"I shall tell mother how impertinent she's been and get her dismissed!" he exclaimed as the young woman left the room. "She had no business to speak to me in such a manner as that."
"I think you were trying to show off, though," Roger told him candidly, "for really it's a beautiful cake, and the bread and butter is much thinner than we ever have it at home, even if we have strangers to tea. Yes, I'll have a little more strawberry jam, please. I'm making a very good tea."
So was Edgar, though he would not admit it. He felt exceedingly humiliated, for he had desired to make Roger believe that the servants of the household were under his control, and he had certainly not succeeded in his attempt. For a short while he looked extremely cross; but he soon brightened up after tea, when he led the way into his father's study, and exhibited to his companion a collection of coins, and another of foreign stamps, both of which he represented to be his own. As a matter-of-fact that was perfectly untrue, and he had no right to show either the coins or the stamps without his father's permission. Of course, Roger did not know that, and he began to look on his cousin as a person of property.
"I wonder you don't sell some of those stamps if they're worth such a heap of money as you say," he said, as he watched Edgar replace the stamps in the cabinet from which he had taken them, "I am sure I should."
"But, you see, I don't want the money," Edgar reminded him.
"No, I suppose not."
The coins were kept in the shallow drawers of another cabinet which Edgar had unlocked with a key—one of a bunch he had taken from a desk on the writing-table. He would not permit Roger to touch them, only to look, and afterwards he locked the drawers and returned the keys to the exact spot where he had found them. Then he took up a cigarette case which he opened and offered to Roger.
"Have one?" he asked with an assumption of carelessness.
"No, thank you," Roger responded, laughing, for he had not taken the offer seriously; "I don't smoke."
"I do," was the astounding reply, as Edgar selected a cigarette from the case and proceeded to light it with a wax match he took from a match-box which he produced from his pocket. Roger watched him take two or three whiffs in silence, dumbfounded at the sight. At last he cried wonderingly:
"Fancy Uncle John allowing you to smoke! Aren't you afraid of being sick?"
"No; you see, I'm used to it," Edgar replied, a flush rising to his cheeks. "You may as well try a cigarette, you'll enjoy it."
"No, thank you. Of course I know lots of the boys at the Grammar School do smoke—on the sly; but father said he hoped I never would, and I promised him I wouldn't."
"Oh, well, my father said something of the same kind, but I didn't promise one way or the other. He's never found me out yet—"
"Then he doesn't know. Oh, Edgar, how wrong of you! How can you bear to do it? Do put the cigarette down."
"Nonsense!" Edgar smoked on more out of a spirit of bravado than because he was enjoying the cigarette. He did not indulge in a second, however. "Look here, don't you go home and tell anyone I've been smoking," he said as he noted the expression of disapproval on his cousin's tell-tale countenance, "for you'll get me into a row if you do. Father's awfully against boys smoking."
"Then do say you won't smoke again, Edgar. It's awfully wrong of you, really."
"Oh, I shall be careful I'm not found out. I shouldn't smoke here if mother and father were at home, but I often do in my own room. Why, you look quite shocked! What a young innocent you are!"
"I'm no younger than you—that is, not much, only a few months. But, I say, Edgar, you really oughtn't to smoke if Uncle John doesn't wish you to; it's deceiving him;" and Roger spoke very seriously.
"Well, I daresay you deceive your father sometimes—"
"Indeed I don't."
"Because you're afraid of being found out!" Edgar cried scornfully. "I never guessed before that you were such a coward!"
"I'm not a coward!" Roger retorted, growing red with indignation. "But I wouldn't try to deceive father even if there was no fear of his finding it out. God would know, anyway. Mother says we should never do anything we wouldn't like Him to know. You have no right to call me a coward—"
"I didn't really mean it, so don't let us quarrel," Edgar broke in hastily. "Oh," he exclaimed as Roger suddenly declared it was time for him to leave, "don't go yet! It is quite early."
"It's half-past six," Roger replied, glancing at the brass face of an old-fashioned clock in a black oak case, which stood against the wall near the writing-table, "and mother said I was to be back by seven. It will take me quite half an hour to get home."
"You won't tell about my smoking, will you?" questioned Edgar anxiously as he followed his cousin out of the room into the hall.
"No, of course I won't," was the reassuring response, "I wouldn't be such a sneak as that. Good-bye, Edgar. Thank you for asking me to tea—it was a jolly nice tea, too, and I enjoyed it awfully. Good-bye."
Edgar stood at the front door and watched his late companion out of sight. He was growing to like Roger more than any of his other school-fellows, and he had the sense to see that he had made no favourable impression upon him by the manner in which he had set his father's command at defiance, and he heartily wished he had not smoked that cigarette. He was uneasily conscious that the other boy knew that he had only been "showing off."
Polly and Roger Trent always looked forward with the greatest pleasure to Sunday, for they generally spent the afternoon of that day in their father's company. If the weather was fine he took them for a long walk in the country, past the clay works which lay directly on the outskirts of Beaworthy, to the beautiful lanes and woods beyond; if, on the contrary, it was wet and they were obliged to remain in the house, he read to them or told them stories. In that way they had become familiar with Bible history before they could read themselves; and at a little later date they had listened to the entrancing history of "The Pilgrim's Progress." They had followed Christian's journey with all its dangers and difficulties along the King's highway right onward to the celestial city; they had gloried in the fight between Christian and Apollyon in the valley of Humiliation, and had insisted every time their father had recounted it to them of a minute description of the fiend—the monster hideous to behold, clothed with scales like a fish, and wings like a dragon, and feet like a horse, and a mouth like a lion! And they had shed bitter tears over the martyrdom of Faithful, though they had never failed to brighten at the account of the chariot and horses which had borne him with the sound of trumpet through the clouds to the celestial gate into the presence of the King in His beauty.
"I hate Sundays," Edgar Marsh had told Roger on one occasion, much to the latter's surprise; "it's such a stupid day. I go to church with mother and father in the morning, I don't mind that; but in the afternoon I never know what to do with myself: father generally shuts himself up in his study and tells me not to bother him—I suppose he goes to sleep—and mother reads in the drawing-room. Don't you hate Sundays, too?"
"No, indeed!" Roger had answered; and then he had told a great deal about the delightful Sunday afternoons he was in the habit of spending, and Edgar had listened more than a little enviously.
The afternoon following Roger's visit to the Rookery found Edgar in a very discontented state of mind. As usual, his father had betaken himself to his study, and his mother had settled herself comfortably in an easy chair near the drawing-room fire, a book of sermons in her hand. The little boy, standing disconsolately by the window, looking out on the velvety lawn, the grass of which was beginning to spring fresh and green, was debating how he should pass the two hours which must elapse before tea-time, when Mrs. Marsh inquired:
"Why do you not take a book and read, my dear? There are some very pretty stories suitable for Sunday reading in that book I gave you for a New Year's present."
"I hate reading," was the ill-tempered response, "especially babyish stories; and I hate Sundays—"
"It's very naughty of you to say so," Mrs. Marsh interposed reprovingly, shaking her head at him.
"I do hate Sundays," he persisted, "because I never know what to do, and you won't let me play. Uncle Martin takes Polly and Roger for walks on Sunday afternoons, or tells them stories—stories with some sense in them. I wish my father was like Uncle Martin; but father never goes for walks or—"
"You must remember he is an older man than your uncle," Mrs. Marsh broke in quickly, "and he is so wrapped up in business affairs that he has little time to spare for anything else."
"But he doesn't do business on Sunday, mother."
"No, on Sunday he is glad to rest—Sunday is the day of rest, you know. Your father works very hard all the week."
"So does Uncle Martin—much harder than father, I believe. Is that an interesting book you're reading, mother? Won't you read it to me?"
"I am afraid you would not like it; you would not understand it. Come and sit by the fire and tell me how you and Roger amused yourselves yesterday afternoon."
"I took him all over the place," Edgar said as he seated himself in a chair near his mother's. "He likes to see the gardens and the greenhouses—he seems awfully fond of flowers—and he's quite crazy about horses: says he'd like to be a coachman when he grows up. He enjoyed his tea tremendously, and afterwards we—we just stuck about and talked," he concluded vaguely.
"Did he say when Cousin Becky leaves?" Mrs. Marsh inquired.
"No. I don't think she's going yet, she's only been there about a fortnight, you know, and Roger said he hoped she'd stay much longer. They all like her so much, and she isn't a bit in the way; I asked Roger if she was, and he said no; he wished she was going to stay altogether. Did you ever read 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' mother?" he asked with an abrupt change of the subject.
"Yes, years ago, when I was a little girl; I believe there is an old copy in the house somewhere."
"Has it pictures in it?" Edgar questioned eagerly.
"No, I think not. Why?"
"Because there are pictures in Uncle Martin's—Roger told me about them. There's one of a great wicked monster all over scales and breathing out fire and smoke."
"I suppose you mean Apollyon?"
"Yes, that's his name, I'd forgotten it. And there's a picture of a hideous giant called Giant Despair who lives in a castle called Doubting Castle. Roger says 'The Pilgrim's Progress' is all about wonderful adventures, and I like stories of that sort best of all. Oh, mother, I do wish you'd get me a copy of the book with pictures and read it to me on Sunday afternoons!"
"Certainly, you shall have the book if you wish it, dearie."
"And you'll read it to me, mother?" he coaxed.
"You lazy boy!" she admonished, with her indulgent smile. "Why cannot you read it yourself?"
"It would be so much nicer if you read it to me," he declared earnestly, "then we could talk about it afterwards like Uncle Martin does with Polly and Roger. Do promise, mother."
So she promised, and Edgar looked jubilant. For the first time it struck Mrs. Marsh that her little son lacked congenial society in his own home. She had always indulged him and given him everything for which he had expressed a desire, but she had never made a companion of him; for, as a rich man's wife, she took a foremost place in the town and her life was given up to social claims. She determined now, however, that for the future she would, at any rate, devote her Sunday afternoons to her boy as her brother devoted his to his children.
"I'll order the book to-morrow," she said, "a well-illustrated copy which I hope will come up to your expectations, Edgar."
At that moment the door opened to admit the master of the house, who entered the room with a frown on his brow which denoted displeasure.
"Edgar, did you meddle with anything in my study yesterday?" he interrogated, fixing a searching glance on his son.
"No, father," Edgar promptly replied, secretly very alarmed, though he met his father's gaze with an immovable face.
"But you and your cousin were there during the evening—I have ascertained that from the servants. Come, speak the truth. Were you smoking?"
"No, father." The response was not quite so unfaltering this time.
"Then how comes it several cigarettes are gone from here?" Mr. Marsh inquired, producing the case from which Edgar had helped himself on the preceding evening.
"I—I only smoked one," Edgar confessed. After Roger had left he had returned to the study and taken several more cigarettes—under the deluded idea that his father would not miss them—which he had subsequently hidden in his own room. "Oh, father, please don't look so angry! It really and truly was only one!"
"Then who smoked the others? Your cousin, I suppose. Why did you not speak the truth and own what you two had been doing instead of uttering such a daring falsehood? How often have I told you of my great abhorrence of small boys smoking?"
"I am very sorry," faltered Edgar, alarmed at the severity of Mr. Marsh's tone.
"Oh, John, you must overlook his naughtiness this time, and forgive him!" broke in Mrs. Marsh eagerly; "he won't smoke again, will you, Edgar, darling?"
"No, mother," the boy responded, watching his father anxiously, "I won't."
"There, John, you hear that!" she exclaimed.
"I'm afraid Edgar's word is not to be trusted," Mr. Marsh observed dryly. "I'm exceedingly angry with him, and he ought to be severely punished."
"But not on a Sunday, John. Remember the day. You must forgive him this once, and I'm sure he'll keep his word and never smoke again. Besides, it was quite as naughty of Roger, and it would not be fair to punish one boy without the other. When boys get together they always lead each other into mischief."
"Please forgive me, father," murmured Edgar.
"You should have owned the truth at once," Mr. Marsh told him gravely, "nothing angers me so much as to catch you in a lie. Well—" he looked dubiously from mother to son—"I suppose I must forgive you this time and not punish you, though I'm not certain I'm doing my duty in letting the matter pass so easily. I hope, Janie," he added, pointedly addressing his wife, "that you will give Edgar a good talking to; and remember Roger Trent is never to come here again unless you are at home."
Mrs. Marsh heaved a sigh of intense relief as her husband went away, shutting the door behind him; and then she gave her son the good talking to which she had been advised to administer. She told him never to be tempted to smoke again on any account, for if he did and his father found it out, she knew he would never be dealt with so leniently a second time. "You have heard your father frequently speak of the great objection he has to boys smoking," she said, "so I cannot imagine what made you do it. You are terribly disobedient, Edgar, and so dreadfully untruthful, too. It is not as if you had never been taught the wickedness of telling stories, and I am sure I am always begging you to speak the truth. It makes me very unhappy to think we cannot take your word."
Mrs. Marsh looked so distressed that Edgar, who was really fond of her, felt a sincere pang of regret shoot through his selfish little heart. He recalled how often she had concealed his misdoings from his father—better for him if she had not—and how she had pleaded that he might not be punished to-day, and his glance rested on her with an expression of grateful affection.
"I will try to be more truthful," he said earnestly; "do believe me, mother, I really will."
"That's my own dear, good boy," she responded tenderly, "you'll make mother so happy if you'll only learn to speak the truth. Mind, I cannot interfere between you and your father if he ever discovers you've been smoking again; and, remember, although he's very indulgent and kind to you, he can be very severe at times."
"I'll remember," Edgar replied; "promise you I won't smoke again." His spirits were beginning to rise. He had listened patiently to all his mother had had to say, and he knew she would not revert to it—she was not in the habit of dwelling on unpleasant subjects. But he did not consider it worth while to explain that his cousin had not smoked as well as himself, nor did he confess to the possession of the cigarettes which he had hidden in his room, for he quite intended to throw them away.
"Polly, do you know I have been here a month to-day?"
It was about four o'clock on a fine March afternoon, and Cousin Becky sat on a chair near the sitting-room window, her busy fingers employed in sewing, whilst occasionally her sharp dark eyes strayed from her work to the only other occupant of the room—Polly—who was reading a story-book.
"Yes, Cousin Becky," Polly answered, closing her book, in which she was not very interested, and coming to the window, where she stood examining a pot of crocuses, just opening into flower, which she had cherished through the winter and which now graced the window sill. "How the time has flown, to be sure! It doesn't seem nearly so long—at least, not to me."
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"Nor to me either. I have never thanked you for giving up your room to me, my dear; in fact, I did not know you had done so until a few days ago when Roger—"
"Oh, Roger should not have told you!" Polly broke in, looking vexed.
"I am very glad he did. I feel very grateful to you, Polly."
"I have been quite comfortable in the attic; it is really a nice big room, only of course it has a sloping roof and the window is rather small and high in the wall! I have grown to like it, indeed I have."
"Still, you will be glad to get back to your own little room, I expect?"
"No; because then you will be gone, and I shan't like that."
There was a ring of sincerity in the little girl's voice which brought an exceedingly tender expression into her companion's eyes.
"I was speaking to your parents about my departure this morning," Cousin Becky said after a brief silence, "and they asked me to extend my visit."
"Oh, I do hope you will!" Polly cried, her countenance brightening.
"Then you have not found your old cousin much in the way, my dear?"
"In the way? No, indeed! We have simply loved to have you with us, and we shall miss you dreadfully when you go; I heard mother say so to father yesterday."
"Perhaps I may not go just yet. I am very fond of you all, Polly; and I like your home, and I have accounted it a privilege to be here. You know, I have no home of my own, and I thought of making one at Beaworthy; but I am doubtful still what my plans for the future will be. I am naturally a sociable person, and I dread the thought of living alone. Your mother and father have asked me to remain here, at any rate for the present, and I have gladly consented to do so. I am going to pay a small sum weekly for my board, so that I shall not be a burden on my kind relations; but, on the other hand, the sum will not be sufficiently large for them to get any profit by me. So you see, child, you are not going to get rid of me so soon as you thought."
"I am very glad," Polly asserted heartily. "Do you mean you are going to live with us altogether, Cousin Becky?"
"I mean that your dear parents have told me that I may always look upon their house as my home—as one spot in the world where I shall be welcome."
"How pleased Roger will be!" the little girl cried earnestly.
"The only thing is, Polly, I do not like taking your room—"
"Oh, please don't trouble about that, Cousin Becky! Indeed, you need not. I don't feel a bit lonely in my attic, for I'm next door to Louisa, and I can look out of the window if I stand on a box. Really, I quite like my attic, now. Oh!" she exclaimed with sudden excitement in her tone, "I do believe that's mother coming—at last!"
Earlier in the afternoon news had been brought to Mrs. Trent that there had been an accident to a labourer in the clay pits. The man—Caleb Glubb by name—had married a servant of the Trents some years before, and Mrs. Trent had gone to ascertain the true facts of the case. As Polly spoke, her mother appeared in sight, and a few minutes later she entered the house and came immediately into the sitting-room.
"Is Caleb much hurt?" Polly inquired, glancing anxiously at her mother's face, which wore an expression of grave concern.
"Yes, Polly, I am afraid he is," was the reply. "I found poor Sarah Glubb in terrible grief, for they had taken her husband to the hospital, and she had no one to leave with the children whilst she went to make inquiries about him. Four little ones she has," Mrs. Trent explained to Cousin Becky, who was listening attentively, "the youngest not two months old. So I remained with the children whilst Sarah went to the hospital. Poor soul, she returned almost heart-broken, for her husband has been very badly injured—a quantity of clay fell on him and crushed him badly—and the doctors say, even if he recovers, he will be unable to work for many weeks, or perhaps months; and, meanwhile, there are four little mouths for Sarah to find food for. Oh dear, oh dear!" and the tears swam in Mrs. Trent's eyes as she spoke, "what I would give if I were only rich!"
"Then perhaps you wouldn't give much," Cousin Becky remarked a little dryly.
"Oh, Cousin Becky," cried Polly reproachfully, "I am sure mother would!"
"It is generally poor people who help each other," the old lady said, nodding her head sagely. "Does the injured man work for Mr. Marsh?" she inquired.
"Yes," Mrs. Trent assented, "and I suppose he will get compensation for his injuries under the Workmen's Compensation Act; but, meanwhile—"
"Meanwhile, of course, Mr. Marsh will see his family is provided with necessaries?"
"I don't know that he will. Men frequently meet with accidents in the clay pits, but I don't think John interests himself in them individually. Ah, here's Roger!" she exclaimed, as her little son burst into the room.
"Mother, have you heard what's happened to Sarah's husband?" he cried excitedly.
"Yes, my dear," she answered, "I have been to see Sarah and know all about the accident. The Glubbs have been unable to lay aside anything against a rainy day," she continued, again addressing Cousin Becky, "for they have had to contend against sickness; and last winter, owing to the wet season, the men were often unable to work in the clay pits. I do not know how poor Sarah will manage to feed her children or keep a roof above their heads now."
"There is One who will not forget them," Cousin Becky said softly.
"Can't we help them, mother?" Roger asked. Then as Mrs. Trent looked dubious, he proceeded eagerly, "Oh, surely we can do something? I'll go without sugar in my tea and eat bread and butter only for tea without any cake or jam, and then you'll be able to save that out of your house-keeping money, won't you? And I'll give up my pocket-money too."
"That's only twopence a week, Roger," Polly reminded him.
"Still, that would be a little help, wouldn't it?" he asked, appealing to his mother.
"Certainly it would," she replied, "if you desire to help poor Sarah you most certainly shall."
"And I too!" Polly cried eagerly.
"Both of you," agreed Mrs. Trent; "we will all see what we can do. I am glad my children desire to bear other people's burdens. But I wish we had more to give."
"Do you remember what the Pilgrims saw on Mount Charity?" asked Cousin Becky, regarding her young cousins with her bright smile. "I heard your father reading that part of 'The Pilgrim's Progress' to you on Sunday."
"Of course we remember," Roger answered quickly; "the pilgrims saw a man with a bundle of cloth lying before him, out of which he kept on cutting garments for the poor, but his bundle of cloth was never the less."
"And the pilgrims were told that he who has a heart to give shall never want himself," Cousin Becky said; "I think if people oftener remembered that they would be more open-hearted—and open-handed."
"Oh, Roger." cried Polly, with sudden recollection, "do you know Cousin Becky isn't going to leave us after all? She's going to live with us."
"Really?" he exclaimed, his face expressive of mingled pleasure and surprise. "Well, I am glad!" and he impulsively flung his arms around the old lady and gave her a hearty kiss.
"You are all so kind to me, and have made me so happy," Cousin Becky murmured, in a slightly tremulous tone, much touched by the little boy's spontaneous act of affection; "I felt such a lonely old woman that night I arrived here a month ago your welcome warmed and cheered my heart as nothing else could have done."
"This will be your home too, now," Roger remarked reflectively; "you see, mother, father was right: Cousin Becky is satisfied with our ways."
When Mr. Trent returned at six o'clock, he brought the news that Caleb Glubb had rallied somewhat, and it was now hoped his life would be spared. "I called at the hospital on my way home from the office," he explained, "and made inquiries. I am glad you have been to see Sarah," he said to his wife. "We must try to help her in any little way we can."
And during the days which followed, the Trents found various ways of assisting their old servant out of their slender means, by small acts of self-sacrifice ungrudgingly rendered; and Cousin Becky busied herself in mending some garments of Polly's which the little girl had outgrown, for the use of poor Sarah's children.
"Do you know, Sarah tells me that on each Saturday morning since her husband's accident, she has received a postal order for a sovereign," Mrs. Trent informed the others one evening, a few weeks later. "It has always come by post, from Beaworthy, anonymously, and she cannot imagine who it is that sends it. It flashed through my mind it might be Janie; but, if so, why should she send it anonymously?"
"Oh, it isn't Aunt Janie, because she didn't even know about the accident till this afternoon," rejoined Roger. "I met her in the town, and she spoke to me, and asked for you all, and especially for Cousin Becky. I told her Cousin Becky was making up some clothing for Sarah's children—she remembered Sarah when she lived with us as cook, but she hadn't heard of the accident to Caleb. I wonder Uncle John hadn't told her. So, you see, it isn't Aunt Janie who sends the postal orders."
"Perhaps it's Uncle John," suggested Polly.
"He would not send them anonymously. No, it is some good fairy," said Mrs. Trent with a smile, "who does not wish to be known. Well, the money is proving a great blessing and is going where it is really required."
"I told Aunt Janie that Cousin Becky is going to stay on with us," Roger remarked. "She was awfully astonished."
"Why? What did she say?" asked Polly, her curiosity aroused.
"She said, 'I am utterly amazed!' and she looked it," the little boy answered, with emphasis in his tone.
Cousin Becky gave a soft involuntary laugh, which made everyone glance at her with surprise. She was apparently intensely amused, for her eyes were dancing with merriment. She had improved both in health and spirits during the few weeks she had been at Beaworthy, and was evidently quite contented and happy. A cheerful soul was Cousin Becky, one of those who are like a gleam of sunshine in the house, one whose very presence was invigorating. Mrs. Trent had discovered already that Cousin Becky knew a great deal more about the management of a small income than she did herself, and was always ready with advice or help, if either was wanted; and the children had found out that the old lady could, and was willing to, assist them in the preparation of their lessons.
"Why, how clever she is!" Roger had exclaimed on one occasion, after Cousin Becky had helped him with his Latin. "She knows about everything, it seems to me, and yet she's not a bit stuck up."
Even Louisa had her word of praise for the new inmate of the household. "She's the most helpful body I ever knew," she confided to her mistress. "She gives no trouble at all, and I'm really glad she's going to stay."
It was April, and the boys of the Beaworthy Grammar School were having a fortnight's vacation, only a few days of which had passed as yet, so that it greatly astonished Polly and Roger Trent to be informed by their cousin, whom they met in the town one morning, that he wished the holidays were over.
"Are you so fond of work, then?" Polly questioned, in her surprise.
"No, certainly not," he answered, regarding her sharply to see if she was laughing at him, "but I've nothing to do. Mother has several visitors staying in the house, all grown-up people, and they're no fun whatever, and I've no one to talk to or play with. Where are you two off?" he asked, glancing at the big basket the little girl was carrying.
"We are going gathering primroses," Roger explained. "Would you—" He hesitated, looking inquiringly at his sister; then, as she nodded, he continued: "Would you like to go with us?"
"I don't mind if I do," Edgar responded condescendingly.
"You needn't if you don't care about it," Polly said quickly, "we can do quite well without you."
"Oh, I want to go with you," Edgar assured her; "I should like the walk, but I don't care about the primroses. I have heaps of flowers at home."
"I suppose you have," said Polly with a faint sigh, "but we have none, you know. The gardens at the Rookery must be looking lovely now with all the spring flowers in bloom; I remember last year you had a lot of daffodils—beauties!"
"So we have now; you ought to come and see them, Polly." There was a wistful expression in the little girl's countenance which somewhat touched her cousin, and he remembered what a long time had passed since she had paid a visit to his home. "Why don't you come?" he continued. "Mother would be very glad to see you, you know."
"Would she? I don't know so much about that," Polly responded bluntly, with a short laugh; "if Aunt Janie wanted to see me she'd invite me to the Rookery, I shouldn't think of going there otherwise."
There was an awkward pause in the conversation after this. The children were, by now, nearing the outskirts of the town, and coming to the clay works, which formed the chief industry of the neighbourhood. The high road adjoining the works had a row of labourers' cottages on either side, with small gardens in front.
"That's where our old servant, Sarah Glubb, lives," said Roger, indicating one of these dwellings; "and, look! There's Sarah herself in the doorway."
"Oh, I must speak to her for a minute!" cried Polly. "I know it was visiting-day at the hospital yesterday, so for certain she saw her husband then; I want to ask her how he is."
Sarah—a neat, pleasant-faced woman—stood with her baby in her arms. She smiled at the children as they approached, and they stood talking to her a short while—at least, Polly and Roger talked, whilst Edgar listened. As Polly had imagined, Sarah had been to see her husband on the preceding day, and had been cheered to find him much better.
"The nurse told me the doctor considers Caleb will be able to come home in about another fortnight," she said happily; "but I am afraid it will be some weeks longer before he will be strong enough to work in the clay pits," she added, her countenance clouding slightly.
"Does your good fairy still remember you, Sarah?" Polly questioned anxiously.
"Yes, miss," Sarah answered, a radiant smile driving the gloom from her face, "so perhaps she—or maybe it's he—will go on helping me till my man's able to work for me and the little ones again. I only wish I knew who it is that is being such a friend to me, that I do. God bless whoever it is, I say—aye, and He will."
"What did you mean about a good fairy, Polly?" questioned Edgar as soon as he and his cousins were out of Sarah's hearing. "There are no fairies nowadays."
"There's one who sends a present to Sarah every week," Polly responded gravely. "Isn't there, Roger?"
Roger nodded, and meeting each other's eyes the sister and brother laughed. Edgar looked vexed, for he had an idea his companions were poking fun at him, and he stood much on his dignity. However, Roger promptly explained that Polly had referred to an unknown person who had befriended Sarah by sending her a pound every week since her husband's accident. Edgar was much interested, and expressed great astonishment that the generous donor should desire to remain unknown, for, as he said, most people who gave anything away liked to be thanked.
They were leaving the clay works—deep pits where scores of men were at work digging clay or pumping up water—behind them, and ten minutes more walking brought them to the woods, which were carpeted with moss and primroses on this beautiful spring day. Polly's basket was soon filled with the pale, delicately-scented flowers; and then the three young people sat down to rest at the foot of a beech tree, and the little girl drew a good-sized package from a capacious pocket in her skirt, and proceeded to open it with an air of triumph.
"There, boys!" she exclaimed, as she revealed a large lump of home-made cake. "You didn't know I'd brought lunch with me, but aren't you glad? I'd have cut a bigger bit if I'd known Edgar was going to be with us. Where's your knife, Roger? Divide the cake into three slices, please."
"I'm jolly hungry," Roger announced, as he produced his pocket-knife and proceeded to do his sister's bidding. "I'm just ready for a snack."
"And yet you said you wouldn't want lunch when mother advised you to take some," Polly reminded him. "I knew better than that, for being out-of-doors always makes one very hungry. Come, Edgar, take your share!"
Accustomed though he was to far daintier fare, Edgar enjoyed his slice of cake, which proved most satisfying. It was very comfortable under the beech tree, the brown, swelling buds of which were bursting into leaf, and the young people spent a sociable half-hour, watching the squirrels in the boughs overhead, and talking confidentially. They discussed their elders, as children are so fond of doing, and Edgar informed his cousins how surprised his parents were that Cousin Becky was to make her home with them in Princess Street.
"Why are they so surprised?" asked Polly, greatly desirous to ascertain the reason.
"Because Cousin Becky is so poor. Mother said she could understand it better if she was rich and you could make something out of her, but what she is going to pay is so little. I think myself that Cousin Becky is very nice, and I should not mind having her to live with us at the Rookery. It is a great pity she has not more money. Father says you can do nothing without money."
This teaching was new to Polly and Roger, who had been taught a far different creed.
"I suppose you think your father knows everything," the former said, a trifle irascibly, "but I daresay other people are just as clever as he is. It must be very, very nice to have money," she proceeded, "but mother says there are greater blessings than riches, and if we haven't money to give away we can give what we have—our time, or kind words, or sympathy, that all counts with God. It's easy to give money if you've got it. I daresay Uncle John gives away a good bit, doesn't he?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," Edgar answered. "I never heard him say. I daresay he does, for he has plenty of money, you know."
"Yes, I know," returned Polly, nodding her head sagely, "and so've you, haven't you? You get a lot of pocket-money, don't you?"
"A shilling a week from father, besides what mother gives me off and on."
"So much as that? Do you spend it all on yourself? Oh!" she cried as her cousin nodded. "Fancy that! We get twopence, and Roger had only a penny a week before he went to school."
"Why don't you ask your father for more?" questioned Edgar thoughtlessly.
"Because he can't afford to give us more; he would if he could." Polly rose, and picked up her basket of primroses as she spoke. "I think it's time we started for home," she said, "for mother told us we were to be back by one o'clock."
Accordingly the children left the wood and retraced their footsteps along the high road, Polly carrying her basket very carefully, and looking admiringly at her flowers every now and then. Edgar gave his cousins a description of the handsomely illustrated copy of 'The Pilgrim's Progress' which his mother had procured for him; he seemed exceedingly pleased with it, and promised to show it to his companions one day.
They had nearly reached the town when they were overtaken by Mr. Marsh, who was being driven by a groom in a dog-cart. He had been to the clay works and was now on his way home.
"Well, young folks," he said good-humouredly as the groom, obeying his master's order, brought the dog-cart to a standstill, "have you been for a ramble in the country? All well at home, Polly? Yes. That's right. You're looking blooming yourself, child, with those bright eyes and those rosy cheeks. Edgar, you'd better jump up behind and return with me. Well, Roger, how are you?" he asked. His son climbed into the back seat of the vehicle as he spoke.
"Very well, thank you, Uncle John," Roger answered, lifting his frank eyes to meet his uncle's.
"You and your sister should come to the Rookery sometimes during the holidays," Mr. Marsh said kindly; "but, mind, I'll have no smoking. Remember that."
"I never do smoke, Uncle John," Roger returned earnestly.
"Tut, tut, that's not true. Hasn't Edgar told you that I found out what you and he had been doing the last time you were at the Rookery? I ought to have told your father, perhaps. I am sure he would not like you to smoke. You hope to grow into a fine, strong man, I suppose? You'll never be one if you smoke cigarettes at your age. You mark my words. Good-bye."
The dog-cart passed on, leaving Polly and Roger staring after it, the former filled with amazement, the latter crimson with indignation. Edgar waved his hand to them, but they did not respond to his salutation.
"What did Uncle John mean?" Polly demanded of her brother. "Have you really been smoking?"
"No, no! How can you think it for a minute!" was the reproachful response.
"But Uncle John evidently believes you have. He thought, too, that you told him a story."
"I saw he did." Roger looked utterly miserable. "I can't understand it," he said. "I have never smoked, indeed I haven't. You know I promised father I wouldn't."
"Uncle John spoke of the last time you were at the Rookery. Neither he nor Aunt Janie were at home then, were they?"
"No; Edgar and I spent the afternoon by ourselves. Oh, don't ask me any more about it," he proceeded imploringly as he saw another question trembling on his sister's lips. "Uncle John has made a mistake, but—" passionately—"he had no right to speak to me as he did."
"He did not speak unkindly, only as though he thought you had told him a story. No, you are not a story-teller, I know that well enough."
"Don't tell them at home what he said, Polly; mother and father would be so put out—promise you won't."
Polly hesitated; but her brother appeared so distressed that she at length, very reluctantly, gave the desired promise, feeling puzzled and uneasy. Why, since Roger had been wrongfully accused, did he not want the matter cleared up? It did not seem right to her that their uncle should be allowed to believe what was not true; and her heart was hot with indignation against him for holding such a bad opinion of her brother. Never for a moment did she doubt Roger's word herself. Long she puzzled over the matter, but she asked no more questions, and the remainder of the walk home passed in silence.
"I've enjoyed the morning, haven't you?" Roger said, as they turned the corner into Princess Street.
"Oh yes," the little girl assented, "and I was doubtful if we should when we met Edgar and he said he'd go with us; but I think he really has improved, he was very nice on the whole to-day. I wish," she added with a faint sigh, "oh, I do wish we had not seen Uncle John!"
Edgar had heard the accusation his father had brought against Roger, and he had noted the crimson flush which had spread over the latter's countenance when his word had been disbelieved, and he was uneasily conscious that there would have to be a day of reckoning between his cousin and himself sooner or later. He knew he had been cowardly in allowing his father to think Roger had joined him in cigarette smoking, and he wished now he had not held his tongue upon the point.
"I must manage to square Roger, somehow," he thought, "but it won't be easy. I could see he was awfully angry that father didn't believe him; he's so very particular about telling the truth."
The two boys did not meet for several days, however; but one morning Edgar was sent by his mother with a note to Mrs. Trent, inviting Polly and Roger to spend the following afternoon at the Rookery. His heart beat fast and unevenly as he stood on the doorsteps of his relations' house in Princess Street and rang the bell, for he dreaded giving the explanation he knew Roger would be certain to demand from him; but, much to his relief of mind, when Louisa opened the door, she informed him that his young cousins had gone out with Miss Trent and only his aunt was at home. He was shown into the sitting-room, where Mrs. Trent came to him; and whilst she was reading his mother's note, he watched her, thinking how sweet and pretty she looked, for he always admired and liked Aunt Mary.
Mrs. Trent promptly accepted the invitation for her children which her sister-in-law's note contained, and she talked to the little boy for a short while; but he seemed in a hurry to leave, so she did not detain him long. The fact was, he was glad to have missed Roger, and wanted to get away before his cousins' return.
Now, it so happened that Roger, coming out of a shop with his sister and Cousin Becky, caught sight of Edgar, homeward bound, and pointed him out to his companions.
"I want to speak to him particularly," he said. "May I run and overtake him, Cousin Becky?"
"Do, my dear," she answered; "but Polly and I will not wait for you as we have several more errands to execute."
Accordingly, Roger went after Edgar; but he only kept him in sight and did not overtake him till he had left the town and turned into the suburban road which led to the Rookery, then he ran up to him, shouting: "Hi! Stop! Stop!"
Edgar started violently, for he had had no idea of the proximity of his cousin; he glanced around with a somewhat alarmed expression on his face as he said in a hurried tone:
"I've just come from Princess Street. You and Polly are to come to tea with me to-morrow."
"Who says so?" Roger inquired bluntly.
"Aunt Mary. I took a note to her from mother."
"You'll like to come, won't you?" And Edgar regarded the other more than a trifle anxiously.
"I don't know. Look here, Edgar! What did your father mean the other day by saying I smoked, and why didn't you speak up for me? Had you made out to him that I had been smoking cigarettes with you that afternoon I was at the Rookery, when he and Aunt Janie were away?"
"No, on my honour I had not," was the emphatic response.
"Then, what did he mean?" Roger demanded. "He believed I had been smoking. Did you know he thought so?"
"I—I—"
"Oh, speak out!" cried Roger, greatly irritated; "don't stammer like a baby!"
"Well, don't get angry, then. You needn't look at me so—so furiously. I've done nothing to injure you. It was like this. Father found out I'd been smoking; at first I wouldn't own to it, but afterwards I did, and he was awfully angry. But it was a Sunday, and mother stood up for me, so there wasn't nearly such a row as I'd expected." Edgar paused for a minute, then continued with heightened colour. "Of course, father imagined, as you had been with me and there were several cigarettes gone from the case—I'd taken them; I thought he wouldn't notice—that you'd been smoking, too, and—and—"
"And you didn't tell him I hadn't?"
"No-o-o," Edgar was obliged to admit, "I—I didn't tell him one way or the other."
"Why didn't you?" Roger was actually shaking with anger, the colour had fled from his cheeks, and his eyes were alight with passion.
"Because—because father would have been angrier if he'd known you hadn't smoked too," faltered Edgar. "Oh, Roger, I didn't tell a lie about it, I only held my tongue."
"And let Uncle John believe that I—that I—"
Roger's voice failed him, so intense was his indignation. He had been trying to keep his temper under control, but now it gained the mastery over him, and, flinging himself upon Edgar, almost choking with rage, he began to belabour him with his clenched fists. Edgar was no coward physically, whatever he was morally, and he was on the defensive in a moment. In a few minutes the two boys were engaged in a fierce fight, and, being equally matched as to height and weight, there is no saying how it might have terminated had not the sound of wheels warned the combatants to desist. Panting and dishevelled, they stood aside to allow the vehicle to pass; but, instead of doing so, it drew up, and, looking to see the reason, Roger was shocked to see his aunt's carriage, and his aunt herself in it with two lady visitors.
"Good gracious, boys!" cried Mrs. Marsh. "What is the meaning of this? Edgar, what has happened? Why, my darling, you are covered in dust, your clothes are torn, and —oh, surely you have not been fighting? Roger, you naughty boy—"
"I am not more naughty than Edgar," interrupted Roger, "not nearly so naughty if it comes to that, for I'm not a mean beast like he is." He was far too angry to pick his words.
"How dare you use such language," began Mrs. Marsh, looking surprised and shocked, for she had always considered her nephew a well-mannered little boy, but he broke in again:
"We've been fighting," he said passionately, "and I began it, and if you hadn't come up I'd have licked him. Of course you'll take his part, Aunt Janie, you always do, but he knows he deserves a good thrashing. I'll have nothing more to do with him, although he is my cousin, and I won't go near the Rookery again."
"I suppose you've quarrelled," said Mrs. Marsh, glancing from her visitors, who appeared highly entertained and evidently regarded the scene in the light of a joke, to her son's downcast countenance. "What have you fallen out about? How could you so far forget yourself, Edgar, as to fight in the road?"
"You mustn't blame him for that, Aunt Janie," said Roger quickly, "for I made him fight. I hit him first."
"But why?" questioned Mrs. Marsh, looking more and more mystified. "I don't understand. Oh, I hope neither of you is much hurt! And, oh dear—" with sudden alarm in her tone—"here comes your father, Edgar! Oh, John," she proceeded as her husband came up, "do find out what has happened to make the boys quarrel! They've been fighting."
"So I perceive," Mr. Marsh replied dryly; "you'd better drive on, my dear, and I'll see to the youngsters. Now," he said sternly, as the carriage passed on, "what have you two to say for yourselves? What is the meaning of all this? I thought you were good friends."
"Friends!" echoed Roger in accents of deep disgust. "He's been no friend to me, letting you believe I smoked with him when I never even touched the cigarettes. I said I wouldn't tell he'd been smoking—it was no business of mine—and I didn't, but I never thought he'd treat me so shabbily. I've finished with him now," he continued bitterly, as he brushed down his clothes with his hands and picked up his cap from the dusty road, "and I'll never—"
"Stop!" commanded Mr. Marsh, "Don't make rash vows, Roger. Do you mean to assert that you did not smoke with Edgar?"
"I did not," Roger answered firmly. "Ask him before me, and he'll tell you the truth."
"What have you to say, Edgar?" Mr. Marsh looked anxiously at his son.
"Roger did not smoke with me, father," was the low-spoken response. "I never said so."
"But you permitted me to think so. I am ashamed of you, Edgar. Roger, my boy, I owe you an apology for doubting your word, you must forgive me that I did not accept it," and Mr. Marsh laid his hand kindly on his nephew's shoulder as he spoke. "Edgar owes you an apology, too, for his cowardly and ungenerous treatment of you," he supplemented.
"Oh, it's all right, Uncle John, so long as you don't believe I told you a lie," Roger said hurriedly. "I'll settle it with Edgar another day."
"No, no, settle it now, and have done with it. I am quite satisfied you told me the truth," and Mr. Marsh sighed as he glanced at his son, who did not dare lift his shamed eyes from the ground, though he murmured a few words of apology to his cousin.
After that, Mr. Marsh insisted that the two boys should shake hands, which they did, reluctantly on Roger's part; and then he seized Edgar by the arm, and marched him home in silence. Arrived at the Rookery, Mr. Marsh took his son into the study, where Mrs. Marsh joined them, anxious to learn the cause of the boys' quarrel. In a few words Mr. Marsh explained everything to her; but when she would have tried to excuse Edgar's conduct, he would not allow her to do so. "There is no excuse for him," he said, "and he knows it. He has behaved in a false, cowardly fashion towards his cousin, and I am heartily ashamed of him."
"I—I have been very unhappy about it," faltered Edgar; and there was no doubt that he spoke the truth, for since the morning he had gone primrose gathering with Polly and Roger his conscience had continually pricked him. "And—and I don't believe Roger will ever forgive me; he said he would never come to the Rookery again, and he's sure to keep his word."
"What explanation shall I give our visitors as to the cause of the disgraceful scene in the road?" asked Mrs. Marsh with a sigh.
"Tell them the truth—don't beat about the bush," advised her husband. "Say Edgar was the one in fault."
"It is most unfortunate this has occurred, for I have asked Polly and Roger to spend the afternoon here to-morrow," she said regretfully. "Are they coming, Edgar?"
"Aunt Mary promised they should come, mother, but I don't suppose they will now."
"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Marsh. "I will speak to their father and tell him what has happened, and he will set things right. Roger has a real grievance and has cause to be indignant, but I want him and Edgar to be friends. Your brother is as straight as a line, Janie, and it seems his son is the same. Now go to your visitors, my dear; I have a few words to say to Edgar alone."
It astonished Edgar to see how deeply his conduct had affected Mr. Marsh, who seemed more grieved than angry. That touched the little boy, who was really much attached to the father who had always been so indulgent to him, and he promised that he really would endeavour to act as well as speak truly in the future. When, ten minutes later, he left the study and ran upstairs to his bedroom to prepare for luncheon—which, under the circumstances would be somewhat of an ordeal that day—his eyes were blind with tears, and his father's parting words rang again and again in his ears:
"Be true, my boy, whatever happens be true, and then I shall be able to feel confidence in you. Don't ever again give me occasion to be ashamed of my son."
Roger had quite made up his mind that nothing should induce him to enter the doors of his cousin's home again; and after Mr. Marsh and Edgar had left him, he hurried back to Princess Street, his heart full of rage, and took his family into his confidence. Everyone agreed with him that he had been treated shabbily, and Polly was loud in her declamations against Edgar. It was Mrs. Trent who tried to soothe the boy's angry mood, and pointed out to him that the present occasion was an opportunity for showing a magnanimous spirit.
"You don't mean to say you will make me go to the Rookery to-morrow, do you, mother?" Roger asked hotly.
"No, dear, certainly not," she answered. "You shall do as you please, but—"
"Then I shan't go," he broke in, "so that's settled."
"I shan't go, either," declared Polly.
"You interrupted me in the midst of my sentence, Roger," Mrs. Trent told the little boy in a tone of gentle reproof. "I was going to say that you shall do as you please, but that by to-morrow I trust you may see things in a different light. Edgar has treated you badly, that I grant, but I hope you will forgive him, especially as you say he offered you an apology, and let him see, by going to the Rookery, that you do not bear malice in heart."
Roger made no response but when, that evening, his father said his uncle had sent a message to him to the effect that he should expect to see him on the following day, he realised that he would have to overlook his cousin's cowardly conduct and consent to be his guest. "I daresay Edgar is really sorry, and if so I suppose I ought to forgive him," he remarked to Polly. "And, though I really don't want to go to the Rookery, Aunt Janie always gives us a very good tea; so, all things considered, perhaps we'd better go."
"Very well," agreed his sister, "I daresay you're right. I don't care so much about the tea, but I should like to see the gardens and the greenhouses."
"And the horses," supplemented Roger with a brightening face.
So the following afternoon found Polly and Roger the guests of their cousin at the Rookery. There was unwonted shyness in Edgar's manner as he met them in the hall and escorted them into the drawing-room to speak to his mother, and he glanced askance at a bruise beneath Roger's right eye, which he knew had been caused by his fist whilst Polly and Roger both felt the awkwardness of the situation.
Mrs. Marsh greeted her little niece and nephew very cordially, and introduced them to her friends—two fashionably dressed ladies; she inquired for all at home, and then told them they might do whatever they liked to amuse themselves as long as they did not get into mischief. After that she dismissed them, and Edgar led the way upstairs to the large room which had been his nursery, where he still kept all his most treasured belongings, including several mechanical toys and a big rocking-horse which had always been the envy of his cousins. Edgar was on his best behaviour and tried to make the time pass pleasantly for his visitors. He showed them his 'Pilgrim's Progress' and was gratified by their admiration of its illustrations, which were indeed very fine.
"It's the best mother could get for money," he informed them with great satisfaction. "I expect it's a much better book than yours, isn't it?"
"Oh yes!" Polly admitted readily; "but I like our old book best."
All sense of awkwardness had died away now, and the three children were on the best of terms with each other. By-and-by Edgar suggested a game of hide-and-seek.
"We can hide anywhere in the house we like," he said, "and the nursery shall be 'home.' Which of us shall hide first?"
"Oh, let me!" cried Polly eagerly.
"Very well," the boys agreed, and Roger added, "I don't suppose we shall be long finding you."
"Don't be too sure of that," she retorted. "How long will you give me to find a hiding-place?"
"Five minutes," Edgar replied, "and no longer, mind." Accordingly the little girl left the boys in the schoolroom, and, after shutting the door behind her, stole softly downstairs. She peeped into the dining-room, but there seemed no hiding-place there, unless she got behind a curtain, which of course would be searched immediately. "I wish I could think of some really good place," she murmured, as she stood in the centre of the hall hesitating which way to turn. "Perhaps I'd better go up in the attics, there are several lumber rooms, I know, but the boys will be certain to search them carefully."
Then suddenly a brilliant idea flashed through her mind, and her face broke into smiles. She thought she knew one place where she could conceal herself where the boys would never dream of looking for her, but she must be quick and not waste time or the five minutes' grace allowed her would be up before she had safely secreted herself.
At one side of the hall was a baize-covered swing door leading into a passage, at the end of which Mr. Marsh's study was situated. Polly pushed open the swing door, and a minute later she stood on the threshold of the study. There was nobody in the room, and closing the door she turned her attention to the tall clock, which, as has already been said, stood against the wall near the writing-table. With fingers trembling with eagerness, the little girl opened the door of the oak case of the clock and peeped inside.
"There's heaps of room for me," she reflected triumphantly as she scrutinised the swinging pendulum and the heavy iron weights of the old time-piece. "It will be a splendid hiding-place. I am sure I can get in, and if I do stop the clock I can easily set it going again. The boys will never think of looking for me here. But I must hurry."
It was not so easy to get into the case of the clock as she had anticipated it would be, for the door was nearly two feet from the ground, but she succeeded in effecting the feat; and, once inside, she found she could stand upright, though she was obliged to keep in one position owing to the narrowness of the case. She laughed softly to herself as she stood there, listening, ready to shut the door of her hiding-place the minute she should hear sounds of anyone approaching the room. Thus she waited several minutes; but, before very long, the silence was broken by Edgar's voice in the passage, saying:
"I don't suppose she's in the study, but we'll have a look. I expect she's upstairs in the attics somewhere. We must be sharp or she'll manage to get 'home.'"
Polly smiled to herself and hastily drew the door of the clock case close. It shut with a "click," and she was in complete darkness. She heard the boys making a hasty search of the room, then followed the sound of a door slammed, retreating footsteps, and after that complete silence. The searchers had never thought of looking inside the case of the old clock.
"What a famous joke!" thought Polly delightedly. "Now, whilst they're in the attics I'll slip back to the schoolroom. I shall be on the laughing side this time."
But she was not so sanguine on that point when, having allowed a few minutes to elapse, she tried to push open the door of her hiding-place, for to her dismay it would not move. Then it dawned upon her that she had made herself a prisoner. Evidently the clock case could only be opened from the outside.
At first the little girl was more vexed than startled at her situation as she reflected that her cousin and brother would make merry over it, and it was not until she had shouted again and again and, knocked loudly, without bringing anyone to her assistance, that she began to experience a distinct sense of alarm; but even then she was not very frightened, for she felt certain her uncle would visit his study on his return from business, he would doubtless have letters to write, so she consoled herself with the hope that she would not be a prisoner very long.
The minutes dragged slowly on, and Polly began to wonder if there were spiders in the clock, or perhaps earwigs—she had a great horror of earwigs. She had noticed that the inside of the case was very dusty, as though it might harbour all sorts of creepy, crawly things; and suddenly she thought she felt something on her neck, and uttered a cry of fright. It proved to be only her imagination, however.
"Oh, this is terrible!" she exclaimed, now thoroughly alarmed. "I'm getting so hot, I believe I shall be suffocated. Oh, will nobody come to let me out! Roger! Roger!" And she beat against the door of the clock case with her hand; then listened, but not a sound was to be heard.
"I expect the boys have given up looking for me and are having tea," she thought miserably, with a pang of self-pity, and she shed a few tears, for she was beginning to feel hungry, and thirsty too. She pushed desperately against her prison, but the old oaken case was firmly secured to the wall, and she could not move it though she exerted all her strength; then she tried to change her position, for she was growing cramped, but there was not room for her to do so. Supposing, after all, no one came into the room that night and she had to remain there till morning, how awful that would be; and the worst of it was, she could not tell how time was passing, shut up there in the dark. It appeared to poor Polly that she had already been imprisoned for hours.
Meanwhile, Roger and Edgar were searching the house from attic to basement; and it was not until tea-time that they ceased their quest. Mrs. Marsh had driven out with her visitors, so the boys had their tea alone in the dining-room, for, as Edgar remarked, it was no good waiting for Polly to turn up, she could have her tea when she chose to appear.
"I can't think where she can be," Roger said, a trifle uneasily, when, after tea, he and his cousin strolled out into the garden. "I suppose nothing can have happened to her?"
"What could happen to her?" questioned Edgar. "It's stupid of her to keep away like this." Then, as they encountered a gardener, he asked him if he had seen Polly anywhere about the grounds, only to receive a decided reply in the negative.
About six o'clock Mrs. Marsh and her friends returned from their drive, and were greatly astonished to hear of the little girl's disappearance; and then Mr. Marsh arrived upon the scene and was informed that his niece was missing.
"The little monkey is hiding to cause a sensation," he said with a smile. "Why, Roger, you appear alarmed! That's foolish."
"Polly would not stay away at tea-time if she could help it," the little boy responded gravely. "I know she must be hungry, because we had dinner early. Suppose she should be shut up somewhere unable to get out—in, a chest, perhaps, like the bride in 'The Mistletoe Bough'?"
Everyone laughed at this suggestion; it seemed so very improbable.
"Oh, she'll turn up presently, never fear," said Mr. Marsh consolingly. "I shouldn't look for her any further. I expect she's laughing in her sleeve at you all the while." He had been standing, talking, in the hall, and now he pushed open the baize-covered swing door to go to his study. "You boys can come and look at my stamps and coins if you like," he proceeded. "I don't think Roger has ever seen them. Good gracious! What on earth is that? Why, someone's calling for help!" And he hurried down the passage, followed by the boys, and entered the study.
"Oh!" wailed a muffled-sounding, frightened voice, though no one was to be seen. "Come quickly! Oh, please do come and let me out!"