The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLittle SunbeamThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Little SunbeamAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeIllustrator: Myra Kathleen HughesRelease date: November 22, 2023 [eBook #72200]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: National Society's Depository, 1905*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE SUNBEAM ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Little SunbeamAuthor: Eleanora H. StookeIllustrator: Myra Kathleen HughesRelease date: November 22, 2023 [eBook #72200]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: National Society's Depository, 1905
Title: Little Sunbeam
Author: Eleanora H. StookeIllustrator: Myra Kathleen Hughes
Author: Eleanora H. Stooke
Illustrator: Myra Kathleen Hughes
Release date: November 22, 2023 [eBook #72200]
Language: English
Original publication: London: National Society's Depository, 1905
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE SUNBEAM ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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THE CORNISH FLOWER-FARM.
BY
ELEANORA H. STOOKE
AUTHOR OF "GRANFER," ETC.
WITH FRONTISPIECE BY MYRA K. HUGHES
LONDON
NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
BROAD SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTERNEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE[All rights reserved]
PRINTED BYSPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., NEW-STREET SQUARELONDON
BY THE SAME AUTHORGRANFER, and ONE CHRISTMAS TIME.
Price 1s.
NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY,
Sanctuary, Westminster, S. W.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. KNOCKED DOWN
II. CONCERNING AUNT CAROLINE
III. THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION
IV. PEGGY'S FIRST DAY AT LOWER BRIMLEY
V. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
VI. MISS LEIGHTON'S DISCOVERY
VII. A GREAT SURPRISE
VIII. CONCERNING ELLEN BARNES
IX. TEA AT LOWER BRIMLEY
X. GOOD-BYES
XI. HOME AGAIN
XII. AUNT CAROLINE'S DISAPPOINTMENT
XIII. PREPARING FOR CHRISTMAS
XIV. CONCLUSION
LITTLE SUNBEAM
KNOCKED DOWN
"COME along, Billy. Mother said we were not to be long; and I'm sure we've been more than half an hour."
The speaker—a little girl of about nine years old, clad in a somewhat shabby blue serge coat and skirt, with a Tam o' Shanter cap on her golden curls—tried to pull her brother away from the toy shop window into which he was gazing longingly; but he resisted, and still lingered.
"There's plenty of time, Peggy," he assured her. "You know we never have tea till five o'clock, and you can't imagine what a heap of jolly things there are in this window. I wish you could see them."
"I wish I could," she answered. "Never mind, you can tell me all about them by-and-by."
It was a cold, dull, February day; but it did not rain, and the street was thronged with vehicles, whilst the pedestrians—mostly of the lower classes, for the district was a poor one—hustled against each other on the pavements. No one took any notice of the two children who had been standing before a toy shop window for the last ten minutes. And, indeed, there was nothing about them to attract the observation of a casual observer, although the countenance of the little girl, with its finely-cut features and sweet expression, possessed a delicate beauty which was certainly out of the common. No one looking at Peggy Pringle would have guessed that she was blind, for her eyes, in colour the darkest blue, were as clear as crystal; but the sad fact was that the blessing of sight was denied to her.
It had been a terrible trouble to the child's parents when, some months after her birth, they had learnt the truth, that the happy baby, whose rosebud lips seemed formed only for smiles, and whose eyes were "bits of Heaven's blue" as her young mother had used to declare, would never see the light of day, and they had grieved deeply. But Peggy had never appeared to realise how great was her affliction, and at the present time it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to find a more contented little girl. "Little Sunbeam" her father had nicknamed her years before, and a veritable sunbeam in the household she continued to be.
Peggy and her brother, who was only thirteen months her junior, had been sent to buy buns for tea, and she was holding the bag which contained them with one hand, whilst with the other she kept a firm grip of Billy's coat. She was not exactly nervous in a crowd, for she had been accustomed to London all her life, and her home was in a thickly populated district. But she experienced a sense of bewilderment as she listened to the hurrying footsteps on the pavement and the continual roll of carriage wheels, and she wished Billy would tire of looking into shop windows and return home.
"Come, Billy," she urged again, "mother will wonder what is keeping us. Do come."
Accordingly, Billy took his sister by the hand with an air of protection, and they walked on. At the corner of the street, they stood waiting for a favourable opportunity to cross.
"Is there a policeman near?" asked Peggy.
"There's one on the other side of the road," replied Billy, "but we don't want him. I can manage all right. When I say 'Now,' mind you come right on."
A minute later Billy cried, "Now!"
So, hand in hand, the children went fearlessly forward. And they would have effected the crossing in safety had not a private carriage, drawn by a pair of spirited horses, turned the corner from a side street. Billy hurried his sister on; but the road was slippery, and, in her haste, the little girl stumbled and let go her brother's hand. Some one flung Billy on one side, whilst the coachman driving the pair of horses pulled them back on their haunches in time to prevent a serious accident, but not before one of the animals had struck poor Peggy on the shoulder with its hoof. She was borne to the pavement in the arms of the policeman whose help Billy had disdained, and in a few minutes a small crowd had congregated.
"What has happened?" inquired an imperious voice from the interior of the carriage. "Is any one injured?"
"A little girl," answered the policeman. "I think she's more frightened than hurt, though," he added, as he set Peggy on the ground, and Billy, pale and frightened, rushed to her side.
"Was my coachman at fault?" was the next question.
"No, ma'am. He was driving carefully, and had the horses under proper control; but—"
"That's all I want to know, thank you."
A head was thrust out of the carriage window, and the crowd saw the face—a haughty, handsome face it was—of a white-haired old lady, who beckoned to the policeman to approach, which he did.
"You had better take the little girl to a hospital, if she is hurt," the old lady said, in a tone which expressed neither interest nor sympathy. "I suppose that would be your duty? Well, you know your business; it is none of mine, as my servant, you assure me, is blameless. However, here is my card should you require to communicate with me."
The handsome old face drew back from the window, and the carriage was driven away, whilst the crowd dispersed, leaving only the policeman and one other—an elderly clergyman, who had come upon the scene after the accident—with the frightened children.
"Where are you hurt, my dear little girl?"
Peggy's shocked face brightened at the sound of the kindly voice, which she recognised immediately as belonging to Mr. Maloney, the Vicar of St. John's Church, where her father was the organist.
"It's my shoulder," she answered. "Oh, Mr. Maloney, do please take me home!"
"Of course I will, my dear," he responded promptly, with a reassuring nod and smile at Billy. "What happened?" he inquired of the policeman, who briefly explained, adding that no one had been in fault.
"Billy couldn't have helped it," Peggy said hastily, fearful lest blame should be attached to her brother.
"No, the little boy was not to blame," agreed the policeman. "Are you going to take charge of the children, sir?" he asked of the clergyman.
"Yes. I know them well; their father is Mr. Pringle, the organist of St. John's Church. What is this?" Mr. Maloney questioned as he took the card the policeman presented to him.
"The lady in the carriage gave it to me, sir. I have made a note of the name and the address. Maybe the little girl's father will make some claim—"
"I imagine not," interposed the clergyman quickly; "but I will take the card and give it to Mr. Pringle. Thank you,"—and he slipped the bit of pasteboard into his vest pocket.
"Oh, Billy, I dropped the buns!" exclaimed Peggy regretfully. They had no money to buy more, and the buns had been purchased for a treat.
"The horses trod on them," Billy replied; "but, never mind, mother won't think anything about them when she knows what's happened. I'm afraid she'll never trust you out alone with me any more."
The little girl made no response. The pain in her shoulder was making her feel sick and faint, and her legs trembled as she walked along by Mr. Maloney's side, her hand in his. He saw she was suffering, and regarded her with compassionate eyes, whilst he exchanged remarks with Billy. Soon she began to lose the drift of her companions' conversation, and when at length, home—a small house, one of a terrace—was reached, the shock she had received proved too much for her, and she fell insensible into her mother's arms.
When Peggy regained consciousness, she found herself undressed and in bed. Everything was very quiet, but she was aware of some one's presence, and it was no surprise when soft lips met hers in a loving kiss, and her mother's voice said, "You are better, Peggy dear."
Then she was gently raised in bed, and, to her astonishment, she found her shoulder was bandaged; but she was not in much pain now, so she took the bread and milk offered to her, and lay down again, feeling strangely weak and tired, and disinclined to talk.
"Sleep if you can, darling," her mother said tenderly. "You will be much stronger to-morrow. The doctor has attended to your poor shoulder. Thank God you are not more seriously hurt!"
"What is the time mother?" Peggy asked. "Have you had tea? I was so sorry about the buns. I dropped them, you know."
"Did you? As if that mattered! No, we have not had tea. We have been too anxious about you to think of it. Now we shall have tea and supper together. It is nearly seven o'clock—not quite your usual bedtime, but never mind that to-night. Rest will do you good. I want you to sleep."
"I am very tired," Peggy murmured, "but I haven't said my prayers, and my head feels so funny that I can't think. I will say my 'little prayer' to-night.' Then she repeated very slowly and softly:
"Holy Father, cheer our wayWith Thy love's perpetual ray:Grant us every closing dayLight at evening time."
It was a pathetic prayer, coming as it did from the lips of one who lived in permanent darkness. But it had been one of the first Peggy had learnt and she had always been very fond of it, calling it her "little prayer." To-night her eyelids closed as she repeated the last line, and a few minutes later she had fallen asleep.
Mrs. Pringle remained by the bedside some while longer, tears, which she had repressed till now, running down her cheeks, though her heart was full of gratitude to Him Who had spared her child's life. She was a most affectionate mother, devoted to both her children; but her little daughter, doubtless by reason of her affliction, was always her first care. She shuddered as she thought what might have been the result of the accident that afternoon, and pictured her darling trampled beneath the horses' hoofs.
"God gave His angels charge over her," she murmured, as she bent her head once more, and kissed the little sleeper. Then she stole softly away, and went downstairs to the sitting-room where Billy his father were keeping each other company, both heavy-hearted, though the doctor had assured them there was no cause for alarm.
"How is she now?" they asked, with one accord, as she entered the room.
"Sleeping peacefully," she told them, a smile lighting up her pale, tearful countenance. "You may go and look at her; but please be very careful not to disturb her. I have every hope that she will be better after a good rest. We have much to thank God for this night!"
CONCERNING AUNT CAROLINE
WHEN Mr. Pringle and Billy returned to the sitting-room after having been upstairs to look at Peggy asleep so comfortably, they found that Mrs. Pringle, with the assistance of Sarah, the maid-of-all-work of the establishment, had prepared the long-delayed tea. Whilst the family sat down to the meal, Sarah, at her own suggestion, went to keep watch by the little sleeper; and a few minutes later there was a knock at the front door.
"Go and see who's there, Billy," said Mr. Pringle. "I should not be surprised if it is Mr. Maloney," he proceeded, turning to his wife, "for he was very concerned about Peggy and said he hoped to look in by-and-by to hear the doctor's report."
And Mr. Maloney the visitor proved to be. He accepted Mrs. Pringle's offer of a cup of tea, and took the chair Billy placed for him at the table.
"I am glad to know the doctor thinks your little girl is not much hurt," he said in his pleasant voice. "Billy greeted me with the good news the moment he opened the door."
"The only injury she has sustained is to her shoulder," replied Mr. Pringle, "but of course she has experienced a great shock. Her escape from a frightful death was quite providential," he added with a slight break in his voice.
"Quite," Mr. Maloney agreed. "It was too bad of the owner of the carriage to drive on, as she did, without ascertaining the extent of the poor child's injuries," he continued warmly. "The least she could have done, under the circumstances, one would have thought, would have been to have driven her home."
"She was a nasty old woman, I'm sure she was," declared Billy with flushing cheeks and sparkling eyes. "She told the policeman, he had better take Peggy to a hospital if she was hurt, and she said it was his business, not hers. She spoke in such a proud way—as though she didn't care for anything or any one."
"Well, Peggy found a friend in need," Mr. Pringle remarked with a grateful glance at Mr. Maloney, who smiled and said he was glad to have been of service.
The Vicar and the organist of St. John's were on terms of friendship, though the former was elderly and the latter not middle-aged. Mr. Maloney had lived most of his life in London. He was a hard worker, and much beloved by all who knew him. But some of his acquaintances declared him lacking in ambition, for on several occasions he had declined preferment, choosing to retain the living of St. John's, which he had held for more than twenty years. He was an unmarried man, and consequently the living, though a poor one, supplied his simple needs.
He was getting an old man now, but the bright, unquenchable light of that enthusiasm which had made him a faithful labourer in Christ's vineyard all his days still shone in his earnest, deep-set eyes, and earnestness was stamped indelibly upon his countenance. And the truth was that his ambition soared far and away beyond the worldly meaning of the term: he was working for the "Well done" of the Master for Whose sake he had elected to live amongst those of little account in this world.
Mr. Pringle had been the organist of St. John's since his marriage ten years previously. He was a tall, fair man with a thoughtful face and clear blue eyes. Peggy much resembled him; whilst Billy took after his mother in appearance, being brown-haired and brown-eyed. The Pringles were a very united family, and theirs was a happy home though it was a rather poor one, and Mr. Pringle was glad to add to his salary by taking music pupils.
"I did not see the owner of the carriage," Mr. Maloney remarked by-and-by, after they had discussed Peggy's accident at some length. "Why, dear me, how stupid of me!" he exclaimed, a sudden recollection crossing his mind. "I have her card in my pocket here! She gave it to the policeman, who, in his turn, gave it to me, thinking that you might be inclined to seek redress from her for poor Peggy's injuries, I believe. Let us see who the unsympathetic old lady is."
He had produced the card by this time, and now handed it to Mrs. Pringle, who glanced at it, uttered a cry of astonishment, and grew very red.
"You know her?" Mr. Maloney inquired.
"Yes," she replied in a low tone, "I do. I can understand that she evinced no interest—though she could not have known whose child Peggy was."
She passed the card to her husband as she spoke.
A brief silence followed, during which Billy, keenly observant, noticed that his mother was trembling, and that his father's face had grown very stern.
"Who is the lady, father?" he ventured to ask at length.
"She is called Miss Leighton," was the answer. "You never heard of her, Billy; but I expect you have?" he said, addressing Mr. Maloney.
"I think not," the Vicar responded. "Is she a person of importance?"
"She is a very rich woman. Her father was James Leighton, the great ironfounder who died so immensely wealthy—"
"Ah, then I have heard of her," Mr. Maloney broke in. "But I thought she was quite a philanthropist—hardly the sort of woman who would act as this Miss Leighton did to-day."
"That is exactly how she would act," Mrs. Pringle said decidedly. "We are speaking of the same person. She gives away vast amounts of money yearly to charities, but she denies herself nothing in order to do so, for she is very wealthy. She was never a woman who showed kindness in little ways or to individuals. I know her well; in fact, she is my aunt."
"Really?" the Vicar said, looking intensely astonished. He knew the Pringles were not well off—that they lived solely on Mr. Pringle's earnings, and it seemed odd that so rich and charitable a lady as Miss Leighton should do so much for strangers and nothing for her relations.
"The truth is, my wife offended her aunt by marrying me," Mr. Pringle explained, rightly reading the expression of Mr. Maloney's countenance; "and Miss Leighton never forgives any one who offends her."
"Then God help her!" the Vicar exclaimed solemnly.
"Yes," said Mrs. Pringle, sighing, "poor Aunt Caroline! She was very good to me years ago, she had me educated when my parents died, and afterwards she allowed me to live with her. She would have continued to provide for me, if I had not become engaged to John," glancing at her husband with a loving smile. "I had to choose between him and Aunt Caroline, and since my marriage I have never seen my aunt. 'She washed her hands of me,' she said, on my wedding day. She declared she would never willingly look on my face again, and I know she will keep her word."
"You can realise now what sacrifices my wife has made for my sake," Mr. Pringle said, rather sadly, as he met Mr. Maloney's interested glance.
"I have made no sacrifices," Mrs. Pringle returned quickly. "But, sometimes it grieves me to think of the bitter feelings Aunt Caroline harbours against me. She considers me ungrateful; I was never that. I do not want her money, but I should like to be on friendly terms with her. It was ten years ago I saw her; she must be getting an old woman."
"She looked very old, mother," Billy said, and as he spoke, Mrs. Pringle started, for in the excitement of talking of her aunt, whom she rarely mentioned now even to her husband, she had forgotten the boy was present, listening to every word.
"Her hair was quite white," he continued, "as white as snow. I didn't like her eyes, they were so very sharp. Oh, mother, how odd that she should be your aunt! And how surprised she would have been, if she had found out that Peggy was your little girl, wouldn't she? I expect she would have been sorry for her, then, don't you think so?"
"I—I—perhaps so," his mother replied, "but she did not find out, and it was best as it was."
She took up the card which her husband had laid on the table and tore it into little bits, which, upon rising, she threw into the fire.
"There, we will talk no more of Aunt Caroline," she said. "Thinking of her always makes me unhappy, and I don't want to be that to-night, when I ought to be feeling nothing but thankfulness on Peggy's account."
A short while later, Mr. Maloney took his departure, and, after that, Billy said good-night to his parents and went upstairs. He peeped into Peggy's room; but did not go in, for Sarah, who was still watching by the bedside, raised a warning finger when she caught sight of him in the doorway. She was to be relieved from her post very soon by her mistress, whose intention it was to sit up all night.
Although Billy was really tired and was soon in bed, it was long before he could get to sleep, for he felt strangely restless and excited; he continually pictured the pair of high-stepping horses which had so nearly trodden his sister beneath their hoofs, and he was haunted by the proud face of the old lady who had appeared so unconcerned.
"She must be very wicked," thought the little boy, "for father said she never forgives any one who offends her. How dreadful that is! Doesn't she know it's wrong, I wonder! And, oh, how strange that she should be mother's aunt! How surprised Peggy will be when she knows!"
Then he forgot Miss Leighton in thinking of Peggy once more. He had not omitted to thank his Father in Heaven, as he had knelt by his bedside before getting into bed, for having spared his sister's life; but his full heart thanked Him again and again as he lay awake mentally reviewing the events of the last few hours, and he fell asleep, at length, with the fervent prayer upon his lips:
"Dear Jesus, please always take care of Peggy, and remember she is blind."
THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION
A MONTH had elapsed since Peggy's accident, and the little girl, though about again, had not recovered her usual health and spirits. Her mother watched her with loving solicitude, noting how shattered her nerves seemed to be, for she started at any sudden sound and dreaded being left alone. The doctor pronounced her to be suffering from the effects of the shock to her nervous system, prescribed a complete change of air, and said time would work a cure.
"How can we send her away for a change?" Mrs. Pringle asked her husband despairingly. "It is impossible."
"I wish you could take her to the seaside for a few weeks, Margaret," Mr. Pringle responded, looking much troubled. "But I really do not see how it can be managed—where the money is to come from, I mean."
"Never mind, father," Peggy said quickly, "I am sure I shall be well soon. I am a lot better, really."
"Do you feel so, darling?" he questioned, as he drew her towards him, and anxiously scrutinised her face.
Then, as she assured him she did, he kissed her gently, an expression of deep pain and regret on his own countenance.
It grieved Mr. Pringle that he could not afford his little daughter the change of air which the doctor had prescribed, and he went off to give a music lesson with a very heavy heart. When he returned, an hour later, upon opening the front door the sound of a man's hearty laugh fell upon his ears, and almost immediately Peggy, with a flush of excitement on her cheeks, came out of the sitting-room, her sensitive ears having warned her of his arrival, and whispered:
"Oh, father, we've a visitor! Guess who it is. But, no, you never will, so I may as well tell you. It's Mr. Tiddy. You remember who he is, don't you? The Cornish gentleman who married Miss Bates."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Pringle, suddenly enlightened. Miss Bates had been a school friend of his wife's. The two had always corresponded regularly, though they had not met of late. Miss Bates had earned her living as a governess until five years previously, when she had married a well-to-do farmer in Cornwall.
"He is a very nice man, father," Peggy continued, "and he's brought us a hamper full of all sorts of good things to eat—cream, and butter, and eggs, and a big cake, which his wife made herself, with a sugary top, and a couple of chickens! Do come and see him at once."
Accordingly Mr. Pringle allowed his little daughter to lead him into the sitting-room, where the visitor was being entertained by Mrs. Pringle and Billy, and after a few minutes' conversation with him, he mentally agreed with Peggy that this new acquaintance was a very nice man.
Ebenezer Tiddy was a thorough countryman in appearance, being clad in a tweed suit, and boots which had evidently been made to keep out inches deep of mud. He was tall and vigorous, with a ruddy, kindly countenance, and steady grey eyes which looked one straight in the face. He had entered the house a complete stranger half an hour before, but already the children were at their ease with him, and Mrs. Pringle was looking decidedly more cheerful than when her husband had left her after their conversation about the doctor's prescription. Mr. Pringle felt glad Mr. Tiddy had come, since his presence had evidently proved exhilarating.
"I arrived in town last night," the visitor explained, "and the first thing this morning I said to myself, 'I'd better execute my wife's business before I attend to my own.' And now you're here, Mr. Pringle, I'll speak of the real object of my visit. Said my wife to me one day last week, 'Ebenezer, how I should like to have little Peggy Pringle to stay with us for a while! Her mother has written to me that she met with an accident and doesn't seem to pick up after it as she ought. I believe a change of air would be the best medicine for her now.'"
Here Mr. Tiddy paused, and looked at Peggy, who, sensitive like all blind people, was fully conscious of his gaze.
"Oh, Mr. Tiddy!" she exclaimed. "And—what did you say?"
"That she'd better write and invite you to visit us at once, my dear, believing, as I do, that Cornish breezes and Cornish living would make you strong in no time. 'But she can't travel alone,' said my wife, who is quicker of thought than I am, 'and how are we to get her here, Ebenezer?' 'That can be easily managed,' I replied; 'when I go to London next week to interview the florist who is going to buy our flowers this spring, I'll ask her parents to trust her to me.' And if they will," concluded Mr. Tiddy, looking smilingly first at Mrs. Pringle, then at her husband, "I am sure I shall be very pleased and proud, and my wife and myself will do our best to make her visit a happy one. The little maid won't have any children for playmates, but I don't think she'll be dull, for there's always something or other to interest folks at a farm, and I need hardly say we'll take good care of her."
"How kind you are!" Mrs. Pringle exclaimed, her face alight with pleasure, "Peggy does indeed need a change very badly, and we have been bemoaning the fact that we could not give her one. I am sure she would be quite happy with you and your wife."
"I remember Miss Bates," said Peggy. "She stayed with us once when I was a little girl."
"And what are you now, pray?" asked Mr. Tiddy, highly amused. "A big girl, eh?"
"I am nine years old," she answered, in a dignified tone. "But I am not very tall for my age."
"Cornish air will make you grow. Will you make up your mind, then, to travel westwards with me? Would your brother care to come too?"
"Billy goes to school, and it is the middle of the term," Mrs. Pringle explained; "being Saturday, it is the weekly holiday: that is why you find him at home now. You are very kind to give him an invitation, but he knows he must not neglect his work."
"He must pay us a visit in his summer holidays, then," said Mr. Tiddy, sympathising with the disappointment he read in the little boy's face. "I shall not forget. And now, Mrs. Pringle, do you think you can part with your little maid on Tuesday? I hope to return to Cornwall as soon as that. I only require one clear day in town to transact my business."
"Peggy can be ready by Tuesday," Mrs. Pringle answered, after a few moments' reflection, whilst Peggy herself felt quite bewildered by the suddenness with which everything was being arranged.
"Come and spend to-morrow with us," suggested Mr. Pringle hospitably, "that is, if you have made no previous engagement."
"I have not. Thank you, I shall be delighted to come," answered Mr. Tiddy, his countenance beaming with pleasure. "I have heard so much of you all from my wife that I can't fancy you were strangers to me till this last hour."
When at length he took his departure, which was after a little further conversation, he seemed quite an old friend, and the children were pleased and excited at the prospect of his visit on the morrow.
"It is as though a load has been lifted off my shoulders," Mr. Pringle confessed, as he returned to the sitting-room after having said good-bye to Mr. Tiddy at the front door. He sat down in an arm-chair as he spoke, and his little daughter took a stool at his feet and rested her golden head against his knee. "It seems so marvellous this invitation should have come for Peggy just at this very time," he proceeded earnestly, "when it seemed utterly impossible to carry out the doctor's prescription. Surely God must have prompted Mr. Tiddy to come to us to-day."
"Yes, and there's no one I would so gladly entrust Peggy to as my old friend," Mrs. Pringle answered contentedly. "You're pleased you're going, are you not, Peggy?" she questioned, noticing a faint shadow on her little daughter's face.
"Y-e-s," was the response, given a trifle doubtfully. The thought of a visit to Cornwall had filled Peggy with a transport of delight at first; but now, she had had time to reflect that she would have no mother and father and Billy with her, and she had never been parted from them before. "I shall miss you all so much," she murmured with quivering lips, "and Cornwall is so far away."
"We shall miss you, little Sunbeam," her father assured her as he softly stroked her curly hair, "but we are glad you are going, because we want you to get well and strong. I believe you will have a most enjoyable time, and, of one thing I am quite certain, that both Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy will be kindness itself. I only hope they won't spoil you and want to keep you altogether."
"I shouldn't stay, if they did," Peggy returned, half indignant at the suggestion. "And—and I'm beginning to wish I wasn't going at all."
She lay awake a long while that night, crying at the thought of the coming separation from her family, but she did not admit it the next morning.
Mr. Tiddy spent Sunday with his new friends as had been arranged, and in the evening he accompanied them to St. John's. After the service, he waited with Mrs. Pringle and the children to hear the voluntary. It was "The Heavens are telling," which Mr. Pringle played at his visitor's request.
"Did you like it, Mr. Tiddy?" Peggy whispered at the conclusion of the piece as they passed out of the church.
"Yes, I liked it," he answered earnestly. "Your father plays the organ beautifully. 'The Heavens are telling the glory of God!' So they do, don't they?" They were in the street by now, Peggy's hand in the firm clasp of her new friend. "I can't tell how folks can prefer to live in town," he proceeded. "Give me the country and plenty of fresh air. Ah, my dear, I'll show you some rare sights in Cornwall—"
"You forget," interposed Peggy, "I cannot see."
"Poor dear!" he said softly. "How thoughtless of me to forget!"
"Does it seem to you very dreadful to be blind?" she asked, catching the tone of tender sympathy in his deep voice.
Then, as he hesitated what answer to make, she continued:
"You know, I shall never see as long as I live, but I think I shall get on very well. Mother says I am very useful in the house. I am learning to do lots of things—to play the piano and to knit, and father says, if he had more money—Oh, here are the others!" And she suddenly broke off.
That was the first occasion on which Peggy had been to church since her accident. Her mother had been doubtful about taking her to-night, and had wanted to leave her at home with Sarah for her companion. But the little girl had begged to be allowed to go, and had gained her own way, and the service had had a beneficial effect upon her, having soothed her nerves instead of having excited them. She slept well that night, and the next day was spent in making preparations for her visit, and passed so busily that when bedtime came again, she was too weary to lie awake thinking of the parting from all those who made up her little world, which was so near at hand.
She was called early on the following morning, and after breakfast—of which she partook but little—and a somewhat tearful good-bye to Billy and Sarah, she drove off in a cab with her parents to Paddington railway station, where she was consigned to the care of Mr. Tiddy, who had already selected a comfortable carriage and procured a foot-warmer for his little charge.
"Good-bye, Peggy, darling," whispered her mother, as the guard bustled by requesting people to take their places. "God bless and protect you, dear."
"Good-bye, little Sunbeam," said her father cheerily, as he lifted her into the carriage and wrapped her up in a rug. "We shall expect you to come back well and strong."
"Yes," murmured Peggy, bravely smiling. "Good-bye—oh, good-bye!"
PEGGY'S FIRST DAY AT LOWER BRIMLEY
ON a certain bright March morning, Mrs. Tiddy stood beneath the creeper-covered porch at the front door of Lower Brimley Farm, waiting for her husband, who had been up and out-of-doors since daybreak, to return to breakfast. Mr. Tiddy had arrived home from London on the previous evening, having brought Peggy Pringle with him. But the little girl, over-tired as the result of the long journey, had been sleeping firmly when her hostess had visited her bedroom half an hour before, and orders had been given that she was not to be awakened.
The mistress of Lower Brimley was a small-sized woman with a trim figure and a pleasant countenance, which wore a very contented expression at the present moment. The view over which Mrs. Tiddy's blue eyes wandered admiringly was a most beautiful one, for Lower Brimley was situated on the slope of a hill, not ten minutes' walk from the sea and the small fishing village which straggled in one steep street from the beach to the old grey church on the cliff.
The soft air was sweet with the scent of flowers on this sunny spring morning, for the land close by was given up to the cultivation of daffodils and narcissi of nearly every species, which flourished in the rich moist soil and were now in full bloom, and the garden in front of the house was a fine show, too, with violets, hyacinths, and purple and scarlet anemones, against a background of rhododendron bushes. In short, there was a wealth of flowers everywhere; and as Mrs. Tiddy's contemplative gaze roamed over her own domain to the distant sea, glimmering like silver in the bright sunshine, it was caught and held by the golden furze on the cliffs, and she murmured admiringly:
"What a glorious sight! And to think that that dear child will never know how beautiful it all is! How sad to be blind!"
An expression of deep regret crossed Mrs. Tiddy's face as she thought of her little visitor; but it gave place to a bright smile as she caught sight of her husband approaching. And she ran down the path to the garden gate to meet him, anxious to hear that he had found everything on the farm in good order. She was soon satisfied upon that point, for he was in high spirits, and complimented her upon her management during his absence. And then they went into the house together, and sat down to breakfast in the parlour, a large comfortably-furnished room, the windows of which commanded a view of the village and the sea.
"And how is my fellow-traveller?" Mr. Tiddy inquired by-and-by.
"She was sleeping firmly half an hour ago and I have given orders that she is not to be disturbed," his wife-responded. "She was so very tired last night, and I fancy she felt home-sick—poor little soul! She has never been away from her own people before, you see, and oh, Ebenezer, think how helpless one must feel to be always in darkness!"
"Yes," he agreed, "but though she has been denied sight, her other senses seem preternaturally keen. It's always the way with blind people, I've heard. And—why, here she comes!"
Mr. Tiddy rose as the door opened, and Peggy stood hesitating upon the threshold of the room. Going to her side, he gave her a hearty kiss, inquired how she was this morning, and, having been assured that she was quite well, led her to his wife.
"I thought you were still in bed and asleep, my dear child," said Mrs. Tiddy, her voice expressing the surprise she felt.
"I woke up, and I was afraid I was late for breakfast, so I dressed as quickly as I could and came down," Peggy explained, as she returned Mrs. Tiddy's kiss and took the chair by her side.
"How clever of you to find your way alone!"
"Clever!" laughed Peggy. "You forget I had my supper in this room last night, and I heard your voices as I came downstairs. What a lovely morning, isn't it? I smelt violets and hyacinths when I opened my bedroom window, and I heard the sea."
"The sea is very calm to-day, almost as still as a mill-pond," remarked Mr. Tiddy somewhat dubiously. "You must have very sharp ears, if you heard it."
"Oh, but I did," persisted Peggy. "The waves were whispering ever so softly, but I heard them. I was never at the seaside but once before, when we all went to Bournemouth for a week, nearly two years ago."
The little girl was looking very bright this morning, and she did full justice to the fried bacon and chopped potatoes to which Mr. Tiddy helped her, remarking, as he did so, that he hoped she could enjoy country fare. And at the conclusion of the meal, he suggested that she should put on her hat and jacket and go for a stroll with him about the farm, whilst his wife attended to her domestic duties in the house.
Accordingly, Peggy accompanied her host out into the brilliant spring sunshine, and asked him numerous questions about his flowers. He explained all about their cultivation, and watched her with keenly interested eyes as she felt the various blooms with her sensitive fingers.
"I shall remember all you have told me," she declared. "This is a 'Princess Mary,' is it not? And this is the daffodil you said the country people call 'butter and eggs'?"
"Yes!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "But how can you possibly tell?"
"I can feel the difference, Mr. Tiddy, and I can smell. It seems to me all these daffodils have different scents."
"To me, they are alike," he admitted, "but I suppose they are not. Really, Peggy, you are a very clever little girl."
When they returned to the house they went by the back way, where, in the yard, they were met by a big, black-and-white smooth-haired sheep-dog, who sniffed at Peggy suspiciously at first. But when she ventured to extend her hand to him, he licked it with his great pink tongue, whilst a very soft expression crept into his amber eyes.
"He likes you, my dear," Mr. Tiddy said. "And he does not take to every one, let me tell you. He evidently intends to regard you as a friend."
"What is his name?" Peggy inquired, as she passed her hand over the dog's sleek head.
"Wolf. We gave him the name when he was a puppy, because he was such a lean, fierce-looking creature. He is a splendid house-dog; but he is not very sociable, as a rule. He seems to have taken a fancy to you, however."
"He knows I like him," Peggy said, as she caressed her new acquaintance, who continued to wag his tail amicably. "What a tall dog he is! Wolf—dear old Wolf!"
The animal gave a delighted cry, and Mr. Tiddy nodded his head approvingly.
"I'm glad he's taken to you," he said. "For you couldn't get a better protector than Wolf."
Peggy never forgot that first day at Lower Brimley. The afternoon she passed quietly in the house with Mrs. Tiddy, who wrote a long letter to her old school fellow in which were many messages from Peggy.
"Tell her how much I miss them all," said the little girl. "But please say, too, that I am sure I shall be very happy here, because every one is so kind to me, and it is a lovely, lovely place! And, please don't forget to send my dear love!" And for a few minutes, her blue eyes were full of tears.
"Peggy," said Mrs. Tiddy by-and-by, "I have heard all the details in connection with your accident from my husband, and I do not wonder it was a shock to your nerves. Is your shoulder quite well now, dear?"
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Tiddy. It got well very quickly. Every one said it was a wonder I was not killed; but I think myself God took especial care of me, because He knew I wasn't quite like other people—not being able to see, you know. Mr. Maloney—that's the Vicar of St. John's—thinks so too. Wasn't it strange that it should have been mother's aunt who was in the carriage?"
"Very. Your mother never sees her Aunt Caroline, does she?"
"Never. Do you know her, Mrs. Tiddy?"
"No, though, of course, I have heard a good bit about her from your mother."
"Billy and I never heard of her at all till my accident. I don't think she can be nice; and Billy said she looked very proud. I heard her speak, but I was too frightened then to take much notice of her voice. I always tell what people are like by their voices."
"Do you, my dear?"
"Yes," Peggy nodded. "I knew Mr. Tiddy was good and kind, the moment I heard him speak: I felt I could trust him. Do you know, I quite enjoyed the journey yesterday, after we had properly started. Of course, I didn't like saying good-bye to mother and father. I had never been in a corridor-train before, and we had dinner at a big table just as though we were in a proper room, and there was a kitchen on the train, and cooks. Oh, how Billy would have liked to have been there! What a lot I shall have to tell him when I go home! Oh, Mrs. Tiddy, it was kind of you to think of inviting me to stay with you!"
"I am sure your visit will be a great pleasure to me, my dear," Mrs. Tiddy replied cordially. "And I shall be well content, if I can send you home with roses in your cheeks. To-morrow I will take you into the village and down to the beach; but I must not let you do too much on your first day. There, I have finished my letter, and can now have an idle hour before tea."
She put aside her writing materials as she spoke, and went to the window, where Peggy was seated, listening to the sparrows twittering beneath the eaves of the roof and the sound of children's voices wafted upwards from the village below.
"You and Mr. Tiddy are so very kind to take so much trouble to explain everything to me," the little girl said, with a grateful ring in her sweet, clear voice, "that I am already beginning to know this place quite well—the house and the grounds, too."
"Shall I tell you what I see from this window?" asked Mrs. Tiddy.
"Oh, please!" Peggy answered delightedly. Then as her kind hostess did so, she listened with attention, her face aglow with interest and pleasure. "How well you make me understand!" she cried, as Mrs. Tiddy ceased speaking. She leaned her head out of the open window and sniffed the fresh salt breeze appreciatively, and listened to the murmur of the sea. It seemed a very beautiful world to Peggy in spite of her lack of sight.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
IN a very few days, Peggy had settled into the routine of life at Lower Brimley, and had become well known by sight to the villagers, who took a kindly interest in Mrs. Tiddy's guest—"the pretty little maid," as they called her, who, though she was blind, could play the piano, so the servants at the farm reported, and was so clever that wherever she went once she could go by herself a second time.
Accompanied by the lean, long-legged sheep-dog, she was now a familiar figure on the beach, where she would sit for hours, listening to the incessant murmur of the sea or talking to the fishermen, whose deep voices insensibly softened in addressing her. For nowhere so much as in Cornwall is more respect shown to those whom God has afflicted; and, though Peggy knew it not, she was continually watched by friendly eyes to see that she came to no harm.
Mrs. Tiddy, who had been nervous about letting her visitor wander out of her sight at first, soon grew less vigilant, and was quite satisfied if she knew Wolf was with her, for the dog had constituted himself her faithful companion, and showed marked signs of jealousy, if any stranger came near her.
One afternoon, about a week after her arrival at Lower Brimley, Peggy was standing in a gateway waiting for Mr. Tiddy, who had gone across a meadow to look at some sheep, when Wolf, as usual at her side, gave a low, warning growl and drew closer to her. She put her hand on the dog's collar and listened, hearing at length the sound of footsteps slowly approaching. Some one was evidently ascending the hill which led from the village to the farm.
After that one growl, Wolf remained silent, and Peggy did not move as the footsteps drew near. But when they suddenly stopped, the little girl, still holding the dog by the collar, turned her face, with an inquiring expression upon it, towards the spot where she knew some one—a woman, she thought, from the sound of the footsteps—to be.
"Can you tell me, if this is the way to Lower Brimley Farm?" asked a somewhat patronising voice—the voice of a lady, Peggy's sharp ears informed her at once.
"Yes," the little girl answered. "You will come within sight of the house, I know, when you turn the next corner. Are you going to call on Mrs. Tiddy? Perhaps you are a friend of hers? She is not at home; she has driven in to Penzance."
"And I have driven from Penzance. But I have no acquaintance with Mrs. Tiddy—the mistress at the farm, I presume? I have no desire to see her, but I want to have a look at her flowers. I am told the daffodils and narcissi at Lower Brimley are especially fine. People talk so much nowadays of the flower-farms of Cornwall that I am curious to see one."
The speaker—a tall, thin, erect old lady, with snow-white hair and very sharp dark eyes, looked carelessly at the child, and proceeded to question her: "Do you live here? Are you the farmer's daughter?"
"No; I am no relation to either Mr. or Mrs. Tiddy, although they are so very kind to me," Peggy answered simply. "My home is in London; I am only here on a visit. I am sure Mr. Tiddy will let you look at his flowers; he is very proud of them, and no wonder, for they are so beautiful! He has gone across the meadow, but he will return directly. Perhaps you can see him?"
"Do you mean that big man in breeches and leggings?"
"Yes, that's Mr. Tiddy. I promised to wait here with Wolf—that's the dog—till he came back. Is he far off? Is he coming this way?"
"Cannot you use your eyes, child?" began the lady, a trifle impatiently. Then she paused abruptly, and scanned the little girl's face with keener scrutiny.
"I cannot see," Peggy responded, "because I am blind."
"Blind! How shocking!"
The stranger's voice had softened perceptibly, and sounded no longer indifferent. Peggy, conscious of the change, smiled, and a faint colour rose to her pale cheeks as she remarked:
"Every one is surprised to hear I am blind, but it is quite true."
"And have you been blind long?"
"All my life."
"And yet you look happy!" was the wondering exclamation.
"I am very happy. Mother says I must always remember how many blessings God has given me, and so I do. Oh, here is Mr. Tiddy!" the little girl cried, with a sudden change of tone.
The farmer came up, glancing curiously at Peggy's companion, who now put forward a request—it sounded almost like a command—to see his flowers, adding that she had come from Penzance on purpose to look at them, and had left her carriage at the foot of the hill.
"You are just in time to see them at their best," Mr. Tiddy told her pleasantly. "In another week, I shall have cut them all: we rear them for the London markets. Lead the way, Peggy. A little friend of ours from town," he explained, lowering his voice as the child and the dog went on ahead. "She's been laid up ill and hasn't picked up her health and spirits yet. We're trying what our Cornish air will do for her."
"I trust it will do wonders," said the lady, and her voice, though still cold in tone, was not ungracious. "She looks a delicate child, and she tells me, she is blind."
"Ah, yes, poor dear," sighed Mr. Tiddy. "Though I don't know why I should pity her," he proceeded, "for she's as happy as the day is long. Her father—he's the organist of St. John's in the East End of London—calls her 'little Sunbeam,' and the name just suits her. Her mother and my wife were school friends, and—but here we are!"
The stranger was evidently much gratified by the sight of the flowers, and she was greatly impressed by the knowledge Peggy evinced concerning them. And the more she conversed with Mr. Tiddy, the more gracious her manner became, till by-and-by she asked him if there were comfortable lodgings to be had in the neighbourhood.
"There's a farm higher up the hill, the adjoining farm to this, Higher Brimley it's called—where they let apartments during the summer months," he replied. "I expect they'd consider themselves fortunate, if they obtained a lodger as early in the year as this. Ford, the people are called, and Mrs. Ford is a nice, respectable woman who'd make you very comfortable."
"You never take lodgers here?" the stranger inquired hesitatingly.
"Never," was the decisive answer. "My wife has plenty of work to do in connection with the poultry and the dairy, and—to be plain—we like our home to ourselves."
When the lady had gazed her fill at the daffodils, Mr. Tiddy led the way into the garden, which she declared to be her idea of what a country garden should be. The kindly farmer, pleased at her admiration for his belongings, thereupon invited her into the house, and had tea brought into the parlour. "I wish my wife was at home," he observed regretfully, "but Peggy must play hostess in her place."
"And a very nice little hostess she makes," replied the old lady, her curious gaze upon the child, who was offering her some of Mrs. Tiddy's home-made cake. "Do you always treat strangers as you are treating me?" she inquired, turning to Mr. Tiddy again. "I have heard of Cornish hospitality, but I never believed in it till now. You don't know anything about me—" She paused and laughed rather bitterly, then added: "Most people would not think it worth while to entertain a stranger—one never likely to cross their path in life again."
"Then you do not mean to seek lodgings in the district?" Mr. Tiddy asked gravely.
"I have not made up my mind on that point yet. I almost think I could be contented in a spot like this."
Having finished her tea, she rose and prepared to depart. Mr. Tiddy now noted for the first time, how costly was her dress—evidently she was a woman rich in this world's goods—and he thought as he glanced at the deep lines of discontent around her hard mouth, that, in spite of her undeniably handsome face, she was the most ill-tempered looking old lady he had seen for many a long day, and doubted much if she would be contented anywhere.
"Good-bye, child," she said stretching out her delicately-gloved hand to Peggy. "It is quite possible that we may meet again."
"If we do, I shall remember you," was the grave response. "I shall remember you by your voice. And I can't help thinking that somewhere we have met before, or perhaps it is only that you remind me of some one—that must be it."
The lady looked at Peggy searchingly, and shook her head. Then she went away, leaving the little girl in a very thoughtful frame of mind. When Mr. Tiddy returned, after having accompanied the stranger down the hill and placed her in the hired carriage in which she had been driven from Penzance, he asked Peggy what she thought of their late visitor.
"She seemed rather unhappy, didn't she, Mr. Tiddy?" she questioned.
"Unhappy?" he said, reflectively. "I don't know about that. To me she appeared simply discontented. She is a selfish woman, I'll be bound—so maybe you're right, my dear, for selfish folk are never happy—and wrapped up in her own concerns. But she liked my daffodils, didn't she? I could see she had a real love for flowers. And she was interested in you, too. One mustn't judge by appearances altogether—"
"I judge by her voice," said Peggy, as he broke off, leaving his sentence unfinished.
"A hard, cold voice, wasn't it?" questioned Mr. Tiddy.
"Y-e-s. Was she very old, Mr. Tiddy?"
"Over seventy, I should say."
"That's a great age, isn't it? I wonder if she is always alone like she was to-day. Perhaps she has no one to love and care for her now she is old. How sad that must be! Poor old lady!" And there was deepest sympathy in her tone.
Mr. Tiddy looked at the speaker with a tender smile; but he did not think it worth while to say that, to him, their visitor had appeared anything but poor. Perhaps, he reflected, the child might be right after all, for he knew how often those rich in worldly possessions are poor in heart.
MISS LEIGHTON'S DISCOVERY
THE daffodil blooms had all been gathered; March had given place to April; and, day by day, Peggy was improving in health, whilst roses—faint as yet, it is true—were appearing in her cheeks. The doctor's prescription of a change of air was evidently what she had needed; and Mrs. Tiddy was much gratified at being able to write most cheering reports of her visitor's condition to Mrs. Pringle, who read them aloud to her husband and Billy with deep thankfulness in her heart.
"How we shall miss the child when she leaves us!" Mr. Tiddy remarked to his wife one evening, as they strolled up and down the path in front of the house when the work of the day was over, listening to the music which Peggy's fingers were drawing from the piano in the parlour. The little girl was naturally musical and had been well taught by her father, who had often told her that if she worked hard and practised industriously, she might become a real musician some day, and to be a real musician was her most earnest desire.
"But she is not going to leave us for a long while yet," Mrs. Tiddy responded. "I have written and told her mother that she must spare her to us for another month, at least, and I think she will be glad to let her stay, as her health is benefiting so much by our Cornish air. By the way, Ebenezer, have you heard that there are lodgers at Higher Brimley? No? An elderly lady and her maid have taken Mrs. Ford's apartments. They were pointed out to me in the village this afternoon when Peggy and I were returning from the beach. And Peggy says she is sure the lady is the one who came from Penzance on purpose to look at our flowers. She is a tall, thin, old lady with quite white hair."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed the farmer. "I told her she could get apartments at Higher Brimley, but I did not think she really meant to see about them. Did she speak to Peggy?"
"No; she did not see her, for we were in the post office when she passed with her maid. Peggy recognised her by her voice."
"I wonder who she is. You did not hear her name, I suppose?"
"No. Listen! The child is singing!"
They stood silently by the open window of the parlour and listened as the little girl's voice, low and sweet in tone, rang out clearly and softly:
"Holy Father, cheer our wayWith Thy love's perpetual ray:Grant us every closing dayLight at evening time."
"Dear child," murmured Mrs. Tiddy, tears springing involuntarily to her eyes, "it does seem hard lines that one naturally so bright and joyous should be blind! But there, God knows best, and I suppose He has denied her sight for some good reason; and she has His love to cheer her way, I'm certain."
"I think there's light in her heart," said Mr. Tiddy simply, and his wife agreed.
It was on the following morning that Peggy, who had wandered down to the beach with Wolf in attendance, met the lodgers from Higher Brimley. The old lady spoke to the little girl, and inquired if she remembered her. And, receiving an answer in the affirmative, she dismissed her maid, telling her to wait within sight, and requested Peggy to sit down by her side on an upturned boat, and talk to her for a while.
Peggy complied readily, for she was of a very sociable disposition, and commenced the conversation by informing her companion that she had recognised her voice when she had heard it on the previous day.
"I was in the post office with Mrs. Tiddy when you passed," she said, "and you were talking. We were told you had taken Mrs. Ford's rooms."
"I do not know how long I shall remain there-perhaps only a few days, perhaps longer. I suppose the daffodils are all gone now?"
"Yes," Peggy nodded regretfully; "but there are more flowers than ever in the garden, and those will not be cut. Mr. Tiddy grows them for himself and his friends; but the daffodils and narcissi, he sells."
"You are looking better than when I saw you before," observed the stranger. "I suppose you will be going home soon?"
"Not for some weeks yet. Oh, yes, I am a lot better! I feel really well; and Mrs. Tiddy says I am getting quite rosy and sunburnt. I am so glad, because they will be pleased at home."
"Are you one of a long family?"
"No. I have only one brother—Billy. Father is the organist of St. John's, but I do not expect you know the church. Mr. Maloney is our Vicar. He's a great friend of ours. I'm sure you'd like him, because he's such a good man. Mother says he's very clever, and people come a long distance often to hear him preach, so I suppose he must be."
"I think I've heard of him," said the old lady thoughtfully. "He gives up his life to working amongst the poor, does he not?"
"Yes. Nearly every one in our parish is poor. Mr. Maloney is, I believe, and we are, you know, because father's salary isn't much, and his music pupils don't pay him as they ought. But father is very clever, too, and some day I dare say we shall be better off. Father composes music, and there are very few people who can do that," the little girl said, with a ring of affectionate pride in her voice. "Do you live in London, too?" she inquired, thinking it was her turn to ask a question now.
"I have a house in town. Will you come and spend a day with me there when we both go back to our own homes?"
"I—I hardly know," Peggy replied doubtfully, flushing with surprise. "It's very kind of you to invite me; but I must ask mother. I don't know who you are, and—"
"And I don't know who you are, either! Suppose you tell me your name?"
"It is Margaret Pringle; but I am always called Peggy, because father calls mother Margaret."
"Pringle!" exclaimed the old lady, growing suddenly crimson. She looked almost angrily at Peggy as she spoke, but of course the little girl was unconscious of that fact, though she caught the sound of agitation in her voice. "Pringle!" she repeated. "Is it possible? Tell me, is your father's name John?"
"Yes. You have heard of him?" Since her companion had evinced some knowledge of the Vicar of St. John's, it did not occur to Peggy as at all unlikely that she should know something of the organist too. "He plays most beautifully," she continued impressively. "Mr. Tiddy will tell you so, for he heard him one Sunday evening when he went to church with us. It was the first time I had been to church after my accident. Oh, I haven't told you about that! I was knocked down when I was out with Billy, and it was a great wonder that I was not killed!"
And she recounted the story of her adventure at some length, utterly unconscious of the effect it was having upon her listener, who had lost all her colour again now, and was looking paler than before.
"The—the person in the carriage would not have understood that you were blind," the old lady remarked at length, subsequent to a long pause which had followed the conclusion of Peggy's tale.
"No, of course not," the little girl agreed, "but Mr. Maloney says the least she could have done would have been to have driven me home. Billy thinks she didn't care, if I was hurt or not. And—isn't it strange?—she's supposed to be a very charitable person!"
"Then you know who she is?"
"Oh, yes! She gave the policeman her card, and mother used to know her quite well—years ago."
"Ah!"
"I—I am afraid I have been talking too much," Peggy said hesitatingly, with a sudden touch of reserve in her tone as she became aware that she had let her tongue run away with her. She hoped she had not wearied her companion with her chatter.
"Why did you say she—the person in the carriage, I mean—is supposed to be very charitable?" asked the old lady presently.
"Because she gives away heaps and heaps of money," was the prompt reply.
"Well, that is very generous of her, is it not?"
"Yes. But I don't think she can be really charitable, if she isn't kind in little ways and if she's unforgiving. I asked Mr. Maloney what he thought."
"Well? What did he say?"
"He repeated that verse in the Corinthians, 'Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.' He didn't say anything but that; but I know what he meant, don't you? But, don't let us talk about her any more—I am not sure that I ought to have spoken of her at all."
"You have done no harm. So that accident was actually the cause of your illness?"
"Yes. And just when the doctor said I must have a change of air, Mr. Tiddy arrived and invited me here. Wasn't it kind of him, and of Mrs. Tiddy too? You know I couldn't possibly have had a change but for them, for father couldn't have managed it, and it made him so dreadfully unhappy that he couldn't. Both he and mother were so worried about me."
Soon after that the old lady rose, remarking that she found the wind a trifle chilly. She said good-bye to Peggy and joined her maid with the intention of returning to her lodgings. Left alone, the little girl reflected that her late companion had been decidedly less affable at the conclusion of their conversation, than at the commencement, and wondered why that had been. Had she unwittingly said anything to cause her annoyance? She felt puzzled and uneasy; and, though she had been encouraged to talk, she wished she had been less communicative.
Meanwhile the old lady, who, as the reader has no doubt guessed, was no other than Miss Leighton, Mrs. Pringle's aunt, was walking up the hill towards Higher Brimley in anything but a happy frame of mind. That morning she had spoken of remaining some while longer in Cornwall, and had professed herself quite satisfied with the arrangements which had been made for her comfort; but now, she had almost decided to quit the neighbourhood at once.
She had been greatly attracted by the blind child on the occasion of her visit from Penzance to look at Mr. Tiddy's flowers. And when she had caught sight of her on the beach an hour previously, she had determined to cultivate her acquaintance. But having learnt that Peggy was the daughter of the niece whom she had never forgiven for what she called her ingratitude, she was experiencing mingled feelings of anger, bitterness, and regret.
"I will have no more to do with her," she thought.