money, Angel?"
"Why, what have you done with the sixpence father gave you yesterday?" she cried in surprise.
"Spent it, of course! It doesn't take long to spend sixpence!" he exclaimed irritably.
"No; but don't you remember father said he should give you no more this week?"
"I know, I know! That's why I want you to lend me some."
"I really can't. I'm very sorry, Gerald, but—"
"Oh, how selfish of you!" Gerald interrupted, his eyes flashing indignation upon his sister. "I had no idea you could be so stingy. Do you really mean to say you won't lend me some money?"
"I can't, I can't, indeed!" Angel cried distressfully. "I would if I could; but I haven't got any. Not a penny!"
Gerald looked incredulous for a minute, then he said—
"What have you done with it all? There was that half-crown Uncle Edward gave you the day after we arrived here—you can't have spent all that?"
"He gave you half-a-crown at the same time, and yours was gone a fortnight ago," Angel reminded her brother; "and you've had money from father besides, and I haven't."
"Well, you needn't be cross! Of course boys want more money than girls," Gerald declared in a lordly tone. "Are you sure you can't lend me just a few pence?" he asked persuasively.
"Quite sure. Do you think I would tell you a story about it?" she demanded, her grey eyes flashing indignantly.
"No, no," Gerald responded hastily; "I was only surprised to think you had spent all your money."
"I don't see why you should be. Let me see," said Angel reflectively, "I bought some notepaper with bunches of violets on each sheet because I wanted to write to Mrs. Steer, and I thought she would be sure to like my letter better if it was written on pretty paper—that was a shilling. Then, the little jar for flowers I gave to father for his studio cost another shilling—that's two shillings. And threepence I spent in sweets one day when I was in the town with Dinah and Dora Mickle—that's two shillings and threepence. And—"
"Oh, I don't want to know how you spent it all!" Gerald interposed impatiently; "since it's all gone, it's no matter."
Angel proceeded with her weeding, her brother watching her with rather a dissatisfied expression on his handsome face. Presently he reopened the conversation—
"Angel, couldn't you ask father to change his mind, and let me have a little money?"
"Oh no, no, I couldn't," she answered hastily.
"Oh, you might. He always does what you ask him—" this in coaxing tones. "Don't be disagreeable, Angel."
"I don't mean to be disagreeable," the little girl said, looking troubled, for she rarely refused any request of her brother's, and it distressed her to do so now, "but I can't ask father for money when he hasn't earned any for months. I'm sure he hasn't much to spare."
"What a nuisance! Well, then, how would it be if you asked Uncle Edward instead?"
"Gerald!" Angel exclaimed, looking positively shocked at the idea. "You really can't mean it."
"Why not? I believe Uncle Edward has plenty of money; I'm sure he'd willingly give me a shilling or two if you asked him. He's awfully fond of you, he is indeed."
"Oh, I couldn't ask him. Think of all he has done for us; how he managed and paid for everything when father was ill, and how he has brought us to this beautiful place. Oh, I couldn't ask him for money! How can you suggest it? It would be dreadful. It would seem so greedy after all his kindness."
Angel spoke so emphatically that her brother saw it was useless to argue the matter. He stood with his hands thrust into his trousers' pockets, kicking the small pebbles in the path, his face a picture of discontent. He considered his sister very unkind and disobliging; but he had no intention of putting his petition to his uncle himself.
"Never mind," Angel said consolingly after a few minutes' silence, during which she had reflected that probably Gerald did not mean to be greedy, "you will have your usual pocket-money from father on Monday. It will not be long to wait till then. What are you going to put in your garden?" she inquired, with the laudable desire of changing the conversation to a pleasanter subject.
"I don't know that I shall till it up at all. I don't much care for gardening—it's too much work."
"But I thought you told Uncle Edward you wanted a piece of ground for yourself?"
"I've changed my mind. I don't care about it now."
Gerald was evidently in a bad temper, recognizing which fact, Angel wisely held her peace, and continued her work in silence.
"It's a nuisance father has asked Gilbert Mickle here this afternoon," said the boy presently in a grumbling tone. "I don't like him a bit, do you?"
"I—I hardly know," Angel responded, with some hesitation. "I am very sorry for him because he's lame, and I'm afraid he isn't very happy. I think he looks so sad."
"He looks awfully bad-tempered. Tom says the best way is to take no notice of him if he's snappy. Oh, Tom didn't say anything against him, only that when Gilbert's in a temper it's better not to answer him back because he's so sharp, you're sure to get the worst of it. Tom thinks a good bit of Gilbert, really—says he's most awfully clever! I don't believe he'd hear a word against him. I wish Tom was coming this afternoon too."
But when Gilbert appeared, punctually at three o'clock, he was alone. He found Mr. Bailey leaning over the front gate; and Mr. Willis was walking up and down in front of the house, in the sunshine, with his little daughter. The lame boy was greeted very cordially, and made to feel welcome. He was shy at first, but when he was taken into the studio and shown some of the artist's work, he lost all feeling of self-consciousness and talked without restraint.
"Where is Gerald?" Mr. Willis asked suddenly, turning to Angel, who was herself wondering what had become of her brother.
"I don't know, father," she answered; "I have not seen him since dinner. I think he went out, but I am not sure."
"Perhaps he is in the house, and does not know our visitor has arrived," Mr. Bailey suggested; "he may be in his own room."
"I will go and see if I can find him," Angel said, seeing annoyance in her father's face, and rightly guessing that he was vexed at Gerald's absence.
But although she searched upstairs and downstairs, in the stable and outhouses, and even in the orchard beyond the back garden, Gerald was not to be found; and she was reluctantly obliged to return to the studio, and confess that he was not on the premises. Mr. Willis made no comment, but his face expressed his displeasure; he was showing his unfinished picture to his guest, who was standing before it with flushed cheeks and eyes glowing with enthusiasm.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Angel said softly. "Do you like it?"
"Like it!" the boy echoed; "I can't say how much I admire it. It is indeed beautiful! How sorry you must have been to have been obliged to put it on one side," he remarked, turning to Mr. Willis.
"Yes," the artist acknowledged, "but I have no doubt now it was for the best, though when I was first taken ill the thought of my unfinished picture was my one great trouble, for I meant it to do so much."
"But you will finish it some day," Gilbert said eagerly. "Is there a lot more to be done to it?"
"No, mostly finishing touches; but those I shall not attempt to put until I am quite well, lest I should spoil the whole."
The afternoon passed very pleasantly and swiftly, so that Gilbert was astonished when Polly, the rosy-cheeked maid who assisted the housekeeper, came knocking at the studio door to inform her master that tea was ready in the dining-room.
"Oh, how long I have stayed!" the boy cried apologetically, as he hastily seized his crutches. "I must have been here hours."
"Only two hours," Mr. Bailey said, with his hearty laugh, adding hospitably, "You must remain one longer and have some tea with us. Oh, you must; we shall not like it, I assure you, if you persist in leaving." And he laid his big, kindly hand persuasively on Gilbert's shoulder.
Gilbert yielded willingly enough, and followed his host into the dining-room, whilst Mr. Willis drew Angel aside, and questioned her about her brother. "I really don't know where he is, father," she said in uneasy tones, "but I fancy he may have gone away this afternoon because he knew Gilbert Mickle was coming, and he doesn't like him."
"If so, it is extremely rude of him," Mr. Willis replied; "he ought to have been at home to help entertain our visitor."
"Yes," Angel acknowledged; "I am so sorry, father."
"Well, my dear, it is not your fault, so you need not look so serious about it."
They had nearly finished tea when Gerald marched into the room, looking perfectly unconcerned. The minute he saw the visitor, however, his countenance changed, for it had not occurred to him that Gilbert would remain so long.
"Where have you been all the afternoon?" Mr. Willis inquired sharply.
"I've been fishing, father."
"Alone?"
"Yes," the boy responded, adding, after a moment's hesitation, "that is, part of the time."
"Sit down and have your tea now," Mr. Bailey interposed; "I dare say you are hungry."
No further questions were asked Gerald for the present, but the boy saw his father was annoyed with him. Later, when Mr. Bailey volunteered to walk part way home with Gilbert, Mr. Willis would not permit Gerald to accompany them. Angel went with them as far as the garden gate, and watched them down the hill; and on returning to the dining-room, she found her father had been taking Gerald to task for his rudeness in absenting himself from home that afternoon, and Gerald was trying to find excuses for his behaviour.
"I don't like Gilbert Mickle," he was saying as Angel entered the room; "I don't suppose he wanted to see me; he scarcely ever has anything to say to me."
"Perhaps you scarcely ever have anything to say to him," Mr. Willis replied gravely; "but that has nothing to do with the matter. I consider your behaviour this afternoon both rude and selfish—particularly selfish. Where did you go fishing? In the river, I suppose?"
"Yes," Gerald answered sulkily. "Uncle Edward told me not to fish in the clay pits, so, of course, I didn't."
Mr. Bailey had presented him with a fishing-rod a few days previously, since when he had spent many hours with Tom Mickle, fishing in the Wrey, with no very encouraging results as yet. The clay pits to which he alluded were old disused mines which had not been worked for many years, the supply of clay having failed; they were very deep, and full of stagnant water, where such fish as roach and dace bred, and supplied sport for the boys of the neighbourhood who were not content with fishing in the river.
That afternoon, being alone, Gerald had soon grown tired of fishing, especially as the fish declined to bite, so he had put aside his rod, and idly wandered along the bank of the stream till he had met a boy with whom he had entered into conversation. His new acquaintance had informed him that his name was Reginald Hope, and that his father was a doctor in Wreyford, and that he himself attended the Wreyford Grammar School; after which they had grown quite friendly, and had spent a very enjoyable time together. This Gerald told frankly enough; but he refrained from telling what the chief part of his conversation with Reginald Hope had been about, for he had a very shrewd suspicion that his father would not approve of it. The fact was, his new acquaintance had rather amazed him by talking a great deal of betting, and boasting of the money he had won by that means; and though Gerald had considered him a fine, manly fellow whilst he had been talking to him, and had admired his free-and-easy mode of speech, yet now he was away from the glamour of his presence he was doubtful if Reginald Hope was the sort of boy his father would like him to be on very friendly terms with.
"I am sorry you think I behaved so rudely this afternoon," Gerald said presently, as he began to realize that Mr. Willis had just cause for his displeasure; "I—I suppose it was not polite to go away like that."
"That it certainly was not; but I think more of your selfishness. I wish you would try to consider others sometimes."
Mr. Willis spoke reprovingly, though with a softer tone in his voice now, as he noticed his son was really beginning to look repentant and ashamed of himself.
"I don't mean to be selfish," Gerald said in a low tone. "Shall I apologize to Gilbert Mickle?" he suggested doubtfully.
Mr. Willis shook his head, much to Gerald's relief. Angel began to give her brother an account of the lame boy's visit; but he did not appear much interested, not even when she told him how much Gilbert had admired their father's picture.
"And Gilbert draws himself," she informed him; "he is going to let father see some of his sketches, and father has promised to say what he really thinks of them."
"Tom says Gilbert's always drawing up in the attic," Gerald replied, "but he won't show any of them what he's doing. He's an awfully close sort of fellow. Tom thinks he's afraid of being laughed at."
"Perhaps Tom doesn't spare his brother's feelings," Mr. Willis remarked; "it strikes me that Gilbert is a very sensitive boy, and no doubt cannot stand ridicule. Poor lad! His is a sad affliction."
"It must be terrible to be lame," Gerald exclaimed. "But perhaps as he's always been like that he doesn't mind so much."
"I should say that is very doubtful," Mr. Willis said, with a grave shake of his head. "I think he minds greatly, and has not learnt yet that God generally compensates those He afflicts. I don't think he appreciates the bright mental qualities with which he is evidently endowed. He appears to me a very clever boy, and shrewd beyond his years. I am told he is one of the shining lights at the Grammar School."
"Yes, but the boys hate him!" Gerald cried.
"How do you know that, Gerald?"
"Oh, that fellow I met this afternoon told me so. He says Gilbert Mickle's temper is as crooked as his legs."
"What an unkind thing to say—" Angel was beginning when she suddenly paused, as the remembrance of the way in which the lame boy had behaved to her on their first acquaintance crossed her mind, and she had to admit to herself that there was certainly some truth in the speech.
When Mr. Bailey returned, he refrained from mentioning the subject of Gerald's absence from home that afternoon, much to that young gentleman's relief; he informed them he had parted from Gilbert at the bottom of the hill, and went on to say—
"He thanked me most gratefully for accompanying him so far, and I asked him to come and see us as often as he liked. He is going to bring some of his drawings to show you, John, the next time he pays us a visit. He appears deeply interested in your work."
Whilst the others continued to talk of Gilbert Mickle, Gerald was busy with his thoughts, which were of his new acquaintance, Reginald Hope. He felt he must see more of him, and hoped it would not be long before they met again. Reginald Hope had boasted that he was never without money in his pocket; and had hinted that perhaps he might, on another occasion, tell Gerald how that came about; and Gerald, as he reflected on his present penniless condition, thought he would much like to know the secret of the other's wealth.
"What are you thinking about so deeply, Gerald?" his father's voice broke in upon his musings.
"Nothing," the boy answered quickly, flushing guiltily as he met Mr. Willis' kind, inquiring eyes; "that is, nothing of any importance."
"I should have thought it was something of importance judging by your face," Mr. Willis returned good-humouredly; "but never mind, my son, your thoughts are your own."
ONE sunshiny afternoon found Angel with Dinah and Dora Mickle gathering cowslips in the meadows which stretched on either side of the Wrey, whilst Gerald and Tom fished in the stream. The little girls all had baskets, which, when they were filled with the golden flowers, they carried to the spot where the boys sat on the bank fishing, and commenced making cowslip bulls under Dinah's directions.
"To think you never saw cowslips growing before you came to Wreyford, Angel!" Dora exclaimed, as, having finished one ball, she threw it into the air, and caught it again and again. "You wouldn't like to go back to live in London now, would you?"
"No," Angel returned, her eyes wandering across the meadows with a great contentment in their grey depths. "What are those lilac flowers called?" she inquired.
"Oh, those are cuckoo-flowers," Dora answered. "We call them cuckoo-flowers because they begin to open about the time the cuckoo comes," Dinah explained; "some people call them 'ladies smocks,' but they are really a sort of cress, and always grow in rather damp ground."
"What a lot you know about flowers," Angel said. "I suppose that is because you have lived in the country all your life."
"I don't know so much about flowers as Gilbert does; he remembers their botanical names, and understands how to classify them. He would tell you the cuckoo-flower is a species of cardamine. By the way, have you heard the cuckoo this year yet?"
"Yes, when I was in the garden with father yesterday. I could not think what it was at first. I thought it must be one boy calling to another," Angel confessed, colouring slightly.
"Oh, you silly thing!" cried Tom, looking over his shoulder at the little girls who were seated on the ground a few yards behind Gerald and himself. "What an ignoramus you must be!"
Gerald joined in the laugh against his sister, though he was conscious that he might have made the same mistake himself, knowing as little as she did of the sights and sounds familiar to country folks.
"I know it was silly of me," Angel acknowledged, good-temperedly smiling, for she was beginning to understand that Tom Mickle never meant his out-spoken remarks in an unkindly spirit; "father and Uncle Edward both laughed at me, and no wonder."
"But if you had never heard the cuckoo before you could not be expected to know what it was," said Dinah in her matter-of-fact way. "Everything in the country must seem strange to you, and to Gerald too."
"Oh, Angel," broke in Dora, "there's a robin's nest with three young ones in it in our back garden! I had nearly forgotten to tell you. Gilbert found it yesterday; it is in a hole in the hedge close to the river—such a snug little home, made of moss and lined with horse hairs. You shall see it for yourself."
"Where did the robin get the horse hairs?" inquired Angel wonderingly.
"Picked them up, of course," Tom replied, with a laugh.
"Are you going to take the young ones?" Gerald asked.
"Take the young ones!" Dora echoed in horrified tones, whilst her sister turned a pair of reproachful eyes upon Gerald. "I should think not indeed. We wouldn't do anything so cruel. I don't know what Gilbert would do to any one who touched the nest, or the young ones either!"
"Gerald didn't mean it," Tom broke in hastily. "Every one knows robins won't live in captivity."
Gerald had not known it, but he wisely held his peace, for he had had visions of rearing the young birds in a cage, and he now saw such a suggestion would not meet with the approval of his companions.
"I should so much like to see the nest," Angel said, "and I wouldn't touch it. Robins are such dear little birds! There was one that used to come to our sitting-room window in London, and pick up crumbs from the window-sill. He used to arrive regularly at breakfast-time—didn't he, Gerald?"
Gerald nodded. Dora was still looking at him disapprovingly; she could not imagine how any one could want to rob a nest, for in her eyes a bird's home was sacred; she thought Gerald must be a very cruel boy, but there she was wrong, for he was only thoughtless, and had no idea of inflicting pain. Dora was very tender-hearted, so much so indeed that if her family heard a sad story it was always— "Don't tell Dora!" And her mother sometimes wondered how the sensitive little girl would fight the battle of life in the years to come.
Soon several cowslip balls had been made, and the boys being weary of fishing, some one suggested a game of "Hunt the Hare" for a change. Tom was the first hare, and a fine run he gave the hounds across the meadows, over hedges and ditches, until it seemed he never would be caught. The Mickle children, accustomed to healthy, out-door exercise, were fleet of foot, but Gerald managed to keep pace with Dinah and Dora; Angel, however, soon grew breathless, and fell behind the others, who pressed hotly upon their quarry, leaving her behind. She followed, at a slower rate, in the direction they had taken, until, after climbing a hedge, she found herself in a narrow lane, and sank, crimson and panting, upon a mossy bank, incapable of proceeding further for the present. When Angel had somewhat regained her breath, she glanced around, and saw that no one was in sight, neither could she hear the sound of her late companions' voices, so she decided to wait where she was for a while, and rest a bit. It was cool and pleasant; the hedgerows were bursting into leaf, and the beech trees on either side of the road, meeting overhead, were tipped with foliage of the tenderest green, whilst fronds of ferns were pushing their way through the rich mouldy soil amidst a carpet of luxuriant moss. Angel heaved a sigh of perfect contentment. How happy she was! She felt at that moment as though she had not a trouble in the world. Her father was daily gaining health and strength; there were no worrying unpaid bills to weigh upon her mind; Uncle Edward was kindness itself, and she was growing to love her new home; and lastly, she thought how she was to go to the school which Dinah and Dora Mickle attended the coming term. Her life was to be a lonely one no longer, and she was to have the same advantages as her brother. How pleased her mother would be if she knew. The tears rushed to her eyes, gushed forth, and ran unheeded down her cheeks as she recalled the tones of her dead mother's voice, and pictured the dear face she had loved so well.
Angel was so engrossed with her thoughts that she never noticed some one approaching, till a peculiar tap-tap broke upon her ears, and looking up hastily she perceived Gilbert Mickle swinging himself along on his crutches.
"Good afternoon," he said, as he came in a line with the little girl.
"Good afternoon," she answered.
He paused, and looked at her inquisitively, noticing the tell-tale tears upon her flushed cheeks and her quivering lips. The thought entered his mind that the boys had been teasing her, for he knew his sisters and Tom had gone to join her and her brother in the meadows.
"You've been crying," he remarked, frowning till his heavy brows nearly met.
"Yes," she acknowledged truthfully, glancing up rather shyly into his handsome, ill-tempered face. She could not tell that he was feeling sympathetic towards her. "It was very silly of me," she added, "but I couldn't help it."
"The boys have been teasing you, I suppose? You shouldn't take any notice of them. Tom's never happy without he's humbugging some one, and I dare say your brother is as bad!"
"Oh no!" she exclaimed, realizing he meant his advice kindly. "I've been having a lovely time picking cowslips, and we've been playing 'Hunt the Hare.' I got left behind, and—"
"Is that why you've been crying?" he inquired in accents of contempt.
"Oh no, no! It was—I was thinking how happy I was, and wishing my mother knew, and then—she is dead, you know."
She paused, having become somewhat incoherent. Her companion made no response, though he thought he was beginning to comprehend the situation.
"I don't suppose you can understand," she proceeded, "because your mother is living—"
"Oh yes, I can," he interrupted. "I expect it makes you unhappy when you think of your mother, and that's why you cried?"
"No, not because I'm unhappy, but because I miss her so. Sometimes when I'm happiest I miss her most."
"Well, I wouldn't cry any more if I were you," he counselled, looking puzzled at her reply. A slightly sarcastic smile crept over his face as he continued, "Why should you cry if you are not unhappy? But, there, I suppose being a girl you can't help piping your eye. Girls are all the same."
Angel made no response to this, for though she was indignant, she thought it better not to enter into an argument with Gilbert. She felt annoyed that he should have caught her in tears; but she was greatly surprised when his next remark showed how plainly he read what was passing through her mind.
"I say," he said, "you're vexed I came along just now, aren't you? You need not mind. I shan't tell the others you've been blubbering. You were very fond of your mother, eh?"
"Oh yes! You're fond of your mother, aren't you?"
He nodded, his face softening into a smile. Then he asked if she meant to follow the others, and receiving a reply in the negative, inquired if she knew her way home.
"No," Angel returned, "but I think I know my way back to the meadow where we picked the cowslips; I must go back to get my basket, and for certain the others will return there too."
"I may as well go with you. Oh, I can climb a hedge!" he told her as he noticed her dubious look; "if my legs are not up to much, my crutches are strong, and I know how to use them to some purpose, I can tell you."
She was surprised with what dexterity he managed to swing himself up the hedge, and drop off it on to the other side. She followed with far less agility.
"Can I assist you?" he asked sarcastically as he watched her slow, cautious movements; "you are not such a good climber as I am, after all!"
Angel laughingly declined his help, and scrambled over the hedge as best she could, after which they crossed the meadow, got over another hedge, and so on until they neared the river's side. Every now and again they paused to listen for the others' voices, but no sounds were to be heard except the cooing of wood-pigeons and the lowing of cattle in distant fields. Angel made a nosegay of buttercups and cuckoo-flowers, whilst her companion watched her in silence.
"Are you fond of flowers?" she asked presently. "I suppose you must be, as Dinah says you know a lot about them."
"I like them," he said, "but I don't care about gathering them; I prefer to see them growing. When people pick flowers they mix them together regardless of their colours; but when you see them growing, the colours are sure to blend properly. Look at those buttercups and cuckoo-flowers springing up side by side in the grass—yellow and pale lilac—there's nothing to offend one's taste there. Nature doesn't make a mistake."
"It is all so beautiful!" Angel exclaimed, her appreciative eyes wandering over the fair landscape. "Do you know what I overheard Miss Goodwin say to father the other day? They had been talking of the pretty places about Wreyford, and Miss Goodwin said: 'Beauty of any description always makes me understand God's love.' I think I know what she meant, don't you?"
"Yes," he answered briefly.
They had now reached the spot where the boys' fishing rods and the baskets full of cowslips lay, in safety, on the river's bank; evidently no one had been there during the children's absence. A few minutes later Tom's voice was heard at no great distance, shouting lustily. The hare had outwitted the hounds, and was returning triumphantly to the starting-point.
"Didn't you follow, Angel?" Tom gasped, as he flung himself on the ground to regain his breath.
"Yes," she replied, "but I got behind the others and missed them, then your brother found me, and I thought we'd better wait for you here. I knew you'd return."
"I hope Gilbert has been making himself agreeable," Tom said in his teasing way.
"Oh yes," Angel answered simply; at which Tom laughed heartily, and Gilbert frowned.
"Where have you been all the afternoon, old chap?" the younger brother inquired of the elder.
"For a walk."
"You might as well have come with us; we've had such a jolly time."
"I don't care about gathering flowers, and I like fishing still less," said Gilbert disdainfully.
"In short, you prefer your own sweet company to ours. Oh, I say, old fellow, don't go!" Tom cried hastily, as his brother was moving away. "You're never going off in a huff, are you?"