"Smooth let it be, or rough,It will be still the best;Winding or straight it leadsRight onward to Thy rest."
"Smooth let it be, or rough,It will be still the best;Winding or straight it leadsRight onward to Thy rest."
"Smooth let it be, or rough,It will be still the best;Winding or straight it leadsRight onward to Thy rest."
"Smooth let it be, or rough,
It will be still the best;
Winding or straight it leads
Right onward to Thy rest."
"Why, that is a verse from my mother's favourite hymn!" cried Marigold, a bright smile illuminating her countenance.
"It is a favourite one of mine too," the old lady told her, with an answering smile.
Presently Marigold mentioned Barker's mother. After a minute's reflection, Mrs. Adams remembered her quite well, although so many years had passed since they had last met. Marigold explained where Mrs. Barker lived, and all she knew about her, whilst Mrs. Adams made a mental note of the address, meaning to go and visit her old servant on some future occasion.
By and by Mrs. Adams asked the little girl if she would like to learn to drive, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, proceeded to show her how to handle the reins. Marigold was delighted, although at first she felt decidedly nervous; but Dumpling was a steady, well-behaved pony, and all went well.
On their way home they drew up outside the village shop, which was also the post-office, and Mrs. Adams went in to make some purchases, leaving Marigold outside. It was the funniest shop she had ever seen, Marigold decided, as she looked at the medley of goods displayed in the window—groceries and stationery, sweets and buns, clothes-pegs and brushes, all huddled together. She was smiling amusedly when Mrs. Adams reappeared and took her seat again.
"Were you laughing at our little shop?" the old lady questioned.
"Yes," Marigold acknowledged; "they seem to sell all sorts of things there."
"So they do. They keep a little of everything. You see, we are three miles from Exeter, and I do not know how we should get on without our shop. Have you enjoyed the drive?"
"Oh, so much, thank you! It has been a beautiful afternoon!"
They found Farmer Jo on the look-out for their return. He smiled when he saw Marigold with the reins in her hand, and told her on Monday when he took her home, she should drive Colonel in the dogcart.
The little girl's visit was slipping away all too quickly, she thought. On Sunday morning she accompanied Mrs. Adams and her son to church, and sat between them in a large square pew. It was only when they stood up that she could see the rest of the congregation, for the seats were of the high-backed, old-fashioned kind, with doors.
The worshippers were mostly of the labouring classes, and the choir was composed of women as well as men. It was a simple service, and the clergyman—an old man who had held the living for nearly half a century, and who knew the histories of all his parishioners—preached a plain sermon, such as the most uneducated person could understand, taking for his text the first part of the fifty-first verse of the second chapter of St. Luke's Gospel—
"'And He went down with them, and came to Nazareth, and was subjectunto them.'"
He proceeded to explain how Jesus fulfilled His duty to His earthly parents, submitting to their rule and doing their bidding. It was a sermon on duty,—the duty we owe to each other, and, above all, the duty of every living soul to God. Marigold listened intently, and was quite sorry when the clergyman had finished, for he had a simple, direct way of speaking, and possessed a pleasant voice that had a ring of sincerity in its mellow tones.
Outside in the churchyard, when the service was over, Mrs. Adams and Farmer Jo exchanged greetings with their friends and neighbours, as is the fashion in country parishes, and Marigold was introduced to so many strangers that she was rosy with blushes on account of the attention she was drawing upon herself, and the questions she had to answer.
How did she like the service? Did she admire the church? Had she lived in Exeter long? Was she going to stay some time at Rocombe Farm? To these and many other queries she gave polite replies, but she was not sorry when Mrs. Adams and her son said good-bye to their acquaintances and moved away.
Before leaving the churchyard, however, they turned down a side path, and there, in a sheltered corner shaded by a laburnum tree, were five green mounds, which Mrs. Adams pointed out as the graves of her husband and children. The spot was surrounded by iron rails, and a monument in Devonshire marble bearing the names of those who slept below, and the date of their deaths, told to passers-by the tragic story.
Marigold made no remark, for a lump was in her throat and tears in her eyes, but she gave Mrs. Adams' hand a sympathetic squeeze that told more than words could say. The old lady smiled, and leaning on her son's arm, and with the child at her other side, walked back to Rocombe Farm.
In the afternoon Marigold went for a long walk with Farmer Jo, and in the evening they all went to church again. So the happy Sabbath passed away, bringing the little girl's visit nearly to an end.
She was up betimes in the morning, and after an early breakfast took a lingering farewell of her kind hostess. She felt as though she had known her all her life.
"You must come and see us again, my dear child," Mrs. Adams said.
"Oh, I will indeed, if my aunts will allow me! Thank you so much for your kindness, dear Mrs. Adams!"
Then Farmer Jo lifted Marigold into the high dogcart, and putting the reins into her hands, swung himself up by her side. Colonel started off at a swinging trot, and they had soon left Rocombe Farm far behind, and were nearing the Ever Faithful City.
"What are you thinking about, eh?" Farmer Jo inquired, after a lengthy silence on Marigold's part.
"I was thinking of the day I first saw you, when we travelled down from London together," she answered. "Do you know, I was rather frightened of you, at first?"
"Now I wonder why?"
"Because you were so big, and when I saw you peeping at me from behind your newspaper, I thought you would fancy me silly to cry, and I had an idea you might laugh at me!"
"I was never farther from laughing in my life," he declared. "I never could bear to see anyone in trouble—but that's all past. You've made a lot of friends in Exeter by this time, I don't doubt."
"Oh yes, a great many!"
"What about that sour-faced individual who met you at the station?" he asked, smiling at the remembrance of Barker's astonishment at sight of him. "Do you reckon her among your friends?"
"Barker? Yea, indeed! She's a very nice woman when you get to know her. Oh!" with regret in her tones, "we are very nearly at home now, are we not?"
"Yes, very nearly."
Five minutes later the dogcart drew up in front of the Misses Holcroft's house in Powderham Crescent. Marigold hoped her aunts would be looking out, so that they might see she had driven, nor was she disappointed, for at the first glance she caught sight of their faces. Mr. Adams declined to come in; and, after he had lifted Marigold down, and handed her portmanteau to the servant who had been sent out to fetch it, he took his departure, whilst Marigold stood on the doorstep waving her hand till he was out of sight. Then she went indoors to answer her aunts' eager questions, and to give them a full and lengthy account of her visit.
The two days she had spent at Rocombe Farm had done her a world of good mentally as well as physically, and it touched her deeply to see how pleased her aunts were at her return. If she had been away two months, instead of only two days, they could not have been more glad to welcome her home.
"ONLY one day more, and then it will be, 'Hurrah for the holidays!'" cried Muriel Wake, as she danced up to Marigold and Grace Long, who were holding an animated conversation in a corner of the playground.
"My dear Muriel," expostulated the elder girl, "how hot you will make yourself, if you persist in hopping about in that absurd fashion!"
"I positively can't keep still, Grace; I feel so excited at the thought of saying good-bye to school for six whole weeks. I'm one mass of nerves, as Mrs. Jones says when I tease her—poor old soul! Now, what were you two talking about?"
"About where we are going for the holidays," Grace explained. "You know I am to accompany Miss Hardcastle to Ilfracombe?"
"Yes. I don't envy you, Grace! I wouldn't for the world be under Miss Hardcastle's eye all the holidays!"
The others laughed, and Grace hastened to reply—
"Well, I would rather be with her than anyone else. You cannot imagine what a pleasant companion she is. Are you going by the seaside, too, Muriel?"
"Yes, I believe so; but it is not decided where I am to be sent yet."
"Mrs. Jones is to go with you, I suppose?"
Muriel nodded, and shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of distaste.
"Think how dull I shall be, with only that stupid old woman for a companion, and she never will allow me to make friends with other children on the sands. Oh, Marigold, how I wish I could persuade father to let me go to the same place as you and your aunts!"
"It is quite a small village on the north coast of Cornwall," Marigold said; adding eagerly, "Oh, Muriel, do try to come! Think what a splendid time we should have together!"
"Yes," agreed Muriel, her face brightening. "What is the village called?"
"Boscombe."
"Boscombe?" Muriel repeated. "I shall remember that!"
"It is not very far from Bude," Muriel explained. "You have to go by coach part of the way, so Aunt Mary told me. Boscombe is not a fashionable place at all; but there are several good lodging-houses that have been lately built. When my aunts were little girls they used to go there every summer and live in a furnished cottage that belonged to their father; but it was pulled down many years ago, and an hotel built on the same ground."
Whilst Marigold and Muriel were walking home from school together, the latter reverted to the subject of the coming holidays, and said she should try her hardest to induce her father to send her to Boscombe.
"Father is coming home for a few days at the end of the week," she told her companion; "and then he will most probably decide where Mrs. Jones and I are to go."
The following day the school broke up for the long vacation, and all was hurry and bustle at Miss Hardcastle's establishment. The boarders were anxious to leave by the first available trains that would take them to their different destinations, and were engaged in putting the finishing touches to the packing of their boxes.
Marigold took an affectionate farewell of Grace Long, and returned to Powderham Crescent early, for the day scholars had been dismissed an hour before the usual time, as was generally the way on breaking-up day. On reaching home the first person she encountered was Barker, who handed her a letter from London that had arrived by the second post.
Marigold opened it eagerly, and sat down in a chair in the hall to read it, whilst Barker hovered near. A smile rose to the little girl's face, for it was a bright, loving letter her mother had written in answer to the one in which she had given a brief account of her visit to Rocombe Farm.
"I am delighted to hear you have such kind friends, my dear Marigold," ran the familiar handwriting, "and the knowledge that you have a happy home with your aunts gives me great pleasure. The boys broke up for their holidays yesterday. I think I told you that Rupert had not been very well, but he is much better now, I am glad to say. The fact is, the dear little lad has been working very hard at school, because he has hopes of being raised to a higher form again next term, and rather overdid it. Now, I have a piece of news for you. The boys have had an invitation to spend a month with a school friend at Hastings, and I have consented to their going. You remember that nice little fellow Neil Munro, who used to come to tea here sometimes? Well, it transpires that he is the only son of rich parents, and when his mother called to see me, and explained how they had taken a furnished house at Hastings, and begged me to allow my boys to visit them, I was only too delighted, and readily agreed. So they go next week, if all is well. I feel so grateful to Mrs. Munro for her thoughtful kindness, though she said the idea was Neil's. I expect I shall be a trifle dull at home with all my children away, but I shall be busy as usual, and the thought that you are all having good holidays will recompense me for a little loneliness. I thank God for His goodness to my dear children!"
Marigold uttered a cry of joy and thankfulness as she came to the end of her mother's letter, that made Barker look at her with curious eyes. The little girl's face was glowing with pleasure, and her voice trembled with excitement as she inquired—
"Where are my aunts, Barker?"
"They are both out, miss. Have you good news, Miss Marigold?"
"Very good news. Would you like to hear what it is? Well, then, my brothers have had an invitation to spend a month at Hastings, and they are going next week!"
"I'm sure I'm very glad if you are, miss," Barker replied, secretly wondering why Marigold should be so wildly excited at what seemed to her a very ordinary matter.
Marigold waited impatiently enough for her aunts' return. Meanwhile, she went upstairs to her own room, and after taking off her hat and smoothing her hair, perused her mother's letter again. Presently she heard her aunts come in, and ask if she had returned from school yet.
"Here I am, Aunt Mary! Here I am, Aunt Pamela!" she cried.
There was a note of joy in the bright young voice; and Marigold's face, as she bent over the banisters and watched her aunts ascend the stairs, wore its sunniest smile.
"Please come into my room," she said. "I have had a letter from mother, and I want you both to hear what she says."
They followed her into her bedroom, and took the chairs she placed for them, wondering what good news she had received. Marigold perched herself on a corner of her bed, and proceeded to read her mother's letter aloud. After she had finished, there was a brief silence, then—
"I am glad your brothers are going to have a nice change," Miss Holcroft said, with a slightly nervous glance at her sister.
Miss Pamela turned her piercing dark eyes on Marigold, as she inquired—
"Is it pleasure on their account that has put you into such a state of excitement, child?"
"Yes, Aunt Pamela! I felt so unhappy to think that I was going to have a holiday, and they were not! It seemed so hard for them! But now it has all come right, hasn't it? How good people are! Fancy that Mrs. Munro thinking of our boys!"
"She must be a kind-hearted woman," Miss Holcroft remarked cordially.
"Yes," Miss Pamela agreed thoughtfully. "These Munros are rich people, it seems?" she added.
"I suppose so, Aunt Pamela. I remember Neil Munro because he was very friendly with Rupert and Lionel, and used to come home with them sometimes, but I did not know anything about his mother or father."
Miss Pamela looked contemplative. She sat tapping the ground with one foot and following the design of the carpet with the top of her sunshade.
"How the boys will love it by the sea!" Marigold continued, smiling, as she pictured their enjoyment. "I daresay they will have bathing, and boating, and fishing, and all the rest of it! I don't know that I ever felt so glad about anything before!"
"Your mother will be lonely without them," Miss Holcroft said gently.
"Yes; but she will not mind that if they are happy."
"Mary," said Miss Pamela abruptly, "if these boys are going to have a holiday, and visit rich people, they will probably want new clothes, and a little money in their pockets, eh?"
"Of course they will, Pamela," her sister agreed; adding, with an appealing glance and in a lower tone, "We must remember they are poor Rupert's sons."
"Marigold shall make them a present," Miss Pamela continued. "You shall write to your mother to-night, child, and enclose something for her to spend on the boys."
Marigold grew red with mingled emotions—surprise and pleasure being the chief.
"Oh, Aunt Pamela!" she cried.
"There, there!" Miss Pamela exclaimed, as she rose from her chair; "now I'm going to take off my bonnet. Come along, Mary."
But Miss Holcroft lingered to kiss Marigold, and to whisper that she was pleased with her good news, and she and Pamela would have a talk together to decide what gift should be sent to the boys.
Later, when the little girl was in the midst of her letter to her mother, her aunts joined her again, and Miss Holcroft, handing her a folded paper, told her to enclose it, and say it was intended as a gift for her brothers. Marigold did not know it was a cheque for ten pounds, for she slipped it into the envelope without examining it, but she realised that it meant money, and the happiness and gratitude plainly visible on her face spoke her thanks, even better than the faltering words with which she endeavoured to express them.
It had been decided that they were to start for Boscombe at the end of the following week, taking Barker with them, and leaving the other servants in charge of the house during their absence. A few days before their departure, Marigold accompanied Miss Pamela to call on Mrs. Barker, and was received by the old woman with great cordiality. She told them that Mrs. Adams had been to see her, and had brought a hamper of good things from the farm for her acceptance.
"We've both grown old since we last met," Mrs. Barker said, "and we've both had trials and troubles, though hers came all at once, so to speak, and mine have been spread over the years. Ah! it did me good to see her again, and talk over old times, and she said the sound of my voice brought back the past. I made her a cup of tea, and by and by her son came to fetch her, and they went away together."
"Shall I read you a chapter from the Bible?" Marigold asked presently, when there was a pause in the conversation. "Barker said she was sure you would wish me to. We are not in a hurry, are we Aunt Pamela?"
"Not in the least," Miss Pamela replied.
So the old woman placed her Bible before Marigold, and listened attentively whilst the little girl read aloud the twenty-sixth chapter of the Acts of the Apostles, wherein is the account of how Paul told King Agrippa the history of his life, and his conversion to Christianity.
"And they said he was mad!" the old woman exclaimed, when Marigold had finished.
"Festus said much learning had made him mad," Miss Pamela said; "as though a madman could have defended himself as Paul did!"
"But Agrippa felt Paul was speaking the truth, didn't he, Aunt Pamela?" Marigold interposed eagerly.
"I believe he did, otherwise he would not have said, 'Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.' I fear there are many like that poor king, Who almost believe, but not quite."
"Ah, ma'am, that's very true!" Mrs. Barker agreed. "People find so many excuses for not leading Christian lives! Perhaps King Agrippa had some favourite sin he couldn't give up, or perhaps he feared folks would laugh at him; or maybe he couldn't trust himself to God."
After that Miss Pamela and Marigold rose to go. The old woman accompanied her visitors to the garden gate.
"It was real good of you to come," she said heartily, "and I'm very grateful to little missy for reading me a chapter. Please give my love to Louisa, and tell her I shall be looking out for her one evening to say good-bye. Good afternoon, ma'am! Good afternoon, missy!"
"She's a nice old woman, isn't she?" Marigold said, as she tripped along by her aunt's side.
"Yes, very," Miss Pamela agreed. "I am glad you told Mrs. Adams about her, Marigold, for you see she has not let much time pass before going to visit her."
The following week, Marigold with her aunts and Barker journeyed to Boscombe. The little girl was full of excitement, anticipating all sorts of pleasures during her sojourn at the seaside, for she felt she could enjoy herself with an easy mind, now her brothers were having a holiday too.
Mrs. Holcroft had written a grateful note to Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela, thanking them for their great kindness to her boys; and though neither had made a remark, they had both been pleased with the way in which the writer had expressed her appreciation of their thoughtfulness and generosity.
The remembrance of her mother lonely in London was the one reflection that shadowed Marigold's pleasure at this time; but she knew Mrs. Holcroft would not wish her to make a trouble of that, and it was not difficult to be cheerful and happy during those bright summer days.
"Some time mother and I will have such a lovely holiday together," the little girl told herself consolingly, "and we must look forward till then!"
BOSCOMBE was a quaint little village, composed of one long, steep street of white-washed cottages occupied by the fishing folk, whose wives might generally be seen of an evening gossiping on their doorsteps, their fingers busily engaged in knitting navy blue jerseys.
On an eminence at the top of the street was the church, an ancient edifice of granite, with a small graveyard encircling it; and close by stood the vicarage, a substantial building of red sandstone, almost overgrown with ivy and other creepers.
Of late, overlooking the sea, had sprung up a row of brick villas, named Alma Terrace, that were let to lodging-house keepers, who reaped a good harvest during the summer months, as Boscombe was beginning to be rather better known than it had been, for the air from the Atlantic was bracing, and the scenery wildly beautiful along the coast, added to which there were fine sands, where children could find endless amusement in building castles and forts and in gathering shells.
Marigold's aunts had taken a suite of apartments in one of the new villas, where they were very comfortable and pleased with their surroundings. The little girl spent most of her days out-of-doors. In the morning she generally went out with her aunts, and amused herself whilst they worked or read in a sheltered nook, searching for anemones that hid themselves in the little pools between the rocks, or in collecting seaweeds to press between sheets of blotting-paper under her Aunt Pamela's instructions; and in the afternoon she would take a long walk with Barker, visiting different places of interest in the neighbourhood. She sometimes watched other children paddling and building castles in the sand with wistful eyes, wishing she dared ask her aunts to allow her to join them, but never plucking up courage to do so, fearing they would be horrified at the idea.
"Perhaps I am too old to run about without shoes and stockings," she thought, "but it must be lovely, I know!"
It was about a week after their arrival at Boscombe that Marigold was one morning seated with her aunts under the shelter of the sea-wall, when a pebble flung from behind, dropped into her lap, and a merry voice cried—
"You see, I've come at last!"
The speaker was Muriel Wake, who proceeded to scramble down the side of the wall with the agility of a cat.
"We only got here last night," she explained, as she shook hands with Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela. "We are staying at No. 5 Alma Terrace—Mrs. Jones and I."
"And we are lodging at No. 8," Miss Holcroft said, smiling.
"I never thought you would really come, Muriel!" Marigold told her friend in bright, glad tones. "I am so very glad to see you!"
"Father said he did not mind where we went; and when I told him I wanted so much to go to Boscombe, he made inquiries about the place, and—here I am!"
Muriel ended her sentence with a merry laugh, and sat down on the sand facing Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela, never doubting but that they were pleased to see her. In reality, they hardly knew whether they were or not, for though Muriel had always been well-behaved in their presence, they were a little distrustful of her still.
Muriel was wearing a short blue serge skirt with a cotton shirt, and a scarlet jelly-bag cap ornamented her golden curls. In her hands she held a spade and a bucket, and she had a towel slung over one arm.
"Have you been having a good time, Marigold?" she asked. "What have you been doing?"
Marigold explained, whilst Muriel's blue eyes opened wide with astonishment as she listened.
"Good gracious, Marigold! Do you mean to tell me you haven't been digging in the sand, or paddling?" she cried.
"Don't you think Marigold is too old for either of those amusements?" Miss Pamela asked, with a tone of reproof in her voice.
"She is no older than I am," Muriel responded quickly, by no means abashed. "There is nothing I enjoy more than wading in the water. I mean to have a net and go shrimping! Oh, Miss Holcroft, you don't intend to prevent Marigold's joining me, do you?"
Thus appealed to, Miss Holcroft looked helplessly at her sister. Marigold was listening anxiously to the conversation; and Muriel now turned her attention once more to her friend.
"Of course you have a spade and a bucket?" she said. "No! What a pity!"
"They sell them at the village shop," Miss Holcroft put in hastily, as she drew out her purse. "Do you wish to dig in the sand with Muriel, my dear? If so, take this money, and run and purchase what you want."
"Oh, thank you so much, Aunt Mary! Will you come with me, Muriel?"
"I think I'll stay where I am till you come back. If you hurry you won't be away many minutes."
Marigold scrambled to her feet, and reaching the flight of steps cut in the sea-wall, was soon lost to sight.
"How did you leave your father, my dear?" Miss Holcroft inquired politely.
"Oh, very well, thank you. He is going abroad in a few days, and may not be home again till Christmas."
"My dear child!" sympathetically. "Then you will have no one but servants to look after you during his absence! You must come and see us as often as you can next term."
"Thank you, Miss Holcroft," Muriel said gratefully; adding in a lower tone, "I've been ever so much happier since Marigold and I have been friends."
"I am pleased to hear it," Miss Holcroft answered, smiling.
"Marigold's so good-natured," the child continued. "Perhaps you don't know it, but I served her very unkindly once, and afterwards she forgave me and did me a good turn. I couldn't have done it myself."
"Oh, but it is right to return good for evil. It is a Christian's duty to forgive an injury."
"But, you see, I am not a Christian!"
"Perhaps you are trying to be one?"
"No. I'm thinking about it, though!"
At this point Miss Pamela, who had been listening to the conversation in silence, asked what had become of Mrs. Jones.
"She's gone into the village to order some things from the shop," Muriel explained. "I told her I was going to see if I could find you."
A few minutes later Marigold returned with a new spade and a bucket, and in a short while she and Muriel had commenced operations on the sand.
"First of all we'll make two comfortable seats for your aunts," Muriel suggested.
"Oh yes, that will be capital!" Marigold agreed eagerly.
They were soon busily engaged at this work, whilst Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela watched their proceedings with interest. Presently two great mounds of sand had been collected, and under Muriel's directions were fashioned into seats with backs to lean against.
"Pray come and take your easy-chairs!" Muriel cried, when everything was completed.
They obeyed, smiling and good-humoured, whilst the children stood a few steps away, looking on approvingly.
"We must make them seats every day," Marigold declared. "Are you sure you are comfortable, Aunt Mary, and you, Aunt Pamela?"
"Quite sure," they both assured her.
"Now let us go and build castles by the sea," was Muriel's next suggestion; "but you had better take your shoes and stockings off, Marigold, as otherwise you will be sure to get wet, for the tide is coming in."
Marigold glanced doubtfully at her aunts. It was Miss Pamela who answered the look.
"Do as Muriel says, if you wish," she said, "and if it will add to your enjoyment."
Five minutes later the little girls were playing barefooted at the water's edge, and thoroughly enjoying themselves.
During the days that followed the children saw a great deal of each other, and agreed exceedingly well. Mrs. Jones and Barker soon became acquainted, and grew quite friendly whilst they strolled on the sea-wall, or sat beneath its shade, where they could keep their eyes on their respective charges.
Mrs. Jones was a stout, rather slow-witted, elderly woman, genuinely attached to her little mistress. She was the only one of Mr. Wake's servants who had been in his service for any length of time.
"During the seven years I've lived under his roof he hasn't been home, at most, for more than a fortnight at a time," she confided to Barker, "so it's not to be wondered that Miss Muriel ain't fonder of him. He's almost like a stranger to the poor child."
One morning Miss Holcroft received a letter from an Exeter friend which caused her great consternation, for it contained the news of the death of Molly Jenkins' father.
"Oh dear! oh dear! What a shocking affair!" she cried, in distressed accents to her sister and Marigold. "Oh, what trouble for poor Molly! Her father met with a violent death, was knocked down by a carriage in the street, and died whilst he was being conveyed to the hospital!"
"Molly's worst fear has been realised, then!" Miss Pamela exclaimed. "How long ago did this happen, Mary?"
"Several days, I should imagine, as the unfortunate man was buried yesterday. Oh, poor Molly! How I wish I was in Exeter, so that I might try to comfort her!"
The tears were in Miss Holcroft's eyes as she spoke. Marigold looked white and shocked, whilst Miss Pamela appeared in deep thought. There was a brief silence, then Miss Holcroft continued, referring to her letter.
"Molly seems to have been very brave. She attended the funeral, and saw to all the arrangements herself. How sad to be alone as she is! I fear now all is over she will break down."
"Oh no!" Miss Pamela said quickly. "I tell you what you must do, Mary, you must send for her to come to us here."
"Oh, Pamela, do you mean that? Would you be willing to have her as our guest?"
"Certainly," Miss Pamela responded, in her cold, brief way. "You know I always mean what I say."
"Oh, what a darling you are, Aunt Pamela!" Marigold cried, rushing impetuously across the room to her aunt, and giving her an approving hug.
Miss Pamela was so surprised at this unlooked-for demonstration of affection on her niece's part that she actually blushed.
"I think it is a splendid idea!" the little girl continued excitedly. "We'll do all we possibly can to make her happy, won't we?"
"Steady, Marigold!" Miss Holcroft interposed. "You are settling matters too quickly. We do not know yet if she will come or not. I think, Pamela, I will write at once, and suggest her coming to us straight away."
"Yes," agreed Miss Pamela. "Tell her she will disappoint us all if she declines our invitation; and, Mary, I think you had better send the money for her journey, don't you? You can do it in such a way that she cannot mind accepting it."
Miss Holcroft nodded comprehensively, and sat down with her writing materials at hand to consider how best to word her letter.
Meanwhile, Marigold having caught sight of Muriel waiting for her outside, went out to join her friend. The two children strolled down to the beach together. Marigold informed her companion that they were likely to have an addition to their party. Muriel heard all Marigold had to say about Molly Jenkins in silence. She did not appear much interested, and was decidedly not pleased.
"I don't see what your aunts want to have her here for," was the first remark she made, after Marigold had told her all there was to tell. "Don't you think she'll be a great nuisance?"
"No; why should she be?"
"She is lame, isn't she?"
"Yes; but she can walk with crutches, you know. I thought we should be able to make her a seat on the sands like we do for my aunts, so that she could sit there reading or working, and watch us at play."
"But why should she come here at all? She's only a common lace-maker, isn't she?"
"She is a lace-maker, certainly," Marigold responded, with a bright flash of anger in her eyes, "but she's not in the least common!"
"Now you're cross with me," Muriel said, with a discontented pout.
Marigold made no answer, and the other continued—
"You won't think anything of me when that lame girl comes. I know what it will be; you'll be dancing attendance upon her all day long, and I shall be left in the lurch!"
"Nonsense, Muriel! You know better! Of course, I shall be as nice and kind to poor Molly as I possibly can, because I like her, and because she will be very sad at having lost her father!"
"What a horrid man he must have been!" Muriel cried, with a gesture of disgust.
"Molly loved him," Marigold answered gently, "and I expect she is in great trouble now he is gone. You'll be kind to her, won't you, Muriel?" coaxingly.
Muriel made no reply for a moment, then she burst out—
"Oh, Marigold, I am a bad, wicked girl! I am, really! I cannot help feeling jealous of this Molly Jenkins. I'm so afraid you'll like her better than you like me! I know it's horrid of me to mind, but you are the first real friend I ever had, and I don't want anyone to come between us."
Marigold looked greatly surprised, for she was never in the least jealous herself, and could not realise how much anyone might suffer from such a failing.
"Molly won't come between us," she said reassuringly. "Why, she's years older than we are!"
"I know. I suppose you think me very selfish, don't you?"
"I think when you see Molly you'll like her yourself," Marigold replied, ignoring her companion's question. And such proved to be the case, for Molly accepted the invitation to come to Boscombe, and a few days later arrived, pale and tired, but with a look of patient resignation on her countenance that made Muriel feel ashamed of the jealous thoughts she had harboured against her.
"How dreadful to be lame like that!" Muriel whispered to Marigold, as, the first day after her arrival, the cripple girl joined them on the sea-wall. "Oh, poor thing, will she be able to get down on the beach, I wonder!" And it was Muriel who ran to Molly's assistance and helped her down the flight of steps with a care and a tenderness that surprised her friend. "We have made you such a beautiful seat with a nice back," Muriel said. "Do try it!"
Molly willingly complied, looking with a grateful smile at the pretty, blue-eyed child who seemed so eager for her comfort.
"Well?" Muriel asked. "Is that right?"
"Oh yes, indeed, thank you! How good you are to me!"
"Oh no!" shrinking back a trifle abashed. "It was Marigold's idea!"
The lame girl smiled as she looked from one face to the other.
"Thank you both!" she said. "How delightful it is here! How fresh the air smells! It seems to blow new life into one!"
"Yes," agreed Miss Holcroft, joining them at that moment. "We shall soon have you looking as brown as these two children, Molly! Did you ever see such a pair of gipsies? They are out-of-doors from morning till night."
"We will try to catch you some shrimps when the tide is farther out," Marigold told Molly. "Come along, Muriel. Let us go and ask one of the fishermen what time it will be low water." And the two children went off together, whilst Molly looked after them with eyes that were moist with tears, for she was in that weak condition when it is easier to weep than to smile. During the last few weeks she had gone through a great deal, but she still had faith to say: "Thy will be done," though the thought of her dead father brought such anguish to her heart as only God in His good time could heal.
MOLLY JENKINS had not been many days at Boscombe before a decided change for the better was apparent in her appearance and spirits. A faint colour came to her cheeks, her smile was less sad, and her naturally brave heart took courage again. The children found her a pleasant companion. They spent many hours of the day in hovering around her as she sat on the sands, sometimes idle, but oftener with her work on her knee.
"I feel happier when I am employed," she told them, when they remonstrated with her for not taking complete rest; and so they allowed her to do as she pleased.
Marigold had heard from her mother on several occasions since she had been at Boscombe—bright, cheerful letters that showed how interested she was in hearing all her little girl's doings.
One morning Marigold came to Molly with a beaming face, to tell her that Mrs. Holcroft knew a lady who wanted to buy some Honiton lace flounces, and would Molly undertake to work them? The lady was not in immediate want of them, so the lame girl would be able to take her time over the work.
"Mother says if you can make the flounces the lady will be willing to pay a good price, and she thinks you had better write to her, and she will explain exactly what is wanted," Marigold said.
This Molly accordingly did, with the result that she obtained an order that would keep her busily employed for some months to come.
"I think it is so kind of your mother to interest herself in me," she told Marigold, who was as glad as she was herself that the business had been satisfactorily settled; "will you tell her how grateful I feel?"
Marigold assented. Her aunts were in the room at the time, and she could see that they were pleased also.
How fast the August days were slipping away! Muriel Wake bemoaned the fact bitterly one afternoon, as she sat by the lame girl's side on the beach. The two were alone, for Marigold had gone for a walk with her aunts.
"How quickly the holidays are passing, to be sure!" Muriel remarked, with a deep sigh. "The time simply flies, and during the term how it drags!"
"I wonder at that," Molly responded. "I always think the time goes so quickly when one is working. Don't you work hard at school?"
"No, not very; not half so hard as Marigold. Miss Smith—she's our governess, you know—says Marigold will leave me in the back-stocks; but then, you see, Marigold has a reason for working. She wants to get on so as to be able to earn her own living, and help her mother, who is poor."
"I understand."
"I like Marigold," Muriel continued, "though I hated her when I first knew her. Did you ever hear how shabbily I treated her?"
Molly shook her head, and Muriel explained the matter. Before she had half finished her tale she regretted not having kept her own counsel, for the other looked both astonished and shocked.
"I don't know why I've told you," the little girl said in conclusion, "because I expect you'll think very badly of me."
"I don't believe you're capable of behaving like that now!" Molly replied, after a minute's pause. Muriel flushed, and looked doubtful, as she hastened to say—
"Oh, I don't know about that! I'm not a bit like Marigold, although I've been trying to be! In spite of her being so lively and full of fun, she's very religious, really! She thinks we ought to return good for evil—there's another girl at our school like her—Grace Long. Such a nice girl she is too! Do you think it makes one happy to be religious?"
"I think it makes one very happy, if by being religious you mean trusting God with all your heart, giving the ordering of your life into His keeping, and casting all your cares upon Him. Anyone who really does that must be happy. We all have troubles and trials, but if God is our Friend half the bitterness is gone from them. 'If God be for us, who can be against us?' I expect you know who wrote those words?"
"No, indeed I don't!"
"It was Saint Paul in his Epistle to the Romans. Don't you ever read the Bible?"
"No—o," Muriel answered reluctantly; "that is to say, we have Scripture lessons at school, and, of course, I have to read portions of the Bible then, but I never think of doing so otherwise. Marigold wanted me to read a few verses every day, like she does—I almost think I will!"
"I wish you would. Don't put it off any longer. Do try to love God and walk in His ways. Oh, my dear," and the lame girl's voice was tremulous with strong emotion, "don't say 'Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian,' but make up your mind you will be one. Life is so short—at any time we may be called upon to face our Maker, and how shall we meet Him if we have not tried to keep His commandments?"
"Molly," said Muriel, in an awestruck tone, "do you ever think of dying?"
"Often; and more than ever since poor father was struck down so suddenly!"
"You loved your father very dearly, didn't you?"
"Very dearly!" Molly replied, weeping.
"Oh, don't cry! Don't cry!" Muriel implored, flinging her arms around her companion's neck with a tenderness unusual in her. "I am so sorry to think I have made you cry! What will Miss Holcroft say, if she sees your eyes red and swollen?"
Molly took out her handkerchief and wiped her tears away, trying to smile.
"That's right!" Muriel exclaimed, in accents of relief; adding in a lower tone, "Would it make you any the happier, really, if I tried to be a Christian?"
"Yes, indeed it would!"
"I will try, yes, I will! But I'm afraid I shall not succeed. You don't know what a naughty girl I am sometimes, how I worry poor Mrs. Jones, and tease the other servants. Then, too, during the term I don't learn my lessons half my time, and I make Miss Smith so cross. She said one day that I tried her temper more than any other girl in the school!"
Molly looked grave as Muriel made these avowals of misconduct. She had never before come across anyone who confessed faults so openly, and seemed to take them so little to heart. The fact was, the child had grown up selfish and wayward simply because she had had no one to correct her failings. The servants of her father's household had always looked on her as mischief-making and disagreeable, and, with the exception of Mrs. Jones, had found it expedient to keep her at a distance. Mrs. Jones from the first had pitied the lonely little girl, but she had not sufficient strength of character to guide her in any way, and her affection showed itself in petting and spoiling her, rather than in trying to uproot those characteristics which seemed likely to mar her happiness in life and make her generally disliked. No wonder Muriel had never been very happy.
Marigold had compelled her reluctant admiration and respect, by generously forgiving the faithless treatment she had dealt her; and, ashamed of her former treachery, Muriel had made diffident overtures of friendship, which had been accepted. This friendship had brought her more happiness than she had ever known in her life before, but with it had come an uneasy sense of her own unworthiness. The feeling of self-complacency that had been one of her chief attributes slowly fell away from her, and she saw herself as she really was. She had never cared for truth, but had always been accustomed to turn and twist a tale to suit her own purpose; she had not been above telling a lie, if she had considered it expedient to do so; but, daily brought in contact with a nature that scorned falsehood, and was faithful in even little things, doubts as to her own behaviour had not been long in appearing, then shame, and lately a strong desire to be different.
She sat in silence for a long while, her blue eyes gazing far out over the sea, whilst the lame girl watched her, wondering what thoughts were in her mind, and if she would be given strength to overcome those bad habits she had encouraged so long.
"Where is Mrs. Jones to-day?" Molly asked presently.
"Lying down on the sofa in the sitting-room," was the reply. "She said she had a dreadful headache, and could not come out in the sun. She often gets headaches like this."
"Poor thing!" in sympathising tones.
"Oh, she will be all right by and by."
There was a tone of careless unconcern in this remark that struck discordantly on Molly's ear. There was gravity in her voice as she suggested—
"Couldn't you do something for her?"
Muriel looked surprised at the idea, and raised her eyes to the speaker's face to read its expression.
"I daresay you think me unfeeling," she said, "but Mrs. Jones often gets bad headaches, and I'm afraid I'm not sorry, because I don't like to have her always trotting about after me. However, if you don't mind being left here alone, I'll go and see how she is."
"I'm going in myself now."
Molly picked up her crutches, and together she and Muriel returned to Alma Terrace.
"Please tell Marigold not to forget her promise to go fishing with me this evening after tea," Muriel said, as the lame girl turned into the gateway of No. 8, and Molly nodded smilingly in reply.
A minute or two later Muriel entered the sitting-room of No. 5, stepping lightly, so as not to disturb Mrs. Jones. She stopped on the threshold in amazement, for Mrs. Jones was not there; instead, her father was seated, reading a newspaper, by the open window.
"Father!" Muriel cried in surprise. "Why, I thought you had gone abroad!"
Mr. Wake—a handsome, middle-aged man, with rather a formal manner—put down his newspaper at the sound of his little daughter's voice, and turned to her with a smile. She went up to him and gave him a kiss; and then he held her at arm's length and regarded her earnestly.
"How well you look, my dear! Have you been having a good time, you gipsy?"
"Yes, father. What made you come here? When did you arrive? Are you staying at the hotel?"
"Yes. I came especially to see you. We, that is myself and a friend, arrived about two hours ago. We spent last night at Bude. Perhaps we may stay here a few days, if you are very nice to my friend."
He laughed, seeming in unusually bright spirits, Muriel thought. She looked puzzled.
"Have you seen Mrs. Jones, father?" she asked.
"Yes, she was here a minute or so before you came in, but has gone upstairs to her own room to lie down, as she is suffering from headache."
"I came home to see how she was."
"I would not disturb her now; she said if she could get a nap she would awake better. You can come back to the hotel with me, and be introduced to my friend, whom, by the way, I hope you will like."
"Had I not better change my frock, and put on a hat first?"
He glanced at the little serge-clad figure, and the scarlet cap surmounting the golden curls, with more than usual interest, there was even a tenderness in his regard.
"No; you will do very well as you are!" he declared approvingly.
They left the house together. Muriel wondering who her father's friend was, for he was not usually anxious that she should know his acquaintances. Arrived at the hotel, which was not more than five minutes' walk from Alma Terrace, Mr. Wake led the way to a private sitting-room, with a magnificent view from the windows of the great Atlantic Ocean that now stretched blue and calm beneath the August sunshine.
To Muriel's astonishment the only occupant of the room was a lady clad in a soft grey gown, with ruffles of white lace at throat and wrists—such a pretty lady, the little girl thought, as she met the glance of a pair of lovely dark brown eyes.
"Marian," said Mr. Wake, as he took Muriel by the hand and led her to the stranger, "this is my child. Muriel, this is my wife!"
Before Muriel had time to realise the situation, the lady caught her in her arms, and kissed her as she had never been kissed in her whole life before.
"You dear little thing!" said a bright, kind voice. "I do hope you will learn to like me by and by! How astonished you look, and I'm sure it's no wonder!"
The lady drew her to a chair, and sat down by her side. Muriel glanced around for her father, but he was gone.
"He has run away," said her companion, rightly interpreting the look. "Perhaps he thinks we shall get to know each other better without him."
"Are you—has he—that is, is it really true you are his wife?" Muriel asked, finding her tongue at last.
"Quite true. We were married in London early yesterday morning, and arrived at Bude last night, coming on here to-day, so that I might see you. Now, you won't begin to dislike me before you've given me a fair trial as a stepmother, will you?"
There was something in this question that made Muriel smile. She glanced quickly at Mrs. Wake, and saw that she was smiling as well.
"Because," the latter continued, "I want to love you very much, if you will let me, and I hope in time you will grow to love me too."
Muriel gave another shy look at the pretty smiling face that had more than a little anxiety in its expression, then dropped her eyes.
"We must be great friends. You will be able to tell me all about the Exeter people—"
"But we shall not see much of each other," Muriel interposed quickly. "Father is hardly ever at home!"
"Oh, but he will be now!"
"Will he?" doubtfully.
"Yes; you will see. We are going to Switzerland for a little while, and afterwards we are coming home to settle down!"
"Oh!"
"I hope we shall all be happy together. Will you try to like me, my dear?"
"I think I do like you," Muriel answered slowly.
"And I like you! I mean to love you very dearly," her stepmother went on. "You never knew your own mother, did you?"
"No. I have often wished she had lived. I have a friend called Marigold Holcroft, who is always talking about her mother, what she does, and says, and so on."
"Yes?"
Once on the subject of her friendship for Marigold, Muriel talked without restraint, till presently her father reappeared upon the scene. His wife turned to him with a smile.
"Are you going to take us out boating this evening?" she asked. "Of course Muriel will spend the remainder of the day with us. You would like to, wouldn't you, my dear?" appealing to the little girl.
"Yes, I should. But I had made an appointment to go shrimping with Marigold Holcroft, and I think I had better go and explain, don't you?"
The others agreed, and Muriel darted away, and was soon hastening towards No. 8 Alma Terrace, to see if Marigold and her aunts had returned.
"HOW happy Muriel looks, and how much she appears to like her stepmother! I am sure I hope they will continue on such good terms with each other."
The speaker was Miss Pamela Holcroft, as she sat at breakfast with her sister, and niece, and Molly Jenkins.
Several days had passed since the unexpected arrival of Mr. Wake and his bride. The couple still lingered at Boscombe, though they talked of leaving shortly.
"I daresay they will be good friends," Miss Holcroft responded. "I like Mrs. Wake, don't you, Pamela?"
"Yes; she seems a sensible young woman. I had a long chat with her on the beach yesterday, and she talked a great deal of Muriel. I believe she means to do her duty to the child; I think, too, she realises she has been neglected at home."
"Poor Marigold has been rather overlooked by her friend of late, I fear," Miss Holcroft said. "I hope you are not jealous, my dear?" turning a smiling glance on her little niece.
"No, indeed! I am so glad Muriel likes Mrs. Wake."
"I confess I am rather surprised that she does," Miss Pamela remarked. "I should have thought a stepmother would have aroused her jealousy at once."
"Ah, but you see she never knew her own mother," Miss Holcroft interposed; "and I don't think she is fond enough of her father to fear being supplanted in his affections by another person. It may be that through the stepmother, father and child will be drawn closer together. Mrs. Wake told me she should try to persuade her husband not to remain abroad long; we shall see if she has sufficient influence over him to obtain her desire. He has been a rolling stone for so many years that it will be difficult for him to settle down quietly at home."
"He seems a very nice gentleman," Molly put in, in her gentle tones. "He talked to me for quite a long while yesterday, and helped me across the rough ridge of pebbles on the beach."
"Muriel says she thinks he's nicer now he's married," Marigold said eagerly. "She never saw so much of him before as she has during these last few days. How strange that is!"
"I think it was a wise step his marrying before telling her anything about it, as it turns out," Miss Holcroft said reflectively. "If he had told her she was to have a stepmother, she would doubtless have formed a prejudice against Mrs. Wake that she might never have overcome."
Miss Pamela sat silent. She was thinking of the prejudice she had entertained for so many years against Marigold's mother; lately she had known how unjust it had been.
A few days later, Mr. and Mrs. Wake left Boscombe, much to the regret of Muriel, who had made many enjoyable excursions with them to Bude, and other places in the neighbourhood. On one occasion they had gone to Tintagel, to visit King Arthur's Castle, taking Marigold and Molly Jenkins with them, as well as Muriel. That had been a treat for the lame girl, the remembrance of which lived in her memory for many a year afterwards; and Miss Holcroft and Miss Pamela had been very pleased that the Wakes had invited their visitor as well as their little niece.
It had been arranged that Mrs. Jones and Muriel should travel back to Exeter with Miss Holcroft's party; and the day had been fixed for their departure.
Marigold was now considering what she should take back to her friends, and the servants at home, as she was beginning to call her aunts' house in Powderham Crescent. She spent much time outside the village shop, peering at the shelf that was labelled "Useful Presents," and after careful thought made her purchases. She bought china ornaments with views of Boscombe printed on them for the servants; an elaborate shell-box, with a little looking-glass at the back of the cover, for Mrs. Barker; and photographs of different well-known places of interest in the district for several of her girl friends.
"I wish I could send mother something," she thought. "I was never able to give her a present in my life; and now I have plenty of money, only I don't know if Aunt Pamela would mind—"
Her reflections came to an abrupt conclusion. She was standing outside the shop, and her quick eye had caught sight of a little old-fashioned blue china teapot that was the very thing her mother would admire, she felt certain.
She pushed open the shop door and went in. The woman behind the counter, Mrs. Treffry by name, greeted her with a smile, for she knew Marigold very well, having constantly seen her during the last few weeks.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Treffry," the little girl said briskly. "I want you to allow me to look at that small blue teapot you have in the window, if you please."
"Certainly, miss."
Mrs. Treffry fetched it, and placed it on the counter, remarking as she did so—
"It's a bit of old-fashioned china, miss, and very good, I'm told."
"What is the price?" Marigold inquired.
"A guinea, miss."
"A guinea!" in astonished accents. "Oh, then I cannot afford to buy it. I did not know it was worth so much money as that. I thought it was very pretty, and so it is, but it is far too expensive."
"You see, miss, it's like this," Mrs. Treffry explained: "that teapot belonged to an old maiden lady who lived at Boscombe some years ago. When she died her household goods were all sold by auction, and I bought that little teapot for eighteenpence, and thought I had given money enough for it too! But a few weeks ago a young gentleman came into my shop here, and asked if I could make him a cup of tea, which I did, making it in that teapot, miss. 'Hullos!' said he, as soon as he'd clapped eyes upon it, 'that's a good bit of china you've got there!' 'It's pretty ain't it?' said I. 'Pretty!' he cried out, 'why, any dealer in old china would give you a guinea for it!' That surprised me, but I didn't tell him so; instead, I said, 'You shall have it for that price, sir.' But he shook his head, saying he was a poor chap who couldn't afford to spend his money on an old-fashioned teapot like mine when a common brown earthenware one would answer his purpose as well, though he knew a bit of rare china when he saw it, and could tell what it was worth. 'Now mind you don't sell that teapot for less than a guinea!' were his parting words to me, and I made up my mind I wouldn't."
"Fancy its being so valuable!" Marigold exclaimed, her disappointment plainly visible both in her face and voice.
"I thought if I put it in the window it might catch the eye of some visitor who knew something about old china," Mrs. Treffry continued. "I must own I don't see the worth of a guinea in the teapot myself, but seeing it is worth that, I shouldn't be justified in selling it for less."
"No, no!" Marigold readily agreed.
"Can't I show you anything else to-day, miss?"
"No, I think not, thank you, Mrs. Treffry. I am sorry to have troubled you to take the teapot from the window."
"Oh, it has been no trouble, I'm sure, miss."
Marigold was turning away when the door opened, and her Aunt Pamela entered the shop. She glanced inquiringly from her niece to the teapot which Mrs. Treffry held in her hand. Marigold's colour rose, as it usually did on the slightest emotion from whatever cause, whilst Mrs. Treffry began to explain the situation in her usually wordy manner.
"You have excellent taste, Marigold," Miss Pamela said, smiling, when Mrs. Treffry had concluded speaking, which was not for some minutes, as she had again recounted the story of the young man who had advised her of the teapot's value. "This is a charming piece of old-fashioned china, and well worth a guinea, I'm sure."
"I daresay it is, Aunt Pamela; but I did not think it would be more than a few shillings."
"Why did you want it? Was it your intention to make a present of it to someone?"
"Yes—" with a slight hesitation in her manner; adding in a lower tone, "I—I wanted to give it to mother."
Miss Pamela turned abruptly away, and a stab of jealousy shot through her heart, for it had occurred to her that her little niece might have wished to present the teapot to her aunts.
"Will you let me examine it?" she said to Mrs. Treffry, who willingly complied.
Miss Pamela scrutinised the teapot carefully. "There's not a chip or a crack anywhere," Mrs. Treffry assured her.
"I see there is not. If we purchase it from you, have you a box we could pack it in?"
After a few minutes' search the shopkeeper discovered a wooden box beneath a heap of odds and ends under the counter, which proved to be just the right size.
"That will do capitally," Miss Pamela said. "We will certainly have the teapot, Mrs. Treffry, if you can pack it for us. We want to send it to London. I suppose it would go by parcel post?"
"Oh yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Treffry fetched some shavings, and packed the teapot so carefully that it could not possibly smash, then she fastened down the lid of the box, put a clean sheet of brown paper outside, and tied it securely with strong cord. After that, Miss Pamela asked for a label, and requested Marigold to address it to her mother. This the little girl accordingly did, and after seeing the package stamped, and paying Mrs. Treffry, aunt and niece left the shop together.
"Aunt Pamela!" cried Marigold, her voice trembling with excitement, "how can I thank you? Oh, how delighted mother will be!"
"She will recognise your handwriting on the label, will she not?"
"Oh yes! Thank you so much, Aunt Pamela! You cannot guess how pleased I am! What will mother say when the box arrives, I wonder? Oh, I should like to be able to see her face when she catches sight of the teapot!"
"She will write and tell you what she thinks of your present, I expect."
"Oh yes! Isn't it a lovely little teapot? I was so disappointed when I found I had not enough money to buy it! I have five shillings; and please, Aunt Pamela, you'll let me pay you that, won't you?"
"You will probably want it for something else, Marigold."
"No. I should like you to take the money, please, if you do not mind, for then it will seem more like my present to mother, won't it?"
"Very well. You need not mention to her that I paid anything towards it; do you understand, child?"
"I will not tell her if you don't wish it, Aunt Pamela. Let me see; she will get it to-morrow, and if she writes at once, I shall have a letter from her the day after."
Marigold was right in her surmise, for two days later came the expected letter. Mrs. Holcroft told what a surprise Marigold's present had been to her, and how much she liked and admired it. Then she went on to say that the boys had returned from Hastings set up in health, and looking as brown as berries, after a most enjoyable visit. "I shall never be able to properly thank all those who are so good to my dear children," she wrote, "but I am sure God will bless them! Oh, Marigold, if your father could but know! Perhaps he does."
Marigold showed her mother's letter to Miss Pamela, who read it in silence, and returned it without a word.
"Mother is very pleased, isn't she?" Marigold said timidly.
"Evidently. I am glad your brothers have benefited by their change."
"Yes," the little girl answered happily. "So am I!"
A few days later the pleasant summer holiday was at an end; and the lodgings at No. 5 and No. 8 Alma Terrace were vacant.
Marigold gave her presents to the servants on the night of her return home; and next day she paid a visit to Mrs. Barker, who received her with evident pleasure. Marigold presented her with the shell-box, and was pleased to see she was delighted with it.
"I wanted to bring you something from Boscombe," the little girl said, glad to see she had selected an article that evidently met with the old woman's approval, "and I thought this little box would be useful."
"Very useful," Mrs. Barker agreed, with sparkling eyes. "I do feel proud of it. I shall keep it on that little table in front of the window, where it will show."
"Barker sent a message to say she was coming to see you this evening," Marigold said, changing the conversation. "I expect you're longing to see her, aren't you?"
"Indeed, yes, miss!"
"We have been away nearly six weeks," the little girl continued. "Such a happy holiday we have had! Boscombe is a lovely place! I think Barker has enjoyed herself too."
"I am sure she has, miss, for she wrote to me several times whilst you were away, and told me so. I got a neighbour of mine to read the letters."
"Have you seen Mrs. Adams lately?" Marigold inquired.
"Yes, miss. She has been to see me twice. She called one day last week, and asked me if I knew when you were all coming home. I expect you'll be sure to see her soon."
"I hope so," Marigold answered, for she was greatly looking forward to meeting Farmer Jo and his mother again.
She felt quite glad to be back in Exeter once more, and was waiting eagerly and with pleasurable anticipation the commencement of the next term. What a lot she would have to tell Grace Long and her other friends at school!
Meanwhile, she saw Muriel Wake nearly every day. Muriel was wondering how long her father and stepmother would remain abroad, and confided to Marigold that there was a great upset amongst the servants at home on account of her father's marriage, and all but Mrs. Jones were going to leave.