"'Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlastingdoors; and the King of glory shall come in.'""'Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lordmighty in battle.'"
"'Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlastingdoors; and the King of glory shall come in.'""'Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lordmighty in battle.'"
"'Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlastingdoors; and the King of glory shall come in.'""'Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lordmighty in battle.'"
"'Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting
doors; and the King of glory shall come in.'"
"'Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord
mighty in battle.'"
Marigold's heart swelled with an exultant feeling as she listened entranced.
Then came the question again—
"'Who is this King of glory?'"—and the triumphant reply—"'The Lordof hosts, He is the King of glory.'"
"'Who is this King of glory?'"—and the triumphant reply—"'The Lordof hosts, He is the King of glory.'"
"'Who is this King of glory?'"—and the triumphant reply—"'The Lordof hosts, He is the King of glory.'"
"'Who is this King of glory?'"—and the triumphant reply—"'The Lord
of hosts, He is the King of glory.'"
A sob burst from Marigold's lips, and tears rushed to her eyes, her pleasure approached so near to pain.
When the service was over she followed her aunt into the sunshine again, and Miss Pamela glanced with a little surprise at her flushed cheeks and shining eyes as she inquired—
"Did you like it, Marigold?"
"Oh, it was lovely, Aunt Pamela! I never heard such singing before!"
"Very likely not. Your father loved the service at the cathedral too. At one time we thought he might choose to be a clergyman, but his father and grandfather were soldiers, and it seemed only natural he should follow in their footsteps. A good soldier is often a good Christian, I have noticed."
Marigold thought of her father's motto, and agreed.
The little girl soon fell into the ways of her new home. At first she felt unsettled and unhappy, missed her mother and the boys more than she ever owned, and stood in fear of Miss Pamela. But after a time she grew less homesick, and discovered that though Miss Pamela was cold and undemonstrative in her manner, yet she was not unkind, and desired to make her niece really happy.
Miss Holcroft Marigold had loved from the first. Everyone liked the gentle, good-hearted old lady whose quiet, uneventful life had been spent in trying to make others better and happier. Many were the tales of sin and grief that were poured into her ears from time to time, many were the sorrows she alleviated, and the tears she dried. Often she was imposed upon; often, it is to be feared, she wasted her sympathy upon unworthy objects; but the thought that she had perhaps refrained from giving assistance where it was needed would have haunted her, and she was consequently often reproved by Miss Pamela for being too easily led.
By her elder aunt Marigold's coming had been hailed with delight and keenest pleasure. She had longed to know her late nephew's widow and children, though she had but rarely dared to hint as much to her sister, and in welcoming Marigold she had been so genuinely pleased and glad to see her, that the child had recognised her feelings with a grateful heart.
Marigold soon began to understand that it was wiser not to speak much of her mother in the presence of her two aunts, for if she did so Miss Holcroft always looked anxious and uneasy, whilst Miss Pamela's face would grow sterner and colder than before, and she would pointedly turn the conversation. So the little girl dropped the habit of saying, "Mother says," as she had been accustomed to do, and if she ever mentioned the dearly loved name it was with a new, strange timidity. How she looked forward to her mother's letters! How she read them again and again, shedding tears over them one minute, and smiling the next! Mrs. Holcroft wrote charming letters, full of all the trifling details of home life that she knew would interest her little daughter, about the boys, her own work, and the people of their acquaintance. On one occasion Miss Holcroft came upon her when she was reading one of these letters, and some kindly impulse made the old lady lay her hand upon the child's shoulder with a caressing touch and inquire—
"Are your mother and brothers well, my dear? Have you good news from home?"
"Oh yes, thank you," the little girl replied, lifting a pair of shining, happy eyes to her aunt's face. Then she added hesitatingly, "Mother has written such a nice letter. I wonder if you would like to see it? Oh yes, I really mean it!"
Miss Holcroft took the proffered letter, and putting on her spectacles perused it slowly from beginning to end. When she returned it to Marigold she simply remarked—
"I hope your mother would not mind my seeing it. It has interested me very much."
She did not explain that it had interested her in the writer; but, after that day, Marigold understood that her Aunt Mary bore no ill-will to her mother, whatever Aunt Pamela might feel.
Easter fell about the middle of April that year. It had been decided that at the commencement of the summer term, in the first week of May, Marigold was to attend a day-school not far distant from Powderham Crescent.
"I hope you will be a good girl, and work hard to get on," Miss Pamela told her. "We wish you to have a good education to fit you for your position in life."
"I will try my hardest to learn all I can," Marigold responded earnestly.
"You will doubtless make friends at school," Miss Pamela continued, "and I hope you will have the good sense to choose them for more lasting qualities than those that usually attract youthful minds. You are unaccustomed to the companionship of other girls, and I warn you not to form rash opinions about your schoolfellows, but to select your friends with caution."
"I will remember what you say, Aunt Pamela," the little girl said, feeling somewhat puzzled. "Is it a large school where I am going?"
"There are between thirty and forty pupils, I believe. The principal, Miss Hardcastle, is a remarkably clever woman, and she is assisted by a staff of well-trained governesses, with visiting masters for music, and the higher branches of mathematics. Girls are expected to study subjects nowadays which were considered unnecessary when I was young; so you will have to work hard, if you mean to become a clever woman!"
To become a clever woman so that she should be able to earn her own living and assist her mother, was Marigold's one ambition, and she made up her mind to exert herself as much as possible, and do her very best.
Marigold had already been to the afternoon service at the cathedral with one or the other of her aunts on several occasions, but she had never once caught sight of Farmer Jo, although she had always looked about, in hopes of seeing him.
At last, one Friday afternoon as she was leaving the cathedral with Miss Holcroft, she saw a large tweed-clad figure in front, in company with a little old lady clad in an old-fashioned brown silk gown. Acting on the impulse of the moment, and much to her aunt's surprise, she darted on ahead and caught up to them.
"How do you do, Mr. Adams?" she cried, in glad tones. "Oh, how glad I am I happened to see you!"
"What!" exclaimed Farmer Jo, in his loud, hearty voice. "It's never the little maid I travelled down from London with! Why, it is! Now, this is a pleasure!"
He took her hand and shook it heartily, then introduced his mother, who was the very opposite to her son in every way, being small and thin, with merry brown eyes like a bird's.
"I suppose you have been to the cathedral too," the old lady said, smiling. "My son and I generally attend the afternoon service on Fridays. We think it a rare treat, don't we, Jo?"
"That we do, mother!"
"It's so quiet and peaceful there, it makes one think of heaven," she continued.
"So it does, so it does," her son agreed.
"I am always grateful to those who gave us our cathedral. How they must have loved God, to have built such a place to His glory! I always feel that when I look at the carving, and—"
She paused, suddenly conscious of the approach of Miss Holcroft. A shyness seemed to come over mother and son, the former made a low, old-fashioned courtesy, the latter took off his hat, and they passed on arm-in-arm.
"Marigold!" said Miss Holcroft, in a horrified tone of voice, "who are those odd-looking people?"
The little girl explained. She was a trifle uneasy, perhaps she had not behaved rightly; perhaps Aunt Mary would be angry at being left in such an unceremonious fashion, and would tell Aunt Pamela, who had looked so scornful on the night of her arrival when she had spoken of Farmer Jo. But Miss Holcroft was not angry, though she had been a little shocked to see Marigold running after two complete strangers, as she had imagined.
"You should have waited and explained the matter to me, Marigold," she said; "had you done so, I could have spoken to them myself, and thanked the gentleman for his kindness to you in the train."
"Oh, Aunt Mary, I see now that is what I ought to have done! I acted without thinking! I am so sorry!"
"Never mind, my dear. Perhaps we may see them again some day, and then you can introduce me to them properly. Mother and son, you say? Dear me! He is so big, and she is such a tiny woman!"
Marigold dreaded what Miss Pamela would say when her sister told her of the encounter with Farmer Jo and his mother, but apparently the incident had not made so great an impression on Miss Holcroft's mind as on Marigold's, for the former did not revert to it again for some days to come. Meanwhile, the time was drawing near when Marigold was to make another important step in life, and go to school. Her mother wrote warning her of fresh trials and temptations that would cross her path, and begging her to remember her father's motto always. Marigold did remember it, but perhaps it was not unnatural that she did not realise how hard it might be for her to fight the good fight of Faith that hitherto had not been fraught with many difficulties, with her mother's cheering presence and her mother's loving care as bulwarks of strength, always at hand.
"MARIGOLD, I have this minute come from your bedroom, where I was greatly annoyed at the sight of your personal belongings strewed in every direction. I opened your set of drawers, and they were in a state of disorder; your towels had fallen on the floor, or perhaps you had thrown them there—"
"Oh, Aunt Pamela, I am so sorry—"
"You are a very untidy little girl, I regret to say," Miss Pamela continued severely, "and I am grieved to see it. Go upstairs at once, and set your room in order. Next week you will be at school, if all's well, when you will have less time on your hands, and if you are so careless you will always be in trouble."
Marigold, who had been reading a story-book whilst she sat by the window in the drawing-room, rose quickly, and with cheeks red with shame ran hastily upstairs. Miss Pamela had not complained without sufficient cause, as Marigold acknowledged when she looked around her pretty bedroom, for her jacket and hat were flung carelessly on a chair; one boot was by the window, the other directly inside the door; and the writing-table was littered with note-paper and envelopes, some of the latter having fallen on the floor.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" sighed Marigold; "no wonder Aunt Pamela looked so dreadfully cross!" She recalled how often her mother had remonstrated with her about her careless, untidy ways. On this occasion she had refrained from putting her room in order before dinner, so that she might have more time to continue reading the story she was so greatly interested in, and afterwards she had gone back to her book, never dreaming that her Aunt Pamela would discover her neglect. She felt very guilty and uneasy, as she hastily set to work to put her garments in their proper places. Before she had quite completed her task, Miss Holcroft came in, her gentle face a little troubled.
"Oh, Marigold, my dear, you must really learn to be more careful," she said. "Pamela is so put out that you left your room in such a state of untidiness, after her impressing upon you how particular she is. Did not your mother teach you to be neat?"
"Oh yes, indeed, Aunt Mary! It is not mother's fault that I am so careless, really it is not! She used to be always telling me about it. You see, we had not much room to spare in our flat, and when I littered the place with my things it made such a muddle!"
"So I should imagine!"
"I wanted to finish the book I was reading," Marigold explained, "and I thought I should be able to put my room tidy by and by."
"That is procrastination. Never put off to a future time what you ought to do in the present."
"I did not think Aunt Pamela would come into my room."
"Ah! You mean you did not think your fault would be found out. You knew you were disobeying our wishes; but it never occurred to you, I suppose, to think that you were not acting quite straight in the matter. Always be true, my dear, and then we shall be able to trust you."
Marigold's eyes filled with tears at the reproof, gently given though it was, and she felt thoroughly ashamed. Her lips trembled as she said in a low voice—
"I am very sorry, Aunt Mary; I am indeed!"
"Be more careful and thoughtful for the future, my dear child. Now, I have come to ask if you would like to go to the cathedral with us this afternoon; both Pamela and I are going, and we thought, as you will be at school next week, that you ought not to miss the opportunity of accompanying us to-day."
"Oh, Aunt Mary, I should like so much to go with you," the little girl replied gladly, her face brightening.
"Well, put on your hat and jacket at once, then, and join us downstairs."
Marigold obeyed with alacrity, and presently sallied forth between her two aunts, reflecting that it was Friday, and therefore very possible that they might see Farmer Jo and his mother. Nor was she disappointed, for again on leaving the cathedral, she espied them in front, arm-in-arm as before.
"Aunt Mary," said Marigold in an excited whisper, "do you notice? There are Farmer Jo and his mother!"
"Yes, so I perceive," Miss Holcroft answered. "Pamela," turning to her sister, "do you see that odd-looking pair?"
Miss Pamela glanced in the direction indicated, and a faint smile crossed her face.
"Certainly I do," she replied, "and I recognise one of them. The old lady is called Mrs. Adams; I met her on one occasion at Mrs. Nowell's."
Mrs. Nowell was the wife of Dr. Nowell, who lived a few houses distant from the Misses Holcroft, in Powderham Crescent.
"Oh, Aunt Pamela," Marigold cried eagerly, "do you mean to say you know Mrs. Adams? That is her son who is with her, and he is the gentleman who was so kind to me in the train!"
"Is he, indeed?" Miss Pamela said, with interest in her tones.
"Do you not think we might speak to them, and thank Mr. Adams for his attention to Marigold?" Miss Holcroft suggested. "As you have met Mrs. Adams at Mrs. Nowell's, it would be but common politeness to acknowledge her son's courtesy to our niece!"
"That is very true; but perhaps she may not remember me."
All doubts on that point, however, were immediately set at rest; for in another moment the little old lady turned around to take a last look at the cathedral, and catching sight of Miss Pamela, a gleam of recognition crossed her face. Miss Pamela hurried forward.
"How do you do, Mrs. Adams? I think we have met at Mrs. Nowell's, have we not? I hope you will introduce me to your son, because my sister and I feel we owe him a debt of gratitude for his goodness to our little niece."
"I'm sure Jo was only glad to be of service, weren't you, Jo?" Mrs. Adams said, appealing to her son.
"That's so, that's so," he answered.
"This is my son, Jo, Miss Holcroft. Jo, you've heard me speak of this lady before."
Miss Pamela explained that her sister was Miss Holcroft. Then Marigold drew forward her Aunt Mary, and they all stood chatting together for several minutes. Farmer Jo's face was redder and more smiling than ever. He beamed on every one with evident goodwill, and was inwardly delighted that his mother appeared to get on with the ladies. Miss Holcroft's gentle face was wreathed with smiles, whilst Miss Pamela, though not so cordial in her manner as her sister, was extremely gracious, for her.
Marigold stood by listening eagerly to the conversation, and was greatly astonished when she heard Miss Pamela give her new acquaintances an invitation to tea.
This, however, was declined for to-day; but Mrs. Adams promised when she paid a visit to her friend, Mrs. Nowell, that she would call on the Misses Holcroft as well.
"Do you like Exeter, little missy?" asked Farmer Jo of Marigold, whilst his mother was talking to her aunts.
"I think so," she responded; but her tone sounded doubtful.
"Are you not sure?" he inquired amusedly.
"Not quite. I love the cathedral, and I have been for some beautiful walks with my aunts into the country; but you see, Mr. Adams, I should like everything so much better if my mother and the boys were here."
"You have brothers, then?"
"Yes, two. They are called Rupert and Lionel. I miss them dreadfully."
"I daresay you do. You are going to live with your aunts, aren't you? Well—well—it will be nice for them to have a young body in the house. It must have been lonely for them before now, I'm sure; but you'll be able to brighten them up! Ah, your mother did not like parting with you, I know!"
"No, but she thought it would be best," Marigold explained.
"Yes," he acquiesced, "best for you. Mothers don't think of themselves."
After that they parted. Farmer Jo and his mother went one way, and the Misses Holcroft with Marigold in the opposite direction.
"I am glad we had an opportunity of thanking Mr. Adams," Miss Holcroft said. "What a strange coincidence that you should have known his mother, Pamela!"
"They are an eccentric couple," her sister responded. "Mrs. Nowell told me about them. They are rich, but live a very simple life on their farm, and seem quite happy and contented with a quiet, uneventful existence. They are extremely generous to those less fortunate than themselves; Mrs. Nowell gave me several instances of their kindliness to others. I took a fancy to the old lady when I first met her."
"I hope we shall see her again," Miss Holcroft said.
"So that is the Farmer Jo you mentioned on the night of your arrival, Marigold," Miss Pamela continued; "I think you were right in your estimate of him, child, for I do not doubt he is a good man."
Marigold smiled and coloured with pleasure, for she was very grateful to Farmer Jo. He had engaged her attention, and had cheered her when she had been sad and low-spirited after her parting from her mother, and she had been terribly afraid that Aunt Pamela would not approve of his big person and loud voice. But Miss Pamela was far more discerning than her little niece realised; those keen eyes of hers, that were so sharp to detect anything false or mean, were not slow to recognise truth and goodness. Mrs. Adams and her son might be peculiar and unusual, but there was about each the stamp of sincerity that Miss Pamela valued above everything.
Miss Holcroft now said she wished to visit someone in her district before returning home; Marigold might accompany her if she wished. The little girl assented willingly, for she had heard her Aunt Mary mention the district where she visited amongst the poor on several occasions, and was curious to see what it was like.
"I am going to see Molly Jenkins," Miss Holcroft explained to her sister. "There is no reason why Marigold should not go with me, is there?"
"No," Miss Pamela agreed; "perhaps Molly will like to see Marigold. I have some shopping I wish to do this afternoon, so I will not bear you company any farther."
"Very well, Pamela. Now then, Marigold, we must go this way."
Marigold tripped along lightly by her Aunt Mary's side, her bright eyes noting all that came within their reach. They were evidently coming to a poorer part of the city, for the shops were much smaller, and presently they turned down a narrow back street.
"My district is here," Miss Holcroft explained. "It used to be a fashionable part of Exeter. Can you fancy that?"
Marigold noticed, to her surprise, that here and there were large, old-fashioned houses, evidently once of importance, but now, for the most part, neglected, and some even fallen to decay. Slatternly women and children hovered around the doors; and occasionally a face would brighten at the sight of Miss Holcroft, whilst she would pause to say a few pleasant words to a mother with a sickly-looking baby in her arms, and listen patiently to the tale of woe that said how the husband was out of work "on account of the drink, ma'am," and how the children had to be sent to school half-fed. Marigold had been accustomed to live amongst working people all her life, but they had been respectable mechanics and artisans, not those who, though of the working-class, did very little work at all. She had never been in contact with men who spent their days loafing at the corners of streets with their hands in their pockets, women gossiping and remarking on the passers-by, and little children so dirty that she instinctively drew away from them half in pity, half in disgust.
"Oh, Aunt Mary, what a miserable part this is!" she cried.
"Yes," Miss Holcroft acknowledged with a sigh, "it is one of the most wretched districts in Exeter. Strangers who visit our beautiful cathedral town little think that there are such miserable parts hidden away in the heart of the city!"
"Are the people who live here very wicked, Aunt Mary?"
"Some are, I fear,—fathers who spend the little money they earn in drink, and mothers who neglect their children and homes for the sake of the same vice. But, my dear, not all are bad. God has His faithful servants here, His jewels whose lustre no evil surroundings can dim, whose goodness but shines brighter in contrast to the sin around. You heard me say I was going to see Molly Jenkins? Well, she is a poor lame girl who makes Honiton lace for a livelihood. She cannot move without crutches, and rarely goes out except to take her work to the shop where she sells it, and yet she is one of the brightest souls I know!"
"Oh, I should like to see her work so much, Aunt Mary!" Marigold exclaimed, her tones full of eager interest, as her thoughts flew to her mother. The little girl's heart swelled at the remembrance. It seemed so unjust that she should be living in affluence whilst her dear mother was toiling hard to keep the home.
"Here we are," Miss Holcroft said, at length, as she paused before a large house that once, no doubt, had been a handsome residence. The front door stood open, and Marigold followed her aunt up the steps into a spacious hall, and from thence up a flight of broad stairs. The house that had fallen from its former glory so far as to be let in tenements to half a dozen different families was a high one, and they had to climb to the top storey to reach their destination. Then Miss Holcroft knocked at a door, and a bright, clear voice bade them—"Come in!"
They entered a large lofty room with two windows, in front of one of which was seated a girl about seventeen or eighteen years of age. Before her, on a small table, rested a cushion such as is generally used by lace-makers, and over which she had been bending at work on the delicate fabric that her fingers so deftly manufactured. She rose as her visitors entered, and leaning on her crutches crossed the room to meet them. Marigold saw her figure was thin and twisted; but her face was really beautiful, with large grey eyes and pale, delicate features.
"I have brought my little niece to make your acquaintance, Molly," Miss Holcroft said, in her pleasant voice. "You are much interested in needlework, are you not, Marigold?"
"Yes," Marigold answered, "indeed I am. May I look at what you have been doing, please?"
Colouring with pleasure, the lame girl spread before Marigold's admiring eyes about a dozen sprigs of lace similar to the piece she had on her cushion.
"They are ordered for a bridal veil," she explained.
"Oh, how lovely!" Marigold cried. "I never saw anything so beautiful before."
"They are indeed beautiful," Miss Holcroft said. "I hope you will get a good sum for these delicate roses."
"Yes, Miss Holcroft, I am pleased to say I shall. My good friend of whom I have told you, the vicar's wife at home, got this order for me direct. I am to put in my best work, and charge what I think a fair price."
Miss Holcroft nodded approvingly, for she knew how badly lace-workers are paid as a rule.
Molly was genuinely delighted to see her visitors. She pointed out the view from the windows to Marigold, where beyond the chimney-tops could be seen pleasant fields, and hills dotted with green woods.
"The stairs are rather a trial to me, sometimes," she said, smiling, "but to be high up above the squalor of the street makes up for that, in my opinion. I always think I can smell the flowers in the fields yonder whilst I sit by the window working, and that keeps me in good spirits."
"I think this is a delightful room," Marigold remarked, "it is so sunny!"
"Yes. In summer it is rather too hot, though, because it is close to the roof; but I like to hear the sparrows twittering under the eaves, and to watch them bringing hay and dried grass to make their nests. I should miss the birds if I lived on the ground floor!"
"I think you're the most contented person I ever met, Molly!" Miss Holcroft exclaimed.
"God has given me so many blessings," the lame girl responded, "that it would be a shame if I was discontented. When I compare my lot to others in this very house, I see how much I have to be thankful for!"
MARIGOLD was sorry when she and her Aunt Mary at last said good-bye to Molly Jenkins, for she had been deeply interested in the lame girl's work and conversation. She was silent for a while as she walked soberly along by Miss Holcroft's side, and it was not until they had left the poorer parts of the city behind them that she began asking questions.
"Does Molly Jenkins live there all by herself, Aunt Mary?" she inquired.
"No, my dear. She has an old father who shares her home with her. She has unfortunately to support him as well as herself, and that keeps her poor."
Miss Holcroft was silent a moment, then she resumed—
"You are old enough, I think, Marigold, to know something of the suffering that sin brings as its companion. There was never wrong done without someone having to smart for it, and often an innocent person. I will tell you the history of Molly Jenkins as an example, and then you will see what I mean. Her father was a farmer in the north of Devon, and her mother died when she was an infant. The times for farmers were hard, crops failed, and there was great agricultural depression generally, so that Mr. Jenkins lost a lot of money, and unhappily took to drink. He was always very fond of his little daughter, and would nurse her on his knee, and play with her by the hour; but one day he came home in a state of intoxication, and let the poor child fall from his arms to the ground, laming her for life."
"Oh, Aunt Mary, how awful!" Marigold cried, in horrified accents.
"Awful indeed! One would have imagined having done his child such a terrible injury would have made the wretched father forswear drink for ever, but such was not the case. Of course, he was dreadfully shocked, but he did not give up the vice that had taken such firm hold upon him. Poor Molly suffered a great deal, and could not go to school like other children. She would have grown up utterly neglected and uneducated but for the wife of the vicar of the parish, who not only taught her to read and write, and lent her books, but paid for her being taught the art of making Honiton lace, that she might have the means of earning her own living. The vicar's wife was a poor woman herself, I have been told, and therefore her treatment of her little lame neighbour was all the kinder and more praiseworthy on that account. She used to keep poultry, and sell the garden produce at the nearest market town, and in that way add to her husband's slender income; but, you see, she did not begrudge her time or her hardly earned money to the girl who had no claim on her. I do not doubt that He who loves a cheerful giver will reward her for what she did, and she has the satisfaction of knowing that Molly Jenkins is really grateful to her."
Miss Holcroft's gentle face beamed brightly, and Marigold looked up at her with an answering smile, for the two were beginning to understand each other well.
"I have often noticed that there is a great difference in money," Miss Holcroft continued reflectively; "some seems to carry a blessing with it, and some a curse! Money made in evil ways soon wears out; it is never any lasting good to anyone. Whereas, one sometimes sees the little that has been honestly earned doing incalculable good. I have a fancy that the spirit of the giver has a great deal to do with the value of the gift. However, to return to Molly Jenkins. Her father grew more and more careless about his farm, and neglected his work worse than ever as time went on, till at last the inevitable crash came. There was but little money for his creditors, and when the farm-stock and household furniture were sold to help pay the rent that was long overdue, they removed to Exeter to the home where I took you just now. That was two years ago, and since then Molly has supported her father and herself by her lace-work. He is a great trouble to her, and I fear will be a greater in the future, for he is fast becoming a broken-down old man, and if he earns a little money he is certain to spend it in drink."
"What a very sad story, Aunt Mary! I wonder how that poor girl manages to look so bright and cheerful!"
"It is because she trusts in Him who will never fail her. She has learnt to go to Him for strength in her weakness, and she knows He will not put upon her more than she can bear."
"What a wicked old man her father must be!" Marigold cried indignantly.
"Weak and selfish he is, no doubt, but Molly loves him, and has hopes even now of reclaiming him from his sin. Oh, it is a sad case!"
"I wish mother could have seen that beautiful lace; she understands about all kinds of work, you know. When I write I must tell her about that poor lame girl, for she will be so interested. I do wish mother could get her some orders!"
"Do you think that is possible?" Miss Holcroft asked.
"I don't know, Aunt Mary; but when I write to her next I will ask her. Mother has a few private customers herself, and perhaps they might be glad to hear of someone who can make Honiton lace so beautifully as Molly Jenkins."
"The work is not so well paid for as it should be. Since machine-made lace has come into general use, and can be bought so cheaply, the lace-makers have had a bad time. I remember when I was young, even little children used to be seen sitting outside the cottage doors in the villages about here with their lace cushions on their laps."
"Oh, do you think I could learn to make Honiton lace, Aunt Mary?" Marigold asked eagerly.
"I have no doubt you could; but it strikes me you will have plenty of other work to do shortly, so that your time will be fully occupied."
"Yes," the little girl agreed; "I mean to work so hard at school."
On her arrival at home Marigold found a letter from her mother awaiting her. "Such a dear, dear letter!" she whispered to herself, as she sat by her bedroom window, reading how they were all well at home, and how much they had been interested in hearing about her new life at Exeter. Rupert was to be raised to a higher form at school this term; he was such a good, thoughtful boy, and helped his mother all he could. "Not, of course, that he can take your place, my dear little daughter," wrote Mrs. Holcroft. "I miss you every hour and minute of the day, but I am grateful to your aunts for their kindness to you, and it makes me very happy to think that you are going to school next week. You will learn much that I was unable to teach you; but there is one lesson I wish to impress upon your mind, that I hope you will ever remember before all else: 'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom: a good understanding have all they that do His commandments.' My little girl must never forget that."
Marigold went downstairs to tea with smiling lips and bright eyes. Miss Holcroft looked at her kindly, for she guessed the cause of the child's happy face; but it was otherwise with Miss Pamela, who had cherished her dislike for Marigold's mother so many years that she had become perfectly incapable of thinking of her without prejudice. Miss Pamela would have liked nothing so well as to be enabled to break the strong tie between mother and daughter; although she had given permission for Marigold to write herself, and receive letters from her home, she nevertheless hoped that in time the communications would gradually shorten, and perhaps ultimately drop altogether. Upon most points the younger Miss Holcroft showed great common sense, but where her late nephew's widow was concerned she seemed utterly incapable of judging fairly, and was obstinately determined to keep her at a distance.
"Did you see Molly's father?" Miss Pamela asked, as she poured out the tea.
"No; he was evidently from home," Miss Holcroft responded; "and I could not help feeling relieved at his absence. Molly was looking as bright as ever; she seemed in very good spirits, and was busy at work on some beautiful sprigs of rose-buds for a bridal veil. Marigold was much interested in Molly; were you not, my dear?"
"Oh yes, indeed I was," the little girl answered. "I never saw anything so lovely as her lace-work."
"Molly is an artist to her finger-tips," Miss Pamela said; "and she is a good girl too! Go to see her what time of the day you like, you will always find her sitting-room the picture of neatness!"
Marigold hung her head and blushed, for she rightly guessed this remark was intended as a reflection on her own untidy ways. She felt her Aunt Pamela's eyes were upon her, and her guilty confusion was intensified when she looked up and met her cold glance. "Aunt Pamela, I understand what you mean," she said at length. "You were quite right about my room this afternoon, and I know it was wrong of me to leave it like that. I hope I shall not be so untidy again!"
"I hope not, Marigold!"
"I behaved very badly, because I knew my room was in a dreadful muddle," the little girl continued. "I wanted to finish the book I was reading, and I did not think you would go into my room and see how untidy it was. It was very wrong of me, though I never thought about it at the time. I am very sorry, indeed I am!" There were tears in Marigold's eyes as she made her confession, and expressed her sense of contrition, and Miss Pamela's face softened as she listened.
"You will be more careful for the future, will you not, Marigold?" Miss Holcroft interposed, her kind voice sounding a trifle anxious.
"Oh, I will, I will!"
"That being the case, and seeing you really regret your fault, we will say no more about it," Miss Pamela said. "Untidiness is a bad habit, and a difficult one to break off. Your father as a boy was inclined to be very careless, but when he went to boarding-school he was glad that we had insisted on his keeping his things in their right places, and also that we had taught him the advantages of punctuality. I have heard it said that the Duke of Wellington attributed his successes to the fact that he was always in time. I can well understand that disorder and confusion must be distasteful to a great mind."
After tea Marigold slipped upstairs to read her mother's letter again; and whilst she was in the midst of it Barker came in, bearing an armful of clean clothes that had been brought home from the laundry.
"Shall I put your things away for you, miss?" she asked.
"Oh, you need not trouble, thank you, Barker; lay them on the bed, and I'll see to them directly." But Barker still lingered.
"I think I heard you speaking of a Mrs. Adams to Miss Holcroft," she remarked, with curiosity in her tones. "Is it the little old lady who is so friendly with Mrs. Nowell?"
"Yes;" Marigold replied. "Do you know her, Barker?"
"No, miss. But I've heard a deal about her from my mother, who lived with her as a servant—oh, I don't know how many years ago! Mrs. Adams was a young woman then, and mother couldn't have been much older than her mistress."
"Is your mother still alive?" Marigold inquired, with interest in her voice.
"Yes, miss; though she's getting up in years now."
"Oh, do tell me about her, Barker!"
Barker smiled, and it was wonderful how a smile changed her usually grim face, and gave it a comeliness Marigold had never thought it could wear.
"There's not much to tell," she answered. "Mother lives in an almshouse, and has everything she wants. She says her old age is the happiest, most comfortable time she has known; and I daresay she's right, for she had a long family to provide for and put out in the world as best she could. Father died, and left her with seven children; but she'd a brave heart of her own, had mother, and she worked hard to bring us up respectably."
"Why, that is like my mother, only there are but three of us instead of seven!" Marigold cried.
Then she was encouraged by Barker's face to tell her about her own dear mother, and was surprised how sympathetic and interested her aunts' maid seemed to be. They had quite an animated conversation together, and in one half hour Barker learnt more about Marigold and her London home than she had discovered in the weeks they had spent under the same roof.
"How you must miss your brothers!" Barker remarked at length. "Ah! It must be dull for you here after living with young folks. I'm glad you're going to school, Miss Marigold, for I daresay you'll soon make friends there. Well, I must get about my work, or I shall be behind-hand, and I've all the household linen to put away."
Whereupon Barker took her departure reluctantly, for she had been much interested in what Marigold had said about her mother and the boys; whilst Marigold's mind had fresh food for reflection in thinking of Barker's old mother and Barker herself, who was a much pleasanter person than the little girl had thought.
MARIGOLD commenced her school-days with a buoyant heart, and a desire to please Miss Hardcastle and the governesses. The principal was a clever, clear-sighted woman, a splendid manager and disciplinarian, who ruled her school with an iron hand, yet with such tact and skill that she was much liked and respected by parents, teachers, and pupils. She was a small woman, with a quiet manner, and a persuasive voice; but there was a dignity about her that never failed to command obedience, and the threat, "You shall be sent to Miss Hardcastle to be dealt with as she thinks fit,"—was sufficient to subdue the spirit of the most refractory scholar.
Marigold found herself classed with a dozen girls about her own age, under the charge of a governess named Miss Smith. The little girl was relieved to find that she was not behind the others in general knowledge. She read and wrote well, was quick at arithmetic, and had been well grounded in grammar, geography, and English history. The subjects her mother had instructed her in had been taught thoroughly. At the end of the first week Miss Hardcastle wrote a note to the Misses Holcroft, and informed them of this fact; and Marigold noted that both her aunts seemed surprised, though at the same time gratified that her education had not been so neglected as they had anticipated. Marigold soon began to find out what hard work really meant. She commenced to learn French, music, and drawing, so that most of her time out of school hours was occupied in preparing her lessons for the following day, or in practising scales and exercises on the piano. She soon settled into the ways of the school, and became a favourite with the teachers, for she was always attentive and willing, always wishful to do her best. With the girls Marigold was not popular, at first. They considered she tried to curry favour with the governesses, which was certainly not the case, and consequently they met her friendly advances with cold looks, till one whispered to the others that she was a niece of the rich Misses Holcroft, and therefore it might be better to be on good terms with her.
One morning as Marigold was going home from school she was joined by Muriel Wake, one of the girls in the same class as herself.
"We may as well walk together," Muriel remarked pleasantly. "You live in Powderham Crescent, don't you? I pass near by."
Muriel was a pretty little girl, with blue eyes, fair hair, and rosy cheeks. Marigold looked at her admiringly.
"I expect you find it dull living with your old aunts, don't you?" Muriel questioned.
Marigold acknowledged that she did, and explained that she had a mother and two brothers in London, whom she missed a great deal.
"But my aunts are very kind," she added, fearful lest she should seem ungrateful.
"Are you going to live with them always?" Muriel inquired.
"I don't know. I came to live with them because they promised to educate me. Mother wants me to learn to earn my own living, and that's why I wish so much to get on at school, and learn all I can, so that I may be able to help her by and by."
And Marigold, led on by her new acquaintance's questions, told her all about her London home, and how hard her mother worked.
"Do you mean to say she works for a shop?" Muriel asked, her blue eyes round with astonishment.
"Yes," was the reply. "I wish you could see some of her beautiful designs."
"And she keeps no servant, but does the housework herself! And you have been accustomed to black your own boots! Oh! I never heard of such a thing before!"
"But she cannot afford to keep a servant," Marigold said hastily, half regretful that she had spoken so openly.
"What was your father?" was the next question.
"He was in the army."
It struck Marigold that Muriel's manner was far less genial than it had been when she first joined her, but she could not think what was the reason of the change. She was not left long in ignorance, however, for when the girls were dispersing after school in the afternoon, one of them came up to her and asked if it was true what Muriel Wake was telling everyone, that Marigold's mother had been a servant before her marriage.
For a moment Marigold was so astonished that she stared at her questioner in silence. Then a great wave of anger swept over her, and her eyes flashed ominously.
"If Muriel Wake said that, she told a wicked story!" she cried passionately.
"She did say so," the other girl replied, "but I did not think it was true."
"It is utterly false!"
The conversation was taking place in the corner of a class-room whilst the girls were putting away their books. Some of the scholars had already left, and the governess had gone into the next room. Marigold flew to the side of Muriel Wake and caught her by the arm.
"What do you mean by telling such a falsehood about my mother?" Marigold demanded, almost choking with passion.
Muriel looked at the white face of the angry child with a disagreeable light in her blue eyes, whilst she smiled scornfully.
"Take care what you say!" she cried. "I have told nothing but the truth."
"You said—" Marigold commenced furiously, when the other interrupted her.
"I said that your mother worked for her living by doing needlework for a shop. I also said that she scrubbed, cleaned, and cooked, and that I should not be surprised if she had not been a servant before your father married her, for it is well-known that your aunts won't have anything to do with her!"
There was a moment's dead silence. The other girls in the class-room had drawn around Muriel and Marigold, to listen to the dispute, and were looking on, some with keen delight in the situation, others with amusement, and a few with evident disapproval. By this time Marigold was so enraged that she scarcely knew what she was doing. She stared with wild eyes at the girl who only this morning had approached her with overtures of friendship, marvelling at her treachery. How she hated her! Oh, how bitterly she hated her! In her ungovernable passion Marigold lifted her hand and would have struck the fair, pretty face that smiled at her mockingly, had not somebody caught her by the wrist and prevented her doing so. Turning around sharply, she saw one of the elder girls had appeared upon the scene, and now stood looking around inquiringly. Marigold knew who the new-comer was—Grace Long, the most popular girl in the school, a general favourite with teachers and pupils alike.
"What is the meaning of this?" Grace asked, in her clear, pleasant tones. "What are you sneering about, Muriel Wake? That expression does not suit your style of beauty, let me tell you!"
There was a laugh at this, whilst Muriel flushed angrily, and tossed her head.
Grace still held Marigold's wrist in her firm clasp. She laid her other hand on the child's shoulder, and surveyed her angry face with cool, kindly eyes.
"What are you in such a fierce passion about?" she inquired.
Marigold struggled for composure in vain. Her heart was beating wildly, and her trembling lips refused to answer a word. Grace saw she was unable to speak, and appealed to her companions. "Will one of you explain? What has gone wrong? Why have these two quarrelled?"
"It is entirely Muriel's fault," began one of the girls who had looked disapproval, but had not interfered hitherto; and she proceeded to repeat all that had been said on either side. Grace listened in silence, whilst Muriel still smiled scornfully. By this time Marigold was beginning to cool down sufficiently to realise what was going on, and was trying hard to keep from crying. She was conscious that Grace was speaking.
"It seems to me a great fuss has been made about a little matter," she was saying. "I cannot speak of how one feels about a mother from experience, because mine died when I was born—" Marigold looked up quickly at the speaker with sympathy in her eyes—"but it seems to me that if one's mother had been a servant, one would love her as much as if she had been the highest lady in the land. There is no disgrace in being a servant."
"But it is not true! Mother was not a servant!" Marigold broke in.
"No, I do not suppose she was; but if she had been you need not have felt shame on that account. I think you have excited yourself without sufficient cause. As for you, Muriel Wake, you know well enough your motives for putting a false construction on what you have been told. I do not think Miss Hardcastle would be very pleased, were she to hear of your behaviour."
Muriel evidently did not think so either, for she hastily packed away her books in her desk, and left the class-room. Grace drew Marigold down on a form by her side, and pointed out to her gently and considerately how foolish and wrong she had been to lose her temper. Marigold listened attentively to all the elder girl said.
"I was silly to tell Muriel about mother," Marigold acknowledged; "but she seemed so nice and friendly, I never guessed she would repeat everything to the other girls—not that I should have minded, if she had only told the truth!"
"Of course not! Another time I would find out more about a person before becoming confidential, if I were you. Muriel is a mischief-maker, but you could not know that."
"I liked her so much, and now I feel I shall hate her as long as I live!"
"Hush! You must not speak like that. Muriel has not treated you well, but it is not right to bear malice in your heart."
Marigold knew it was not, so she remained silent. Grace continued kindly—
"I would not make a trouble of this little affair if I were you; and if anything of a like nature occurs again, don't lose your temper. You will not be respected by the other girls if you do, and besides it is very wrong."
"I know it is! Oh dear, what would mother have thought if she had seen me just now! I am so glad you came up in time to stop me from striking Muriel. Oh, I never knew before I had such a dreadful temper!"
"'He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty: and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city,'" quoted Grace softly.
Marigold went home in a very unhappy frame of mind. Her aunts noticed something had gone wrong, but refrained from asking any questions. The little girl prepared her lessons for the next day in a halfhearted sort of way, and went upstairs to her bedroom early, excusing herself on the plea of being tired. Ringing in her ears all the evening had been the words Grace Long had repeated from the sayings of the wise king: "He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty: and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city."
Marigold flung herself down by the side of her bed, and wept bitterly as she went over in thought the events of the day. Never in her life before had she given away to such a passion of anger. How weak she had been! how easily put out! And yet, when she recalled Muriel's treatment of her, her heart was hot with indignation again. First of all gaining her confidence, and then betraying it without a scruple! Was not such conduct enough to irritate anyone? Muriel was a hateful girl!
"Fight the good fight of faith!"
Marigold started guiltily as her father's motto flashed through her mind. Fight the good fight of faith for the sake of Him who, when He was oppressed and afflicted, opened not His mouth, save to pray for forgiveness for those who had wronged Him. A sense of shame and humiliation crept over the child as she wept. How she had meant to humbly follow in the steps of the Saviour, and how grievously she had erred this day! She had fallen back from the fight; the enemy had beaten her! Oh, if she could only tell her mother, but no, that was impossible; she could not write of the cause of her wrath, the very thought of it made her angry even now, when she was beginning to realise how wrong her passion had been. She did not think she could ever forgive Muriel Wake!
"Child, what is amiss?"
It was her Aunt Mary's voice, and her Aunt Mary's arms that lifted her from the ground.
"What is troubling you, my dear?" Miss Holcroft asked tenderly, as Marigold flung herself crying bitterly upon her breast.
Then the whole story came out. The old lady listened with troubled eyes, and a little glow of indignation rose to her face as Marigold said—"Muriel told the girls that the reason why you and Aunt Pamela would have nothing to do with mother was because she had been a servant!"
Marigold did not spare herself. She confessed she would have struck Muriel but for the timely intervention of the elder girl.
"I know it was very wicked," she sobbed, "and mother would be so grieved to know how I lost my temper; but indeed, Aunt Mary, I am sorry!"
"You certainly had cause for indignation," Miss Holcroft allowed, "but temper always does harm. There is such a thing as just wrath, but that was not your feeling, I conclude, Marigold, for from what you have told me I imagine you lost entire control of yourself, and did not know what you were doing. If you had reflected for a moment, I feel sure you would not have thought of striking that girl, badly as she had treated you."
"No, indeed, Aunt Mary!"
"You see to what lengths an unbridled temper will lead one. I had no idea you were so passionate."
"I had no idea of it, myself," Marigold said dolefully.
"But perhaps you were never so greatly aggravated before, my dear!"
"No, I don't think I ever was. It—it was on mother's account, really."
"Try to forget the remarks of that unkind little girl; and ask God to help you to curb your angry temper. He will, you may be sure. And now, dear child, go to rest, and do not allow your mind to dwell upon the events of the day; and when you go to school to-morrow do not resent what has occurred. It was good of that big girl to interest herself on your behalf. What did you say her name was?"
"Grace Long. She is a boarder, but I do not know much about her, because she does not work in our class-room. She was very kind to me to-day. I think she must be a nice girl, because everyone seems to like her."
"Well, good-night, Marigold. Sleep well, and forget your troubles in pleasant dreams."
"Good-night, dear Aunt Mary," Marigold replied, as she flung her arms around the old lady's neck, and gave her a loving kiss. "You are one of the best people in the world!"
Miss Holcroft laughed, and shook her head. As she went downstairs to join her sister in the drawing-room her gentle face settled into graver lines, and she sighed regretfully as she thought of Marigold's mother.
MISS HARDCASTLE'S pupils were allowed a break of twenty minutes in the middle of the morning. When it was wet they remained indoors, but when the weather was fine they usually repaired to the playground, where big and little girls both passed the time in playing games. At first, Marigold did not much enjoy this twenty minutes, because her companions were not genial; but on the morning after her disagreement with Muriel Wake she found that a change had taken place in the girls' feelings towards her, the fact being that they were most of them thoroughly disgusted with Muriel's behaviour, and ready to make up to Marigold for their former coolness. She met their advances gladly, for she had felt her loneliness in their midst; but she was determined that she would not take any of them into her confidence, at least until she knew them better.
In the playground Grace Long approached Marigold with a pleasant remark about the beauty of the day. It was a perfect morning. The chestnut trees that surrounded Miss Hardcastle's garden were in full bloom, and the air was sweet with the mingled perfume of lilac and laburnum blossoms. Marigold was seated on a bench by herself; she looked up a little shyly when Grace addressed her, for the big girls did not have much to say to their juniors, as a rule.
"Why are you not at play with the others?" Grace asked.
"I have been playing with them, but I got tired and sat down for a rest. I have never been accustomed to running about much, but I have been having a good time to-day."
Grace sat down on the bench by Marigold's side.
"Have you spoken to Muriel Wake this morning?" she inquired.
"Oh no! I don't wish to speak to her I don't want to have anything to do with her!"
"She served you badly, but she will be sorry one of these days. Muriel and I are alike in one respect—we are both motherless. She lives with her father, who is an exceedingly rich man, and very seldom at home. She has been brought up entirely by servants; her father seldom keeps the same servants long, so Muriel has been first in the charge of one person, then another. She has never had a fair chance of learning to be faithful and true, poor little girl!"
Grace presently went on to talk of the other girls, until Marigold was struck with surprise that she should know so much about them.
"You see I have lived in Exeter many years," she explained, "and all that time I have been at school. I spend my holidays here too."
"You spend your holidays here!" Marigold exclaimed. "How is that?"
"I have nowhere else to go, because my father is in India, and I have no friends in England. When my education is finished, I believe father intends sending for me to go out to him."
"I suppose you are longing to go, are you not?"
"Well, I hardly know. Father seems like a stranger to me, and Miss Hardcastle has always been my best friend. I dread the thought of leaving her. You cannot imagine how kind she really is. Now, I wonder if you will think me very curious if I ask you a question?"
"No, indeed! What is it?"
"What did Muriel Wake mean about your mother working?"
Marigold explained, whilst Grace listened attentively.
"Ah!" she cried, when the little girl had finished speaking, "how you must love your mother!"
"I think that was why I was so very angry with Muriel. It seemed to me so dreadful that she should sneer at mother, and try to make a laughing-stock of her! She—who—who—"
Marigold paused, her chest heaving with strong emotion, her eyes full of indignant tears.
Grace laid a gentle hand on hers, and pressed it sympathetically.
"Rich people don't understand," Marigold continued tremulously; "they don't know what it is like to be poor! Even Aunt Mary and Aunt Pamela—"
She stopped abruptly, suddenly remembering that she ought not to mention the relations that existed between her mother and aunts to a comparative stranger.
"God understands," Grace said earnestly; "what does it matter about others, if He knows?"
Marigold's face cleared, and a sunny smile chased all signs of sorrow from her face.
"Ah, that is what mother says!" she answered brightly.
From that time the little girl's school-life was happier. There sprang up between her and Grace Long a friendship which caused some astonishment, on account of the difference in their respective ages. Muriel Wake showed no further animosity towards Marigold, but the two children rarely spoke, and avoided each other's company as much as possible. Marigold's aunts were pleased to find that she was happy at school, and that she was attentive to her duties. They were very kind to her, taking her little excursions into the country on Saturday afternoons, and allowing her to visit those of her schoolfellows with whom she was on friendly terms; consequently, though the little girl worked hard, she had plenty of recreation, and grew rosy-cheeked and plump.
"I wonder what her mother would think of her now?" Miss Holcroft could not refrain from remarking to her sister one day. Marigold was not present, but Miss Pamela's face darkened, as she made reply—
"Why do you allow your mind to dwell on that woman? She is not likely to see Marigold for some time to come!"
"No. But I was thinking how pleased she would be to know that the dear child has so greatly improved in every way since she came to us. See how she has grown, and what a healthy colour she has! When she first arrived we were struck with her fragile appearance. Then, too, she seems as happy as the day is long."
"Of course she is! She has every reason for happiness. She fretted for her mother and brothers for a while, no doubt; but I believe we are slowly weaning her from them."
Miss Holcroft made a faint gesture of dissent, which her sister noticed with a frown.
"You do not agree with me, Mary?"
"I do not, Pamela. Marigold is as fond of them as she ever was, but naturally she has got over the first pangs of separation. She writes home regularly once a fortnight, and though she does not say so, I am sure she simply longs for her letters in return. It is my private opinion that the fact that she rarely mentions her mother's name makes her dwell on her in her thoughts more than she would otherwise. Poor Rupert's wife brought up his daughter well; that we must acknowledge."
Miss Holcroft had spoken with unwonted firmness hitherto; now she looked at her sister with appealing eyes, as she added in rather faltering accents—
"I think that our not being on friendly terms with the mother puts the child in a false position, and gives people wrong impressions."
"What can you mean, Mary?" Miss Pamela asked sharply. "I fail to understand you."
In a few words Miss Holcroft gave her sister an account of the statement Muriel Wake had circulated about Marigold's mother some weeks before.
"Why was I not told at the time?" Miss Pamela demanded.
"I should have known nothing about it myself, Pamela, if I had not discovered poor little Marigold in her bedroom crying as though her heart would break. I asked for an explanation; I am quite sure she had not intended to tell either of us. I believe she is on good terms with most of her schoolfellows now; but I often think of the unkind construction people may be putting on our behaviour to the child's mother."
"Our behaviour! What do you mean? We have never injured her in any way! She is nothing to us!"
"But Marigold is. We are both fond of her, and—oh, Pamela, I wish you were not so unforgiving. I cannot think how, feeling as you do, you can kneel down and say the Lord's Prayer!"
Having spoken with indignant warmth, Miss Holcroft was not a little alarmed at her temerity, fearing she might have offended her sister; but Miss Pamela's face expressed nothing but astonishment; she had never received such a reproof before.
It was evening, and the sisters were alone in the drawing-room, whilst Marigold in her own room upstairs was engaged in writing her fortnightly letter to her mother. Miss Pamela's head was bent over her woolwork. In her youth it had been the fashionable employment for ladies, and she was always deeply interested in it. She had worked coverings for a suite of furniture, in bunches of flowers; indeed, traces of her handiwork were to be seen all over the house.
"I must go upstairs and fetch that blue wool I bought yesterday for these forget-me-nots," she remarked presently, as she rose and laid her work on a table.
Miss Holcroft looked after her retreating figure anxiously.
"I do hope I have not offended her," she murmured, with a sigh.
But Miss Pamela was not offended, nor was she even angry.
"I cannot think how, feeling as you do, you can kneel down and say the Lord's Prayer!" her sister had said, and the words rang in her ears as she went slowly upstairs. Passing Marigold's room she paused and glanced in, for the door was standing wide open. The little girl, clad in a blue serge skirt and a cotton blouse, was bending over the writing-table, so engrossed in her occupation that she never heard her aunt's footsteps, and looked up with a start as Miss Pamela laid a light hand upon her shoulder. Marigold blushed with surprise, and jumping up, placed a chair for her aunt, who sat down, glancing round the room as she did so, to see if it was in good order. Fortunately, everything was in its place, and Miss Pamela noted the fact with an approving smile.
"You are improving, Marigold," she said. "I have not had to complain of your untidiness lately, I am pleased to say."
Marigold blushed a rosier red, this time with pleasure, for Aunt Pamela's words of praise were rare.
"You are writing to your mother, I suppose?"
"Yes, Aunt Pamela."
"You get on with your schoolfellows better than you used, do you not, Marigold?"
"Oh yes!"
"Mary has been telling me that you had something to put up with from them at first—she mentioned one girl in particular, Muriel Wake, I think, who made herself extremely objectionable."
"I find that is Muriel's way," Marigold explained. "I see now how silly I was to think so much about what she said. The girls do not care for her, and, indeed; I think she would be very unpopular if she were not so rich."
"Ah! Is she so very rich, then?"
"Yes, I believe so. The girls say she will be a great heiress one day. She leaves me alone now, but I know she dislikes me, though I can't think why. The girl I like best in the whole school is Grace Long. Oh, by the bye, Aunt Pamela, Barker says she is going to have tea with her old mother next Saturday afternoon, and if you and Aunt Mary will give your permission, she will take me with her."
"Good gracious, child! Why does Barker want your company?"
"Because she has told me so much about her mother that she thought I should like to know her."
"And do you really want to make the old woman's acquaintance?"
"Yes, Aunt Pamela, indeed I do!"
"Well, I have no objection to your doing so. She lives in an almshouse, does she not?"
"Yes. When she was young she lived in service with Mrs. Adams."
"What! Farmer Jo's mother!" Miss Pamela exclaimed.
Marigold nodded. There was a smile upon her lips, and her eyes shone brightly. At that moment, for the first time, she felt quite easy in her Aunt Pamela's company.
"How is it people take you into their confidence, child? Barker is usually such an uncommunicative person."
"I was telling her about mother—" Marigold began, and paused abruptly.
"Yes?" Miss Pamela queried.
"And—and then she told me about her old mother, and afterwards, when she had been home to see her, I asked how she was, and said I should like to know her. That's how it was Barker came to ask me to go with her on Saturday. She is so fond of her mother!"
"I see. I had no idea you and Barker were on such good terms."
Miss Pamela rose, remarking as she did so—
"You had better get on with your letter, my dear. Will you give your mother a message from me?"
"Yes, Aunt Pamela," Marigold replied, in accents of profound astonishment.
For a few minutes Miss Pamela stood undecided, then she said—
"Tell your mother from me that we find her little daughter a good child. That is all."
"Oh, thank you, Aunt Pamela! Mother will like to hear that better than anything!"
Marigold threw her arms impulsively around Miss Pamela's neck and gave her a hearty kiss. Her aunt returned the caress with unusual warmth, and then left her to finish her interrupted letter.
Downstairs in the drawing-room Miss Holcroft was wondering what had become of her sister, but when Miss Pamela at length re-entered the room it was with a smile on her lips.
"Pamela, I hope I did not speak too plainly just now," Miss Holcroft commenced timidly, as the other resumed her woolwork. "Perhaps it was not my place to make such a remark. I had no right to judge your conduct. I fear you are displeased with me."