"I'm not in a huff."
"No?" Tom said questioningly. "Well, then, don't be so much on your dignity. Wait a few minutes, and by-and-by we'll all go home together. Here come the girls. Where is Gerald, I wonder!"
Angel looked around for her brother, but he was nowhere within sight; she concluded he would return presently.
"So you're back," Dinah remarked to Tom. "What a chase we've had after you! We gave you too much start. Oh, there's Angel. We lost her altogether."
"I couldn't keep up," Angel exclaimed. "Is Gerald coming?"
"No; he has gone home."
"Gone home?" echoed a chorus of voices.
"Yes," Dinah nodded. "We followed Tom ever so far, and then, when Gerald found there was no chance of our catching him, he said he shouldn't play any longer, and it wasn't worth while to come all the way back here to fetch his fishing-rod; so he asked me to tell Angel to carry it back to Haresdown House for him."
"I am sure I wouldn't do any such thing!" Gilbert exclaimed. "The idea of his being like that!"
"Oh, I don't mind," Angel interposed hurriedly.
"I wonder you let him order you about like that," Tom cried.
The children gathered their belongings together and started for home, Angel with an uneasy sense that her companions disapproved of her brother's behaviour. She did not attempt to make excuses for him; he had acted as he usually did, and studied himself. On reaching the road which led to the town over the bridge one way, and to Haresdown House the other, Tom declared his intention of accompanying Angel home, and carrying Gerald's rod and her basket of flowers for her. It was in vain for her to protest there was no necessity for him to do so; he was persistent, so she had perforce to say good-bye to the others, and allow Tom to go up the hill with her.
When they arrived at Haresdown House they found Gerald at the front gate watching for his sister's return.
"What, you, Tom!" he cried in accents of surprise.
"Yes, me," Tom responded ungrammatically, as he transferred the fishing-rod and basket into the little girl's hands. "I've brought Angel home because you skulked away and left her," and his blue eyes flashed indignantly as he spoke. "I wouldn't treat either of my sisters so shabbily, nor would Gilbert!"
Gerald looked considerably taken aback, but Tom waited for no reply. Shouting back "good-bye," he turned on his heel and ran off down the hill.
"WHO is going to market with me?" Mr. Bailey inquired as he entered the dining-room at Haresdown House, where Angel and Gerald were holding an animated conversation. "Mrs. Vallance has given me a number of commissions to execute for her, so I shall take the carriage, and bring home my purchases. I thought a drive would do your father good, but it appears he is expecting Gilbert Mickle here this morning. You can both come with me if you like."
"Oh, thank you, Uncle Edward," they replied; but Gerald added, "I promised to meet Reginald Hope this morning; however, that doesn't matter. I would much rather go to market. I can see Hope any day."
"Nevertheless, if you have made an appointment with him you had better keep it," Mr. Bailey said gravely. "I never encourage any one to break his word."
Gerald's face fell. Ten minutes later he watched his sister and uncle drive off in the pony-carriage-with a decidedly envious heart, and stood at the front gate gazing disconsolately down the hill until he saw Gilbert Mickle appear in sight. If the lame boy had not observed him, he would have retreated; but Gilbert, apparently guessing his intention, frustrated it by shouting to him to wait. Now Gerald had a reason of his own for not desiring to encounter Gilbert, and his countenance expressed decided uneasiness as he opened the gate for the other to enter.
"Look here," said Gilbert, fixing a stern, accusing gaze on the younger boy's face, "how dared you interfere with that robin's nest?"
"I didn't!" Gerald cried quickly. "I never touched it!"
Gilbert's eyes flashed ominously, and he restrained his rising anger with an effort as he replied—
"Then you must have meddled with the young ones. I know you must have, though no one saw you. What a young idiot Tom must have been to show you the nest! How dared you touch the birds—you—you meddlesome imp?"
"I didn't do any harm," Gerald said sulkily; "and you've no right to speak to me like that, and call me names. I won't stand it. I suppose you think you can bully me as you like, just because you're older than I am? Besides, I didn't hurt the young birds; I only took them out of the nest to look at them, and I put them back again as gently as possible."
"You killed them!" Gilbert declared indignantly.
"I didn't!" Gerald retorted hotly. "How can you tell such a big lie? I'm not going to stand here and let you talk to me like this. I never hurt the young birds, I tell you, and you're very wicked to say I did. Tom never told you so, I'm sure."
"No, Tom did not see you touch them; but he remembers you went back to look at them again when he was at the other side of the garden. Perhaps you didn't mean to hurt them," Gilbert proceeded, "but you killed them nevertheless. Surely you must know that if birds are taken from their nest they never settle in properly again? This morning, when Dora went to look at the young robins, she found them all dead on the ground, having fallen out of the nest. So you see, indirectly, you did kill them."
Gerald looked really shocked, for he had had no intention of doing harm when his curiosity had prompted him to take the half-fledged birds out of their nursery; he had promised Tom not to touch them, but he had thought it would never be known he had broken his word. He now recalled the anxiety the Mickle children had all evinced that the robins might save their brood, and he was conscious that they would view his conduct very unfavourably.
"I am so sorry," he said in a low voice. "I never meant to hurt them—truly, I did not. I would not have taken them out of the nest if I had known what would happen."
"Tom said you solemnly promised not to touch them."
Gerald made no response, but his crimson face plainly expressed that Tom had spoken the truth.
"What a young storyteller you are!" Gilbert exclaimed contemptuously. "I could understand your interfering with the robins if you had not given your word not to do so, because you did not know the mischief you were doing; but it was so fearfully dishonourable to deliberately break your promise in that way."
Gerald felt bitterly ashamed of himself at that moment, but he considered the lame boy was taking too much upon himself in speaking to him in such scornful, reproving tones.
"I believe your father would be awfully mad with you if he knew how you have behaved," Gilbert proceeded, "and Mr. Bailey too. I—"
"Oh!" Gerald interrupted in an alarmed voice, "you won't tell them, will you? You can't mean to get me into a row! Father would be so angry if he knew. He isn't often angry with me, but when he is put out, he can be awfully stern."
"I won't tell. I'm not a sneak, I hope."
"I am so very sorry I touched the birds," Gerald said earnestly, "I am indeed. Do believe me."
Gilbert looked searchingly at his companion's disturbed countenance, and met a decidedly ashamed look in the bright blue eyes, which assured him that Gerald was, at any rate, now speaking the truth. He hastened to reply—
"I do believe you. No one guessed why the young birds fell out of their nest except Tom and me, and now I know how it was I promise you I will not tell any one but Tom. Dora was awfully upset when she found the young birds dead, and Dinah was sorry too, but they neither of them imagined how it happened, and Tom won't let them know if I persuade him not to. I say, don't meddle with birds' nests again."
"All right, I won't," Gerald answered gratefully. "It's awfully kind of you not to want to get me into a row. You won't tell Angel, will you?"
"No, but the girls are sure to speak to her about the birds. I do wish you hadn't touched them."
"I wish I hadn't."
"Is Mr. Willis in?" Gilbert inquired after a short pause.
"Yes, he's in the studio, expecting you. Shall I tell him you're here?"
"Oh no, thank you. I won't trouble you to go back to the house. I've only brought some of my sketches to show your father; they wouldn't interest you."
The lame boy, sensitive on the subject of his work, had no desire to exhibit it to Gerald. "You were going out, weren't you?" he asked.
"Yes, presently; I'm going to meet Reginald Hope."
"Reginald Hope!" Gilbert echoed in a surprised tone. "I didn't know you knew him. He goes to the Grammar School, and is in my form."
"Then you know him well?" Gerald questioned eagerly. "He's a jolly fellow, isn't he?"
"Humph! I dare say he may be in some people's estimation. I never found him so."
"Don't you like him?"
"No."
"Perhaps he doesn't like you?" Gerald suggested, with a knowing smile.
"Very likely not."
"I wish you'd tell me why you don't like him."
Gilbert looked at his companion, and hesitated a moment before replying—
"I don't know why I should give you my reasons for disliking Hope. You may go and tell him what I say; but there, I don't care if you do! I dislike and mistrust him because he's not straight."
"Not straight? What do you mean?"
"He is untruthful; he uses bad language; and he bets. Have you seen much of him?"
"No, I have only met him a few times. I liked him—rather."
"I wouldn't have much to do with him if I were you. I don't think he's the sort of fellow your father would like. I shouldn't care for Tom to be very friendly with him. I don't call him a gentleman."
"His father is a doctor, isn't he?"
"Yes, and Reginald is his only son. Dr. Hope is very popular in Wreyford, and he's a very good sort of man, but he lets Reginald have his own way in everything."
Gerald would have liked to ask more questions about the boy whose companionship he found so fascinating, but Gilbert moved away towards the house, thus bringing the conversation to an end.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bailey and Angel had reached the market, and were busily engaged in making their purchases. It was an amusement to the little girl to hear the market-women and hucksters gossiping with each other, and she lingered around the stalls, listening to the bargaining going on between vendors and purchasers. Mr. Bailey had bought some poultry, and was turning his attention to dairy produce, when Angel felt a light touch on her arm, and turned to find Dora Mickle at her side.
"I'm with mother," Dora explained; and glancing around Angel saw Mrs. Mickle standing before a stall a few yards distant. "I was looking out for you, Angel, because I have something to tell you."
"What is it?" Angel asked a trifle anxiously, noticing with dismay that Dora's blue eyes were full of unshed tears.
"The young robins are dead."
"Dead! Oh, how dreadful! What killed them?"
"I don't know," Dora replied, shaking her head mournfully; "it couldn't have been a cat or a rat, because then the birds would have been taken away. This morning I went out to have a peep at them, and they had fallen out of the nest, and were lying dead on the ground. The mother was weeping close by. Oh, it made my heart ache to listen to her! Isn't it sad?"
"Yes, indeed it is," Angel agreed, her own eyes slightly moist as she thought of the poor mother-bird's grief. "Oh, I am sorry! Gerald was telling me about the young robins this morning. Tom showed them to him yesterday, you know. They were half-fledged, were they not?"
"Yes, in a few days more they would have flown. Father thinks some one must have interfered with them, but who would do that? Come and speak to mother now."
Mrs. Mickle, having finished her purchases, turned to shake hands with Mr. Bailey and his little niece, remarking as she did so to the former—
"I believe Gilbert has gone to Haresdown House this morning to show some of his sketches to Mr. Willis. It is very kind of your nephew to take an interest in my boy. Gilbert makes so few friends."
"But those he makes he keeps, I expect, does he not?" Mr. Bailey asked. "I thought so," he continued, as she assented with a smile; "his friendship is accordingly worth having. He and my nephew seem to get on together; they have tastes in common, no doubt."
"Although Gilbert has known Mr. Willis so short a while, he has formed a very high opinion of him," Mrs. Mickle said earnestly; "but I hope he will not be too constant a visitor at Haresdown House for I fear your nephew may find his society irksome. Gilbert is not always a very genial companion."
"I defy any one to be ungenial with John!"
Mrs. Mickle laughed. She had found the artist, on the few occasions on which she had met him, most entertaining, and she did not wonder that his sunny disposition, which now that his health was better, asserted itself again, was a great attraction to her elder son.
A short while longer she stood talking to Mr. Bailey, whilst Angel and Dora continued their conversation about the robins, discussing by what means the birds could have met their deaths; and then they all left the market, and Mrs. Mickle and Dora went home, leaving Angel and her uncle to pack their purchases into the pony-carriage preparatory to making a start. Just as they were ready to leave, Miss Goodwin came up, and Mr. Bailey insisted on driving her to Myrtle Villa.
"I accept your kind offer most gladly," the old lady said, as she was assisted into the seat by Mr. Bailey, and Angel took her place opposite, with her back to the pony, "for I find these spring days trying, and my basket is heavy. I always do my own marketing; such has been my custom for—I forget how many years."
She was childishly delighted at the unexpected pleasure of a drive, and chatted gaily as they drove down the main street, enumerating to her companions the various articles her basket contained, and bowing impressively to the few acquaintances they met on the road. She sighed regretfully when, after passing over the bridge, in a few minutes more Myrtle Villa was reached, but brightened perceptibly when Mr. Bailey suggested taking her for a drive on another day.
"Really?" she asked, as having helped her to alight he took his seat again. "Oh, that will be delightful!" and her blue eyes shone with pleasure. "Wait a moment! I must give you some of my lilies of the valley; they are now in full bloom."
She entered her garden, hastened to a sheltered corner shaded by a purple lilac tree, and gathered a great bunch of sweet-scented flowers, which, returning, she laid in Angel's lap, smiling happily as she listened to the little girl's exclamations of admiration and thanks; then Pixy started afresh, whilst the old lady stood in her gateway till the pony-carriage was out of sight.
Arrived at home, Angel hastened to the studio in search of her father, to give him a share of her flowers; she found Gilbert Mickle on the point of leaving, and was surprised at the brightness of his face. The boy was in an unusually happy frame of mind, Mr. Willis having found great merit in his sketches.
"Only think, Angel," Mr. Willis said to his little daughter after Gilbert had gone, "he is quite self-taught. He never took a drawing lesson in his life. He has real talent, and I have been telling him that if his father will permit it, I will gladly give him some lessons; he would be a promising pupil. What are you looking so thoughtful about, my dear?"
"I was thinking what a disappointment it must be to you, father, that I have no talent for drawing," she responded gravely; "you were so pleased with those freehand drawings Gerald did at school."
"Naturally I was. We shall see what you do at school; if you cannot learn to draw, there are plenty of other things you can master, I am sure."
"Oh yes," Angel agreed, her face brightening. "It will be delightful to go to school. Only a week longer to wait. Dinah and Dora Mickle say they will be sorry when the holidays are over, but I shall be so glad. Gerald hasn't returned yet, has he, father?"
"I have not seen him since you left."
When Gerald strolled into the house a half-hour later, he was in a thoughtful mood. He listened inattentively to the account his sister gave him of how she had spent the morning, and offered no confidences in return.
"Wasn't it dreadful about the little birds?" Angel said, after she had repeated Dora's story of the tragedy.
"Oh, bother the birds!" he cried irritably. "What a fuss every one makes about them! First Gilbert, and now you—"
He paused, noticing Angel's look of astonishment. It was not that he was not sorry the birds were dead, but his feeling of guilt made him hate to hear of them. He turned impatiently away, muttering under his breath that girls were too soft-hearted for anything, and Gilbert Mickle was just as bad.
THE first day of his school life at the Wreyford Grammar School was an unusual experience for Gerald Willis. He found himself in the same form as Tom Mickle, and discovered he need have no fears of being beaten by him in his work, for Tom, though a bright, sharp boy, was rather given to idling, and at the present time his mind was far more interested in sports than in his scholastic duties, which it must be confessed he somewhat neglected, and considered of quite secondary importance to football and cricket. It gratified Gerald to find he satisfied the form master as to his knowledge; therefore, he was in a decidedly complacent state of mind when, on the first day of the summer term, he found himself in the playground for the twenty minutes' break' in the middle of the morning. Then it was he discovered how different were many of the boys to those he had had for companions at the private school which he had attended in London. The latter had been all the sons of gentlemen, consequently Gerald was far from pleased when a big lad called Rabjohns, whom he knew to be the son of a Wreyford butcher, caught him by the collar and put him through a catechism as to who he was, what he was called, where he lived, and so on. Gerald felt vastly indignant at being questioned by this youth, and would dearly have liked to have told him to mind his own business, but the other boy was too big and strong to pick a quarrel with, so he wisely answered all his questions, though with no good grace.
"So you live at Haresdown House," said Rabjohns, still grasping him by the collar at arm's length, and surveying him from head to heels. "You're a relation of that old Australian chap, I suppose, who's bought the place? I know him by sight—drives a smart little turn-out, doesn't he, and generally has a little girl with him?"
"Yes—my sister."
"You haven't become chummy with any of the Grammar School boys yet, eh?"
"I know Gilbert and Tom Mickle, and Reginald Hope."
"Oh, the Mickles are well enough," Rabjohns allowed condescendingly; "certainly Gilbert's rather too high and mighty for my taste, but he's a clever chap, and keeps up the standard of the school for learning. Tom's a mischievous monkey, but he's a plucky youngster, and one of our shining lights in the football field. As to Reginald Hope—well, he's not likely to have much to say to a kid like you, and the less the better. There, you can go!" And the big boy gave Gerald a playful shake, dropped his hold of him with a good-tempered laugh.
Gerald was highly indignant. It was insufferable to be so spoken to and treated by the son of the man who supplied his uncle with meat. He wondered if Rabjohns knew that Mr. Bailey was one of his father's customers; he hardly thought it possible he could be aware of the fact. Whilst he was still looking angry and red in the face, he saw Gilbert Mickle at a little distance, leaning on his crutches, watching him with evident amusement. Gerald felt humiliated at the sight of the sarcastic smile on Gilbert's lips, but he could not resist the temptation of speaking to some one he knew, so he strolled up to the lame boy and commenced a conversation.
"I'm in the same form as Tom," he informed Gilbert.
"Are you?" Gilbert said, apparently not interested. "How do you like Rabjohns?" he asked, after a slight pause.
"I don't like him at all. I think he's an impertinent cad."
"Oh no! He's not a bad sort—one of the rough-and-ready kind, you know. He's all right, in his way—though it may not be your way or mine—and so's Higgs. That's Higgs talking to Rabjohns now."
"I see. Who's he?"
"The son of Higgs the stationer."
"Are most of the boys shopkeepers' sons?"
"A great many of them are. This is a public school, and open to any one. You'll soon find your proper level here."
Gerald did not quite understand what his companion meant, but somehow the remark did not please him.
"I advise you to keep in with Rabjohns," Gilbert proceeded carelessly; "he's one of the biggest boys in the school, and it's better for a youngster like you to have him for a friend than not."
Gerald, who had no intention of being on friendly terms with a butcher's son, made no reply. At that moment Reginald Hope passed by, and Gerald called to him eagerly.
"Oh, Hope! Wait a minute!"
But Hope, though he certainly must have heard, elected not to stop, and hurried on without so much as a glance in Gerald's direction, and joined a group of boys about his own age.
"He's like that," Gilbert remarked in what he meant to be a kindly tone, for he was really sorry for his companion's mortification; "he doesn't want you now he's got his old companions. He found it all very well to knock about with you in the holidays when he'd no one else to chum with, but it's different now. Those fellows he's talking to are boarders. If I were you—"
Gerald waited to hear no more; he turned abruptly away, not desirous of listening to unpalatable truths; but after school hours, when he was hurrying down the street on his way home to dinner, Reginald Hope overtook him and walked by his side.
"I say, Willis, I wouldn't stop to talk to you in the playground because I can't stand Gilbert Mickle," Hope said apologetically; "you understand?"
Gerald's face cleared; he felt he had been unjust to his friend. Of course Hope did not like Gilbert. He might have known that was his reason for passing without a word. The lame boy was not a favourite with any one.
"Oh, it's all right!" Gerald answered, thinking that it had been mean of Gilbert to try to put him against Hope. "I don't care for Gilbert Mickle myself; he's so spiteful."
"Was he spiteful about me? Oh, well, you needn't say; I can see by your face he was. But, never mind about him, now. How do you think you will like the Grammar School?"
"I hardly know. I haven't made friends with any of the boys yet. I only know you, and the Mickles. Rabjohns spoke to me."
"Oh, he's nobody! His father's a butcher, you know. If he was a lord, Rabjohns couldn't think more of himself. I say, Willis, how much pocket-money are you to have a week?"
Gerald told him. It was a generous allowance for a boy of his age, for his father had lately raised the amount; but Hope appeared to consider it quite inadequate.
"Is that all?" the latter exclaimed. "Why, I get twice as much, and even on that I should have to be awfully close and mean if I did not increase it. You'll have to do as I do, and stretch your money a bit."
"I wish I could, but I don't know how to do that," Gerald said, laughing.
"Oh, I can easily tell you," the other replied seriously.
Whereupon followed a private and confidential conversation, carried on in low tones, until Gerald suddenly remembered that he must not dawdle any longer if he meant to be at Haresdown House by dinner-time.
"I must go," he declared hurriedly, "or I shall keep dinner waiting, and Uncle Edward hates any one to be unpunctual. I'll see you again after school this afternoon."
"Very well. Think over what I've said, and don't be a fool to your own interests. Good-bye!"
Reginald Hope turned on his heel and retraced his footsteps, whilst Gerald ran off homewards. He soon left the town behind him, and reached the bridge over the Wrey, where he paused a moment to take breath; then hurried on past Miss Goodwin's pretty villa, and up the hill. Angel was waiting for him at the gate to tell how she had fared that morning, for she had been to school for the first time to-day, and was longing to recount her new experiences. But he scarcely listened to her eager tale, and she was in consequence not a little disappointed.
It was the same in the evening, when, her lessons prepared for the following day, she would have been so very glad of a confidant. Gerald, as soon as he had finished his work, which he had done after many grumbles because his sister was no longer allowed to assist him, went out to join Reginald Hope, thus destroying her hopes of a chat with him that night. She saw very little of her brother nowadays, and sometimes it almost seemed to her that he loved her less than he used to. In the old time, in the dingy London lodgings, though he had always domineered over her, he had been generally affectionate and kind; now he was often impatient, and vexed with her when she could not see everything in the same light as he did; and he resented the fact that she did not help him with his lessons, quite unmindful that it was their father who had set his veto against her doing so.
Mr. Willis was in his studio, busy over some illustrations for an order he had received by post that day; and knowing it would not do to disturb him, Angel put on her hat and strolled out to her own patch of garden, where she stood meditatively regarding the plants she had potted out a few days previously. She was thinking of her brother, and wondering why, though he had the same home and advantages as herself and the same reasons for happiness, he was not as contented as she was. He grumbled as much or more now than he had done in their London lodgings. Then he had bewailed their poverty; now, though he had plenty of the blessings of life, he still wished for more. Only that morning he had borrowed money from his sister, as he had been in the habit of doing lately—money which she knew he never meant to return; and whilst he kept her poor, he yet appeared never to have enough for himself. She was certain her father would be greatly displeased if he was aware of this; and at the same time she dreaded his knowing it, and yet realized that he ought to know. But she could not tell tales of Gerald! She had grown up to hide his faults, and make much of his good qualities, not wisely, of course, but with the sincere desire of shielding him from all unpleasantness because he was younger than she was, and the affection she bore him was a deep, protecting love. Besides, she had promised her mother to be good to Gerald, and she was trying to keep her word according to her own idea of what being good to him meant. Presently Mr. Bailey entered the garden, and interrupted her troubled meditation by calling to her to come and see how the apple blossom had opened during the last few days. She followed him into the orchard where the gnarled boughs of the old apple trees, so brown and bare a short while ago, were now one mass of pink and white bloom; and listened with the ready attention which always pleased her uncle whilst he pointed out the different spots where he intended planting new trees in the fall of the year.
"Not but what the old trees will last my time," he told her smilingly, "but one must look ahead, and not live for self alone. Ah, I knew these trees as saplings, for my father planted this orchard, and I've not forgotten the taste of the fruit, or the names of the different apples I used to fancy when I was a boy. Butter-boxes! Quarantines! Barter's beauties! Ah, my dear, your grandfather and I knew the best sorts for eating, and I've no doubt you and Gerald will gain the same knowledge when autumn comes."
She thought it very possible. There was a rustic seat in one corner of the orchard upon which they sat down, whilst he turned the conversation to the subject of school, and inquired how she had done that morning; whereupon she told him that she was not as far behind other girls of her age in general knowledge as she had feared she would be, which happy state of affairs she put down to her having always assisted Gerald with his home lessons.
"I know I shall like it at school," she said earnestly, "and I mean to learn all I can. Dinah Mickle is such a kind girl; she has introduced me to several of her friends, and she has promised to help me about anything I do not understand."
"That is certainly very kind of her," Mr. Mickle agreed; "a helping hand is of great value sometimes. I am glad you like the Mickle children. Do you know it is settled that Gilbert is to take drawing and painting lessons from your father? Mr. Mickle called here this afternoon, and the matter was arranged. Your father wanted to give Gilbert the lessons, but Mr. Mickle objected to that, and insisted on paying, which, as a business man, I think quite right. So the lad is to come every Saturday afternoon for a couple of hours. Do you favour the idea?"
"Oh yes, Uncle Edward, if you and father do. Oh, don't you think father is ever so much better?"
"Yes, thank God! I have an idea it may turn-out that illness of his was for the best after all. It was a sad disappointment about his picture; but when Providence interposes and prevents our carrying out the work we had intended, I think we may rest assured that there's a wiser hand than ours guiding our affairs. What do you say, my dear?"
"I am sure you are right, Uncle Edward. Mother used to talk to me like that, and say we must have faith in God, even when we can't see the reason for what He does."
"And that happens so often, doesn't it, child? But God's sight is clear where ours is dim; and if He denies us something on which we have set our hearts, often it is to give us a greater blessing still. He knows best, that's certain. 'We walk by faith, and not by sight,' you know."
That night, when Angel pulled up her bedroom blind before getting into bed, she uttered an exclamation of delight. Her room was at the back of the house, overlooking the kitchen garden and orchard. The young May moon had arisen, and by its soft light the little girl could see the shadowy old grey church on the hill, and the stretch of green, flower-decked meadows which lay between it and Haresdown House.
"How lovely! oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed. "And, oh, how beautiful the orchard looks! No wonder uncle loves the place so much."
Her heart was full of affection and gratitude towards Mr. Bailey for his goodness to her and those she loved. That her father fully appreciated his generosity and kindness she well knew, but she was not so sure about Gerald. The latter took everything as a matter of course; indeed, since they had come to Wreyford she had had many occasions to notice her brother's selfishness, and had begun to contrast his behaviour to her to the manner in which the Mickle boys treated their sisters—even with Gilbert it was always "girls first." Then she reproached herself for doubting her brother's affection, and jumped into bed with the determination to worry about him no longer. No doubt he was right when he said boys had more need of money than girls; but, nevertheless, she could not blind herself to the fact that Gerald was acquiring the habit of spending beyond his means. The more money he had, the more money he wanted.
THE first few weeks of the summer term passed swiftly and happily for Angel; she became a favourite with governesses and pupils, but still Dinah and Dora Mickle were her chief friends, and she generally spent Saturday afternoons in their company, taking long walks and coming home laden with flowers and ferns.
How beautiful were the shady lanes around Wreyford in those early summer days, when the foliage still retained the freshness of spring. The green corn in the fields was growing apace, honeysuckle and wild roses were bursting into bloom, and the grass in the meadows waved in the breeze, almost ready to be mowed.
Gilbert Mickle was making good progress with his drawing. He looked forward to the afternoons spent in the artist's company as the happiest in the week, and felt sincerely grateful to his father for allowing him to receive the lessons which he so greatly valued. As a rule, only Mr. Willis and Gilbert were in the studio on Saturday afternoons; but if it happened to be wet, sometimes Angel would venture to join them, and sit by the window as quiet as a mouse with her book or work, never uttering a word unless she was spoken to. Mr. Willis and Gilbert often conversed as they worked. Their talk was frequently beyond Angel's understanding, for they would discuss subjects about which the little girl was ignorant; on such occasions Gilbert's face would brighten, and his tongue become fluent, his mantle of reserve would drop from him, and he would appear at his best. He was growing much attached to Mr. Willis, attracted by his genial disposition and his never-failing tact.
One afternoon he was returning from Haresdown House when he encountered Angel at the foot of the hill, and stopped to inquire if she had been with his sisters.
"No," she replied; "they told me they were going shopping with your mother. I've been to deliver a note for Uncle Edward in the town. He asked Gerald to take it; but Gerald wanted to play cricket, and so—"
"But Gerald is not playing cricket," he broke in; "at least, I think not."
"Oh yes," Angel assured him. "He told me he was going to practise bowling at the nets."
Gilbert looked incredulous, for he had his own reasons for doubting this statement, as on his way to Haresdown House that afternoon he had caught sight of Gerald and Reginald Hope, with their fishing rods, walking in the opposite direction to the field where the Grammar School boys played cricket. He had imagined they were bound for the clay pits to fish, as they were going that way.
"What makes you think Gerald is not playing cricket?" Angel asked, a trifle anxiously, after a brief pause, adding, "He wouldn't tell me a story about it. He would have taken Uncle Edward's note himself if he hadn't wanted to play cricket."
"I—I suppose so."
"You suppose so? You don't think he'd tell me a story, do you?"
Gilbert made no answer. Angel looked puzzled and a little hurt.
"Well, good-bye," she said stiffly, casting a reproachful glance at him; "I mustn't stay talking any longer, for it's nearly teatime."
"Good-bye," he answered, and stood leaning on his crutches, gazing after her as she commenced to climb the hill, wondering what could have induced her brother to tell her a deliberate untruth, for that Gerald had done so he was certain in his own mind. He turned towards Wreyford, and, after crossing the bridge, was very soon in the main street. Within sight of his own home he met Gerald Willis himself, and stopped him.
"Hulloa, Willis!" he cried. "What sport, then?"
"What do you mean?" Gerald asked, growing crimson. "I don't understand you."
"Oh, yes, you do! I saw you with you and Hope with your fishing rods, and I perceive from the white clay on your boots where you have been. You've been fishing in the clay pits, haven't you?"
"Y—es," Gerald answered hesitatingly. "Hope has a new aquarium, and he asked me to go with him and catch some fish to put in it—those in the clay pits are just the size and sort he wants. We didn't have much sport this afternoon, though; we shall have to go again."
"What have you done with your rod?" Gilbert questioned curiously.
"Oh, I left it at Hope's house."
"Because you didn't want your sister to see you return with it, I suppose," the other remarked with a slight sneer. "What made you tell her a lie, and say you were going to play cricket?"
"Oh, I say, I wish you'd mind your own business," Gerald cried hotly. "Why need you interfere? It's nothing to do with you. You've no right to say I told a lie."
"But you did!" Gilbert declared in cold accents of disgust.
Gerald's eyes fell beneath the other's accusing glance. For a minute the lame boy hesitated whether to continue the conversation or not; then he said—
"Of course, it's nothing to do with me, really; but it's so—so dishonourable to wilfully mislead any one. Your sister told me you had gone to the cricket-field—I knew you had not. I was—"
"Did you tell her so?" Gerald interrupted in dismay.
"No."
"That's all right, then. It doesn't do to let girls know everything, and Angel's awfully curious."
"Why didn't you tell her the truth? There was no harm in your going fishing."
Gerald was silent He had no intention of acknowledging that the neighbourhood of the clay pits was forbidden ground to him.
"I know Reginald Hope thinks lightly of honour and truthfulness," Gilbert proceeded, "but I'm surprised you should let him influence you. I say, Willis, if I were you I'd knock off being so friendly with him, I would indeed. No good will come of your intercourse with him, I feel sure of that. I believe he has you under his thumb already."
"You mind your own business!" Gerald retorted rudely. "Hope's a great friend of mine, and I'm not going to stand here and listen to you running out against him. You're jealous of him, that's what you are, because he's so much more popular at school than you are yourself."
The passionate colour flamed to Gilbert's face, but he calmed his temper with an effort as he responded with unusual gentleness and forbearance—
"You're making a mistake, Willis, and you'll find it out some day."
Gerald uttered a wrathful ejaculation, and turning on his heel walked off with his head held very high, and his heart full of feelings of resentment and anger. How he hated Gilbert Mickle for his interference. No thought of his sin in wilfully deceiving his sister entered his mind; no sense of the wickedness of disobedience troubled him. His conscience had pricked him when he had first begun to deviate from the straight path of truth; but by slow degrees it had been successfully silenced, and now it only troubled him occasionally.
Gilbert Mickle returned home in any thing but a tranquil frame of mind. He felt certain that Gerald's acquaintance with Reginald Hope was leading him into evil ways, and he knew that Gerald's relations were utterly unconscious of the fact. Ought he to tell them? That was the question which troubled him and brought a cloud of anxiety to his face. Indecision is always painful; and Mrs. Mickle, who was alone in the sitting-room on his return, was much struck by the troubled expression on his countenance. He generally came home in good spirits from Haresdown House. She told him she had been shopping with his sisters, and then inquired how he had got on with his drawing lesson that afternoon.
"Very well, mother," he replied. "I enjoyed it as I always do; and Mr. Willis says I am making good progress."
"But something is amiss! What has gone wrong? Nothing about Tom, I hope?"
"Oh, no, no! It's nothing to do with us, really, but—well, you know, mother, I don't usually interfere with other people's business, but I like Mr. Willis and Mr. Bailey so much, and the girls are fond of Angel—in short, it's about Gerald I'm bothered. I believe if he isn't stopped he'll be ruined."
"What do you mean, Gilbert? Ruined? How?"
He proceeded to explain at some length how Gerald's spare time was spent mostly in the company of Reginald Hope and his friends; and how Gerald had deliberately lied to his sister that afternoon, to all of which Mrs. Mickle listened in dismayed silence.
"What makes you have such a bad opinion of Reginald Hope?" she asked, when her son had finished his tale. "Of course, I know his father indulges him, and allows him to have his own way; but is there any real harm in him?"
"He will tell any lie if it suits his purpose, and he has such a plausible tongue that he would easily dupe a youngster like Willis. Then, he bets and gambles."
"Bets! gambles!" Mrs. Mickle echoed in accents of intense astonishment. "Impossible! You must be mistaken, Gilbert, surely."
"No, mother, I'm not. Tom knows it too. A great deal of betting and gambling goes on amongst a certain set of the Grammar School boys on the sly; and I believe Hope is one of the ringleaders. I can't prove it, but I know it's true, nevertheless. There would be an awful row if it was found out."
"Oh, Gilbert, you surprise and distress me. The masters cannot be aware of anything of the kind?"
"No, no! It's all done secretly. That's why it's so difficult to speak out. I couldn't charge Hope with betting, although I'm certain he does. I'm so afraid he will induce young Willis to bet too, if he hasn't done it already."
"Oh, do you think it's possible he has?"
The boy shook his head doubtfully.
He knew Gerald Willis had been short of money lately, and that he had tried to borrow from Tom, who, however, had not been in the position to lend, having spent his week's allowance. Tom was not as friendly with Gerald now as he had been during the Easter holidays, for the former was devoted to cricket, and the latter generally found other amusements.
"Dear, dear!" Mrs. Mickle exclaimed, shaking her head sorrowfully; "I am very grieved to hear such a report of Gerald Willis. You have warned him against Reginald Hope, you say, and he would not listen to you? I am sorry for that."
"Perhaps I didn't go the right way about it," Gilbert admitted. "I dare say I bungled."
"How would it be to speak to his father?"
"Oh no, mother! That would be too presumptuous. I don't see I can do anything more at present, at any rate. I believe, Mr. Willis is the sort of man who would never think of suspecting evil of any one; I have not the least doubt but that he considers Gerald perfectly truthful and honourable; and Angel is so fond of her brother, that I'm sure it would take a great deal to make her think any harm of him."
"And yet the girls say he puts upon her in many ways," Mrs. Mickle said reflectively, "but I can understand how that has come about. She has always made his happiness her first thought; she told me she promised her dead mother to be loving and patient with him. Angel is a dear, good child."
"Gerald is very selfish," Gilbert remarked. "I've often noticed how he manages to get everything he wants when I've been at Haresdown House, and wondered that Mr. Willis hasn't noticed it too. I believe Mr. Bailey sees it."
"It's a good thing if he does. Well, Gilbert, I do not see that you can interfere further in this matter; you have done all you can by warning Gerald against Reginald Hope, which I consider you were right in doing, though I have no doubt your intention was misconstrued."
"Yes; Gerald considers I am jealous of Hope; in fact, he said so. That's not true."
"No, dear, of course it's not." Mrs. Mickle crossed the room to her son's side, and leaning over the back of the chair on which he was seated, pushed back his hair with a gentle hand, and kissed him on the forehead. "I am so pleased to see you show such kindly interest in poor Gerald," she said; "you are not the first well-intentioned person who has been misjudged."
"Oh, mother, I don't mind that! I'm really sorry for Gerald. Suppose it was our Tom? Besides, Gerald has no mother, and I'm certain if it wasn't for you I should be a great deal worse than I am in every way."
"Oh, my dear, don't say that! If you had not me you would still have your best friend to go to for help and counsel. I may fail you, but God never will. And don't you think we might ask Him to protect poor Gerald from evil, and to show him how wrong it is to be so untruthful? If you can't help the poor misguided boy, we know Jesus can."
Gilbert made no reply; but he looked up at his mother with the tender smile which she loved to see, and she was satisfied that Gerald would be remembered in his prayers. No one realized better than Mrs. Willis how much of Gilbert's temper was the result of a peculiarly sensitive disposition; and that he held himself aloof from boys of his own age simply from fear of ridicule. He had always protested that he took little interest in other people, but that had been a pretence, as his mother had imagined; and she was certain now that had been the case, for he was as anxious to save Gerald Willis from the toils of evil companions as though he was his own brother, and would have done a great deal to serve him for his own sake, as well as for the sake of his relations.
Mrs. Mickle had a very tender, sympathetic heart, and she could not dismiss Gerald and the suspicions Gilbert entertained about him from her thoughts. If Gilbert's suspicions were correct, surely it was some one's place to open Mr. Willis' eyes to the state of affairs. Was it her place? She could not make up her mind. In her perplexity she consulted her husband, but he seemed unable to advise her, and pointed out that she had no direct charge to bring against Reginald Hope.
Mrs. Mickle had almost decided not to interfere in the matter when the remembrance that the Willis children were motherless caused her to reflect again, and she finally made up her mind that she would call at Haresdown House, and let circumstances guide her as to whether she should broach the subject of Gerald's undesirable acquaintance or not.
"God will show me what to do, and if I must speak, He will teach me what to say," she thought; "I will leave the matter in His hands." And having come to that determination she felt more satisfied.
"COME in! Oh, do, pray, come in! Oh, surely you were not going to pass my house without calling?"
The speaker was Miss Goodwin, who had waylaid Mrs. Mickle outside Myrtle Villa, on her way to Haresdown House. The old lady was so persistent in her request that she would "come in and have a chat" that Mrs. Mickle complied, and followed her into the pretty, rose-scented parlour, the window of which commanded a view of the high road beyond the sweetbriar hedge that marked the limits of Miss Goodwin's domain.
"How nice it is to have you here!" Miss Goodwin cried, as she led her visitor to a comfortable chair, and seated herself close by. "You come to see me so seldom, and actually to-day you were going to pass without calling," she added in accents of playful reproach.
"I was going to Haresdown House—" Mrs. Mickle was beginning, when the other broke in—
"Oh, then I am so glad I stopped you, for you would have had a tiring walk for nothing! Mr. Bailey and his nephew are not at home. I saw them drive past here towards the town more than an hour ago, and I am sure they have not returned. Now, you can remain here with an easy mind, and have tea with me, can you not?"
"Yes, if you will have me, Miss Goodwin."
"Oh, that will be delightful—delightful!" the little lady exclaimed, clasping her hands childishly.
"It will be delightful for me," Mrs. Mickle said. "How pleasant and cool it is here, and how quiet!"
"A little too quiet sometimes," Miss Goodwin remarked, "more especially in the winter; though, to be sure, seldom a day passes without a visitor to cheer my solitude; and now that Haresdown House is occupied again, I can watch the going to and fro between there and the town. Often Mr. Willis comes in and talks to me; he admires my garden, you know. And that dear child, Angel, as she passes by, always looks to see if I am at one of the windows. And I must not forget to tell you that a few days ago Mr. Bailey took me for a long drive in his pony-carriage."
"I am certain you enjoyed that!"
"Oh yes! It was a real treat. He is a very careful driver, and such a kind-hearted, pleasant man!" Miss Goodwin paused momentarily whilst a slightly puzzled expression crossed her face. "I fancy life in Australia must age people," she continued thoughtfully, "for it astonishes me to see how grey Edward Bailey has grown. He looks quite elderly, does he not? But it cannot be for his age, can it? I remember him as a boy, you know!"
"I think he has worked hard all his life till quite lately, and now he is taking a well-earned rest," Mrs. Mickle said gently. "He appears to have settled down very contentedly at Haresdown House; he is evidently much attached to his nephew and the children. Does Gerald Willis come to see you as well as the others, Miss Goodwin?"
"Very seldom. I often have a visit from Gilbert, though. Has he told you, I wonder, that he is going to paint me a picture? No? He is, then. Isn't it good of him? What a clever boy he is!"
"Yes," Mrs. Mickle agreed, smiling brightly. "God has given him great abilities, and I trust he will make the best use of them."
"You, may depend upon it he will. He is not one to let his talents rust: God bless the lad!" Miss Goodwin exclaimed fervently. "Now, I will tell you a secret, and it is this. Of all my young friends, Gilbert is my favourite. Tom is a dear boy, and I'm very fond of him, but I confess I do not always understand him. He is continually laughing, and joking, and making fun. But Gilbert is different; he talks so sensibly, and knows so much about flowers and gardening, and he never laughs at me."
"Laughs at you? Oh no! Who would do that? Not Tom?"
"Certainly not Tom! But there are those who do. There's Dr. Hope's son, now! He was whispering and laughing about me when he passed here yesterday with Gerald Willis. Gerald tried to stop him, but I saw what was going on. Do you think young Hope is a suitable companion for Gerald, Mrs. Mickle?"
"I fear he is not. Look, Miss Goodwin; is not that Angel Willis passing now?"
Miss Goodwin rose from her seat, and going to the window, beckoned to Angel, who was lingering at the gate, to come in. The little girl obeyed the mute invitation, and flushed with pleasure and surprise when she entered the parlour to find Mrs. Mickle there.
"How well you look, my dear!" Mrs. Mickle said as she kissed Angel's bright face. "Isn't she looking much better than when we first knew her, Miss Goodwin?"
"Indeed she is!" the old lady answered. "Now, Angel, my dear child, you need not hurry home, as I know your father and uncle are away. Sit down and entertain Mrs. Mickle whilst I go and speak to Sarah about tea. You must stay, Angel, indeed you must!"
Without waiting for a response, Miss Goodwin flitted out of the room; and the next minute her high, piping voice was heard in the kitchen in consultation with her servant. The old lady was full of excitement and importance at having two unexpected visitors; and she was eager to give them the best she had to offer.
Meanwhile Mrs. Mickle and Angel sat in the parlour in close conversation. The former after a while mentioned Gerald's name, and inquired how he liked his companions at the Grammar School, remarking that she thought Tom did not see much of him nowadays.
"No," Angel answered hesitatingly, a slight shadow crossing her face, "Gerald is very friendly with Reginald Hope, and I think he spends most of his spare time with him; but he does not bring him to Haresdown House."
"How is that, my dear?"
"I—I scarcely know—that is—"
The little girl stopped in confusion. She was strictly truthful; but she could not tell Mrs. Mickle that she believed Gerald was afraid his father would not approve of his friendship with Reginald Hope, and that was the reason why he never invited him to Haresdown House, although he knew Mr. Bailey liked him to entertain his friends in his home. This was only what she surmised to be the real state of the case; she had drawn her own conclusions from a few incautious remarks her brother had let drop on different occasions.
"By the way," Mrs. Mickle said presently, "I want to tell you how dangerous the clay pits are, and advise you to keep away from them. I know boys often go there fishing, and if one fell in it would be almost certain death, and so—"
"Oh," Angel interposed, "Uncle Edward has forbidden us to go there. He told us all about them, how deep they are, and how a man was drowned in one of them some months ago."
"And yet Gerald does go there!" Mrs. Mickle cried involuntarily, now comprehending the reason why he had deceived his sister as to his doings on the preceding Saturday afternoon.
"What do you mean?" Angel asked quickly, her face paling. "Oh, Mrs. Mickle, surely you must be mistaken Gerald would not disobey Uncle Edward like that! Why—why—"
She paused, the anxiety and doubt on her expressive countenance giving place to a look of sad certainty.
"Oh, it is true!" she cried in great distress. "I understand it all now. That is where Gerald went on Saturday afternoon. Gilbert said he had not gone to play cricket. I noticed the clay on his boots when he came home, and—oh, dear, what shall I do? How wrong of him to disobey Uncle Edward like that, and to tell such a story too!"
"It was very wrong of him," Mrs. Mickle said gravely, "if he was my son I should punish him severely."
"But father doesn't know—oh!—you won't tell him? Oh, please, don't tell him!"
"Angel, my dear child, you have no right to shield your brother as you do. Oh, I mean it! Did it never occur to you that in glossing over Gerald's faults you yourself are acting a deceptive part? I know how you love him; and I do not encourage any one to tell tales of another, as a rule, but there are exceptional cases when it is right to speak out. Gerald has disobeyed his uncle, and been very untruthful, I fear; now such behaviour should be stopped, and—"
"I will speak to him! I will make him promise faithfully never to go near the clay pits again!" Angel cried. "He is so thoughtless! Oh, Mrs. Mickle, please, please don't say I ought to tell father! Gerald will be sorry when I point out to him how wicked he has been. And father would be so grieved! You don't understand how fond and proud he is of Gerald."
"Oh yes, I think I do! Well, I won't say you ought to tell your father—that is, if you can be certain you can persuade Gerald to keep away from the clay pits for the future. Think how terrible it would be if there was an accident! But, there," she proceeded as Angel gave a shudder of horror, "we won't contemplate that. Do believe that I have spoken to you as I have because I care for you very much—you, and Gerald too. I have a motherly interest in you both."
Angel flung her arms impetuously around her kind friend's neck, and kissed her with great affection; whilst she whispered—
"I know, I know! You are so good to me! Oh, if only mother had lived! Oh, Mrs. Mickle, you can't think how much I want her sometimes!"
"Yes, dear, I think I can," was the sympathetic response. "I am sure you and Gerald must miss her dreadfully."
"You will have such a bad opinion of Gerald now," Angel said, with a sigh of deep regret. "I'm afraid you won't like him any more."
"There you are mistaken. I think Gerald is a very lovable sort of boy, but you must not help to spoil him by hiding his faults and failings, because by doing that you are not acting truly yourself. It is often very difficult to be quite true where others are concerned; it is so very easy to blind ourselves to what is blameworthy in those dear to us. Oh, Angel, pray for Gerald. You love him very dearly, I know; but think how weak and powerless your love is compared to the infinite love of Him who died for us all. It is only by His grace, and by His Holy Spirit in our hearts, that we can do aright. Ask Jesus to help and guide you in your dealings with your brother, and He will show you how to act, and what to say."
Angel made no response, for there was a lump in her throat at that moment which prevented her speaking; but Mrs. Mickle's words, so gently and kindly uttered, impressed her greatly, and she was deeply grateful to her for the interest she evinced in Gerald, although she did not realize that it had been an effort to her to speak so plainly as she had done.
Presently Miss Goodwin returned, followed by Sarah, who laid a dainty cloth over the small square table in the centre of the room, upon which she proceeded to place a big blue jar of lovely gloire de dijon roses, and sundry little glass dishes filled with different preserves, which the former had manufactured herself from the fruit grown in her own garden. Then a plum cake was taken out of a cupboard in the sideboard, plates of thin bread and butter were put on either side of the table, Miss Goodwin hovering around, and giving directions all the while.
It would have struck many people that the old lady was making a good deal of fuss about casual visitors; but Mrs. Mickle knew how it delighted her hostess' hospitable heart to have an occasion to use her silver tea service and her best china tea set, so she sat quietly watching her move first one thing and then another on the table, until at last the silver tea urn was brought in, and Sarah declared the meal ready.
Miss Goodwin, with a guest on each side of her, took the top of the table; and in listening to her chatter, Angel forgot her troubles about Gerald for the time, and was amused and interested. Being really hungry, she made an excellent tea, much to Miss Goodwin's gratification, for the kind old soul liked to see that her visitors duly appreciated the good things she was so pleased to put before them.
Soon after the meal was over, Angel said she thought she ought to go, as no doubt her father and uncle had returned home by that time, and they would wonder at her absence. She found an opportunity to whisper, "I will remember all you said," to Mrs. Mickle before she left, and received in return an understanding pressure of the hand and a motherly embrace.
As the little girl slowly pursued her way homewards she pondered over Gerald's disobedience and the lie he had told her, and grew very low and depressed. She was not aware that her brother had ever directly lied to her before, though she knew he had often prevaricated about different matters.
"It would make father very unhappy if he thought Gerald told stories," she reflected, "and I don't think he ought to be troubled now after his having been so ill. I know the doctor told Uncle Edward father must not be worried. I'll speak to Gerald, and see what he has to say before I make up my mind what to do. I wish I knew what was right; I must ask God to show me, as Mrs. Mickle said."
In spite of her desire to shield Gerald all she could, she was very indignant with him for behaving so deceitfully. Her cheeks burnt with shame when she remembered how Gilbert had looked at her last Saturday afternoon, when she had informed him Gerald had gone to the cricket-field. She had failed to understand his surprise and hesitation at the time, but now she could understand it all even the look of embarrassment which had crossed the lame boy's tell-tale countenance when, in speaking of Gerald, she had said, "You don't think he'd tell me a story, do you?" Oh, how humiliated she felt! Of course, Gilbert had known that Gerald had told her a story, but he had not liked to say so. It was shameful of Gerald to have put her in such a position.
On reaching Haresdown House she found her father and uncle had come home, having returned by a circuitous route. Gerald was in the dining-room preparing his lessons for the morrow; but Angel did not join him. After explaining to Mr. Willis where she had been, she went upstairs to her own room and began to learn her lessons there, not wishing to encounter her brother till she felt more composed. She shed many bitter tears as she bent over her books, and consequently it took her a long while to get over her work.
The lessons finished at last, she went to the open window and stood looking out; but she saw nothing of the fair landscape, for her eyes were misty, and her mind too preoccupied to concern itself with the beauties of nature. Presently she heard her brother's voice beneath the window calling to her.
"I'm going into the orchard, Angel," he said; "will you come too?"
"Yes," she responded quickly. "I'll be with you soon."
"All right!" he shouted back as he strolled away. "Be quick; I want a talk with you."
The tears had gone from her eyes now; but her heart was throbbing painfully. She knew the time had come when she must speak to Gerald of his misdoings; and with a fervent prayer to God for help, she went soberly downstairs, and a few minutes later joined her brother in the orchard.
ANGEL found her brother seated upon the rustic seat, on the back of which he had been cutting his initials. He shut his pocket-knife as she sat down by his side, and turned his attention to her, remarking—
"Father says you had tea with Miss Goodwin and Mrs. Mickle at Myrtle Villa. Didn't you find it rather slow?"
She shook her head, but made no reply in words. Surprised at her silence, he looked at her scrutinously, and noted the signs of recent grief upon her countenance.
"You've been crying!" he exclaimed in accents of intense astonishment, for his sister was not of a tearful disposition as a rule. "What's the matter? Have you quarrelled with the girls at school, or—"
"Oh no, no! But I'm very unhappy, Gerald, and—and it's about you!"
"About me!" Gerald's face at first expressed nothing but bewilderment; then he flushed and began to look somewhat uneasy. "What me?" he asked. "What have I been doing to make you cry? Why, we've not been alone together for days. You're talking nonsense."
"I have heard where you were on Saturday afternoon," she said in low, reproachful tones; "you went to the clay pits fishing, and you told me that you were going to play cricket with the grammar school boys. Oh, what made you tell me such a story? And why did you disobey Uncle Edward?"
For a moment there was dead silence, then Gerald burst out wrathfully, "I know who told you! It was that sneaking cripple, Gilbert Mickle! But I'll be even with him yet! Oh, how I hate him! He's always prying into my business—and interfering with me! The wretched—"
"Hush, hush!" Angel interrupted indignantly. "Don't speak like that. How can you, Gerald? Besides, it was not Gilbert who told me."
"Not Gilbert? Who was it, then?"
"It doesn't matter who it was," she replied, "and I shall not tell you."
"Don't! I don't care! It was some meddlesome busybody! If I did go to the clay pits, what has that to do with you?" he demanded angrily.
"A great deal. How should I feel if you fell into one of the pits and got drowned?" And the tears welled into her eyes at the thought.
"Pooh! I'm not likely to do that!" he retorted scornfully.
"Did you forget Uncle Edward had forbidden you to go there? But, no! You told me a story, thinking it wouldn't be found out where you'd been."
"Well, you needn't make such a fuss about it. I won't tell you what isn't true again. I went with Reginald Hope to get some fish for his aquarium; I couldn't well refuse to go; if I had, it would have seemed so disobliging."
"Not if you had told him Uncle Edward had forbidden us to go near the clay pits."
Gerald was silent, not deeming it prudent to explain that he had informed his friend of that fact, and had been laughed out of the thought of obedience.
Gilbert Mickle had not been very far wrong when he had said that Reginald Hope had Gerald under his thumb.
"I didn't want to go," the boy acknowledged at length, "but Hope made such a point of it, and so—and so I went. Of course, I know it wasn't right of me, and I wouldn't have father or Uncle Edward hear about it for anything. You won't tell them, will you, Angel?" And he placed a coaxing arm around his sister's neck.
"I don't want to get you into trouble," she said gently, "but you have behaved so very badly, and—and I want to do what's right."
"You always do that, Angel," he told her with sincerity in his tone, "you're heaps better than I am; but then," he added, "you're only a girl, and it's easy for you to be good."
"It isn't easy at all. I don't know what you mean. Oh, I suppose you think I haven't as many temptations to do wrong as you have! I don't know about that; but I know I find it very hard to be good—oh, very hard! Oh, Gerald, why did you tell me such a story? Did you forget how wicked it was, and that God knew all about it?"
He turned his guilty face aside from his sister's accusing eyes as he replied—
"I—I'm sorry I told you that yarn about going to play cricket, I am indeed, though you mayn't believe it. You'll forgive me, won't you?"
"Oh yes, I will! And you'll ask God to forgive you, too, Gerald? You know," she proceeded timidly, fearful lest he should turn upon her and tell her "not to preach," as he sometimes did when she tried to speak to him seriously, "that when we do anything wrong it's really against God we sin. Don't you remember how mother used to tell us that? I remember once when I was quite small I had been naughty, and afterwards when I was really sorry, she taught me a prayer from the fifty-first Psalm, and I always say it now. It was this: 'Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight.' Mother said that if we remembered that, we shouldn't fall into sin so easily. You see what I mean, don't you? You didn't mind telling me a story, but you would have minded if you had thought of God. You'll ask Him to forgive you, won't you?"
"Yes, I will," Gerald responded in an unusually gentle tone, momentarily impressed by the solemn words of the psalmist which his sister had repeated.
"And you'll promise never to go near the clay pits with Reginald Hope again?" she questioned eagerly.
"Oh yes! He's asked me to go on Saturday, but I'll make an excuse. I didn't enjoy myself a bit the other afternoon. You won't tell father or Uncle Edward now, will you, Angel?" Then, as she shook her head, he kissed her with a sudden burst of affection, recalling many occasions on which he had not been so considerate to her as he might have been. "You're a good little soul!" he cried. "If you were like some boys' sisters, you would only be too pleased to get me into a row! But you were never spiteful like that."
"I hope not," she replied, smiling, and flushing with happiness at his loving tone. "It hurts me as much as it does you, I think, when you're in trouble! And—and it makes me so unhappy if you're disobedient—but we won't speak of that any more! What is it you have to say to me?" she asked, suddenly remembering that he had said he wanted a talk with her.
"Oh, nothing much," he answered a little evasively, "only about things in general. It's an age since we had a good long yarn together. Tell me how you are getting on at school."
Angel complied willingly, for she was pleased that her brother showed interest in what concerned her. She told him she was learning music; her mother had commenced teaching her, but she had never had a lesson till now since Mrs. Willis' death. She explained that it had been arranged for her to practise every afternoon at school, as there was no piano at Haresdown House.