CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER IX.PUNISHMENT LAND.

Pauline did leave the room. She passed her sisters, who stared at her in horrified amazement. She knew that their eyes were fixed upon her, but she was doubtful if they pitied her or not. Just at that moment, however, she did not care what their feelings were. She had a momentary sense of pleasure on getting into the soft air. A gentle breeze fanned her hot cheeks. She took her old sailor hat from a peg and ran fast into a distant shrubbery. Miss Tredgold had said that she might take exercise in the north walk. If there was a dreary, ugly part of the grounds, it might be summed up in the north walk. The old garden wall was on one side of it, and a tattered, ugly box-hedge on the other. Nothing was to be seen as you walked between the hedge and the wall but the ground beneath your feet and the sky above your head. There was no distant view of any sort. In addition to this disadvantage, it was in winter an intensely cold place, and in summer, notwithstanding its name, an intensely hot place. No, Pauline would not go there. She would disobey. She would walk where she liked; she would also talk to whom she liked.

She stood for a time leaning against a tree, her face scarlet with emotion, her sailor hat flung on the ground. Presently she saw Penelope coming towards her. She felt quite glad of this, for Penelope might always be bribed. Pauline made up her mind to disobey thoroughly; she would walk where she pleased; she would do what she liked; she would talk to any one to whom she wished to talk. What was Penelope doing? She was bending down and peering on the ground. Beyond doubt she was looking for something.

“What is it, Pen?” called out her sister.

Penelope had not seen Pauline until now. She stood upright with a start, gazed tranquilly at the girl in disgrace, and then, without uttering a word, resumed her occupation of searching diligently on the ground. Pauline’s face put on its darkest scowl. Her heart gave a thump of wild indignation. She went up to Penelope and shook her by the arm. Penelope, still without speaking, managed to extricate herself. She moved a few feet away. She then again looked full at Pauline, and, to the amazement of the elder girl, her bold black eyes filled with tears. She took one dirty, chubby hand and blew a kiss to Pauline.

Pauline felt suddenly deeply touched. She very nearly wept herself.

“Oh, dear Penny,” she said, “how good you are! I didn’t know you’d feel for me. I can bear things better if I know you feel for me. You needn’t obey her, need you? See, I’ve got three-ha’pence in my pocket. I’ll give you the money and you can buy lollypops. I will really if only you will say a few words to me now.”

“I daren’t,” burst from Penelope’s lips. “You have no right to tempt me. I can’t; I daren’t. I am looking now for Aunt Sophy’s thimble. She was working here yesterday and she dropped it, she doesn’t know where. She’s awful fond of it. She’ll give me a penny if I find it. Don’t ask me any more. I’ve done very wrong to speak to you.”

“So you have,” said Pauline, who felt as angry as ever. “You have broken Aunt Sophia’s word—not your own, for you never said you wouldn’t speak to me. But go, if you are so honorable. Only please understand that I hate every one of you, and I’m never going to obey Aunt Sophia.”

Penelope only shook her little person, and presently wandered away into a more distant part of the shrubbery. She went on searching and searching. Pauline could see her bobbing her little fat person up and down.

“Even Penny,” she thought, “is incorruptible. Well, I don’t care. I won’t put up with this unjust punishment.”

The dinner-gong sounded, and Pauline, notwithstanding her state of disgrace, discovered that she was hungry.

“Why should I eat?” she said to herself. “I won’t eat. Then perhaps I’ll die, and she’ll be sorry. She’ll be had upfor manslaughter; she’ll have starved a girl to death. No, I won’t eat a single thing. And even if I don’t die I shall be awfully ill, and she’ll be in misery. Oh dear! why did mother die and leave us? And why did dreadful Aunt Sophy come? Mother was never cross; she was never hard. Oh mother! Oh mother!”

Pauline was now so miserable that she flung herself on the ground and burst into passionate weeping. Her tears relieved the tension of her heart, and she felt slightly better. Presently she raised her head, and taking out her handkerchief, prepared to mop her eyes. As she did so she was attracted by something that glittered not far off. She stretched out her hand and drew Miss Tredgold’s thimble from where it had rolled under a tuft of dock-leaves. A sudden burst of pleasure escaped her lips as she glanced at the thimble. She had not seen it before. It certainly was the most beautiful thimble she had ever looked at. She put it on the tip of her second finger and turned it round and round. The thimble itself was made of solid gold; its base was formed of one beautifully cut sapphire, and round the margin of the top of the thimble was a row of turquoises. The gold was curiously and wonderfully chased, and the sapphire, which formed the entire base of the thimble, shone in a way that dazzled Pauline. She was much interested; she forgot that she was hungry, and that she had entered into Punishment Land. It seemed to her that in her possession of the thimble she had found the means of punishing Aunt Sophia. This knowledge soothed her inexpressibly. She slipped the lovely thimble into her pocket, and again a keen pang of downright healthy hunger seized her. She knew that food would be awaiting her in the schoolroom. Should she eat it, or should she go through the wicket-gate and lose herself in the surrounding Forest?

Just at this moment a girl, who whistled as she walked, approached the wicket-gate, opened it, and came in. She was dressed in smart summer clothes; her hat was of a fashionable make, and a heavy fringe lay low on her forehead. Pauline looked at her, and her heart gave a thump of pleasure. Now, indeed, she could bear her punishment, and her revenge on Miss Tredgold lay even at the door. For Nancy King, the girl whom she was not allowed to speak to, had entered the grounds.

“Hullo, Paulie!” called out that young lady. “There you are! Well, I must say you do look doleful. What’s the matter now? Is the dear aristocrat more aristocratic than ever?”

“Oh, don’t, Nancy! I ought not to speak to you at all.”

“So I’ve been told by the sweet soul herself,” responded Nancy. “She wrote me a letter which would have put another girl in such a rage that she would never have touched any one of you again with a pair of tongs. But that’s notNancy King. For when Nancy loves a person, she loves that person through thick and thin, through weal and woe. I came to-day to try to find one of you dear girls. I have found you. What is the matter with you, Paulie? You do look bad.”

“I’m very unhappy,” said Pauline. “Oh Nancy! we sort of promised that we wouldn’t have anything more to do with you.”

“But you can’t keep your promise, can you, darling? So don’t say any more about it. Anyhow, promise or not, I’m going to kiss you now.”

Nancy flung her arms tightly round Pauline’s neck and printed several loud, resounding kisses on each cheek; then she seated herself under an oak tree, and motioned to Pauline to do likewise.

Pauline hesitated just for a moment; then scruples were forgotten, and she sat on the ground close to Nancy’s side.

“Tell me all about it,” said Nancy. “Wipe your eyes and talk. Don’t be frightened; it’s only poor old Nancy, the girl you have known since you were that high. And I’m rich, Paulie pet, and although we’re only farmer-folk, we live in a much finer house than The Dales. And I’m going to have a pony soon—a pony of my very own—and my habit is being made for me at Southampton. I intend to follow the hounds next winter. Think of that, little Paulie. You’ll see me as I ride past. I’m supposed to have a very good figure, and I shall look ripping in my habit. Well, but that’s not to the point, is it? You are in trouble, you poor little dear, and your old Nancy must try and make matters better for you. I love you, little Paulie. I’m fond of you all, but you are my special favorite. You were always considered something like me—dark and dour when you liked, but sunshiny when you liked also. Now, what is it, Paulie? Tell your own Nancy.”

“I’m very fond of you, Nancy,” replied Pauline. “And I think,” she continued, “that it is perfectly horrid of Aunt Sophia to say that we are not to know you.”

“It’s snobbish and mean and unlady-like,” retorted Nancy; “but her saying it doesn’t make it a fact, for you do know me, and you will always have to know me. And if she thinks, old spiteful! that I’m going to put up with her nasty, low, mean, proud ways, she’s fine and mistaken. I’m not, and that’s flat. So there, old spitfire! I shouldn’t mind telling her so to her face.”

“But, on the whole, she has been kind to us,” said Pauline, who had some sense of justice in her composition, angry as she felt at the moment.

“Has she?” said Nancy. “Then let me tell you she has not a very nice way of showing it. Now, Paulie, no more beating about the bush. What’s up? Your eyes are red;you have a great smear of ink on your forehead; and your hands—my word! for so grand a young lady your hands aren’t up to much, my dear.”

“I have got into trouble,” said Pauline. “I didn’t do my lessons properly yesterday; I couldn’t—I had a headache, and everything went wrong. So this morning I could not say any of them when Aunt Sophia called me up, and she put me into Punishment Land. You know, don’t you, that I am soon to have a birthday?”

“Oh, don’t I?” interrupted Nancy. “Didn’t a little bird whisper it to me, and didn’t that same little bird tell me exactly what somebody would like somebody else to give her? And didn’t that somebody else put her hand into her pocket and send—— Oh, we won’t say any more, but she did send for something for somebody’s birthday. Oh, yes, I know. You needn’t tell me about that birthday, Pauline Dale.”

“You are good,” said Pauline, completely touched. She wondered what possible thing Nancy could have purchased for her. She had a wild desire to know what it was. She determined then and there, in her foolish little heart, that nothing would induce her to quarrel with Nancy.

“It is something that you like, and something that will spite her,” said the audacious Nancy. “I thought it all out, and I made up my mind to kill two birds with one stone. Now to go on with the pretty little story. We didn’t please aunty, and we got into trouble. Proceed, Paulie pet.”

“I didn’t learn my lessons. I was cross, as I said, and headachy, and Aunt Sophia said I was to be made an example of, and so she sent me to Punishment Land for twenty-four hours.”

“Oh, my dear! It sounds awful. What is it?”

“Why, none of my sisters are to speak to me, and I am only to walk in the north walk.”

“Is this the north walk?” asked Nancy, with a merry twinkle in her black eyes.

“Of course it isn’t. She may say what she likes, but I’m not going to obey her. But the others won’t speak to me. I can’t make them. And I am to take my meals by myself in the schoolroom, and I am to go to bed at seven o’clock.”

Pauline told her sad narrative in a most lugubrious manner, and she felt almost offended at the conclusion when Nancy burst into a roar of laughter.

“It’s very unkind of you to laugh when I’m so unhappy,” said Pauline.

“My dear, how can I help it? It is so ridiculous to treat a girl who is practically almost grown up in such a baby fashion. Then I’d like to know what authority she has over you.”

“That’s the worst of it, Nancy. Father has given herauthority, and she has it in writing. She’s awfully clever, and she came round poor father, and he had to do what she wanted because he couldn’t help himself.”

“Jolly mean, I call it,” said Nancy. “My dear, you are pretty mad, I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t you be if your father treated you like that?”

“My old dad! He knows better. I’ve had my swing since I was younger than you, Paulie. Of course, at school I had to obey just a little. I wasn’t allowed to break all the rules, but I did smuggle in a good many relaxations. The thing is, you can do what you like at school if only you are not found out. Well, I was too clever to be found out. And now I am grown up, eighteen last birthday, and I have taken a fancy to cling to my old friends, even if they have a snobby, ridiculous old aunt to be rude to me. My dear, what nonsense she did write!—all about your being of such a good family, and that I wasn’t in your station. I shall keep that letter. I wouldn’t lose it for twenty shillings. What have you to boast of after all is said and done? A tumble-down house; horrid, shabby, old-fashioned, old-maidy clothes; and never a decent meal to be had.”

“But it isn’t like that now,” said Pauline, finding herself getting very red and angry.

“Well, so much the better for you. And did I make the little mousy-pousy angry? I won’t, then, any more, for Nancy loves little mousy-pousy, and would like to do what she could for her. You love me back, don’t you, mousy?”

“Yes, Nancy, I do love you, and I think it’s a horrid shame that we’re not allowed to be with you. But, all the same, I’d rather you didn’t call me mousy.”

“Oh dear, how dignified we are! I shall begin to believe in the ancient family if this sort of thing continues. But now, my dear, the moment has come to help you. The hour has arrived when your own Nancy, vulgar as she is, can lend you a helping hand. Listen.”

“What?” said Pauline.

“Jump up, Paulie; take my hand, and you and I together will walk out through that wicket-gate, and go back through the dear old Forest to The Hollies, and spend the day at my home. There are my boy cousins from London, and my two friends, Rebecca and Amelia Perkins—jolly girls, I can tell you. We shall have larks. What do you say, Paulie? A fine fright she’ll be in when she misses you. Serve her right, though.”

“But I daren’t come with you,” said Pauline. “I’d love it more than anything in the world; but I daren’t. You mustn’t ask me. You mustn’t try to tempt me, Nancy, for I daren’t go.”

“I didn’t know you were so nervous.”

“I am nervous about a thing like that. Wild as I have been, and untrained all my life, I do not think I am out-and-outwicked. It would be wicked to go away without leave. I’d be too wretched. Oh, I daren’t think of it!”

Nancy pursed up her lips while Pauline was speaking; then she gave vent to a low, almost incredulous whistle. Finally she sprang to her feet.

“I am not the one to try and make you forget your scruples,” she said. “Suppose you do this. Suppose you come at seven o’clock to-night. Then you will be safe. You may be wicked, but at least you will be safe. She’ll never look for you, nor think of you again, when once you have gone up to bed. You have a room to yourself, have you not?”

Pauline nodded.

“I thought so. You will go to your room, lock the door, and she will think it is all right. The others won’t care to disturb you. If they do they’ll find the door locked.”

“But I am forbidden to lock my room door.”

“They will call to you, but you will not answer. They may be angry, but I don’t suppose your sisters will tell on you, and they will only suppose you are sound asleep. Meanwhile you will be having a jolly good time; for I can tell you we are going to have sport to-night at The Hollies—fireworks, games, plans for the future, etc., etc. You can share my nice bed, and go back quite early in the morning. I have a lot to talk over with you. I want to arrange about our midnight picnic.”

“But, Nancy, we can’t have a midnight picnic.”

“Can’t we? I don’t see that at all. I tell you what—we will have it; and we’ll have it on your birthday. Your birthday is in a week. That will be just splendid. The moon will be at the full, and you must all of you come. Do you suppose I’m going to be balked of my fun by a stupid old woman? Ah! you little know me. My boy cousins, Jack and Tom, and my friends, Becky and Amy, have made all arrangements. We are going to have a time! Of course, if you are not there, you don’t suppose our fun will be stopped! You’ll hear us laughing in the glades. You won’t like that, will you? But we needn’t say any more until seven o’clock to-night.”

“I don’t think I’m coming.”

“But you are, Paulie. No one will know, and you must have a bit of fun. Perhaps I’ll show you the present I’m going to give you on your birthday; there’s no saying what I may do; only you must come.”

Nancy had been standing all this time. Pauline had been reclining on the ground. Now she also rose to her feet.

“You excite me,” she said. “I long to go, and yet I am afraid; it would be so awfully wicked.”

“It would be wicked if she was your mother, but she’s not. And she has no right to have any control over you. She just got round your silly old father——”

“I won’t have dad called silly!”

“Well, your learned and abstracted father. It all comes to much the same. Now think the matter over. You needn’t decide just this minute. I shall come to the wicket-gate at half-past seven, and if you like to meet me, why, you can; but if you are still too good, and your conscience is too troublesome, and your scruples too keen, you need not come. I shall quite understand. In that case, perhaps, I’d best not give you that lovely, lovely present that I saved up so much money to buy.”

Pauline clasped her hands and stepped away from Nancy. As she did so the breeze caught her full gray skirt and caused it to blow against Nancy. Nancy stretched out her hand and caught hold of Pauline’s pocket.

“What is this hard thing?” she cried. “Have you got a nut in your pocket?”

“No,” said Pauline, instantly smiling and dimpling. “Oh, Nancy, such fun!”

She dived into her pocket and produced Miss Tredgold’s thimble.

“Oh, I say!” cried Nancy. “What a beauty! Who in the world gave you this treasure, Paulie?”

“It isn’t mine at all; it belongs to Aunt Sophia.”

“You sly little thing! You took it from her?”

“No, I didn’t. I’m not a thief. I saw it in the grass a few minutes ago and picked it up. It had rolled just under that dock-leaf. Isn’t it sweet? I shall give it back to her after she has forgiven me to-morrow.”

“What a charming, return-good-for-evil character you have suddenly become, Pauline!”

As Nancy spoke she poised the thimble on her second finger. Her fingers were small, white, and tapering. The thimble exactly fitted the narrow tip on which it rested.

“I never saw anything so lovely,” she cried. “Never mind, Paulie, about to-morrow. Lend it to me. I’d give my eyes to show it to Becky.”

“But why should I lend it to you? I must return it to Aunt Sophia.”

“You surely won’t give it back to her to-day.”

“No, but to-morrow.”

“Let to-morrow take care of itself. I want to show this thimble to Becky and Amy. I have a reason. You won’t refuse one who is so truly kind to you, will you, little Paulie? And I tell you what: I know you are starving, and you hate to go into the house for your food. I will bring you a basketful of apples, chocolates, and a peach or two. We have lovely peaches ripe in our garden now, although we are such common folk.”

Pauline felt thirsty. Her hunger, too, was getting worse. She would have given a good deal to have been able to refuse the horrid meals which would be served to her in theschoolroom. Perhaps she could manage without any other food if she had enough fruit.

“I should like some very much,” she said. “Aunt Sophia has, as she calls it, preserved the orchard. We are not allowed to go into it.”

“Mean cat!” cried Nancy.

“So will you really send me a basket of fruit?”

“I will send Tom with it the instant I get home. He runs like the wind. You may expect to find it waiting for you in half-an-hour.”

“Thank you. And you will take great care of the thimble, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, child. It is a beauty.”

Without more ado Nancy slipped the thimble into her pocket, and then nodding to Pauline, and telling her that she would wait for her at the wicket-gate at half-past seven, she left her.

Nancy swung her body as she walked, and Pauline stood and watched her. She thought that Nancy looked very grown-up and very stylish. To look stylish seemed better than to look pretty in the eyes of the inexperienced little girl. She could not help having a great admiration for her friend.

“She is very brave, and so generous; and she knows such a lot of the world!” thought poor Pauline. “It is a shame not to be allowed to see her whenever one likes. And it would be just heavenly to go to her to-night, instead of spending hungry hours awake in my horrid bedroom.”

CHAPTER X.DISCIPLINE.

The other girls were miserable; but Miss Tredgold had already exercised such a very strong influence over them that they did not dare to disobey her orders. Much as they longed to do so, none of them ventured near poor Pauline. In the course of the afternoon Miss Tredgold called Verena aside.

“I know well, my dear, what you are thinking,” she said. “You believe that I am terribly hard on your sister.”

Verena’s eyes sought the ground.

“Yes, I quite know what you think,” repeated Miss Tredgold. “But, Verena, you are wrong. At least, if I am hard, it is for her good.”

“But can it do any one good to be downright cruel to her?” said Verena.

“I am not cruel, but I have given her a more severe punishmentthan she has ever received before in her life. We all, the best of us, need discipline. The first time we experience it when it comes from the hand of God we murmur and struggle and rebel. But there comes a time when we neither murmur nor struggle nor rebel. When that time arrives the discipline has done its perfect work, and God removes it. My dear Verena, I am a woman old enough to be your mother. You must trust me, and believe that I am treating Pauline in the manner I am to-day out of the experience of life that God has given me. We are so made, my dear, that we none of us are any good until our wills are broken to the will of our Divine Master.”

“But this is not God’s will, is it?” said Verena. “It is your will.”

“Consider for a moment, my child. It is, I believe, both God’s will and mine. Don’t you want Pauline to be a cultivated woman? Don’t you want her character to be balanced? Don’t you want her to be educated? There is a great deal that is good in her. She has plenty of natural talent. Her character, too, is strong and sturdy. But at present she is like a flower run to weed. In such a case what would the gardener do?”

“I suppose he would prune the flower.”

“If it was a hopeless weed he would cast it out of his garden; but if it really was a flower that had degenerated into a weed, he would take it up and put it to some pain, and plant it again in fresh soil. The poor little plant might say it was badly treated when it was taken from its surroundings and its old life. This is very much the case with Pauline. Now, I do not wish her to associate with Nancy King. I do not wish her to be idle or inattentive. I want her to be energetic, full of purpose, resolved to do her best, and to take advantage of those opportunities which have come to you all, my dear, when I, your mother’s sister, took up my abode at The Dales. Sometime, dear, it is quite possible that, owing to what will be begun in Pauline’s character to-day, people will stop and admire the lovely flower. They will know that the gardener who put it to some pain and trouble was wise and right. Now, my dear girl, you will remember my little lecture. Pauline needs discipline. For that matter, you all need discipline. At first such treatment is hard, but in the end it is salutary.”

“Thank you, Aunt Sophy,” said Verena. “But perhaps,” she added, “you will try and remember, too, that kindness goes a long way. Pauline is perhaps the most affectionate of us all. In some ways she has the deepest feelings. But she can be awfully sulky, and only kindness can move her.”

“I quite understand, my dear; and when the time comes kindness will not be wanting. Now go away and amuse yourself with your sisters.”

Verena went away. She wondered as she did so wherePauline was hiding herself. The others had all settled down to their various amusements and occupations. They were sorry for Pauline, but the pleasant time they were enjoying in the middle of this lovely summer’s day was not to be despised, even if their sister was under punishment. But Verena herself could not rest. She went into the schoolroom. On a tray stood poor Pauline’s neglected dinner. Verena lifted the cover from the plate, and felt as though she must cry.

“Pauline is taking it hardly,” thought the elder girl.

Tea-time came, and Pauline’s tea was also sent to the schoolroom. At preparation hour, when the rest of the girls went into the room, Pauline’s tea remained just where it had been placed an hour before. Verena could scarcely bear herself. There must be something terribly wrong with her sister. They had often been hungry in the old days, but in the case of a hearty, healthy girl, to do without any food from breakfast-time when there was plenty to eat was something to regard with uneasiness.

Presently, however, to her relief, Pauline came in. She looked rough and untidy in appearance. She slipped into the nearest chair in a sulky, ungainly fashion, and taking up a battered spelling-book, she held it upside down.

Verena gave her a quick glance and looked away. Pauline would not meet Verena’s anxious gaze. She kept on looking down. Occasionally her lips moved. There was a red stain on her cheek. Penelope with one of her sharpest glances perceived this.

“It is caused by fruit,” thought the youngest of the schoolroom children. “I wonder who has given Pauline fruit. Did she climb the garden wall or get over the gate into the orchard?”

Nobody else noticed this stain. Miss Tredgold came in presently, but she took no more notice of Pauline than if that young lady did not exist.

The hour of preparation was over. It was now six o’clock. In an hour Pauline was expected to go to bed. Now, Pauline and Verena had bedrooms to themselves. These were attic rooms at the top of the house. They had sloping roofs, and would have been much too hot in summer but for the presence of a big beech tree, which grew to within a few feet of the windows. More than once the girls in their emancipated days, as they now considered them, used to climb down the beech tree from their attic windows, and on a few occasions had even managed to climb up the same way. They loved their rooms, having slept in them during the greater part of their lives.

Pauline, as she now went in the direction of the north walk, thought with a sense of satisfaction of the bedroom she had to herself.

“It will make things easier,” she thought. “They will allbe on the lawn doing their needlework, and Aunt Sophia will be reading to them. I will go past them quite quietly to my room, and then——”

These thoughts made Pauline comparatively happy. Once or twice she smiled, and a vindictive, ugly expression visited her small face.

“She little knows,” thought the girl. “Oh, she little knows! She thinks that she is so clever—so terribly clever; but, after all, she has not the least idea of the right way to treat me. No, she has not the least idea. And perhaps by-and-by she will be sorry for what she has done.”

Seven o’clock was heard to strike in the house. Pauline, retracing her steps, went slowly past her sisters and Miss Tredgold. Miss Tredgold slightly raised her voice as the culprit appeared. She read aloud with more determination than ever. Penelope flung down the duster she was hemming and watched Pauline.

“I a’most wish I wor her,” thought the ex-nursery child. “Anything is better than this horrid sewing. How it pricks my fingers! That reminds me; I wonder where Aunt Sophy’s thimble has got to. I did look hard for it. I wish I could find it. I do want that penny so much! It was a beauty thimble, too, and she loves it. I don’t want to give it back to her ’cos she loves it, but I should like my penny.”

Pauline had now nearly disappeared from view.

“Paulie is up to a lark,” thought Penelope, who was the sharpest of all the children, and read motives as though she was reading an open book. “She doesn’t walk as though she was tur’ble unhappy. I wonder what she’s up to. And that red stain on her cheek was fruit; course it was fruit. How did she get it? I wish I knew. I’ll try and find out.”

Pauline had now reached her bedroom. There she hastily put on her best clothes. They were very simple, but, under Miss Tredgold’s regime, fairly nice. She was soon attired in a neat white frock; and an old yellow sash of doubtful cleanliness and a bunch of frowsy red poppies were folded in a piece of tissue paper. Pauline then slipped on her sailor hat. She had a great love for the old sash; and as to the poppies, she thought them far more beautiful than any real flowers that ever grew. She meant to tie the yellow sash round her waist when she reached the shrubbery, and to pin the poppies into her hat. The fact that Miss Tredgold had forbidden her to wear this sash, and had herself removed the poppies from her Sunday hat, gave her now a sense of satisfaction.

“Young ladies don’t wear things of that sort,” Miss Tredgold had said.

“A young lady shall wear things of this sort to-night,” thought Pauline.

Having finished her toilet, she locked her door from theoutside and put the key into her pocket; but before she left the room she drew down the dark-green blind. She then slipped downstairs and went out through the back way. She had to go through the yard, but no one saw her except Betty, who, as she afterwards remarked, did observe the flutter of a white dress with the tail of her eye. But Betty at that moment was immersed in a fresh installment of the wonderful adventures of the Duke of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton and his bride, and what did it matter to her if the young ladies chose to run out in their best frocks?

Pauline reached the shrubbery without further adventure. There she put on her extra finery. Her yellow sash was tied in a large bow, and her poppies nodded over her forehead.

It was a very excited dark-eyed girl who presently met Nancy King on the other side of the wicket-gate.

“Here I am,” said Pauline. “I expect I shall never have any luck again all my life; but I want to spite her at any cost, so here I am.”

“Delicious!” said Nancy. “Isn’t it good to spite the old cat? Now then, let’s be off, or we may be caught. But I say, how fine we are!”

“You always admired this bunch of poppies, didn’t you, Nancy? Do you remember? Before you went to that grand school at Brighton you used to envy me my poppies. I found them among mother’s old things, and Verena gave them to me. I love them like anything. Don’t you like them very much, placed so in front of my hat?”

“Didn’t I say, ‘How fine we are’?”

“Yes; but somehow your tone——”

“My dear Paulie, you are getting much too learned for my taste. Now come along. Take my hand. Let us run. Let me tell you, you look charming. The girls will admire you wonderfully. Amy and Becky are keen to make your acquaintance. You can call them by their Christian names; they’re not at all stiff. Surname, Perkins. Nice girls—brought up at my school—father in the pork line; jolly girls—very. And, of course, you met Jack and Tom last year. They’re out fishing at present. They’ll bring in beautiful trout for supper. Why, you poor little thing, you must be starved.”

“Ravenous. You know I had only your fruit to-day.”

“You shall have a downright jolly meal, and afterwards we’ll have fireworks; and then by-and-by you will share my bed. Amy and Becky will be in the same room. They think there’s a ghost at the other side of the passage, so they came along to my chamber. But you won’t mind.”

“I won’t mind anything after my lonely day. You are quite sure that I’ll get back in time in the morning, Nancy?”

“Trust me for that. Haven’t you got the key of your room?”

“Yes; it’s in my pocket. I left the window on the latch, and I can climb up the beech tree quite well. Oh! that reminds me, Nancy; you must let me have that thimble before I return to The Dales.”

“To be sure I will, dear. But you needn’t think of returning yet, for you have not even arrived. Your fun is only beginning. Oh! you have done a splendid, spirited thing running off in this fashion. I only hope she’ll go to your room and tap and tap, and knock and knock, and shout and shout, and get, oh, so frightened! and have the door burst open; and then she’ll see for herself that the bird has flown. Won’t she be in a tantrum and a fright! Horrid old thing! She’ll think that you have run off forever. Serve her right. Oh! I almost wish she would do it—that I do.”

“But I don’t,” said Pauline. “If she did such a thing it would almost kill me. It’s all very well for you to talk in that fashion; you haven’t got to live with her; but I have, and I couldn’t stand her anger and her contempt. I’d be put into Punishment Land for a year. And as one day has very nearly killed me, what would a year of it do? If there is any fear of what you wish for, I’d best go back at once.”

“What! and lose the trout, and the game pie, and the steak and onions, and the fried potatoes, and the apple turnovers, and the plum puffs, to say nothing of the most delicious lollypops you have ever tasted in your life? And afterwards fireworks; for Jack and Tom have bought a lot of Catherine-wheels and rockets to let off in your honor. And then a cosy, warm hug in my bed, with Amy and Becky telling ghost stories in the bed opposite. You don’t mean to tell me you’d rather have your lonely room and starvation than a program of that sort?”

“No, no. Of course I’ll go on with you. I’ve done it now, so I’ll stick to it. Oh, I’m madly hungry! I hope you’ll have supper the moment we get in.”

“Supper will be delayed as short a time as possible. It rather depends upon the boys and when they bring the trout home. But here is a queen cake. I stuffed it into my pocket for you. Eat it as we go along.”

So Pauline ate it and felt better. Her courage returned. She no longer thought of going back. Had she done so, she knew well that she would not sleep. People never slept well if they were hungry.

“No,” she said to herself; “I will go on with it now. I’ll just trust to my good luck, and I’ll enjoy the time with Nancy. For, after all, she’s twice as kind as Aunt Sophia. Why should I make myself miserable on account of a woman who is not my mother?”

The Hollies was a very snug, old-fashioned sort of farm. It had been in the King family for generations, and Mr. Josiah King was a very fine specimen of the British farmer. He was a big man with a red face, bushy whiskers, grizzledhair, and a loud laugh. The expression of his broad, square face was somewhat fierce, and the servants at the farm were afraid to anger him. He was a just enough master, however, and was always served well by his people. To only one person was he completely mild and gentle, and that person, it is needless to say, was his daughter Nancy. Nancy was his only child. Her mother was dead, and from her earliest days she had been able to twist her father round her little finger. He sent her to a smart boarding school, and no money was spared in order to give her pleasure. It was the dream of Farmer King, and Nancy’s dearest ambition also, that she should be turned into a lady. But, alas and alack! Miss Nancy could not overcome the stout yeoman blood in her veins. She was no aristocrat, and nothing could make her one. She was just a hearty, healthy happy-minded English girl; vulgar in voice and loud in speech, but fairly well-intentioned at heart. She was the sort of farmer’s daughter who would marry a farmer, and look after the dairy, and rear stalwart sons and hearty girls in her turn. Nature never intended her for a fine lady; but silly Nancy had learnt a great deal more at school than how to talk a little French very badly and how to recite a poem with false action and sentiment. She had learnt to esteem the world for the world’s own sake, and had become a little ashamed of the farmer and the farmer’s ways; and, finally, when she returned from school she insisted on the best parlor being turned into a sort of drawing-room, on her friends being regaled with late dinners, and on herself being provided with servants, so that she need not touch household work. She was playing, therefore, the game of being a lady, and was failing as she played it. She knew that she was failing, and this knowledge made her feel very cross. She tried hard to stifle it, and clung more than ever to her acquaintanceship with the Dale girls.

In her heart of hearts Nancy knew that she would very much like to milk the cows, and superintend the dairy, and churn the butter. In her heart of hearts she would have adored getting up early in the morning and searching for the warm, pink eggs, and riding barebacked over the farm with her father, consulting him on the tilling of the land and the best way to make the old place profitable; for one day it would be her own, and she would be, for her class in life, a rich girl. Just at present, however, she was passing through a phase, and not a very pleasant one. She thought herself quite good enough to go into any society; and fine dress, loud-voiced friends, and the hollow, empty nothings which she and her acquaintances called conversation seemed the best things possible that could come into life. She was, therefore, not at all in the mood to give up her friendship with the Dale girls.

Now, there never was a girl less likely to please MissTredgold than this vulgarly dressed, loud-voiced, and unlady-like girl. Nancy was desired to abstain from visiting at The Dales, and the Dale girls were told that they were not to talk to Nancy. Nancy’s rapture, therefore, when she was able to bring Pauline to The Hollies could scarcely be suppressed.

Amy and Becky Perkins were standing in the old porch when the two girls appeared. Nancy called out to her friends, and they ran to meet her.

“This is Paulie,” said Nancy; “in other words, Pauline Dale—Pauline Dale, the aristocrat. We ought to be proud to know her, girls. Pauline, let me introduce my special friend, Becky Perkins. She’s in pork, but that don’t matter. And my other special friend, Amy Perkins; also in pork, but at your service. Girls, you didn’t happen to notice if supper was being put on the table, did you?”

“I should think we did,” said Becky. “I smelt fish. The boys brought in a lot of trout. I’m as hungry as hungry can be.”

“Let’s run upstairs first,” said Nancy, turning to Pauline. “You’d like to take off your hat and wash your hands, wouldn’t you, my fine friend of aristocratic circles?”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Nancy,” said Pauline, flushing angrily, while the two Perkins girls looked at her with admiration.

“Well, then, I won’t,” said Nancy; “but I’m always one for my joke. I meant no harm. And you know you are aristocratic, Paulie, and nothing will ever take it out of you. And I’m terribly afraid that nothing will take the other thing out of me. I only talk to you like this because I’m so jealous. So now come along and let’s be friends.”

The two girls scampered up the old oak stairs. They ran down an uneven passage, and reached a door of black oak, which was opened with an old-fashioned latch. At the other side of the door they found themselves in a long and very low room, with a black oak floor and black oak walls. The floor of the room was extremely uneven, being up in one part and down in another, and the whole appearance of the room, although fascinating, was decidedly patchy. In an alcove at one end stood a four-post bedstead, with a gaudily colored quilt flung over it; and in the alcove at the other end was another four-post bedstead, also boasting of a colored quilt. There were two washstands in the room, and one dressing-table. The whole place was scrupulously neat and exquisitely clean, for the white dimity curtains rivalled the snow in winter, and the deal washstands and the deal dressing-table were as white as the scrubbing of honest hands could make them. The whole room smelt of a curious mixture of turpentine, soap, and fresh flowers.

“I had the lavender sheets put on the bed for you andme,” said Nancy. “They are of the finest linen. My mother spun them herself, and she put them in lavender years and years ago. I am heartily glad to welcome you, little Paulie. This is the very first time you have ever slept under our humble roof. So kiss me, dear.”

“How snug and sweet it all is!” said Pauline. “I am glad that I came.”

“This is better than lying down hungry in your own little room,” said Nancy.

“Oh, much better!”

Pauline skipped about. Her high spirits had returned; she was charmed with the room in which she was to repose. Through the lattice window the sweetest summer air was entering, and roses peeped all round the frame, and their sweet scent added to the charm of the old-fashioned chamber.

“I hope you won’t mind having supper in the kitchen,” said Nancy. “I know it’s what a Dale is not expected to submit to; but, nevertheless, in Rome we do as the Romans do—don’t we?”

“Oh, yes; but I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Nancy. As if I cared. Whether I am a lady or not, I am never too fine for my company; and it was when Aunt Sophia wanted us to give you up that I really got mad with her.”

“You are a darling and a duck, and I love you like anything,” said Nancy. “Now come downstairs. We are all hungry, and the boys are mad to be at the fireworks.”

“I have never seen fireworks in my life,” said Pauline.

“You poor little innocent! What a lot the world has to show you! Now then, come along.”

Pauline, deprived of her hideous hat, looked pretty and refined in her white dress. She made a contrast to the showy Nancy and the Perkins girls. The boys, Jack and Tom Watson, looked at her with admiration, and Jack put a seat for Pauline between himself and his brother.

The farmer nodded to her, and said in his bluff voice:

“Glad to welcome you under my humble roof, Miss Pauline Dale. ’Eartily welcome you be. Now then, young folks, fall to.”

The meal proceeded to the accompaniment of loud jokes, gay laughter, and hearty talking. The farmer’s voice topped the others. Each remark called forth fresh shouts of laughter; and when a number of dogs rushed in in the middle of supper, the din almost rose to an uproar.

Pauline enjoyed it all very much. She laughed with the others; her cheeks grew rosy. Nancy piled her plate with every available dainty. Soon her hunger left her, and she believed that she was intensely happy.

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