CHAPTER IX.

"Debby! Tom! Are you ready? It is time to start." Dead silence.

"Audrey, ask Mary if she knows where they are, will you, please?"

Audrey walked away reluctantly. The whole party had collected just where they could look right into the kitchen directly the door was open; and one of the last things Audrey wanted, under the circumstances, was to open the door, for she knew, only too well, the state the kitchen was in. Instead of being neat and spotless, a place of gleaming copper and silvery shining steel, of snowy wood and polished china, such as she would have loved to display, it was all a hopeless muddle and confusion, a regular 'Troy Town' of a kitchen.

Perhaps she hoped she could make Mary hear without actually opening the door; but it was a forlorn hope. Mary was generally afflicted with deep deafness if one particularly wanted her hearing to be acute. She was now. Audrey called again and again in vain.

"Open the door," suggested Mr. Carlyle, "she is probably rattling pans and dishes and can't hear anything beyond."

"Put your head in and shout," suggested Faith, and Daphne and Keith laughed.

Audrey had to do it. She knew that if she did not Faith would—and when Faith opened a door—well, all there was to see one saw. In a gust of anger she turned the handle and opened the door as little as she could. Oh how she longed for one of the exquisitely neat Dutch kitchens so often seen in pictures.

"Mary!" she called in impatiently, "wherever are you? Do you know what has become of the children?"

Mary heard at last, and hurrying forward to reply, spread the door as hospitably wide as it would go, and stood outlined against a background of dirty pots and pans, a table piled with unwashed dishes, and a litter of torn paper everywhere. She had been so busy packing the baskets for tea that her own work had got more behind than usual.

"I saw them going out of the garden carrying a basket each," she said slowly, eyeing the while with the keenest interest the visitors whom she now saw for the first time. "I thought you had sent them on ahead, perhaps, Miss Audrey."

Mr. Carlyle counted again the baskets on the table. "There are four here. Isn't that the lot?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Mary looked puzzled. "Then I don't know what they were carrying. I didn't pay much heed, but I'm sure they were carrying some, and heavy ones too."

"Some nonsense or other that they have thought of, I suppose," sighed Audrey wearily, and hurried away. Mary would not close that door as long as they stood there, so the only thing to do was to take the guests away.

"I expect they have gone on to try and find a specially nice spot to have tea in," suggested Faith. "They are always busy about something and they love to give us surprises. Don't you think we had better follow them?"

Mr. Carlyle laughed. "As likely as not they have taken up a load of their toys to help to make a pleasant afternoon for us. Now, can you young people carry two of these baskets between you, if I carry the other two?"

"I can take both," cried Keith eagerly, "it is easier to carry two than one." But the girls would listen to no such argument.

"Oh no, no," laughed Faith, "we have some strong sticks on purpose to sling them on, then two of us will carry a basket between us. I have been longing to try it, it seems such an easy way."

But Keith, though longing to help, was not inclined for atête-à-têtewith one of his own sisters, and was shy of facing one with one of these strangers. "I know," he cried, with sudden inspiration, "I'll walk in the middle with the end of a stick in either hand and you four can take it in turns to carry the other ends." No one having anything to say against this plan they proceeded, Faith grasping one stick and Irene the other, while the baskets swung between in a fashion that would have turned the milk to butter had there been any in them to turn. Behind the trio walked Audrey and Daphne, dainty and decorous enough to give an air to any party.

Upon the moor, meanwhile, Debby and Tom sat triumphant but exhausted.

"Won't they be s'prised!" panted Debby. "Won't it be fun. Oh, Tom, I must take them out, they are crying so." The first only of her remarks applied to her family. She untied the lid of her basket and, lifting the cover, peeped in. "Oh, Tom," her voice growing shrill with alarm, "Snowdrop is stepping on Nigger's head, and—oh! Rudolph looks as though he is quite dead!" Her voice had risen to a cry of horror.

"Haul them out then," cried Tom brusquely. "What are you waiting for!" He was nearly as alarmed as Debby, but not for worlds would he have shown it. "I expect he is only asleep or shamming."

With shaking hands Debby, awed into silence for the moment, lifted out first a tiny black kitten, then a white one, and last of all a black and white one, and laid them on the short warm grass beside her. Nigger and Snowdrop began to sprawl about at once, revelling in their freedom. The black and white Rudolph opened a pair of watery blue eyes, gazed sleepily about him, and fell asleep again with every sign of satisfaction.

"He's all right," cried Tom, relieved, yet annoyed at having been for a moment alarmed. "He's a greedy little pig; he can't keep awake because he eats so much. Now, look out, I am going to let out Nibbler."

"Oh!" gasped Debby, still busy with her pets, "won't they love it! Wait a sec., Tom, till I'm looking. Snowdrop you shall all go back into the basket this minute if you don't stop yelling! You are only doing it to annoy. Now I am ready. Don't lift him; just open the cover and let him hop out by himself. We'll see what he does. Oh-h-h, he won't eat my kittens, will he?"

"Nibbler isn't a cannibal, he's a rabbit," declared Nibbler's owner indignantly. "Now, look out!" He opened the lid slowly, and Nibbler sniffed the air rapturously.

"Oh, doesn't he love it! Look at his dear little nose wriggling with joy. Oh Tom! do look at him waggling his ears!" Debby's voice grew shrill again with excitement. Nibbler hopped out of the basket and her joy became intense.

For a moment, as though bewildered by the space, the sunshine, and the breeze, the great rabbit sat and stared about him; then suddenly old instincts came crowding back upon his rabbit brain, He saw furze and bracken, and rabbits' burrows all about him, he felt the turf under his feet, and life calling to him—and he followed the call!

When, a little later, the rest of the party arrived, they found three forlorn kittens tumbling helplessly over each other, and squealing loudly with fright, while in the distance two little blue-clad figures dashed desperately from one clump of bracken to another, and with tears running down their faces, shouting frantically "Nibbler, Nibbler, oh darling, do come here, you will be killed if you stay out here all night; Nibbler, Nibbler!"

It did not take the family long to grasp what had happened. "They will break their hearts if they lose him," cried Faith, almost as distracted as the children. "We shall never get them to go home and leave him behind. They will stay all night searching for him."

"I will go and help them," said Keith at once. "What colour is he?"

"White and tan, nothing uncommon, but we all love him."

Audrey felt very cross. "One can always count on those children to spoil every plan we make," she muttered to herself vexedly; "they deserve to be whipped and sent home to bed, tiresome little torments!"

All of the party but herself had hurried away to join in the search, and she was left standing alone by the baskets.

"Well, there is no need for me to go fagging round too, and someone ought to stay by the things, or they might be stolen. One never knows if there are tramps about."

She seated herself comfortably on the grass with her back against a basket and waited. It never occurred to her to unpack the baskets and begin to arrange the tea-table, nor to take up the frightened kittens and try to stop their cries. She just sat there revelling in the sunshine and the breeze, and the scent of the furze-blossom. It was so beautiful that she almost forgot everything unpleasant or worrying. In the distance she caught sight of a man on horseback galloping across the moor, and began to weave a story of bearers of secret tidings, plots and enemies, in which the distant horseman was the hero and she the heroine, and she had just reached, in her own mind, a village wedding and little girls strewing in the path of a noble one-armed hero and a bride, white as a lily save for her crown of burnished hair, when Irene returned, and with a little sigh of weariness dropped on the ground beside her.

"We can't find him," she sighed, "and those poor babies are breaking their hearts. What can we do?" Irene was really distressed, but Audrey, with her eyes fixed on the horseman, and her thoughts on the story she might write, had none left for sympathy with two children and a lost rabbit.

"Oh, he is quite old," she cried involuntarily. The rider was near enough now for her to see that his hair was grey and—oh, horror, that he had a beard!

Irene looked up in surprise. "Who?" she inquired, "Nibbler?" Then her eyes followed Audrey's, and with a cry of delight and surprise she sprang to her feet. "Why, it's grandfather!" and ran forward to meet him.

Audrey was glad that she did so—she was glad to be alone for one moment, in which to recover herself. Oh how thankful she was that no one could read her thoughts, how thankful that no one knew what she had been thinking. She saw the rider dismount and greet Irene, she saw Irene tuck her arm contentedly through his arm and lead him forward; and she had scarcely recovered from her confusion when Irene brought him up to her saying, "This is my grandfather, Audrey."

"Grandfather, you have heard us talk of Audrey, the girl we travelled down with the day we came to you. Mr. Carlyle and all the rest are looking for the children's rabbit. The poor dears brought him out to share the picnic and he has hopped off on his own account. Now you must stay here and talk to Audrey while I go and look for him just over there. I think we haven't looked in that clump of ferns yet."

Mr. Vivian slipped the rein from off his arm and left his horse free to crop the grass. "He will be safe," he said reassuringly, "he will not go far from me. Peter is more dependable than the rabbit Irene was speaking of."

Peter moved away a few paces, and his master seated himself on the grass near Audrey and the baskets and the kittens. "What sort of a rabbit is it?" he asked, "and which way did he go?"

"I don't know which way he went," said Audrey, "he was gone when we reached here. The children were very naughty, they started off by themselves, unknown to anyone, with a basket of kittens and a rabbit. There are the kittens. They have been making that dreadful noise ever since we came."

"Poor little creatures! they are frightened, they want to be taken up and held."

"They would spoil my clean frock," said Audrey hesitating.

Mr. Vivian picked up the three little squealing things and held them in his own arms. Their cries soon changed to a contented note. "They can't hurt my old coat," he remarked with a smile, "not that I'd mind much if they did, poor little beggars."

Audrey felt vexed and ashamed and could think of no reply to make. For a moment silence fell, broken only by the singing of the birds all around them.

Close to them and to Peter was a large clump of bracken on which Mr. Vivian's eyes rested lazily. Suddenly he deposited his three little charges on the ground again, "What was the colour of your rabbit?" he asked in a lowered tone.

"White and light brown," said Audrey, "quite a common kind. It wasn't a valuable one, but the children——"

"If you get up very gently and go round to that side of the clump of ferns," Mr. Vivian broke in hastily, "I think we shall get the gentleman. I feel pretty sure he is in there. I saw something big move when Peter stepped close. Now then, stoop down on that side and grab him if he runs out, and I will be on the look out for him here."

There was no need though for Audrey to grab, for the poor frightened creature only stared up bewildered when Mr. Vivian opened the ferns above its head, and with one sure grasp lifted it up and into his arm.

"Now," he said, as pleased almost as Debby and Tom themselves could be, "I'll pop my gentleman into his basket while I hurry on to tell the news, and relieve those poor little aching hearts."

Surprise at his presence, or awe of his rugged face and grey hairs were entirely swallowed up in the joy his news brought them. To the three Carlyle children he was a complete stranger, but they took him to their hearts then and there.

"We will give you the very, very nicest tea we can possibly give you," cried Faith enthusiastically, when each in turn and all together had poured out their thanks. "I hope you are longing for some, for we want to give you something that you want very much."

"I did not know I was," laughed the old gentleman, "but now you have mentioned it I find it istheone thing I want."

Tom and Debby ran on ahead to rejoice over their newly-recovered darling, the rest trooped back more slowly. Audrey seeing them coming got up and began to bustle around. She felt a little ashamed of herself, and very anxious to wipe out the not very pleasing impression she felt sure she had made on their visitor. She got out the table cloth and spread it on the ground.

"First of all," suggested Faith, "we had better build up the fire and put the kettle on. It takes rather long sometimes."

"I'll get some sticks," volunteered Keith. "Come along, Tom, we'll provide the wood; that shall be our job."

"I want to go too," cried Debby, "but the kittens are asleep, and I can't possibly disturb them, can I?"

"Run along," said Mr. Vivian kindly, "I will mind your kittens for you, they know me, and we will be as happy as kings together."

"I wish," Audrey remarked, "that we had some methylated spirits and a stove. It is ever so much quicker and not nearly so messy."

"But it isn't as much fun," consoled Irene, "and the tea tastes so nice when the water is boiled over sticks and furze. Don't you think so?"

"I don't know. I don't see that it can make any difference. But I think it is a dreadful bother trying to get enough for everyone. The fire always goes out or the——"

"Audrey," called out Faith, "where is the kettle? Daphne and I will go to the cottage to get it filled."

"I haven't the kettle," said Audrey. "I haven't seen it. Isn't it in the basket over by you? Don't say you have come without it?"

"I am afraid we have," said Faith reluctantly, after looking in vain in all directions. "What can we do? Do you think the woman at the cottage would lend us one?"

"If she did she would be sure to say we had damaged it. If it sprang a leak at the end of six months she would be sure to think it was our fault." Poor Audrey felt and looked thoroughly vexed. Everything so far that day had gone wrong, and she had wanted it to be so different. What she could not see was that nothing had gone wrong seriously, and a little good temper and a sense of humour could not only have carried her through triumphantly, but have turned most of the predicaments to fun.

Keith came up with a bundle of sticks in his arms and heard the tale of woe. "Oh, that's nothing," he said with a promptness that was most consoling. "I will ask grandfather to lend me Peter and we'll trot back and get a kettle in a flash."

But Mr. Vivian preferred to go himself. "And I'll take young Tom with me," he said. "He can run in and explain to the maid and get the kettle in half the time Keith or I could. We should have to explain who we were and by what right we came and demanded the family tea-kettle."

Audrey demurred, blushing at the mere idea, and she blushed again when, Peter and his two riders returning, she saw Mr. Vivian waving the old kettle triumphantly.

"Oh," she cried impatiently, "I did think Mary would have had the sense to wrap it up!"

"I wouldn't let her. I told her not to do anything more than tie a piece of paper round its smutty sides. Now, while we are mounted, don't you think it would be a good plan for us to ride over to the cottage and get the kettle filled? I like to be useful," as all protested against his taking this trouble. "You see, I feel that if I do something for it I shall be able to ask boldly for a second cup of tea." And the old gentleman rode away laughing, as full of enjoyment as any of them.

Now at last things promised to go right. In a very short time the kettle, filled with water, was hanging over a blazing fire of sticks and furze, and Mr. Vivian had ridden away to borrow a pitcherful of water in case the kettle required to be filled again, as it almost certainly would. A new site was chosen for the tea-table and the cloth was spread. Daphne brought sprigs of heather and grasses and green ferns to decorate the table with. Keith, with Tom helping him, worked like a Trojan at stoking the fire, and Audrey was glad that someone else undertook that smutty, eye-smarting business, or her hands and her dress would have been as grubby as theirs probably, before she had done.

Irene was taking cups and saucers, plates and dishes from Faith as she unpacked them, and arranging them on the table.

"But you are the guests," said Audrey presently, "you mustn't bother about helping. Faith and I ought to do all that."

"Oh, but I love to. Do you mind?" Irene looked round, a swift delicate colour mounting to her cheeks.

"Mind!" Audrey knew as well as possible that she could never have arranged such a dainty, alluring-looking tea table, as was every minute growing in attractiveness before her eyes. She knew how it should look when done, but Irene knew how to do it. Audrey did think though that she would like to be of some use. She was feeling rather snubbed and very much out of things.

Irene saw it and drew back a little. "I am afraid—I did not mean to—to be bossy," she added, colouring again more warmly. "I only wanted to help," and she pushed towards Audrey the box of cakes she had been unpacking. "I suppose it comes from being the eldest. Everyone seems to expect the eldest to do things, and—and so I have got into the way of doing them as a matter of course. I am awfully sorry, Audrey, it was a great cheek of me."

But Audrey scarcely heard what she was saying, for she was thinking that no one went to her to have things done for them. No one seemed to expect anything of her.

"I suppose they think I am not able—but, at any rate, I can take cakes out of a box and arrange them on a plate." And while trying her hardest to make the dishes look as attractive as possible she grew less unhappy and more in tune with everything.

"Oh, how pretty," said Faith, coming to her with the teapot in one hand and a packet of tea in the other. "Audrey, will you measure out the tea. I don't know a bit how much to put in for such a lot of us."

Here was something expected of her, at any rate. She should have felt elated at being again appealed to, but she only looked vaguely from Faith to Irene and back again. "Neither do I," she confessed at last.

Irene counted heads on her fingers. "Nine," she reckoned, "two real kiddies, two ex-kiddies,"—fixing her eyes on Keith and Daphne. Daphne threw a tuft of heather at her, "one—two—three——"

"Flappers," interrupted Keith derisively.

"Grown-ups," finished Irene, ignoring him, "and two real grown-ups who like their tea strong. I should think half-a-dozen teaspoonsful would do. If we haven't tea enough to go round, Keith and Daphne shall drink hot water; it will be so good for their complexion."

"What gratitude! after we have slaved so over the fire and boiling the kettle and all," cried Keith indignantly.

"What is the 'all'? Don't say that you have boiled anything more than the water."

But the discussion was put an end to by the kettle, which boiled over at that moment, and the tea was made as Irene had decreed.

Then at last the whole party gathered round the table; the kittens, revived by milk, played happily together on the grass. Nibbler sulked in his basket and took sly bites at a handful of dandelion leaves when he thought that no one was noticing him; but everyone else was happy, hungry, and content. The fresh air gave them all such appetites that everything they had to eat and drink seemed to be doubly good; the same beautiful air and the sunshine sent their spirits soaring, and set everyone in the mood to laugh and joke. All stiffness and shyness had so completely vanished that the visitors already seemed like old friends rather than new ones; and Audrey was just thinking how very happy life might be, even at home in Moor End, when, in a pause in the chatter, a sharp pitiful cry floated across the stillness to them.

Debby was on her feet in a moment. "It is one of the kittens," she cried anxiously. "Oh, what has happened? I am sure one is hurt."

Everyone's eyes searched the ground around them. Snowdrop was seen at once, and Nigger was close by. Suddenly Keith started to run, Debby tore after him, the same fear possessing them both. A little way off Peter stood cropping the grass, a few paces behind him Rudolph lay on the turf bleeding and very still—his inquisitiveness had led him too far at last. In inspecting Peter's hoofs he had got under one and so ended his curiosity for ever.

Fig 3.

Keith reached him first, and by the time poor, panting, white-faced Debby drew near he had covered the little lifeless body with his handkerchief. "He is dead," he said gently, going to meet her and lead her away. "Poor little chap—he must have been killed at once. Come away, Debby dear, don't look at him." And he stood with his arm around her shaking shoulders while her first anguished sobs broke from her.

"Don't cry so, Debby," he urged her; consoling her more by his tone than his words, "be brave, old girl. He—he—poor little chap—he—won't suffer any more. He—won't have to be given away now." Keith found it very hard to find anything comforting to say. In fact, he would have been glad to have been somewhere quite alone, that he might have shed a few tears unobserved, himself. "Anyhow, he enjoyed his life—as long—as it lasted. You made him awfully happy."

"But he had only had six weeks and two days," sobbed Debby, "and I loved him best of all, he was so ugly, and people laughed at him. Oh, why couldn't he have stayed where I put him! Oh, Rudolph, you dear naughty darling, I loved you so."

Keith clasped her closer, "Never mind, old girl; don't cry, Debby." Debby's face was bowed on his other arm. Suddenly she stretched out a groping arm. "Handkerchief please, I—I lost mine."

"I—I am awfully sorry, but mine is spread over Rudolph."

"Never mind, don't take it away from him." Debby's tears flew fast again. "But I wish I knew where mine was, it's—it's rather awkward."

At that moment, though, the rest of the family came up, and Audrey, who, true to a habit taught her by her grandmother, always carried two, provided the little mourner with the much-needed handkerchief.

But though she provided for her wants Audrey was thoroughly vexed and upset with the little mourner. It seemed to her that the two children really did go out of their way to spoil everyone's enjoyment.

Her eye fell on Tom standing close beside her. "It all comes of your naughtiness in the first place," she said irritably, "if you hadn't brought all these animals up here we might all have had some pleasure, and Rudolph would have been alive and happy. Now you and Debby have the satisfaction of knowing that by your behaviour you have spoilt the day for everyone, and killed a poor little helpless kitten."

Audrey was not observant or she would have noticed her little brother's white face and quivering lips. If she had been sympathetic she would have understood that the sorrow which filled his heart was doubled, trebled, by the knowledge that his act—innocent little joke though it was, was at the bottom of the tragedy—but Audrey understood neither. She was annoyed and she wanted to hurt.

Mr. Carlyle, who, if he had not heard all, had seen more than Audrey was capable of seeing, went over and put his arm around his little son's shoulders protectingly. He knew what the boy was enduring—that he was learning in that hour a lesson which would remain with him all his life.

"If we could all of us foresee the consequences of what we do," he said, "we should be saved from doing many a wrong and foolish thing. If we could look ahead and see the effect of what we say, we would often bite our tongues rather than utter the words trembling on them. When I was a little boy, my mother taught me some verses which I hardly understood at the time, but they have often come back to my mind since, whenever I have felt inclined to blame other people. I will tell them to you, that you may remember too.

"'Happy are they, and only they,Who from His precepts never stray.Who know what's right, nor only so,But always practice what they know.'

"But always practise what they know," Mr. Carlyle reflected thoughtfully. "I wonder which of us do that?"

Audrey coloured deeply, and found no words to say. Thoughts came crowding on her mind, remembrance of many things left undone, of many complainings of others, of duties neglected, of selfishness—known to no one but herself—and her heart grew shamed and very humble. How many times since she had come home had she not preached what she did not practise?

"But," went on Mr. Carlyle sadly, "I love better the words of a more kindly singer, one who shows us not only the mountain-top, but helps us up the steep, rough path to it:

"'If you would help to make the wrong things right,Begin at home, there lies a life-time's toil.Weed your own garden fair for all men's sight,Before you plan to till another's soil.'

"Shall we try to do that, my Audrey, you, and little Tom, and I? I think we should be happier:

"'If you are sighing for a lofty work,If great ambitions dominate your mind,Just watch yourself, and see you do not shirkThe common little ways of being kind.'"

With his other arm around her the trio strolled away across the moor. "We all need kindness so much, and forbearance. In this world we cannot get on without them. Shall we start fresh from to-day, Audrey?"

Audrey looked at her father through tear-filled eyes, her lips were quivering. "Oh father, father, I want to—but I don't know how."

"There is only one way, dear. By constant striving against our failing, and by constant prayer. We cannot succeed by ourselves, we should only meet with certain failure. But if we place our hand in God's hand we know that though we may stumble and totter many times, we cannot fail entirely."

A few minutes later she was kneeling beside Debby, where she still lay sobbing heartbrokenly.

"Debby dear, I have picked some heath and some dear little ferns. If Keith will help me, we will make such a pretty grave for poor little Rudolph, up here on the moor. Would you like that?"

For a moment Debby looked at her in speechless surprise. "Could it be cross Audrey speaking so gently?" Then her arms were flung out and around her eldest sister's neck, "Oh, Audrey," she cried, "oh Audrey, I am so glad you care too. Though he wasn't—verypretty, he was such a darling, and I do, I want everyone to feel sorry that he is dead—but I thought you didn't."

And Audrey returned the embrace. "I do Debby dear, I do. I can't tell you how dreadfully sorry I am."

When, an hour later, the whole party turned their faces homeward, one of Debby's hands was clasped in Audrey's, the other in Keith's. Audrey carried the sleeping Snowdrop and Keith the sleeping Nigger; while up on the now desolate looking moorland, little Rudolph lay sleeping in the soft brown earth beneath a clump of waving bracken. So short a life his had been, so tragic and swift an end, but the hand-clasp of the sisters showed that his little life had not been lived in vain.

A few days later Mr. Carlyle was upon the moor again, but this time everything was very different. There was no happy party, no picnic, no sunshine nor soft breeze.

Instead, there lay about him one unbroken stretch of desolation, above him a sky almost frightening in its aspect, with its banked-up masses of black and copper clouds, over which the lightning ran like streams of liquid fire.

He had been to visit a parishioner in a cottage at the farthest corner of his parish, and while there the storm, which had been threatening all day, had broken with a violence such as he had never known before. For nearly two hours he had remained a prisoner in the little lonely house, which had seemed merely a fragile toy, to be their only shelter from the floods of rain, the deafening thunder, the flaming, darting lightning. Again and again it had seemed as though the roof and walls must crack and fall about them, or the rain come through and wash them from their shelter.

But those who had built the sturdy little house had built well, if roughly, and the stone walls stood as though they were one solid block of stone, the rain beat on the roof, but streamed off it, not a drop came through. The little deep-set windows stared at the flashing lightning as though with a patient unconcern, until at last the storm seemed to grow tired of its sport, and swept away to find other victims.

In spite of the fact that the ground was like a sponge, that the little cart-track, which was the only approach to the house, was filled up with water, and that rain still fell, Mr. Carlyle made his way to the highest point of the moor to look about him. It was not often he could see so fine a sight, such a storm-swept sky, such curious lights and shadows.

Before the gusty wind the black clouds were rolling heavily away to the west, where Abbot's Field lay. Mr. Carlyle's face grew anxious as he looked at the dense mass of fiery blackness, and the heavy mist, which seemed to envelop the place as with something evil. Every now and again the black clouds appeared to open and show something of the glory and radiance behind them, a radiance which human eye would not look upon. Then close on the flashes came the crackling and booming thunder again, only more distant now.

"I hope the Vivians are not nervous," he murmured. "I am afraid King's Abbot is having it even more severely than Moor End."

Moor End stood at the edge of the extreme end of King's Moor. Abbot's Field, the larger village, lay two or three miles further along the edge, while behind both the great moor rolled away and away to the south, desolate, barren, until it reached the sea and the little villages scattered along the coast.

Mr. Carlyle turned and looked at the rolling stretches of grey-green land all round him. Besides himself, and that one tiny dwelling, there was not a sign of human life to be seen. Overhead the storm still threatened and grumbled; below, the man and the house stood powerless, but undaunted. Far away to the south the sun shone out brightly through a rift in the clouds. "Always God's promise somewhere. God's sign to us that He cares."

Suddenly, out of the inky murkiness to the west a horse came galloping swiftly. In such a scene of desolate solitude, the sight of any living creature came as a surprise, and held one's gaze. Mr. Carlyle watched the creature fascinatedly. "Frightened, I suppose, poor beast," he muttered sympathetically. "Whomever it belongs to should have taken it in; they must have seen the storm coming. Oh!" his words broke off suddenly, for, as the horse drew near, he could see that it had on a bridle and a saddle—a lady's saddle too!

"It must have thrown its rider," he cried anxiously, and pondered helplessly what he could do. How was he to catch the frightened creature without frightening it more, and where, in all that expanse, was he to begin to look for the fallen rider? Then suddenly it came to him that there was something familiar about the horse.

"Peter!" he called, "Peter! Peter! Peter!" He tried to imitate the note and voice Peter's master had used on the day of the picnic. "Peter, good boy, come here." The horse's ears twitched. He had heard him, and his pace slackened. He was really a friendly, tame creature, but a specially violent clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning which had shot across his eyes, had, for the moment, given him such a shock that he had lost his usually sober senses, and flown panic-stricken from the neighbourhood of such horrors. He was not accustomed either to a side-saddle, nor to so gentle a hand upon his mouth.

Already, though, his fears were vanishing, and he was longing for the sound of a human voice and the grip of a hand on his bridle.

"Peter! Peter!" Mr. Carlyle called again. Peter turned swiftly in answer to the call, caught his hoof in the dangling bridle, and fell heavily on the soft, wet turf.

This gave the Vicar his chance. Peter was soon on his feet again, but his bridle was gripped firmly enough now.

"Peter, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Peter was. He stood beside his captor shamed, shaken, genuinely distressed. "I wish you could show me where you dropped your rider, Peter." Peter only flapped his ears, and threw up his head.

Mr. Carlyle got on his back, in order to get a wider view. "I suppose he has come from his home; perhaps I had better go in that direction."

Peter seemed to agree with this decision, and, with apparently recovered spirits, walked on willingly. The Vicar's spirits, though, did not recover so lightly. His eyes swept the moor anxiously, but in vain, and his fears increased, for a rider who had been not much hurt would surely appear soon, coming in search of her horse. If she did not appear it might forebode the very worst of disasters. For more than half an hour they searched, but vainly, then suddenly, far ahead of him, almost out of the ground it seemed, a small white fluttering something appeared, and he quickened Peter's pace to a gallop.

It was Irene who had been Peter's rider, Irene who, recovering from the shock and blow of the fall, had struggled up, and waved her handkerchief in the desperate hope of attracting someone.

She was scratched, bruised and bleeding, and wet to the skin; but her concern was all for Peter, and her one feeling was joy at seeing him alive and sound. "Oh, I am so glad!" she cried in a rapture of relief. "Oh, I am so glad—I could never have gone home and faced grandfather if anything had happened to Peter." Then suddenly she broke down and burst into tears. "Oh, I am so thankful," she sobbed. "I have been nearly crazy with fear!"

"But, my poor child, what about yourself? Peter is all right, but you are hurt—your face is bleeding, you—you——" He could not tell her what a pitiable little object she was. One of her eyes was swelled, and fast discolouring; on her forehead a great lump stood out, scratches decorated her cheek, from which the blood still oozed.

"I—fell on my face," she explained brokenly, "near a bramble bush. I think I have hurt my arm too." Against the increasing pallor the scratches stood out horribly. She was on the point of collapsing again, when Mr. Carlyle picked her up without a word, and seated her on Peter's back. "Try to keep up," he said encouragingly; "hold on to the pummels; I will manage Peter. And try not to think about the accident; give all your attention to holding on; we will go to that cottage over there, and get you some water. They have a pony-cart there, too, I will borrow it and drive you to the Vicarage as quickly as I can. You certainly can't walk, and you can't go all the way to Abbot's Field until you are better. But we will take care of you, Irene. Don't cry any more, my child. You will feel better soon, and you have very much to be thankful for."

"I know, I know!" gasped Irene. "I don't know how to be thankful enough; we might have been killed on the spot. Oh, that lightning! It wasawful, perfectly awful. There seemed to be fire all round us, nothing but fire!" She buried her face in her hands, as though to shut out the sight. "It looked as though some awful fiery furnace had opened before us, it was like the place of torment——"

"But God's protecting love was about you. His arm was shielding you."

"I know," said Irene softly, "and that was my only hope. I remember saying, 'From lightning and tempest, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us,' and then I think I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I felt the rain on my face, and the thunder crashing overhead, and my first thought was——" she broke off in sudden shy confusion, and a faint flush rose to her cheeks.

"May not I know, Irene, what your first thought was, when you woke and found yourself still in this world? was it that God had spared you yet, that you might do more work for Him?"

"That was it!" she cried eagerly; "that was my thought—'God has not taken me—He must have something for me to do, and—and——'"

"You mean that, God helping you, you would do it?"

Irene looked away; again the colour rushed into her pallid cheeks.

"Yes," she whispered softly, but could say no more.

"By His help, and in His Name." Mr. Carlyle's hand shook a little as he clasped hers. "Thanks be to Him," he added, with deep feeling. "Irene, my child, never forget this afternoon, nor the vow you have taken."

"I will try never to," said Irene humbly, and then the cottage was reached, and the Vicar lifted her down, and led her into shelter.

After that, matters were soon arranged. One of the big boys at the cottage was to take Peter home, and deliver him over safely, and he was to take a note of explanation and reassurance, and a request for clothes for Irene, which he would bring by train, and then take home the pony and cart which the Vicar was borrowing to transport the poor little patient to the Vicarage.

Irene did not demur at anything. She could only smile the gratitude she felt; after her last outburst she had become exhausted. When lifted into the cart she half sat, half lay in the bottom of it, rolled in blankets, seemingly only half conscious of what was happening.

When the little cart at last drew up at the Vicarage, Audrey was standing at the door looking out. The rain had ceased by that time, and the air was laden with a sweet freshness which told that the storm had passed. When she saw the cart draw up, she thought only that her father had had a lift homewards—as they had hoped he would. Then she saw that he was holding the reins, and was apparently alone in the cart, and at the same moment he caught sight of her and beckoned to her vigorously.

"I have Irene Vivian here," he said. "She has met with an accident. Hold the pony's head, dear, while I lift her out, and carry her into the house. We must get a room ready, and get her to bed as soon as possible, with hot blankets and bottles. You will know what to do, Audrey."

Audrey did not. She did not know in the least what to do. She should have felt flattered by her father's confidence in her, but she only felt ashamed.

And the spare room, where Irene must go! It was she knew, in a state of neglect and confusion. In her anxiety to speak to Faith and Mary, Audrey almost let the pony go, and ran into the house.

Fortunately, though, when Irene was safely deposited on the ground, stiff and bruised though she was, she could, she declared, walk through the garden to the house. "I am not so faint now; I feel better already. Oh, Audrey, I am so sorry to come and give you so much trouble. I am sure I shall be able to get home when—when I have rested. I am nearly all right."

But when she, with the same, reeled and almost fell, Mr. Carlyle picked her up bodily, and carried her quickly into the house. "You are not to talk any more," he commanded peremptorily, "but you are to remember that you are no bother to us whatever, that we are only too pleased to have you, and the more you give us to do, the better we shall be pleased." Then, catching sight of her troubled face as he laid her on the sofa in the dining-room, "Some day we may want your help, and I should not hesitate to ask you for it, Irene, because I should know that it would be a joy to you to give it. Will you believe the same of us, my child?"

Irene looked up at him gratefully. "Oh, yes, yes," she cried, but her glance travelled swiftly from him to Audrey, wanting her assurance too.

"Of course we are very glad to have you," Audrey answered, meeting the eager eyes; but her voice lacked that ring of genuineness which means more than any other; the ring which sounded so clearly in her father's. She knew it, and was sorry; but she could not help it. There was that to be said for Audrey—she was honest. She could not feign a pleasure she did not feel; and she had yet to learn to feel the pleasure which comes with trying to make others happy.

"You couldn't help it," she added lamely; "don't worry about it, Irene," but that seemed only to make matters worse. Irene's face showed that, and her own heart told her so.

Oh, how she longed to be one of the happy-go-lucky, don't-care people, like Faith, who felt nothing but gladness at welcoming people, and were quite unconcerned as to what they were welcoming them to! It was really her care for her visitor's comfort which lay at the bottom of her seemingly cold welcome, her over-anxiety that everything should be as nice as she was accustomed to.

"No, I couldn't help it. But—I think I ought to go home presently. I can manage to, I can really, and mother would be so glad."

Tears came into her eyes. She was feeling so shaken and faint, and in such pain all over, she seemed to lose grip on herself. A sudden longing to be petted and made much of, swept over her. Fortunately at that moment Faith came rushing in.

"What has happened?" she cried anxiously. "I have only just heard that there has been an accident.—Oh, Irene! you poor darling, you do look bad. Here, lean back, and let me arrange the cushions more comfortably. Oh, your poor face, how it must hurt you. Wouldn't it be more comfortable if I bathed it with warm water?"

"We have got to get the spare room ready as quickly as possible," said Audrey, briskly, rousing herself to action. "She is wet through, she must go to bed as soon as she can."

"Here? Irene is going to stay here? Oh, how lovely! I am awfully sorry for you, Irene, but, oh, I am so glad." Faith's face was one beam of welcome. No thought of their unpreparedness troubled her.

"Well, Irene won't be glad, unless we hurry and get a room fit for her to go into," Audrey retorted sharply. "She must be cold and miserable."

"Oh, we will soon get the room straight; she can go into mine if she likes."

"She must have peace and quiet," said Audrey dryly, "and she ought to have a hot bath at once. Granny always made me have one if I got wet; it takes the pain and stiffness out of one's bones."

Faith lifted up one of the poor scratched hands, and looked at it. "We sometimes have mustard in our baths," she said mischievously, "when we have colds, but I don't think we will give Irene mustard in hers now!"

Irene chuckled faintly, though she could not help shuddering. Faith's welcome had raised her spirits considerably. "A hot bathwithoutmustard would be lovely, if it isn't inconvenient. My clothes are soaked through, and I am growing so chilly——"

"Inconvenient!" cried Faith, scornfully, "as though it could be! You ought to be in it by this time, though. Come along at once, or a nice cold you will have, and while you are bathing we will get the bed made, and all the hot-water bottles and hot bricks and things we can find, to put in it!"

"Thank you, but don't cook me," groaned Irene. "When I have had my bath I shall be so hot, I shall be able to warm the bottles instead of the bottles warming me."

Audrey hurried away to begin the preparations, though she had very little idea of what to do. She wanted to be alone, and busy, to try and work off her vexation. Why could not she have welcomed poor bruised, hurt Irene, as Faith had done! She had followed her mood of the moment, thinking only of herself, and she had made an impression, left a feeling, that she would never now be able to wipe away. Oh, it was unendurable to feel so mean, so unlovable, when—when she really did not mean to be either, when she wanted to be so different! At the door of the spare bedroom she turned, and walked swiftly down the stairs again to the dining-room.

"Irene," she said, her voice trembling a little with shyness at her first effort, "I think my nightdresses would fit you best. Would you like a nun's veiling one, or a cotton? I will get one aired by the time you are ready for it."

Faith looked at her sister admiringly, almost enviously. She would have found it very difficult to have provided Irene with the necessary garment, for she had but three to her name, and all were more or less buttonless and torn. If the younger Carlyles had nightgowns enough to go round, they thought themselves fortunate; to have different ones for summer and winter was a luxury they never dreamed of. "Oh—and, Audrey," Faith cried eagerly, "do lend Irene your pretty dressing-gown too."

"I was going to," responded Audrey stiffly—Faith never gave one a chance to be gracious—"if you had given me——" She drew herself up sharply, with a genuine effort to master her vexation.

"I will run up and see about getting the bath ready," said Faith. "It won't take more than ten minutes. Irene, use my room if you will, until your own is ready. Audrey, you will help her to take off her wet boots and stockings, won't you? I'll call Mary to come and make the bed."

Within an hour Irene lay in the bed, rolled up in a blanket, with a hot-water bottle at her back, and a hot brick at her feet, for, after all, there was only one bottle in the house that did not leak, and that was Audrey's. She was very hot, but she felt revived and cheerful.

Faith came into the room with a cup of steaming tea, and some bread-and-butter on a tray. She had profited by Audrey's example sufficiently to remember to put a tray-cloth over it, and to try to make it look dainty. Irene turned a hot but grateful face towards her. "How good you all are to me!" she said.

Audrey was standing by the fire, looking from the creeping flames to the dust upon the mantelpiece. She wished Mary had dusted the room a little. It did not occur to her that Mary could not possibly have found the time; that she had been flying round ever since Irene's arrival making the bed, lighting the fire, pushing furniture into place, putting up curtains, and filling the hot-water bottle; that since then she had spread Irene's clothes to dry, and had made her tea.

"This room is dreadfully dusty," she said at last, feeling that she must apologise for it. "I am very, very sorry, Irene."

"Oh, don't worry about me," said Irene cheerfully. "You leave it until I get up again. I will dust all the house for you then, out of sheer gratitude."

Audrey did not reply, but with heightened colour she walked away, and returned a few minutes later with a duster in her hand. She had always thought she hated dusting, but after all there was, she decided, as she nearly completed her task, some pleasure in it. It was nice to see things grow clean and bright under her hand, and it was such a relief to have the work done, instead of waiting and waiting for someone else to do it, waiting vainly, too, as a rule! And when, a little later, Mrs. Vivian was shown into the room, Audrey felt an even greater pleasure in knowing that all was neat and spotless for her to see.

The relief and the satisfaction brought a glow to her face, and warmth to her manner, such as she seldom showed. For almost the first time in her life she escaped the irritation of seeing them left undone by others, and knew the pleasure of doing things for oneself. As she softly left the room she felt happier than she had all day. Irene, in her nest of blankets, looked up at her mother with eyes full of remorse, mingled with pleasure.

"Poor child! are you in great pain?" Mrs. Vivian leaned down over her daughter and kissed her. She was so agitated she could scarcely speak. Irene drew her left arm out from the blankets, and threw it round her mother's neck.

"Oh, mother, mother, I deserve it all! I deserve ever so much more. I—I ought to be whipped and kept on bread-and-water."

A ghost of a smile flickered over Mrs. Vivian's white face. "We will forgive you this time, but oh, Irene, when I saw Peter being led in riderless I—I——"

Irene drew her mother down to her again. "Mother darling, it shall be a lesson to me. I will never, never go against your wishes again. When I woke up—I think I must have fainted—and knew where I was, and all that had happened, and when I realised that God had spared my life instead of punishing me—oh, mother, I promised Him that I would dedicate the rest of it to Him, and to you."

With a low cry of deep joy Mrs. Vivian clasped her little daughter in her arms, her emotion too great for words. And so they remained, heart to heart, cheek to cheek, talking in soft, low tones, talk too sacred and precious for other ears to hear, until at last they were brought back to everyday things by a gentle knock at the door.

"May we come in?" asked Audrey, opening it a little way. "We have brought you some tea, Mrs. Vivian. We thought you might be tired."

"Oh, how kind!" Mrs. Vivian looked up at her gratefully. "I feel as though I should enjoy a cup of tea, as I never have in my life before." With her relief at finding Irene's injuries so comparatively slight and with her heart full of the deep, almost sacred joy their talk had brought to her, the paleness had vanished from her cheeks, and the happiness in her heart glowed in her pretty, kind eyes.

"Audrey dear, do you think it would be possible for your mother to see me for a little while? I want so much to thank her for all the kindness you are all showing to my bad girl. And as it seems that she will have to stay here for a day or so, I want to ask her to make an exchange, and spare me one of you in Irene's place."

"Oh!" Audrey's heart leaped with pleasure. A visit to 'The Orchard' would be lovely—to have servants, horses and carriages, gardens, and all the comforts and luxuries she loved so much; what joy! And she had nice clothes, too, and everything suitable for such a visit. But Mrs. Vivian, little dreaming of the thoughts rushing through Audrey's head, brought her castles tumbling to the ground.

"I know I must not ask for you, for you have not long been home, and you cannot be spared, but I thought, perhaps, Faith would come, or the little ones—it might be a change for them, and would make a little less work for you here."

She looked at Audrey inquiringly. For a second there was silence, then "I am afraid Faith could not be spared—either," Audrey answered in a tone Mrs. Vivian could not understand, it seemed to hold both shame and triumph. "She—she is really more useful than I am—much more," she added emphatically, as though to press home the stab she was dealing herself.

A wave of hot colour poured into her cheeks, then ebbed away, but the glow in her heart remained, for she had once more conquered herself.

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