Then she shuddered as she reflected on the accident. How terrible it would have been if her horses had killed Margaret's little daughter! She had made no inquiries concerning her niece since her marriage and had not even known where she was living, or if she had any children or not. Therefore, it had been somewhat of a shock to discover she had a child who was afflicted with blindness. She pictured Peggy, golden-haired and sunny-faced, and an unwonted expression of tenderness crossed her countenance. After all, she decided, she would remain at Higher Brimley for the time, for—it was weak of her, no doubt—she felt she must see Peggy once again.
A GREAT SURPRISE
NOT quite a week later, Mr. Tiddy, crossing the fields in his usual leisurely fashion towards the house at dinner-time, caught sight of his wife and Peggy, standing at the garden gate, evidently waiting for him. As he drew near enough to see the expression of their faces, he noticed that both appeared excited, and as he joined them the little girl cried eagerly:
"Oh, Mr. Tiddy, we've had a visitor! She came and knocked at the door and asked if she might go round the garden. And who do you think she was?"
"Why, the old lady who's lodging at Higher Brimley, to be sure," answered Mr. Tiddy promptly, evincing no surprise. "I met her this morning, and she stopped and spoke to me. She expressed a desire to see our flowers, so I told her, she'd be welcome to look at them, whenever she pleased. She didn't lose much time in taking me at my word," he concluded, smilingly.
"Ah, but do you know who she is?" demanded Peggy. "No, we thought not. You'll be simply astounded when you hear. She didn't tell us until just as she was leaving, and then she said her name was Leighton, and that I was related to her—distantly related, she said. She's mother's Aunt Caroline, the rich lady who was in the carriage when—"
"What!" broke in the farmer, "You don't say so!" He looked questioningly at his wife as he spoke, and she hastened to reply:
"Yes, Ebenezer, it is true. There can be no doubt about it. She is that rich Miss Leighton of whom we have heard so much."
"I told her who I was that day she talked to me on the beach," Peggy said, with face and voice full of excitement. "She asked me my name; and—and I told her, too, all about my accident and how unkind we thought it of her to have driven away when I was hurt. I think perhaps she was cross at what I said, but I never dreamt who she was, so I don't think really it was my fault, do you, Mr. Tiddy?"
"No, my dear, I do not," he agreed.
"Still, perhaps I ought not to have talked as I did to a stranger. She was very nice to-day, though, wasn't she, Mrs. Tiddy?"
"Very. Will you run into the house, Peggy, and say we are ready for dinner?"
Then as the little girl obeyed, Mrs. Tiddy turned to her husband and said gravely:
"Ebenezer, what can have brought Miss Leighton here? Until Peggy told her her name the other day, she had no idea who she was or even that her niece had children. I don't believe she has forgiven Peggy's mother yet. Isn't it shocking to bear malice in one's heart so long? 'I don't wish to hear anything concerning your friend or her husband,' she said to me in a tone without an atom of feeling in it; 'but I was never one for visiting the sins of the parents upon the children. My niece proved herself ungrateful, and I regard ingratitude as a sin, but I feel no resentment against her innocent daughter.' I should think not indeed! I made no answer, however, for I was afraid, if I did, I might say too much."
"Surely she did not make that remark before Peggy!" exclaimed Mr. Tiddy, his ruddy colour deepening with indignation.
"No, certainly not; Peggy was not within hearing then. What shall I do? Miss Leighton asked me to call on her and bring Peggy with me, and I half promised I would; I did not like to refuse. I think the old lady has taken a fancy to the child. Isn't it strange that those two should have crossed each other's path again?"
The farmer nodded, a very thoughtful expression on his face. "There's One above Who planned they should meet, that's my opinion," he said gravely; "and I don't think we ought to try to keep them apart. Maybe the old lady will get to feel more kindly towards her niece when she knows Peggy better and realises what a dear little soul she is and how well her mother has brought her up. I am sure Mrs. Pringle will not object to your taking the child to call on her aunt. By the way, does Miss Leighton like her lodgings?"
"She said they were fairly comfortable. She strikes me as a rather dissatisfied body. She is anything but a happy woman, Ebenezer, though God has given her so much; and I hear from the servants, who have become friendly with her maid, that she is a very jealous, exacting temper, and she is always imagining people are trying to cultivate her acquaintance on account of her wealth."
"Well, she cannot possibly imagine that about you," Mr. Tiddy replied, "for she has sought your acquaintance herself. I suppose we had better go in to dinner now. There's Peggy under the porch beckoning to us."
Mrs. Tiddy decided she would not call upon Miss Leighton until she had mentioned the matter to her old school friend; so she wrote to her that same day, and received an answer by return of post. Mrs. Pringle said very little about her aunt in her letter, but she raised no objection to her little daughter's calling with Mrs. Tiddy at Higher Brimley. "Aunt Caroline is not fond of young people," she remarked, "so please don't force the child upon her notice—but I am sure you will not do that."
"I certainly will not," Mrs. Tiddy reflected as she folded up her friend's letter, "but I will take Peggy to call on Miss Leighton, as the old lady made a point of my doing so. We need not stay very long, any way."
Peggy experienced a feeling of unusual shyness when, one April afternoon, she accompanied Mrs. Tiddy to Higher Brimley; and, although Miss Leighton received them with every sign of cordiality, she was anything but at ease in her presence. As the little girl sat in silence listening to the conversation of the two ladies, she was aware that the elder's eyes were upon her, and she alternately flushed and paled as she thought over the small amount of information she had gleaned from her mother since her accident about this aunt of hers. Her tender heart had gone out in sympathy towards the old lady, whom she had sincerely pitied because she had fancied she might be all alone in the world, but now she mentally regarded her from quite another point of view.
"Mother would have loved her, if she would have let her," she reflected. "It is her own fault if she is lonely. I wonder if she will speak of mother to me!"
But Miss Leighton did not once mention her niece's name. She addressed herself very kindly to Peggy every now and again, and seemed wishful to make much of her, and Mrs. Tiddy saw she was disappointed and half-vexed by the child's evident disinclination to talk.
"What have you done with your dog this afternoon?" Miss Leighton inquired, when at length her visitors rose to go.
"We shut him up in the stable before we started," Peggy answered. "He wanted to come because he loves a walk."
"He is rather quarrelsome with other dogs," Mrs. Tiddy explained, "so we thought it wiser to leave him at home. The poor creature was very disappointed, for he spends most of his time with Peggy now, and we always feel she is safe if Wolf is with her."
"What will he do when he loses her altogether?" asked Miss Leighton. "Peggy does not propose taking him back with her to London, I presume?"
"No," the little girl answered, accepting the question seriously, "I wouldn't do that, even if Mr. Tiddy would give him to me, for I am sure he would be wretched in town. I'd rather know he is here, guarding the yard and looking after the sheep, and going on as he always does—having such a good time! He will miss me at first, but—where is Mrs. Tiddy?" she asked quickly.
They had left the house and were in the garden now, Mrs. Tiddy having lingered at the door to exchange a few words with Mrs. Ford.
"She is talking to my landlady," Miss Leighton replied. "She will be here presently. Are you in a great hurry to go? You have no objection to being alone with me for a few minutes, I suppose?" she questioned sharply.
"Oh! No!" Peggy assured her. "And—and now we are alone, I should like to say that I hope I wasn't rude to you the other day on the beach," she proceeded, looking distressed. "I would not have spoken like that if—if I had known who you were. I—I have thought of it often since, and I am sorry if I said anything you did not like. I was afraid, afterwards, that you were displeased with me."
"People are seldom pleased to hear others' opinions of themselves," was the dry response. "You evidently considered my conduct towards you had been heartless; but I am not angry with you, child. You only said frankly what you thought."
"Yes," Peggy agreed, colouring hotly in her confusion. "I am glad you are not angry, though, because I did not mean to be rude, and I am afraid I must have been," she added deprecatingly.
"I think you are prejudiced against me." Miss Leighton paused momentarily, and sighed, then continued, "Well, it is natural you should be. I am sorry, nevertheless. Cannot you dismiss all you have heard of me from your mind and take me as you find me?"
"I—I will try. I have not heard much about you, indeed! I never heard of you at all till after my accident! Then Billy told me who you were, and I was so surprised! Billy and I have often talked of you since!"
"Really? I dare say you heard Mrs. Tiddy ask me to take tea with her one afternoon, soon? I shall hope then to hear you play. I hear you are quite a musician."
"Oh, no! But I love music. I play to Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy every night." The mantle of reserve was falling from Peggy and the brightness was returning to her face. "Do you love music too?" she inquired, lifting her sightless blue eyes to her companion's countenance.
"Indeed I do; so we have that much in common, at any rate."
"Oh, we have more than that, for I am sure you love flowers, and so do I. Do you know, there are such a lot of sea-pinks growing on the cliffs—"
"You do not go on the cliffs alone?" Miss Leighton interposed.
"Oh, no! But I have been several times with Mr. Tiddy, and I hold fast to his hand. There is a sheep-track along the cliffs, you know, and it is quite safe if you keep to that. I could find my way alone, I am sure, but I never mean to try, because I have promised, I won't."
"That's well. Perhaps you and I might walk there together some day. Do you think you could put up with an old woman for a companion?"
"Yes, Miss Leighton," Peggy answered, smiling.
"And you shall show me the sea-pinks, and we will take Wolf to protect us both. But do not call me 'Miss Leighton,' child; call me 'Aunt Caroline,' for you are my great-niece and—and I should like to be kind to you."
CONCERNING ELLEN BARNES
MISS LEIGHTON'S maid—Ellen Barnes—was a plain, sad-faced, middle-aged woman who had been with her present employer for many years. She had known Mrs. Pringle before her marriage, and consequently, it was with considerable satisfaction and some astonishment that she saw the interest with which her mistress regarded the daughter of the niece, the very existence of whom she had ignored so long.
It cannot be said that Miss Leighton was on anything like confidential terms with her maid; but she trusted her, and she would have certainly been at a loss without the services of the quiet, rather spiritless woman who rarely spoke except in answer to a question.
Miss Leighton had now been nearly a fortnight at Higher Brimley, and had had several interviews with her little great-niece on the beach, and had walked with her along the sheep-track on the cliffs to look at the sea-pinks. But she had not yet taken tea with Mrs. Tiddy as had been suggested, and when, one sunshiny morning, Peggy arrived with an invitation for her to do so that afternoon, she accepted it immediately.
"Of course I will come," she replied, after Peggy—rosy with the exercise of walking—had delivered her message. "Please give my kind regards to Mrs. Tiddy and say I accept her invitation with pleasure. Did you walk here by yourself, child?"
"No," answered Peggy. She had been ushered into Miss Leighton's sitting-room by Ellen Barnes, who had been on an errand to the post office for her mistress and had overtaken the little girl on her way home. "I started to come alone," she said, "but I had not gone far before I heard some one calling to me. It was Barnes. So we walked on together. What a very nice woman she is, Aunt Caroline! We had such a long talk!"
"Humph!" exclaimed Miss Leighton, rather surprised. "And, pray, what did you find to talk about?"
"Oh, about things at home, first of all," was the somewhat vague response. "My home, of course I mean. I did not know till to-day that Barnes knew my mother."
The little girl had taken the chair which had been placed for her close to the open window by which Miss Leighton was sitting, and the bright spring sunshine fell full upon her face framed in its golden curls. Certainly she made a very pretty picture.
"I like Barnes," she proceeded in a tone of decision as her companion vouchsafed no response. "How very fortunate you are to have such a nice woman for your maid, Aunt Caroline!"
"I believe she is thoroughly trustworthy," Miss Leighton remarked, somewhat astonished at this expression of opinion, "and that is a great deal to be able to say of any one. Barnes has been with me many years. I pay her good wages and she is not overworked. I believe she values her situation."
"Oh, yes, I am sure she does!" Peggy agreed earnestly.
"How can you tell, child?" Miss Leighton asked, a slightly amused smile curving her lips.
"She told me she did, Aunt Caroline."
"Did she?" There was gratification in the old lady's voice. "But—how strange of her to say so to you! She must have been very confidential."
"She was telling me about her brother, and how she values her situation with you because you pay her such good wages that she is able to send home more than half she earns. Oh, Aunt Caroline, when she told me about her brother, I thought how thankful I ought to be that God has only made me blind! Suppose I was like poor Barnes's brother: how much worse that would be!"
"What about Barnes's brother?" inquired Miss Leighton, in utter bewilderment. "I have never heard anything about my maid's relations; she has a week's holiday every summer; I suppose she goes to see them then. Stay—I think I remember hearing her once mention a mother, who, by the way, must be a very old woman, for Barnes herself is quite middle-aged."
"Barnes's mother is more than eighty years old, and she lives in a little village near Plymouth with her son. Oh, Aunt Caroline, he is only two years younger than Barnes, and he has been an idiot all his life!"
"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Leighton, feeling really shocked. "I never heard that before. Barnes never told me."
Peggy looked intensely surprised for a minute, then an expression of comprehension crossed her face. "I expect she did not like to tell you," she said. "Perhaps she thought you would not be interested, you know."
"Why should she think that?" Miss Leighton questioned sharply.
The little girl was silent. She had heard Mrs. Tiddy say that Barnes looked a broken-spirited woman; and Mrs. Ford, when she had called at Lower Brimley a few days previously, had declared her to be a perfect slave to her mistress's whims, and wondered why she did not seek another situation with some one who, at any rate, would be less inconsiderate and exacting. In the conversation the little girl had had with Barnes, she had discovered the reason which induced her to keep her post. It was because it enabled her to do so much for her poor mother and her imbecile brother in their cottage home.
"Why should you think that?" Miss Leighton persisted. "Come, speak out, child! Don't be afraid of me!"
"I'm not," Peggy answered truthfully, for she was not in the least in awe of the old lady. "I meant that—that perhaps if you have never asked Barnes about her relations, she would think you would not care to hear about them. But it does seem so very odd that she should have lived with you so many years, and you should not know all about her mother and brother!"
"The brother is an idiot, you say?"
"Yes; but Barnes and her mother are very fond of him; it would break her mother's heart to be parted from him, and Barnes says they shall never be separated as long as God gives her health and strength to work. They get parish pay, and with what Barnes sends them they manage to live pretty comfortably. Oh, Aunt Caroline, mustn't it be dreadful to have a brother like that! Oh dear, I do think it is so very sad!" And the pitiful tears rose to Peggy's blue eyes and ran down her cheeks.
"You mustn't take other people's troubles to heart like that!" Miss Leighton exclaimed hastily.
"I feel so sorry for Barnes," Peggy said, with deepest sorrow in her tone, "because I am sure it must make her very unhappy to think of her brother and her old mother sometimes. She must wish to see them so much, and always be wondering how they are getting on. Mrs. Tiddy says Barnes looks a very sad woman. I wish I could do something to make her happier."
"I said so to her just now," she continued, with a brightening face, "and what do you think she answered? That I had helped her by being sorry for her brother; she said she wouldn't have told me anything about him if I hadn't been afflicted myself, and it warmed her heart to know I cared. I told her I should pray to God every night to make her brother right in his mind, and she said she was afraid that would never be in this world. Poor fellow! He's like me, Aunt Caroline, in that way, isn't he? He will have to bear his cross as long as he lives, and his cross is so much heavier than mine."
A silence followed, during which Miss Leighton sat gazing, unseeingly, out of the window. There was a mist before her eyes, and a lump in her throat which prevented her uttering a word. By-and-by Peggy rose to go.
"Mrs. Tiddy said she hoped you would come early this afternoon," she observed. "Please do, for I've so many things to show you."
"I certainly will," Miss Leighton replied. "Shall Barnes take you home?"
"Oh no, thank you, I know the way quite well; I have only to keep to the road. Good-bye, Aunt Caroline—till this afternoon."
Miss Leighton stood at the window and watched the little girl out of sight, a gentler expression than usual on her face. Then she resumed her seat and took up the book she had been reading before the child's arrival; but it failed to interest her now, for her mind was full of uneasy thoughts. Barnes had lived with her for nearly twenty years, she reflected; and yet how little she really knew of the woman! Well, it could not be expected that she would interest herself in her maid's concerns. And yet, how surprised Peggy had been at discovering her ignorance of aged mother and her imbecile son. Peggy had learnt all there was to know about them in less than half an hour.
Miss Leighton paid her servants liberal wages—she was never stingy where money was concerned—and it had often occurred to her that Barnes must be of a miserly disposition, for she dressed very plainly and it had been impossible not to notice that she begrudged spending money. Now she understood where the woman's wages had gone. Barnes had not been making a purse for herself, but spending it upon those dear to her, and, all the while, she had been regarding her as a mean, poor-spirited creature.
It was difficult to realise that the humble, silent woman who had borne with her mistress's haughty temper so patiently, had been leading a life of self-sacrifice and self-repression from the noblest of motives; but Miss Leighton now realised that such had been the case, for Peggy had thrown a new light upon the maid's character.
What had made Barnes tell Peggy about her brother? the old lady wondered. Was it because her heart had been hungry for sympathy, and she had known instinctively that she would receive it from the blind child? Probably so. She had preferred to confide in a stranger, rather than in the mistress whom she knew to be accounted a charitable woman—one lavish in giving of her wealth.
"I don't think she can really be charitable, if she isn't kind in little ways," Peggy had said ingenuously, passing her childish judgment on her mother's rich aunt, and the words returned forcibly to Miss Leighton's mind now, and cause her a strange pang, whilst she asked herself if she had ever been really kind to Ellen Barnes, or for that matter, to any member of her household. She was a lonely old woman; but, after all, was it not greatly owing to her own fault? She had certainly never been "kind in little ways."
TEA AT LOWER BRIMLEY
IT was not the ordinary "afternoon tea" to which Miss Leighton was invited, but a substantial meal laid on the square mahogany table in the parlour at Lower Brimley, with a mass of primroses in the centre intermingled with sprays of beautiful fern moss, surrounded by plates of daintily cut bread-and-butter and various kinds of preserves in glass dishes, an old china bowl full of clotted cream, a plum cake, and some saffron buns—"knobbies" as they are called in Cornwall.
It was but natural that Mrs. Tiddy should put her best possessions before this relation of her little visitor's, so the silver tea-service had come out of its flannel wrappings, and Miss Leighton drank her tea from a rare old china teacup with a wreath of pink roses inside its brim—one of a set which had been treasured in Mr. Tiddy's family for three generations and was only used on great occasions—and stirred her tea with an apostle spoon, worn thin with age; whilst, much to her hostess's gratification, she evidently appreciated the efforts which were being made to entertain her.
Seated at Mrs. Tiddy's right hand at the tea-table, the old lady looked about her with a sense of unusual contentment. For once in a way, she was satisfied with the company in which she found herself. Yes, she liked this hearty, out-spoken west-country farmer and his pleasant, intelligent wife, for she was under the impression—a true one—that they would have welcomed her as cordially if she had been poor instead of rich, and she so seldom felt that about people. After tea, Peggy took possession of her, and, after visiting the yard and inspecting the poultry, she was led into the great farm kitchen, where, in one corner of the oak settle close to the fire was a flannel-lined basket containing two weakly chicks.
"Mrs. Tiddy thought this morning that they would die," Peggy said as she covered the invalids with her warm hands. "But they are getting on nicely now, and to-morrow, they'll be strong enough to run with their brothers and sisters."
Miss Leighton glanced around the kitchen with admiring, appreciative eyes, noticing the shining tins on the mantel-piece, the big copper warming-pan and the tall, brass-faced clock against the wall, and the linen bags hanging from the beams which spanned the ceiling, containing home-cured hams and sides of bacon. And then, after a visit to the dairy, she returned with Peggy to the parlour, where the tea-things had disappeared from the table, and the easiest chair in the room was drawn near the window for the guest.
"What a peaceful scene it is!" Miss Leighton exclaimed, as her eyes rested on the village below and the distant sea. "I suppose, Mrs. Tiddy, you have become greatly attached to this charming spot?"
"Yes," Mrs. Tiddy answered. "I love Lower Brimley as I imagine only a woman who has been homeless and dependent can love her home. There was nowhere in the world where I could feel I had a right to be, till I married, for I was left an orphan at an early age and brought up by relations who regarded me in the light of an incubus. The bread of charity is very bitter, Miss Leighton—how bitter, it is impossible for those who have never tasted it to guess. I finished my education in a school as a pupil teacher, so I can truthfully say, that after I was seventeen, I maintained myself. You know I was a governess for several years, but I prefer being a farmer's wife," she concluded with a happy laugh.
"Your lines have fallen in pleasant places," Miss Leighton remarked, with a smile which was very gracious.
And Mrs. Tiddy agreed.
Then Peggy was asked to give them some music, and she went to the piano willingly. Miss Leighton was astonished to hear the child could play so well, and expressed herself delighted, remarking that she had evidently been most carefully taught.
"Soon I am going to learn the organ," Peggy informed the old lady, twisting round on the piano-stool, "and then, perhaps, when I am quite grown up I shall be able to earn my own living. How splendid that will be! I think I would rather be a musician than anything else, because it makes people happy to hear music. Oh! here's Mr. Tiddy!" she cried, catching the sound of footsteps in the hall; and a minute later the farmer entered the room.
"You've been having some music?" he said, glancing at Peggy on the piano-stool. "Well, now, won't you sing something, my dear? She has a voice as sweet as a lark's," he continued, turning to the visitor. "I am sure you would like to hear her sing, wouldn't you?"
"Indeed I should," Miss Leighton replied.
"I don't know any songs," Peggy said doubtfully; "only a few hymns, and little scraps from anthems which I've heard at church."
"Sing that hymn about 'Light at evening time,' my dear," requested Mr. Tiddy. "I dearly like to hear you sing that."
Peggy complied immediately, and when her sweet voice ceased there was dead silence for a minute or so. Surprised, the little girl turned her sightless eyes in the direction of Miss Leighton, wondering why she did not at least say, "Thank you."
"Don't you like it?" she asked. "It's my favourite hymn, and when I was a very little girl mother taught me to say the first verse as a prayer. I say it every night now, and I expect I always shall. I suppose I like it so much because I'm blind. I don't know what light is, but I know it's very beautiful and wonderful, because Jesus is called 'The Light of the World,' and people seem to think it's so dreadful to be without it."
"The light our Saviour brought into the world is given to the blind as freely as to others," Mrs. Tiddy reminded her gently. "Its home is in the heart, making peace and happiness and joy." She glanced at Miss Leighton as she spoke and was surprised at the expression of her face. The old lady was regarding the child with yearning eyes, and her whole countenance—generally so repellent in its pride—was softened by an emotion which rendered her incapable of speech.
At that moment Peggy started to her feet, declaring she heard Wolf outside the window—he was in search of her—and hastened out of the room. A few minutes later, she and her faithful canine friend ran down the garden path side by side, the dog barking joyously at having lured her from the house.
"How full of life and high spirits she is!" remarked Mr. Tiddy, as he moved to the window to watch the pair. "She is looking capital, isn't she? I declare her cheeks have become quite round and rosy, and she was such a pale little soul not much more than a month ago."
"It is terrible that she should be blind!" Miss Leighton exclaimed, a sort of restrained vehemence in her tone as she found her voice once more. "Can nothing really be done for her? Has she had good advice?"
"The best in London, I believe," Mrs. Tiddy answered with a sigh.
"Then money would be no good—" The old lady paused as both her companions shook their heads. "Because if it was a question of money I would gladly pay any amount for the child's sake," she proceeded eagerly. "I—I have taken a great fancy to her. I do not know when I was so much attracted by a child before. I would give a great deal if she could be made to see."
"Hers is not a case money can touch," Mr. Tiddy responded gravely, "I have been assured of that by her parents. As long as her life lasts, the little maid will be blind, and she knows it, but she's contented to wait. Her eyes will see the King in His beauty by-and-by, and meanwhile His love is lightening her darkness and cheering her way. Did you like that hymn she sang?"
"Yes," Miss Leighton assented, "but it made me sad. To me, blindness seems the heaviest affliction that can fall upon any one."
She glanced out of the window, her expression one of mingled affection and pity as her gaze fell upon the little girl who was now leaning over the garden gate in the attitude of listening.
"Ah, here comes Barnes to escort me home!" she exclaimed. "I have to thank you for a very pleasant time," she continued earnestly, looking from one of her companions to the other. "I am afraid I shall have no opportunity of returning your hospitality now, for I am leaving Higher Brimley at the end of the week; but surely, Mr. Tiddy, you sometimes bring your wife to town?"
"She has not been back to London since I married her," Mr. Tiddy replied smilingly, "and she says she has no desire to go. But I mean for us both to take a holiday in the autumn—after the corn harvest—and then—"
"And then you will come to London," Miss Leighton interposed quickly, "and do come and stay with me. Don't say 'No,' but think it over. It would give me so much pleasure to have you for my guests, and you should do as you pleased in every way. At any rate, promise you will not visit London without seeing me."
"I readily promise that," Mrs. Tiddy answered, secretly much surprised at the invitation she and her husband had received. "You are very kind—so many thanks. Won't you stay a little longer? Barnes can wait for you."
"I think I must go, for I would rather return before dark, and the evening is drawing in. There is a mist rising from the sea; I dare say it is 'only for heat and pilchards' as you Cornish folk say, but I am liable to bronchitis and I fear to be out in a fog."
Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy escorted their visitor to the garden gate, where Barnes was waiting for her, in conversation with Peggy; and five minutes later, mistress and maid were climbing the hill towards Higher Brimley.
"I shall leave here at the end of the week," Miss Leighton abruptly remarked as they neared their destination.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Barnes, in her usual quiet tone.
"It is my intention to return to town, but I think I shall break our journey at Plymouth," Miss Leighton announced. "I may probably stay there for a day or so."
"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied again. Not a muscle of her face moved, nor was there any sign to show the delight she experienced as her mistress made known her plans, though her heart was palpitating with joy at the thought that she might soon have an opportunity of seeing her mother and brother.
Miss Leighton was disappointed. She had planned to stop at Plymouth solely on her maid's account; but of course, she reflected, Barnes could not know that.
"By the way, you have relatives living near Plymouth, have you not?" she asked, after a brief hesitation.
"Yes, ma'am—my mother and my brother." Barnes regarded her mistress dubiously, then added: "I shall be glad to see them, if you will allow me a day to myself, for my mother is very old, and my brother is sorely afflicted—he has no mind, or none to speak of. It will be a great pleasure to me to go and see them."
"How is it you never mentioned them to me before?" Miss Leighton demanded sharply. "You are deeply attached to them, are you not?"
"Yes," Barnes admitted, "I am." But she did not explain why their names had never passed her lips, and her mistress did not ask her again.
GOOD-BYES
"HAVE you nearly finished, Barnes?"
The speaker—Miss Leighton—put the question in a querulous tone. She had that moment entered her bedroom at Higher Brimley, where her maid was engaged in packing her belongings; and, taking off her bonnet and cloak, she flung them upon the bed with an irritability of manner which showed she had been put out.
"Yes, ma'am," Barnes answered, as she proceeded to lock the last trunk and securely fasten its leather straps.
"I have been to Lower Brimley," Miss Leighton announced. "I thought I would call and say good-bye to the Tiddys this evening, but they have gone to Penzance for the day and taken the child with them."
There was a distinct note of disappointment in her voice, and her face wore an expression of mingled annoyance and regret.
"They might have thought that I should call to-day!" she exclaimed, vexedly.
"Do they know you are leaving to-morrow, ma'am?" Barnes questioned, respectfully.
"I told Mrs. Tiddy I intended leaving at the end of this week: probably she imagines that would be on Saturday—not Friday. I should like to have said good-bye to little Peggy. Barnes, what I would give if the child's parents would consent to my adopting her!"
"Ma'am!" cried Barnes in great astonishment, rising to her feet—she had been kneeling to secure the straps of the trunk—and staring at her mistress as though she doubted if she had heard aright. "Her mother would never permit it!" she declared decisively.
"How do you know?" queried Miss Leighton, with a frown and a cold glance of displeasure.
"Of course I don't know, ma'am," Barnes answered quietly, "and perhaps I have no right to pass my opinion; but, from what I've heard Miss Peggy say herself, I judge that it's very unlikely her mother and father would part with her, especially as she's blind. Parents generally love an afflicted child so much more dearly than those who are better fitted to face the world!" And Barnes's face softened into tenderness as she spoke.
"But they will have to provide for her future, and my niece's husband is a poor man. If anything happened to him—if he died, his widow and children would be penniless, and what would become of Peggy then—helpless and blind? Surely if her parents are so deeply attached to her, they will consider her interests! I will have nothing to do with Margaret herself, but she shall not be a loser if she will allow me to adopt Peggy. What do you think of my plan, Barnes?"
"I don't like it," Barnes responded in a low tone. "No, I don't like it," she repeated, gaining courage to speak her mind; "the little girl has a happy home, though I suppose it's a poor one, and she's been accustomed to a great deal of love—"
"And if I did not love her, should I desire to adopt her?" Miss Leighton broke in with unusual impetuosity.
"Your love is not like that which she's had all her life," Barnes said, refraining from meeting her mistress's glance. "How can it be, ma'am? You've taken a fancy to the child and you want her for your own sake, because she's sweet and loveable; but her mother and father will think of what's best for her—"
The maid's sentence was never finished—and perhaps it was as well, as Miss Leighton's countenance had darkened with anger—for at that moment Mrs. Ford knocked at the door with the information that there were visitors downstairs. And on descending to her sitting-room, the old lady found Mrs. Tiddy and Peggy awaiting her.
"We are so sorry we were not at home when you called, Miss Leighton," said Mrs. Tiddy, "especially as you are leaving to-morrow—I thought you would not go till Saturday. We have just returned from Penzance, where we have spent the day."
"I hope you have had a pleasant time," Miss Leighton remarked genially. "But are you not very tired?"
"I think Peggy is," Mrs. Tiddy replied, "but when we heard you had been to Lower Brimley in our absence to say good-bye to us, she felt with me that we could not let you go without a word of farewell, so we decided to come straight on here. We must only stay a few minutes, though, as my husband is waiting in the dog-cart outside."
"We have had such a lovely day," Peggy informed Miss Leighton. "We had dinner at an hotel, and we rode to Land's End in a Jersey car; Mr. Tiddy said I must not go home without having been to Land's End."
"And when do you go home?" Miss Leighton inquired.
"At the end of the month," Peggy answered, "when father is coming to fetch me. It has all been arranged. Father is going to take a few days' holiday; and I shall be able to show him the sea, and the village, and the church on the cliff, and all the poultry and the animals on the farm! Oh! I am so much looking forward to that! But I shall be very sorry when the time comes to leave Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy and dear old Wolf! I shall never forget my visit to Cornwall as long as I live! I shall not forget you, either," she went on, taking the old lady's hand between her own and pressing it. "I don't suppose we shall ever meet again, but I shall remember you—always. I wish you were not unfriendly with mother! I am sure she would like to be friendly with you. Don't you think, Aunt Caroline, you might forgive her now?"
"Did any one tell you to say this to me?" questioned Miss Leighton suspiciously, glancing from the child to Mrs. Tiddy, who looked somewhat alarmed.
"Oh, no, no! But it seems so dreadful and—and sad that you and mother should not be friends, for I know you used to be kind to her long ago; and you have been very kind to me—so different from what I thought you were like!"
"It's my great desire to be always kind to you, Peggy," Miss Leighton said gravely and impressively. "I wish you to bear that in mind. But you must not meddle between your mother and me. Little girls should not interfere in matters they do not understand."
Peggy blushed rosy red and her blue eyes filled with tears, but she managed to keep them back. She felt snubbed and uncomfortable, and was very relieved when Mrs. Tiddy declared they must go. Miss Leighton rose to escort her visitors to the garden gate, and, as they were leaving the room, Barnes came downstairs. Peggy recognised the maid's step immediately, and meet her with extended hands.
"Good-bye, Barnes," she said, adding in a whisper, "I sha'n't forget all you told me about your poor brother, and I shall remember always to pray for him as I said I would. If you ever see me in London, you'll be sure to speak to me, will you not?"
"Yes, miss," Barnes responded. She glanced hastily around and saw that her mistress had followed Mrs. Tiddy out of the front door, then she put her arms around Peggy and kissed her. "Good-bye, you dear little soul," she said affectionately. "You're going home soon, are you not, my dear?"
"Yes," Peggy assented happily.
"Ah, you'll be glad to be with your mother and father and brother again, won't you?"
"Indeed I shall," agreed Peggy.
"There's no place like home and the love we get there—remember that, Miss Peggy. It's better to be rich in love than in money, any day!"
"Of course it is," smiled the little girl. "And I shall be very glad to be at home again, though Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy have been as kind as kind could be!"
"They're good, kind people, miss; any one can see that, and you've been happy with them, I know; but—there, I mustn't keep you any longer!" And Barnes kissed Peggy once more and hurried away.
After that, Peggy hastened to join the others at the garden gate. Mrs. Tiddy had already taken her place on the front seat of the dog-cart, and Mr. Tiddy was shaking hands with Miss Leighton and telling her, in his hearty, hospitable way, that she must never pay that district a visit without coming to Lower Brimley. She assured him that she never would.
"Now then, Peggy. Ready?" he inquired briskly.
The little girl assented, approaching Miss Leighton and holding out her hand. She raised her face to the old lady's and received a lingering kiss, which she returned rather shyly. Then, Mr. Tiddy lifted her in his arms and placed her on the back seat of the dog-cart, bidding her keep a firm hold of the rail of the vehicle and not fall out.
"Good-bye, Aunt Caroline!" cried Peggy brightly, waving her hand, as they started off for home.
But Miss Leighton made no response. There was a choking sensation in her throat, and she dared not attempt to speak for fear her voice should betray her emotion. She had a feeling, at that moment, that Peggy was going from her for ever, and that made her very sad.
The spring evening was closing in fast now; and, as the dog-cart disappeared from sight, Miss Leighton turned and slowly retraced her footsteps towards the house, encountering Barnes as she entered the front door. The maid looked at her mistress a trifle curiously, and received a somewhat defiant glance in return.
"Tell Mrs. Ford I shall require my supper immediately, as I shall have to be up early in the morning, and therefore shall go to bed in good time to-night, Barnes," Miss Leighton said, in her usual cold tone.
"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied. "I am glad, ma'am, that Mrs. Tiddy brought little Miss Peggy to say good-bye to you," she ventured to add.
"I have said good-bye to the child for the present," Miss Leighton responded deliberately; "but she too will soon be returning to town, and I have planned that we shall meet again."
HOME AGAIN
"I SHOULD think they will be here very soon now!"
The speaker was Mrs. Pringle, who stood at the sitting-room window of her home, looking out into the narrow street, one cold, wet, spring evening. Her arm was around Billy's shoulders; and the little boy's face, which wore an expression of eager watchfulness, was pressed close to the window-pane.
"Yes," Billy answered, "I hope so. It always seems so long when one is waiting, doesn't it, mother? How it is raining!"
"I wish it had been a finer evening for Peggy's return," Mrs. Pringle remarked. "We must keep the fire up."
She moved back from the window and put mare coals into the grate.
"We will give our little Sunbeam a warm welcome, at any rate," she added with a smile.
All day, she had gone about her household duties with the happiest of hearts, and every now and again she had run upstairs to make sure that Peggy's bedroom was quite in order. For her husband, who had gone to Cornwall a few days previously, was expected to bring his little daughter home that night. Needless to say, Billy was no less delighted than his mother at the prospect of so soon seeing Peggy again; whilst Sarah, in the kitchen, had opened the door, that she might hear the expected cab pull up before the house, and kept the kettle on the boil in readiness to make tea the minute the travellers should arrive.
"Here they are!" cried Billy excitedly, at last, and, followed by his mother, he rushed into the passage, almost colliding with Sarah, who was hurrying from the kitchen, and flung wide the front door, admitting as he did so a blast of cold wind.
"Don't go out into the rain, Billy," advised Mrs. Pringle, her face aglow with expectancy. "See, your father is lifting Peggy out of the cab; he will bring her straight in."
The next minute, Peggy was in her mother's arms, rapturously returning her mother's welcoming kiss; then came Billy's turn to be embraced, and after that, Sarah's. The little girl's countenance was one beam of happiness, and her cheeks were so rosy that her brother gazed at her in surprise.
"Why, Peggy, how you've altered!" he cried. "And I do believe you've grown!"
"I'm sure she has," Mrs. Pringle agreed. "She is looking remarkably well. She left home as white as a lily, and she has returned like a red, red rose."
"Are you glad I've come home?" Peggy asked, not because she was in the least doubtful on the point, but because it was so sweet to know she had been missed and how welcome was her presence at home once more.
"Glad?" exclaimed Billy, "I should think we are! We've all of us missed you most dreadfully, Peggy. Even Mr. Maloney noticed that the house seemed quite different without you!"
"Yes; but now our little Sunbeam has returned to us," Mrs. Pringle said lovingly, "and it is such happiness to have her given back to us well and strong!"
"And has no one a welcome for me?" asked Mr. Pringle at that point. He had seen about the luggage and dismissed the cabman, and now stood regarding the excited group with a glance half humorous, half tender. "Have you forgotten that you have not seen me for three whole days? Never mind," he continued, after he had kissed his wife and his little son, "I am content to take the second place to-night. But Peggy and I are both tired and hungry; so, suppose we have our tea at once—as soon as Peggy has removed her wraps."
A very pleasant meal followed; and afterwards the family drew round the fireplace, in a circle, to talk.
"I've so much to tell you, that I don't know where to begin," Peggy remarked. "Oh, I do think the very nicest part of going away on a visit is the coming home again!"
There was a general laugh at that, and Mr. Pringle said:
"That's good hearing, my dear. We left Cornwall bathed in glorious sunshine this morning," he continued, addressing his wife. "Your schoolfellow's home is in a most beautiful spot. I cannot express how greatly I have enjoyed my three days' holiday at Lower Brimley. Both Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy have been kindness itself, and never shall we be able to repay them for all they have done for Peggy!"
"I was—oh, so sorry to say good-bye to them," the little girl said soberly, "and there was Wolf—poor Wolf! He had to be shut up in the stable for fear he would follow us to the station and want to go by train. He is such a dear, dear dog! You will love him, Billy, when you see him!"
"Do you think I shall ever see him, Peggy?" Billy asked, anxiously. "Do you really think Mr. Tiddy will remember to invite me to Lower Brimley in the summer holidays?"
"I am sure he will," the little girl replied positively. "I heard him mention it several times; he won't forget, he always keeps his word."
"And what about Aunt Caroline?" Mrs. Pringle at length asked. "I was never more surprised in my life than when I heard you and she had met!"
"Was it not strange?" Peggy said seriously. "You know she came from Penzance on purpose to see Mr. Tiddy's daffodils, and she was so pleased with them."
"Did she find out who you were, then?"
"Oh, no—not until long after that—when she was lodging at Higher Brimley. I met her on the beach and she spoke to me, and—and I talked rather much, for I told her my name—she asked me, I think—and all about my accident. Even then she didn't say who she was. But afterwards she came to Lower Brimley and asked permission to go around the garden—Mr. Tiddy had told her she might—and Mrs. Tiddy and I went with her, and just before she left she said I was distantly related to her and explained who she was. After that, she was very nice and kind to me—very kind indeed!"
"But you don't like her, Peggy, do you?" cried Billy. "I thought her such a proud, cross old woman!"
"She speaks in rather a proud way sometimes," Peggy allowed reluctantly, "but she isn't cross when you know her—at least, she wasn't to me. She said she wouldn't have driven away so quickly after I had been knocked down by her horse, if she had known I was blind. Yes, I rather like her, but I don't suppose I shall ever meet her again, though I should like to. And then there's Barnes—"
"Barnes? Is she still with Aunt Caroline?" broke in Mrs. Pringle, eagerly.
"Yes," nodded Peggy, "and she asked me such a lot of questions about you, mother. I like Barnes. She told me about her poor afflicted brother, and—wasn't it strange?—Aunt Caroline had never heard of him till I happened to speak of him to her."
"I dare say not, my dear," Mrs. Pringle answered, evincing no surprise. "I remember about poor Barnes's brother," she proceeded. "He is not right in his mind, and Barnes helps support him and her mother too. The mother must be a very aged woman now."
"Yes," the little girl answered. "Poor Barnes! Aunt Caroline used to speak so sharply to her sometimes—I heard her—but that is her way, I suppose."
"It used to be," Mrs. Pringle admitted with a sigh, "and, from what you tell me, I imagine she has not altered much these last ten years."
"I don't think she's a bit happy," Peggy said, shaking her golden head. "That seems very sad, doesn't it? Barnes told the servants at Lower Brimley that Aunt Caroline has no friends, because she always thinks people who are nice to her want her money."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Pringle understandingly, with a quick glance at her husband. "Poor Aunt Caroline!"
She sat in silence after that, listening whilst Peggy expatiated at great length upon all the delights of life at a farm. Billy drank in every word with keen interest, reflecting that some day, not so very distant, he would most likely enjoy his share of the pleasures which his sister explained so marvellously—considering she had been unable to see.
"I know everything was very beautiful," she said, in conclusion, "for there seemed to be flowers everywhere, and the scent of the gorse on the cliffs was wonderful—I never smelt anything so sweet or strong before! And the air was so warm, and the sun shone nearly every day, and—"
"And now you have come back to rain and cold," interposed Mrs. Pringle; "you will feel it a hardship, I fear, after the mild climate you've enjoyed of late and after having spent so much time out-of-doors, to be cooped up in a small house again."
"I don't mind the rain and the cold in the very least," Peggy declared, "and I love our little house. Oh, I'm so glad to be at home! Yes, indeed I am! I've enjoyed my visit to Cornwall; but I think I've missed you all as much or more than you have missed me. I'm glad I went, but I'm gladder still to be back again—to be able to hear your voices and put out my hands and feel you are here! You would understand what that means, if you were blind. Oh, I think I was never so happy in my life before as I am to-night."
"Thank God for that, my darling," Mrs. Pringle responded in a tremulous voice. "Oh, we have much to thank Him for!" she added softly, as she remembered the pale, delicate little girl she had seen off at Paddington railway station with a very heavy heart six weeks previously and mentally compared her with the one—a picture of health and contentment—who now nestled close to her side. She had prayed—oh, so earnestly!—that Peggy might be restored to her well and strong, and her Father in Heaven had answered her prayer.
AUNT CAROLINE'S DISAPPOINTMENT
THE first few days after Peggy's return home were very wet and cold, although it was late spring. But one morning, she arose conscious of a change in the atmosphere and that the sun was shining into her bedroom window, whilst the sparrows were twittering noisily outside as though they had matters of great importance to discuss with each other.
"I think we are going to have a taste of spring weather at last," observed Mr. Pringle at the breakfast table that morning. "There's the promise of a beautiful May day, and I hope," he continued, addressing his wife, "that you will manage to get out for a while in the sunshine—you and Peggy."
"I want to do so," Mrs. Pringle replied. "I have some shopping to do first of all, and afterwards we may, perhaps, extend our walk."
Accordingly Peggy and her mother spent most of the morning out-of-doors. They were both in excellent spirits, and though, of course, they had to take their walk in the streets, they thoroughly enjoyed it. Mrs. Pringle looked into the shops and told her little daughter what the windows contained; and they bought a bunch of wallflowers from a costermonger's barrow, for a penny, which smelt almost as sweet as those at Lower Brimley, Peggy declared, and she wondered if they had come from Cornwall—that corner of the world which, to the blind child, would always be remembered as a paradise of flowers.
Then, on their way home, they encountered Mr. Maloney, whom Peggy had not met since her return. He turned and walked with them as far as their own door, listening with a rather preoccupied air, Mrs. Pringle thought, to the little girl's chatter, and watching her animated countenance with an expression of grave scrutiny in his kindly eyes.
"I want a private conversation with you and your husband, Mrs. Pringle," he remarked. "If I call this evening, shall I find you both disengaged?"
"Yes," she assented, adding anxiously, "there is nothing wrong, is there? You have no bad news to tell us?"
"Oh, no!" he responded, with a reassuring smile. "Please do not imagine that for a moment. I will call this evening, then, about seven."
Peggy wondered what Mr. Maloney could have to say to her parents in private. And Mr. Pringle expressed astonishment when his wife informed him at dinner-time of the reason the Vicar had assigned for his proposed call. Whilst Billy, though he made no remark, was filled with intense curiosity, and by the evening had become quite excited, and found great difficulty in concentrating his mind to prepare his lessons for the following day.
Mr. Pringle had given orders that the Vicar was to be shown into the music-room, as the small apartment was called which was apportioned to the use of the master of the house. And as soon as Mrs. Pringle, who had been sewing in the sitting-room, heard Sarah admit Mr. Maloney punctually at the hour he had appointed, she laid aside her work, and the next moment, the children were alone.
Billy continued to pore over his lesson books, whilst Peggy sat opposite to him at the table, her busy fingers engaged in knitting a sock, one of a pair she was making for her father. Sarah had taught the little girl the accomplishment of knitting during the long evenings of the previous winter, and the pupil did her teacher great credit. There had been silence in the room, except for the click of Peggy's knitting-needles, for some minutes, when the little girl suddenly dropped her work, and springing to her feet, stood listening intently.
"What is it?" asked Billy, glancing at her quickly, and noting that she had grown very pale. "What do you hear?"
"Nothing, now," she answered tremulously. "But I thought—I thought—I suppose it was my fancy!"
"What did you think you heard?" he questioned curiously. "Why, you have turned quite white! What startled you, Peggy?"
"I thought I heard mother crying, but I suppose I was wrong. I don't hear anything now."
Billy went to the door, opened it, and listened; but nothing could be heard except a murmur of voices from the music-room. He shut the door and returned to the table.
"Why should mother cry?" he demanded, uneasily.
"Didn't you tell me Mr. Maloney said nothing was wrong?"
"Yes," Peggy responded, "and he wouldn't have deceived us, I know."
"Then mother wouldn't cry for nothing!"
"I expect it was my mistake, Billy."
More than half an hour passed—an hour—and at last the children heard the music-room door open and footsteps in the passage. Then the front door opened and shut, and a moment afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Pringle entered the sitting-room without their visitor.
One glance at his mother told Billy that his sister's sharp ears had not deceived her, for there were traces of recent tears on Mrs. Pringle's face. She crossed the room and took a chair by her little daughter's side, and her voice bespoke strong emotion as she said:
"Peggy, dear, we have decided to tell you what brought Mr. Maloney here to-night. Yesterday, he had a visit from Aunt Caroline, who wishes to—to—"
"Oh, I know!" cried Peggy joyfully, as her mother hesitated. "She wishes to be friendly with you, mother! Isn't it that?"
"No, dear," Mrs. Pringle replied sadly. "She has no desire to have anything to do with any of us but you. She would like to adopt you, Peggy—to have you to live with her—"
"Oh mother!" broke in the little girl. "No! No!"
"That is what she wishes. She offers to bring you up and provide for you, and to make you a rich woman some day. But your father and I have declined her offer, Peggy darling. We will keep our little daughter and trust to Providence to take care of her future."
"You have been crying," said Peggy distressfully, "and I can hear the tears in your voice now. Oh, don't cry, mother! What can Aunt Caroline be thinking of, to imagine you and father would let her adopt me! As though I could leave you all to go and live with her!"
"I knew she was a nasty old woman!" cried Billy, in tones of the greatest indignation. "And now I know she is cruel too! It is cruel of her to wish to take Peggy away from us! And the idea of her going to Mr. Maloney and—"
"Hush, Billy!" admonished Mr. Pringle. "She went to Mr. Maloney because she knew he was our friend," he proceeded. "You must not misjudge her; certainly she did not mean to be cruel. I have no doubt she imagines she is acting kindly; but she does not understand us or realise that Peggy would not be happy separated from the members of her own family. We have talked over Miss Leighton's offer with Mr. Maloney, and we have declined it. I think we are right, and Mr. Maloney thinks so too; but he could not well refuse to put Miss Leighton's offer before us, as she had made a point of his doing so. To-morrow he will give her our reply, and I fear she will be very angry as well as disappointed; but we cannot part with our little Sunbeam," he concluded tenderly.
"Did she want me to live with her altogether?" Peggy asked wonderingly, taking her mother's hand and holding it in a firm clasp.
"Yes, dear. She said you might come home sometimes—that she would not object to your coming to see us now and again, but—oh, Peggy, Peggy!" And poor Mrs. Pringle caught the little girl in her arms and kissed her passionately. "I hope we haven't been selfish," she continued, "but God gave you to us, and I cannot think it would be right to give you up for the sake of worldly advantages. No, I cannot think that! You have always had a happy home, have you not, Peggy?"
"Oh, so happy!" the little girl answered earnestly. "Why do you cry, mother—when I am not going to leave you?"
"I am very foolish, I dare say," said Mrs. Pringle. "But it hurts me to think Aunt Caroline could imagine I would give up my own child."
"Poor woman, she over-estimates the worth of her money," Mr. Pringle remarked, with a pitying note in his voice. "She does not understand that there are things even in this world not to be purchased with gold."
"Why should she want to adopt me?" questioned Peggy wonderingly, turning her flushed face towards her father. "It is not even as though I wasn't blind! Why doesn't she adopt some little girl who has no mother or father or brother to love her? Why should she want me?"
"Because, somehow, you have touched a soft spot in her heart, little Sunbeam," Mr. Pringle answered. "I can think of no other reason. Poor Miss Leighton! I am afraid she will be very disappointed when she hears we cannot favour her plan."
"Poor Aunt Caroline!" sighed Peggy. "Why can't she be friendly with us all, and come and see us and be nice like she was when she came to tea at Lower Brimley?" And she shook her head sorrowfully as she thought of the old lady, so rich in money, so poor in other ways.
Billy, looking at his sister, wondered at the regretful expression of her face. He could not tell, and he certainly would have been amazed, had he known that her tender heart was ready to pour a portion of the wealth of its affection upon her whom he regarded, not unnaturally, as one of the proudest and most disagreeable of people, and he felt triumphant as he reflected that Miss Leighton would be disappointed at finding herself balked in her selfish plan.
When, on the following day, Miss Leighton heard from Mr. Maloney that Mr. and Mrs. Pringle had considered her offer and courteously declined it, she made no comment on their decision whatever. But she was even more disappointed than Billy had anticipated she would be, and there was more of sorrow than of anger in her heart. Briefly she informed Barnes that Peggy's parents had refused to allow her to adopt the child.
"You were right, Barnes," she admitted with a sigh. "You thought my niece would refuse my offer, did you not?"
"Yes, ma'am," Barnes answered briefly. She said no more, for in her heart she was confident that Peggy would be better and happier at home.
PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS
FOR many months, the Pringle family heard no more of Miss Leighton. Spring gave place to summer; and in the early autumn Billy paid his visit to Cornwall, returning, after a never-to-be forgotten six weeks' holiday, with Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy, who spent a short while in London, during which time they went to see Miss Leighton, mindful of the promise which they had made to her.
But, although the old lady received her Cornish acquaintances with every sign of cordiality and pleasure, she never once mentioned Peggy, and when Mrs. Tiddy spoke of her, she quickly changed the conversation, so that her visitors came to the conclusion that her liking for the little blind girl had been merely a passing fancy, and that she had lost the interest she had certainly once entertained for the child. Such, however, was not the case.
It was the end of September when the Tiddys returned to their Cornish home; and shortly afterwards Miss Leighton had a long and serious illness, the result of a neglected cold. When she had recovered and was able to dispense with the services of the trained nurse, who, with Barnes, had nursed her back to health, it was December, and every one was preparing for Christmas.
The season of peace and goodwill never brought much happiness to Miss Leighton nowadays; but it made many calls upon her purse. And when she had written several cheques to be sent to the various charities to which she was a regular contributor, she generally considered she had done all that could be reasonably expected of her for her fellow creatures.
But this year, as she sat by the fire in the drawing-room of her London house, one afternoon about a week before Christmas, a sense of unusual dissatisfaction with herself began to creep over her. Memory was busy with her; and, gazing into the fire, she pictured a little figure clad in a shabby blue serge coat and skirt and a Tam o' Shanter cap, and saw once more a fair face with a halo of golden curls around it—a happy face, beautiful with that inward peace and light which only God can give. Then, in her imagination, she heard a clear, child's voice say:
"But I don't think she can be really charitable, if she isn't kind in little ways and if she's unforgiving!"
Miss Leighton winced as she recalled the words and the decided tone in which they had been uttered. How the child's judgment of her had rankled in her heart! It had hurt her at the time it had been given, though she had never resented it: it hurt her a great deal more now.
"I would have been kind to Peggy, if her parents would have let me," she thought. "There is nothing I would have denied her. I should like to do something to please her—to add to her happiness this Christmas. How I should like to see her again! She was such a bright, contented little girl! When I was ill, she was continually in my thoughts, and one night, I fancied I heard her singing that hymn about light at evening time—she has a very sweet voice. I wonder if Margaret would let the child come and see me? I hardly like to ask her a favour, but I long to see Peggy once more. Ah, here's Barnes!"
The maid had been to match some silks for a piece of fancy-work her mistress was making; but Miss Leighton was not in the mood to look at her purchases now.
"Sit down, Barnes," she said. "I want to speak to you."
"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied, taking a chair and glancing at her mistress inquiringly. There was a better understanding between these two than there had been formerly, for each had discovered of late, that the other had a heart; and Barnes had nursed Miss Leighton devotedly during her long illness, a fact Miss Leighton was not likely to forget.
"I suppose the shops are very gay?" Miss Leighton questioned.
"Yes, ma'am, they are full of Christmas presents."
"And doubtless you've made some purchases to send to your mother and brother?"
Barnes assented, a pleased flush rising to her pale cheeks at the unusual kindness of her mistress's tone. She was emboldened to give Miss Leighton a list of the articles she had bought to send home to her people.
"I pack up a hamper for them every Christmas," she explained in conclusion, "and my poor brother is always so excited to see it unpacked."
"But would it not be much less trouble to you to send your mother the money you spend and let her buy what she wants herself?" Miss Leighton inquired.
"Perhaps so, ma'am; but that would not be half so much pleasure to mother or to me. I like thinking and planning how I shall fill the hamper with those things which I know will be most acceptable, and when mother receives it and takes out its contents, she knows I've borne her wants in mind. I've knitted her a nice warm shawl, and she'll be much prouder of it, because I've made it, than if I'd bought it ready made."
"I see, Barnes. I wonder what sort of Christmas my little grand-niece will spend."
Barnes started, and a somewhat guilty expression crossed her countenance as she answered hurriedly:
"A very happy one, I expect. Children mostly love Christmas time, and she has a very happy home."
"How do you know?" Miss Leighton asked suspiciously.
"I— I've been there, ma'am. I went to St. John's one Sunday afternoon to hear Mr. Maloney preach at a children's service, and I saw Miss Peggy there with her mother and brother. After the service, outside the church, I spoke to them, and Mrs. Pringle asked me to their house to have a cup of tea—and I went."
"Well?" said Miss Leighton, with repressed eagerness in her voice. "What is the place like?"
"The house, ma'am? It's one of a terrace, very small but comfortable and homely. Perhaps I ought to have told you that I'd been there, but I did not like to mention it."
"Has my niece altered much?" Miss Leighton asked after a brief pause.
"No, ma'am, very little. She inquired for you and looked so sorry when she heard how ill you'd been, and Miss Peggy said—" Barnes paused abruptly in some confusion.
"Well, what did Miss Peggy say? I insist upon your telling me."
"She said, 'Poor Aunt Caroline! How dreadful it would have been if she had died and we had never known! How I wish she would be friends with us all! She used to be so nice in Cornwall.' That's what she said, ma'am, shaking her curly head—you remember how she used to do that? It's natural she shouldn't understand how you feel towards her mother."
Miss Leighton sighed. During her late illness she had been brought face to face with death; and, for the first time, doubts of herself had assailed her, and she had seen her unforgiving spirit in its true light. Pride had always been her stumbling-block through life; and it had been her pride which had suffered when her niece, to whom in her way she had really been attached, had elected to marry the hardworking music-master who was now the organist of St. John's.
Her only reason for objecting to Mr. Pringle as her niece's husband had been because he had been poor. She had always thought so much of riches, but they had never brought her happiness; as a matter of fact, they had stood between her and her fellow creatures, they had warped her sympathies; and sadly and regretfully, the woman of great wealth admitted to herself that though she had given her money to clothe the naked and feed the poor, it had profited her nothing, for the spirit of charity had never been hers.