Violet nodded. "Just a little," she admitted, "but it is a nice little house really; I thought how comfortable the sitting-room was to-night, you've improved it."
"Oh, you noticed that!" Ruth exclaimed, much gratified; "I was so afraid the house would appear very mean and small after the one you have been accustomed to lately."
"It's home," Violet said softly, "going away has taught me one thing at any rate, that there's no place so dear as home."
Ruth's face glowed with delight. She had not dared to expect that Violet would return in this contented frame of mind, and she was secretly a little puzzled. It was beginning to dawn on her already that her sister had altered—improved, she thought.
"But, as I said downstairs, I've been very happy at Barford," Violet proceeded; "except for the unpleasantness in connection with Agnes Hosking everything has gone well. Oh, Ruthie, I'm so ashamed when I think of—but there I'll tell you all about it!" And forthwith she explained the pressure Agnes Hosking had put upon her to obtain the invitation to Laureston Square, and how she had weakly yielded to it. She did not look at Ruth the while she was speaking; but, when she had ceased, she glanced around at her and saw an amazed, shocked countenance.
"Oh, Violet," gasped Ruth, at length, "what could the Reeds have thought of you?"
"I don't know what Dr. and Mrs. Reed thought of me, for they never said. I explained everything to Ann, and she told her parents. Ann was amazed, she didn't seem able to understand me—"
"I understand you," interposed Ruth, reproach in her voice, "you were ashamed that your well-to-do school-fellows should know of our poor circumstances, and yet you were not ashamed to bribe Agnes to hold her tongue—it was actually that."
"I knew you would be very disgusted with me," sighed Violet, "and I admit that you have reason to be. Oh, Ruthie, I wish I were more like you and Ann Reed! I wish I didn't care for outside opinion; Ann doesn't care in the very least, and I know if she had been in my place she would have defied Agnes Hosking. That's what I ought to have done, but I was such a mean-spirited coward. You can't think worse of me than I think of myself; only, do believe that in the same circumstances I would act very differently now."
She looked at her sister appealingly as she spoke, and there was a ring of sincerity in her tone, which the other could not fail to note. "You do believe it, don't you?" she asked anxiously.
"Yes," Ruth answered. She never could be angry long with Violet, and, rising, she went to her side and kissed her affectionately.
"Oh, Ruthie, what a dear you are!" cried Violet, as she warmly returned the caress. There was a little choke in her voice. A moment later, she exclaimed: "Listen, surely that's the dining-room clock striking twelve!"
"Yes. We must go to bed and not talk any more to-night."
Accordingly they went to bed, and as soon as Violet laid her head on the pillow she discovered that she really was tired, so that it was not long before she was fast asleep. Ruth lay quietly by her side, listening to her regular breathing, and thinking over all she had heard that evening. It was nearly daybreak before she fell asleep.
IT was a cloudless August day, oppressively hot in the sunshine but pleasant in the shade, and there was shade on the beach at Teymouth beneath the shelter of the high, red cliffs where a happy party, consisting of Mrs. Wyndham and her five children, was assembled.
The plan which Ann Reed had suggested, that the Wyndhams might take lodgings at Teymouth for their summer holiday, had actually been carried out, and now they were in residence at a farm house situated about half a mile from the village, and thoroughly enjoying the novel experience of life in the country.
This afternoon the young folks had made a huge fire of drift wood, over which they were trying to boil a kettle of water preparatory to making tea, whilst a table-cloth—kept in place by a big stone at each corner—had been spread on the sand and displayed a tempting repast of bread and butter, cake, and a big tin of clotted cream.
"I hope they'll come soon," said Violet, who was feeding the fire with sticks, "for the kettle is beginning to sing; but they are not in sight yet, and old Mrs. Reed does walk so slowly."
"She'll get along quicker with father to lend her an arm," observed Ruth; "as soon as the kettle boils I think we had better make the tea."
They were waiting for Ann and her grandmother, and for Mr. Wyndham who had gone to offer the old lady his assistance down the somewhat uneven path which led to the beach. The Wyndhams had been at Teymouth a fortnight, during which time they had seen Ann and her grandmother nearly every day. Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham seemed to have cast off all their cares and to be enjoying their holiday as much as their children; they felt they might do so with easy minds.
"Here they come at last!" cried Madge, presently. "Does the kettle boil?"
"Yes," Violet answered. "Ruthie, make the tea. Oh, dear me, I do hope the water is not smoky!"
Ruth made the tea, and a few minutes later old Mrs. Reed, leaning on Mr. Wyndham's arm, with Ann on her other side, joined the party, and was made very comfortable in a deck chair, which had been brought down to the beach on purpose for her and placed in a sheltered spot. Though Ann's grandmother was eighty years of age she did not look so old, for her face was singularly unwrinkled and her brow smooth, whilst her intellect was as bright as it had ever been, and her sight and hearing were good. She was a little stiff and slow in her movements, as the result of rheumatism, from which she occasionally suffered, but she was a wonderful woman for her years. There was a strong likeness between her and her son, and consequently between her and Ann. All three had the same fine grey eyes, and the same open, kindly expression of countenance.
"You ought not to make so much of me," the old lady said, in a voice which had more than a touch of west-country dialect in its pleasant tones, "for think how I shall miss your attentions by-and-by!"
"We won't think of 'by-and-by,'" replied Mrs. Wyndham; "let us live in the present and enjoy these happy hours as much as we can. Ruth, will you pour out the tea, my dear? Boys, make yourselves useful and hand around the plates. We must make tables of our laps."
The meal commenced right merrily. Everyone was in good spirits, and the tea, though it proved a trifle smoky, was not enough so to be spoilt, and was drunk and enjoyed; in fact Billy went so far as to declare that he preferred the flavour of smoky tea. Full justice was done to the eatables, too, and the plates of bread and butter and cake were soon emptied, whilst, at the completion of the repast, only about a teaspoonful of cream remained at the bottom of the tin, which had been full to the brim.
"I hope everyone has had enough," said Mrs. Wyndham; then, as they all declared they had made capital teas, she indicated the empty plates and quoted: "Enough is as good as a feast."
"I call it a feast when one has cream," remarked Madge; at which they all laughed, and Mrs. Reed promised to send her some cream on her birthday if she would tell her the date, which she was only too pleased to do.
As soon as tea was over the boys and their father wandered off around the cliffs, whilst Mrs. Wyndham and the girls, having packed the tea things into baskets, settled themselves to enjoy a chat with Mrs. Reed. The latter was a most entertaining companion; for she owned a wonderful memory which went back more than seventy years: She talked to them now of her youth, of the time when she had been her granddaughter's age.
"I was in my first situation, then," she said; "you must understand that my father was a hard-working man who farmed a few acres, and I was the eldest of a long family—we all had to turn out and earn our own livings as soon as we were old enough."
"Did you like being a servant?" asked Madge curiously.
"Not at first, my dear," Mrs. Reed admitted, with a bright smile at her little questioner; "I had to work very hard, and I was at the age when young girls naturally like amusements; but, by-and-by, as I tried to do my duty, I grew to like it better. 'Tis the working bee that gets the best sweets from life, after all."
"Do you really think that?" Ruth inquired; then, as Mrs. Reed emphatically assented, she begged her to tell them some more about her youthful days.
The old lady willingly complied, and, from speaking of her girlhood, she went on to her married life and the birth of her son. She told them how the boy had always evinced an eagerness for knowledge, and how she and his father had worked and saved so that he might have the advantages of a good education and a fair start in life.
"My husband was very proud of our boy, but I don't think he ever guessed he would do as well as he has," she said simply; "my son never caused me a moment's anxiety in my life," she added with a tender smile.
"He always loved you too well to do that, Granny," said Ann, her open face glowing with gratification as she listened to her father's praise.
It was very pleasant there in the shelter of the cliffs. Presently a fleet of fishing boats, with unfurled to catch the evening breeze, appeared in sight, going up the channel, the light from the setting sun shining full upon them.
"How pretty they look!" cried Ann; "I wish they would come nearer so that we could have a better view of them."
"They will not do that," said her grandmother; "they are Brixham trawlers, and will keep well out at sea."
The conversation then turned upon fishing and boating, and, subsequently, to the expected visit of Dr. and Mrs. Reed, which had been arranged for the early part of September. Dr. Reed meant to take a fortnight's holiday and intended to leave his practice to the care of his partner, Mr. Luscombe, meanwhile.
By-and-by Mr. Wyndham and the boys returned; and then, as the sun had nearly set, a general move was made, and the party left the beach. The Wyndhams' way led past Mrs. Reed's cottage, at the gate of which goodbyes were exchanged and Ann arranged to meet her friends on the following morning.
Mrs. Reed, who was considerably tired, went straight indoors, but Ann lingered to watch the Wyndhams out of sight, and when she entered the cottage she found her grandmother had gone upstairs to remove her bonnet and cloak. The girl hung her hat on a peg in the passage, and turned into the comfortable little parlour, where, on the table in the centre of the room, she immediately caught sight of a letter addressed to herself; her look was one of surprise as she took it up, for, though the postmark was that of her native town, the handwriting on the envelope was unknown to her.
"Whom can it be from?" she murmured, as she went to the window in order to see better, for the daylight had almost gone. "Why, it's from Dr. Elizabeth!" she exclaimed, as she opened the letter and glanced at the signature, "what can she have to say to me?" And she commenced to read:—
"MY DEAR ANN,"
"I am writing to tell you that poor Malvina Medland died this morning. She was so much worse
all last week and suffered so greatly that no one could wish her life to be prolonged. I am thankful
to say, however, that she was spared pain at the end, and passed away as quietly as if she had been
falling asleep. The night before last I was with her for some time, and she asked me to remind you
of a promise you once made her, she did not explain what it was; she said, 'Please tell Miss Ann
I rely upon her to keep her promise,' so I remind you now. No doubt you will understand what the
poor girl meant. You will be glad to hear that both Mrs. Medland and Lottie were with Malvina
at the time of her death; Mrs. Medland appears broken-hearted, for Malvina was her favourite child."
The letter dropped from Ann's hand, and she stood gazing with unseeing eyes out of the window. Malvina was dead. The brave, patient life was at an end. Never again, with aching back and weary arms, would she "mind babies" or do plain needlework or crochet; she was beyond all that in the presence of the Great Physician. Ann knew she had no need to be sorry for Malvina now, but the tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her cheeks as she recalled her last interview with the sick girl, and her tender heart was full of sympathy for the mother and sister in their desolation.
"I am glad I made Malvina that promise," she thought, "I believe it made her very happy; but I don't know how I am going to keep it—perhaps God will show me when I get home."
She picked up Dr. Elizabeth's letter and finished reading it. By that time her grandmother had come downstairs and she had to account for her tears; and they talked of Malvina—whom old Mrs. Reed knew well by repute—till they were interrupted by the servant who brought in the lamp and the supper things.
The next morning when Ann, according to the arrangement she had made, joined the three Wyndham girls in a walk through some beautiful woods which adjoined Teymouth, Violet noticed at once that she was unusually subdued in her manner, and asked if anything was amiss. In a voice which faltered, in spite of the effort she made to keep it steady, Ann told her news.
"Malvina dead!" gasped Violet, with a rush of tears to her brown eyes; "oh, Ann! When did you hear that?" She looked, as she felt, much shocked.
"Last night, in a letter from Dr. Elizabeth, which arrived for me while we were on the beach," Ann rejoined; "she did not suffer at the last, so Dr. Elizabeth says, I felt so relieved to hear that. Do you remember, Violet, how she said that day when we went to say good-bye to her at the hospital 'He will be with me all the way?'"
Violet assented with a nod, she could not trust her voice to speak, and Madge asked:—
"What did she mean, Ann?"
"That Jesus would be with her. I am sure she was thinking of that verse in the twenty-third psalm, 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'"
"Poor girl," murmured Ruth, who, like Madge, had heard all about Malvina from Violet; "did she die in the hospital?" she inquired.
"Yes," assented Ann, "but her mother and sister were with her when she died. Oh, I do feel so sorry for them!"
"So do I," said Ruth, "more especially for the sister. It must be so dreadful to know you have given trouble to one you love, and that you will never be able to make amends."
"The sister is a very naughty girl, isn't she, Ann?" questioned Madge.
"Yes, she is," Ann was obliged to admit. "I suppose Violet has been telling you about her?"
"Yes," Madge nodded; "and Violet says you promised to be a friend to her if Malvina died."
"So I did; and I mean, if possible, to keep my word."
"I suppose you have a great many friends," remarked Madge seriously, "you would, as your father is so well known and—"
"Madge!" interrupted Ruth, in an admonishing tone, fearful of what her young sister was about to say.
"I haven't said anything out of the way, have I?" inquired Madge, innocently.
"No, no," Ann assured her. "Father is well known, of course, because he has lived many years in Barford; we have a lot of friends there. I suppose you know a good many people at Streatham, don't you?"
"No," rejoined Madge; "we've always been too poor to know people, but it will be different now, I hope. There are some people I do not wish to know," she continued, glancing at Violet, who suddenly grew very red, "Agnes Hosking, for instance—"
"Oh, we will not talk of her!" broke in Ruth; "of course we should never be on terms of friendship with a girl who has treated Violet badly. Ann, I wonder if that tortoise-shell purse will ever be found; do you think it is at all likely it will?"
This was the first occasion on which Ruth had mentioned the matter of the loss of Agnes' purse to Ann. Ann shook her head dubiously in answer to Ruth's question; she was beginning to give up hope that the purse would ever be recovered now.
"It is very hard for Violet," Ruth whispered, as she and Ann fell behind the other two in the narrow woodland path through which they were walking, "but she acted most foolishly and wrongly. She has told me everything. Her behaviour must have surprised and shocked you, yet you tried to protect her and stood her friend." There was deep gratitude in Ruth's tone.
"Why, of course I did," responded Ann, "I am sure you would have done the same."
"Yes, but she is my sister."
"And she is my friend."
Ruth smiled. She was right glad that Violet had such a friend as this girl to stand by her. Once she had feared that Ann might try to supplant her in Violet's affections; but then she had not known Ann, whom to know was to trust.
ALL too swiftly the early autumn days slipped away for the holiday-keepers at Teymouth. The evenings were growing much shorter now, and a golden tinge was here and there noticeable on the woods which made a background for the little sea-side village; blackberries, too, were ripening fast, greatly to the satisfaction of the Wyndham boys, who rambled far and wide in search of them.
It had been arranged for the Wyndhams to return to London on the twelfth of September, and Mr. Wyndham had looked forward with the keenest pleasure to the company of Dr. Reed at Teymouth for a week or so before that date, but a few days before the one on which the doctor and his wife had planned to arrive Ann received a letter from home with the information that Mr. Luscombe, who had been away for his holiday, had returned far from well and was now laid up with pneumonia, so that it would be quite impossible for her father to leave his practice at present; therefore, he and her mother had decided to defer their visit to Devonshire till the following month. Ann carried the news at once to her friends at the farm, who received it with many expressions of regret.
"Father says Mr. Luscombe is not seriously ill," she explained, "I am very glad of that; but it will be several weeks before he will be well enough to work again. I expect father is very disappointed that he cannot get away now, and mother, too. Oh, dear, I suppose I shall have to travel all the way home by myself, and it is such a long journey! Perhaps, though, Violet could meet me in London, if I remain with Granny till nearly the beginning of the term."
"Could you not return with us to London?" suggested Mr. Wyndham. "You might spend a few days at Streatham, and then you and Violet could go back to Buford together."
"Oh, that would be a capital plan!" cried Violet, "oh, do come, Ann!"
"I should much like to," Ann replied, her face brightening; "but would it be convenient?" she asked, as she fancied she saw a dubious expression on Mrs. Wyndham's face.
"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Wyndham assured her hastily; "you would have to share Madge's room, but you would not mind that, perhaps?" she said inquiringly.
"Certainly not, if Madge does not—" Ann was commencing when Madge sprang impetuously to her side, and interrupted her by flinging her arms around her neck and giving her a friendly hug, exclaiming as she did so:—
"Oh, what fun it will be! I slept with Ruth for months and months, but when Violet came home I had to turn out for her. I do love having someone to talk to. Mine is a very little room, Ann, but you aren't very particular, are you?"
"No," replied Ann, smiling, "a very small space will do for me."
"I will write to your mother at once," said Mrs. Wyndham, "and we shall soon hear what she and your father think of our plan."
Dr. and Mrs. Reed thought the plan a most excellent one and immediately sent a reply to that effect. So it came to pass that when the Wyndhams left Teymouth they took Ann with them. Ann felt parting from her grandmother but the old lady, who had the visit of her son and daughter-in-law to look forward to and was in good spirits on that account, bade her a cheerful good-bye and spoke hopefully of their meeting next year.
Nevertheless, Ann could not help feeling a little depressed during the first part of the journey to London, for a year seemed a long time to look forward to, and she knew it was most unlikely that she would see her grandmother again before the expiration of that time. Long before Bristol was reached, however, which was about half the distance they had to travel, she was joining in the general conversation, apparently as merry and happy as her companions, who, rather to their own surprise, were eager now to get home.
"It was lovely at Teymouth, and it's very nice in a farm house in the summer," observed Madge, "but it must be very dull in the winter, I should think, when the weather is bad. I'm looking forward to see Barbara, and she'll be glad to see us, I know."
"I hope she will have everything comfortable for us," remarked Mrs. Wyndham, rather anxiously, "I wrote to her to get help to put the house in order, but poor Barbara has no head for management, and, with the best intentions in the world, she is a sad muddler."
Mr. Wyndham smiled on hearing this, and a humorous twinkle crept into his eyes.
"Well, don't begin to worry, my dear," he said kindly, "we all know what Barbara is, except Ann, and she will make allowances for her, I've no doubt."
The travellers, being eight in number, had a compartment to themselves, and the journey was made most comfortably. When Paddington was reached they all declared they were not in the least tired; but, by the time they arrived at Streatham they told a different tale.
Ann was secretly very curious to see Violet's home, and she looked with considerable interest at the plain, freckled face of the girl who stood on the doorstep broadly smiling a welcome. Barbara, who had been sent to her home on board wages whilst the Wyndhams had been away on their holiday, had not been sorry to get to work again; she had done her best during the few days previous to the family's return to put the house in good order, with the assistance of a charwoman, and she was satisfied with the result of her labours.
Mrs. Wyndham was exceedingly pleased when she saw how nice everything was looking. Several of the rooms had been repapered and repainted, and, consequently, there was an air of freshness about the place which was as delightful as it was novel; and Barbara had a substantial high tea ready in the sitting-room, which the travellers were all ready to fully appreciate.
Ann spent several days with the Wyndhams. She noticed at once how much Mrs. Wyndham relied upon her eldest daughter in every way, and what a busy life Ruth led, at the beck and call of everybody. It was always, "I want you, Ruth," or "Ruth knows about that," or "You must ask Ruth to help you," and so on; and Ruth never grumbled that it was so, or said that she had too much to do, but was always willing and cheerful.
"Things are much nicer and more comfortable in every way at home than they used to be," Violet informed Ann confidentially, on one occasion when they were alone together, "I really think it's all Ruth's doing. She makes the boys pick up their playthings and won't let them worry Barbara in the kitchen; she seems to superintend everything, doesn't she? And then she gives Barbara a hint when her cap goes crooked, and persuades her to take her time and not get 'in a rush!'" Ann smiled understandingly, as Violet went on, "Oh, dear me, what a to-do it used to be when Barbara was 'in a rush' She'd break the crockery in her hurry to try to get ahead of the work, and she never used to get ahead of it, she was always behind, and poor mother would cry when things went wrong and she couldn't set them right. I was surprised when I came home to find things so different, just as though some good fairy had been at work. I think our good fairy is Ruth."
Ruth had certainly done her best to make her home more comfortable and orderly since she had left school, and her efforts, which her mother had been the first to appreciate and further, had met with more success than she had dared to hope would be the case; she was full of bright hopes for the future when her father would be in the position to allow more money for the household expenses, and there would not be such anxiety about meeting the bills.
The afternoon before Ann and Violet left Streatham for Buford they were returning from a walk with Ruth and Madge when Violet drew Ann's attention to a large, red brick house with bow windows, standing in its own grounds, and informed her that it was Agnes Hosking's home.
"That's the sort of house Violet admires," Ruth remarked, with a mischievous laugh, "it's quite ordinary on the outside, isn't it, but I believe the interior is something extraordinary. Have you told Ann how it is furnished, Vi?"
"No," returned Violet, colouring, "I have not—it would not interest her at all; and I've changed my mind about wishing to live in a house like that, Ruth, I should not care to have furniture that's too fine to use and a drawing-room that's nothing but a showroom. By the way, I do hope we shall not run against Agnes; I wonder if she's at home."
The words were scarcely out of Violet's mouth when, looking ahead, she caught sight of a familiar figure coming towards them, and Madge exclaimed, with excitement in her voice:—
"Why, here she is! Oh, girls, it's Agnes herself!"
"We cannot avoid meeting her," said Ruth, with a nervous glance at Violet, whose bright colour had perceptibly lessened.
"Avoid meeting her?" echoed Ann, "why should you wish to do that? Ah, she recognises us, I see!"
Agnes was close up to them now. She was staring hard at Ann, as though she could scarcely believe she saw aright; a minute later she had stopped in front of her, and was holding out her hand.
"Ann! Ann Reed!" she cried, in accents of intense surprise; "is it really you?"
"Certainly," Ann replied, rather dryly, ignoring the outstretched hand, whilst her companions moved on a few steps and stood waiting for her.
"Fancy meeting you here! You must come to my house! Look, that is where I live!" Agnes appeared excited. "Are you staying with the Wyndhams?" she inquired in a lower tone.
"Yes; but I am going home to-morrow."
"Is Violet Wyndham to return to Barford with you?"
"Yes."
"Well, if you are leaving Streatham to-morrow you must certainly spare me a little while this afternoon," Agnes said eagerly. "Do come in," she continued, nodding towards her home, "you can bring the Wyndhams with you if you like, I don't mind."
"No, thank you—" Ann was beginning when Agnes interrupted her by exclaiming:—
"Oh, you must come! Do come in all of you," she added pressingly, raising her voice and addressing the three Wyndham girls, who, however, showed not the least inclination to accept her invitation.
"No, thank you," Ruth said gravely, "we would rather not."
"Nonsense, nonsense!" cried Agnes, intent on gaining her own way. "I want you to come with me and have some tea—all of you. I haven't congratulated you yet on your father's new appointment," she went on, looking pointedly at Violet, "I heard nothing about it till I came home for the holidays. Let me congratulate you now. I hear it's a splendid rise for your father; I'm sure I'm very glad, for it must have been very disagreeable to have been so badly off, and being poor makes people do things they'd never dream of doing if—"
"What do you mean?" broke in Violet, indignantly. "Are you trying to insult us—to insult me?"
"No, no," Agnes assured her hastily, "indeed I am not! I was only going to say that I wish bygones to be bygones, and that if you did take my purse I forgive you; I am not one to bear malice, so let us be friends."
"Agnes," said Violet, trying to speak calmly, "I don't understand why you should wish to be friends with a girl you consider a thief. I see now you really do believe that I robbed you, although you apologised to me—and—and—oh how can you believe it? I have never set eyes on your purse since I saw you put it in your muff the night you lost it."
"Surely you must see Violet is speaking the truth," said Ruth, her voice trembling with anger, her face set and stern; "how dare you suspect her of having taken your wretched purse?"
"It was not a wretched purse," Agnes retorted, "it was as handsome a purse as you ever saw in your life, and it contained one pound, seven shillings, and fivepence half-penny! But I've got over the loss of it now—I mean I really don't care now whether Violet took it or not, for father's given me a new one which I like just as well. Come, if I'm willing to be friends, why can't you meet me half-way? You won't? Well, I shan't bother about you any more, you Wyndhams always thought too much of yourselves even when you were as poor as church mice! And as for you, Ann Reed," she proceeded, her temper getting the better of her as she read aright the contemptuous expression of Ann's usually kind face, "who are you I should like to know—"
"I think you know very well who she is!" interrupted Madge, unable any longer to keep from joining in the conversation.
"Yes, miss Pert, I do," Agnes replied, in a voice which was shrill with rage. "I know she's the grand-daughter of an old woman who lives in a cottage, an old woman who was nothing but a domestic servant brought up to scrub and clean and do all sorts of menial work. You cannot deny it, Ann Reed."
"Certainly I cannot, nor do I wish I could," rejoined Ann in a voice which, though low in tone, was expressive of intense scorn.
"No wonder Dr. Reed keeps his mother down in Devonshire!" sneered Agnes, "no wonder he's ashamed to have her to live at Barford! What would his friends think of her—"
"It cannot concern you what my father's friends would think of my grandmother," Ann interposed, with a light in her grey eyes which warned Agnes she had said enough, "my grandmother is—but I will not discuss her with you! I always knew you to be a mean-spirited girl, but I never realised before to-day that you were so hopelessly vulgar and—and contemptible. In one breath almost you admitted your belief that Violet stole your purse and asked her into your house; you think it may be worth while to keep in with her if her father is going to be a successful man, and on that account you are ready to overlook an act which, if she had committed it, would have put her on a par with a common thief. Shame on you! I am beginning to understand you now, and I tell you plainly I wish to have nothing to do with you. I consider you are a girl to be avoided, and I am sure my friends agree with me."
Agnes winced perceptibly beneath the contempt with which Ann uttered these words, and, as soon as the latter had finished speaking, she quickly away, whilst the others, all very agitated, walked on for some distance in complete silence.
"You have made an enemy, Ann, I fear," said Violet at length.
"You fear?" echoed Ann; "why should you fear? I think Agnes Hosking is very like a nettle, she requires firm handling."
"She was abominably rude to you about your grandmother, Ann!" cried Ruth wrathfully, "and it is dreadful that she should still believe Vi stole her purse!"
"She judges Violet by her own standard," rejoined Ann, with a pitying glance at Violet's quivering face. "Perhaps I ought not to have said that," she went on, a moment later, "I have no right to suggest that, in any circumstances, she would be a thief. Don't make a grief of this unfortunate encounter of ours with Agnes, though, Violet; you must not be unhappy on your last day at home."
"No, indeed," agreed Ruth, "that will never do. 'Truth will out,' you know, dear Vi."
"I wish I could think so, Ruthie," Violet responded, with a deep-drawn sigh. She was looking much upset, but she grew more cheerful before she reached home, consoled by the heartfelt sympathy of her sisters and her friend. "Don't tell mother we met Agnes and fell out with her," she whispered, as they entered the house, "it would only trouble her if she knew all that was said."
On that point they were all agreed, so Agnes Hosking's name was not mentioned when they spoke of their walk, and Mrs. Wyndham, not being very observant, failed to notice that something had gone wrong.
"AND so you've had a thoroughly enjoyable time?" said Dr. Reed.
It was the night of Ann and Violet's return to Barford, a few hours after their arrival, between nine and ten o'clock, and Ann and her father were in the surgery, where the latter had been dispensing some medicine, a task which usually fell to the lot of his assistant. He held his daughter at arms' length as he spoke, and looked at her critically.
"Yes," assented Ann, "I don't know that I ever enjoyed holidays better. It was so nice having the Wyndhams at Teymouth; I like them all so much, father, and so does Granny. Dear old Granny! She joined us in our picnics on the beach, and the Wyndhams took tea with us on several occasions and were so delighted with her cottage. Mr. Wyndham used to take the boys fishing, and sometimes we—that is the girls and I, you know—went with them, and then Mrs. Wyndham would stay with Granny—they became great friends."
The doctor smiled, well pleased. Ann had joined him in the surgery to ascertain if he was nearly ready to return with her to the drawing-room, where she had left Violet entertaining Mrs. Reed with an account of her holiday experiences.
"You are looking blooming, my darling," he remarked, in a tone of satisfaction, as, having surveyed his daughter at his leisure, he drew her towards him and kissed her; "you and Violet have both brought back some Devonshire roses on your cheeks, I am glad to see. By the way, was Violet much upset at parting with her people this morning?"
"She certainly felt saying good-bye to them, father, but she told me afterwards that she was much happier about them all now than she had been when she came to us last January."
"I can understand that, for she has left them in better circumstances. I am very glad you like the Wyndhams, Ann."
"They were so friendly and easy to get on with, and think they're a very affectionate family. I'm afraid the little mother wouldn't approve of the way things are managed in their house," Ann admitted with a smile, "but they all seemed very happy and made me feel quite at home. Mrs. Wyndham is exceedingly good-natured, and she lets the children—the boys especially—do as they like; but, for all that, I don't believe they'd willingly do anything to hurt or annoy her for the world."
"She is too indulgent, I fear," said the doctor, with a grave shake of his head, "it is to be hoped the young folks will not take advantage of that fact—"
"Oh, I don't think they will," Ann interposed eagerly, "they love her too well!"
"And what about Ruth?" asked Dr. Reed, smiling at his daughter's confident tone.
"Oh, father, she is the most unselfish girl I ever met! And, do you know, she draws and paints beautifully, she really does, and she can sketch from nature, too. She has given me a water-colour sketch of Granny's cottage, which I am sure you will consider very well done; I will show it to you to-morrow, I haven't unpacked my box yet. I believe one day Ruth will be a really first-rate artist, she means to be one if she can. Oh, yes, I like Ruth, we got on together capitally; she was a little stiff with me at first, but that soon wore off. I don't think she's in the least reserved really, but she's quieter and more thoughtful than Violet. She told me how for years she had grieved and worried because her father had not done better in his profession and how she had kept on hoping and praying that success might come to him; so you can guess how happy Mr. Wyndham's having obtained this really good appointment has made her."
"I can indeed."
"Mr. Wyndham was so disappointed that you could not join us at Teymouth, father."
"He could not have been more disappointed than I was myself. I wanted your mother to go without me, but she would not hear of doing that. However, Luscombe's making a speedy recovery, so I hope our holiday has only been postponed. Now, I've finished my work here for the night, so we'll join the others, and hear what they have to say."
As the doctor and his daughter entered the drawing-room a few minutes later Violet was speaking in a slightly raised voice, and they caught the words:—
"Ann had the best of it and the last word. Oh, Mrs. Reed, she's a hateful girl!"
"Of whom are you speaking, Violet?" asked Dr. Reed.
"Of Agnes Hosking," answered Violet; and, forthwith, she told him all that had occurred during the encounter with Agnes, at Streatham, on the previous day.
"I consider that she could not possibly have been more insulting to all of us, and I never will forgive her, never!" she declared emphatically, in conclusion.
"Never is a long day, my dear," Dr. Reed observed gravely; "Agnes Hosking has certainly insulted you, but don't say you'll never forgive her, for I hope you will."
"'Pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you: that ye may be the children of your Father which is in Heaven,'" quoted Mrs. Reed, and there was something in her quiet voice which had the effect of cooling Violet's anger and making her regret having spoken so strongly.
"Have you seen anything of Mrs. Medland and Lottie lately, mother?" Ann inquired by-and-by.
"I have seen Mrs. Medland on several occasions since poor Malvina's death," Mrs. Reed replied, "but not Lottie; I fancy the girl purposely keeps out of my way, though I know no reason why she should. Her mother tells me she cannot understand her, for she has scarcely mentioned Malvina's name since the day of the funeral, and the sisters always seemed very greatly attached to each other."
"How did Lottie behave at the time of Malvina's death?" asked Violet. "I suppose she was dreadfully grieved, wasn't she?"
"Her mother says she appeared quite stunned; she never shed a tear."
"You will let me go and see her, won't you, mother?" said Ann eagerly. "I promised Malvina that if she died I would try to be a friend to Lottie, didn't I, Violet?"
Violet assented, whilst Mrs. Reed looked thoughtful, and glanced dubiously at her husband.
"I'm afraid Lottie's not at all a nice sort of girl, not a good girl, in fact," Mrs. Reed said, with marked hesitation in her tone; "I don't want to judge her harshly; but, according to Mrs. Medland's telling, Lottie has been behaving very badly indeed. One would have thought that her sister's death would have sobered her, but apparently it has had a contrary effect, for she spends her evenings gadding about the streets and leaves her poor mother grieving at home. I do not see, Ann, that you can possibly befriend a girl whose conduct is so heartless as that!"
"Only let me go and see her," pleaded Ann earnestly; "father, do ask mother to let me go and see her just once! Perhaps if I went early on Saturday afternoon I should find her at home, and I want to see poor Mrs. Medland, too. Violet would go with me, wouldn't you, Vi?"
"Yes," assented Violet, "of course I would." She did not imagine any good would result from visiting Lottie, but she could not withstand the look of appeal in her friend's grey eyes.
"What do you think, Andrew? Shall they go or not?" said Mrs. Reed undecidedly, addressing her husband.
"Let them go," he responded. "I don't care for them to be in the town on a Saturday afternoon as a rule, but this will be an exceptional occasion; they are not like young children, and I am sure they are to be trusted by themselves."
"Oh, yes," agreed Mrs. Reed, "I, too, am sure of that."
When, on the following Saturday afternoon, Ann, accompanied by Violet, knocked at the Medlands' door it was opened by Mrs. Medland, who invited them at once to come in. They followed her into the little kitchen, where Malvina's cherished fern still hung in the window, and sat down with her, scarcely knowing what to say at first. Both girls felt intense sympathy for the poor mother, who was looking very careworn and ill.
"Dr. Elizabeth wrote and told me of your great sorrow, Mrs. Medland," Ann said gently, "I was so grieved to hear of it—so grieved for you and Lottie, you know."
"I knew you would be sorry for us, miss," Mrs. Medland rejoined in a choked voice, the tears coursing down her pale, thin cheeks. "We've met with a terrible loss," she proceeded, "least-ways, I have, for Malvina was a good daughter to me. I can't wish her back again, though, for she suffered so much that death came as a blessed release at last, but often and often since the poor dear went I've wished that my life was ended, too."
"Oh, you mustn't say that," said Ann, "for you know you've Lottie—"
"Lottie!" broke in Mrs. Medland; "yes, I've Lottie, but, oh, Miss Ann, you don't understand how little Lottie cares for me! If she had a particle of affection for me, do you think she'd leave me evening after evening as she does, knowing how lonesome and sad I feel without Malvina, to go pleasure seeking? Oh, dear, oh dear! And it's so soon after her poor sister's death too! Oh, I can think of my dead daughter with far less sorrow than I can think of my living one, for I know Malvina's safe with Jesus, but Lottie's very far from the Kingdom of God."
"Those two girls of mine had the same bringing up, and yet how different they've always been! Lottie was always difficult to manage and would have her own way. She works hard, 'tis true, but how does she spend her money? I see very little of it, most of it goes in betting; and now she's crazy about the hobby-horses, they're here for a week in the Recreation Ground, and every night she's there watching them or having rides if she can get the money, with a lot of other factory hands—flighty young girls like herself, who care for nothing but amusing themselves. I wish those hobby-horses had never come to Barford."
"Hobby-horses?" said Violet, looking mystified, for she had never seen anything of the kind.
"Round-abouts some people call them, they go round and round for a certain time, worked by steam, and they're lit up at night by electric lights," explained Mrs. Medland. "This particular round-about comes here every now and again and carries away a lot of money from the place; I'm not saying I think there's any real harm in folks riding on it, but for Lottie whose sister hasn't been in her grave a month—oh, it does seem heartless of her and no mistake!" And the poor woman, overcome with grief, wept unrestrainedly.
It certainly did seem heartless, and neither Ann nor Violet could think of any words suitable for the occasion. Whilst Mrs. Medland was still in tears, the street door opened, and a minute later Lottie appeared on the threshold of the room. She paused at the sight of her mother's visitors, a look of consternation on her face; and then, without a word, she turned away and ran hurriedly upstairs.
"Is she not going to speak to us?" said Ann, in astonishment. "Why has she gone?"
"I don't know, miss," Mrs. Medland answered, with a troubled sigh, "I don't know what's taken to her."
"Perhaps she has only gone to take off her hat and jacket," suggested Violet; "no doubt she will be down presently."
But Lottie did not appear again. Certainly her behaviour was most incomprehensible, and seemed very rude.
"I must see her," said Ann, at length; "I have something to say to her. Will you please tell her so, Mrs. Medland, or may I go upstairs to her? I should much like to speak to her alone."
"It's very good of you to trouble about her I'm sure," Mrs. Medland replied, "I can't think why she's keeping away. If you will please go upstairs, miss, you'll find her in the room which was Malvina's; she used to sleep with me, but since Malvina died she's had her little room."
Ann rose and went quietly upstairs. She found the bedroom door shut, and tapped upon it with her knuckles.
"Are they gone?" asked Lottie from within, evidently imagining it was her mother who had knocked.
"It is I, Lottie," Ann responded, "I want to speak to you, please."
Immediately the door was opened, and Ann stepped into the room. Lottie, who was crimson with confusion, mumbled something which sounded like an apology and stood with her eyes fixed on the floor. Ann took her hand and pressed it gently as she spoke a few sympathetic words in reference to Malvina's death.
"Don't, pray don't!" Lottie exclaimed distressfully; "you mean to be kind, I daresay, but I can't bear it! You don't know what I feel!"
"Not fully perhaps, but I know you loved Malvina dearly, and—"
"Loved her!" interrupted Lottie, in great excitement, "I treated her as though I loved her, didn't I? But there, you don't know—you don't know!"
"Yes, I believe I do," Ann said quietly; "I know that you caused her many a heartache, but still I am sure that you loved her; and you were very dear to her—I need not tell you that, for you know it well enough! Listen, Lottie, I want you to let me be your friend as I was hers—"
"You might have been hers, miss, for she was as good as gold and fit to be the friend of the likes of you, but I'm very different. I'm wicked—oh, you don't know how wicked! You can't be my friend! It's impossible!"
"I know that you bet, if you mean that; but I hope that you mean to give up that bad habit and—and spend more time at home with your mother, she looks very worn and sad, poor thing."
"I can't stay at home to hear mother for ever talking of Malvina, it nearly drives me mad to listen to her. That's one reason why I go out of an evening. I want to forget—everything!"
"But you don't want to forget your sister," said Ann, with a tinge of reproach in her voice. She glanced around the room as she spoke. "Do you still feed the sparrows as she used to do?" she asked.
"Yes," answered Lottie with a sob. She flung herself on the bed and burst into a flood of tears. "Oh," she wailed, "I'm a miserable, wicked girl, and I shall never be happy again—never, never! Oh, please go away and leave me to myself!"
"I will certainly go if you desire me to do so," Ann rejoined, alarmed at the violence of her companion's grief; "but remember, Lottie, that I wish to be your friend, for your own sake as well as for Malvina's, and if ever I can do anything to help you in any way I will."
As Lottie made no response Ann turned to leave the room, but at the door she paused and spoke again:—
"I don't understand you quite," she said; "but I can see that you are very unhappy. Won't you tell God your trouble and ask His help?"
"I can't, I can't!" sobbed Lottie; "I'm not fit to pray! God wouldn't listen to me if I did! Don't you bother about me, Miss Ann—indeed I'd rather you wouldn't."
Deeply hurt, Ann left the room, closing the door behind her, and went downstairs. She realised that, in spite of her apparent heartlessness in many ways, Lottie's grief at the loss of her sister was very deep, and all the harder to bear, no doubt, because it was mingled with remorse; but she failed to understand the workings of the unhappy girl's mind, and was much pained that her well-meant offer of friendship had been so decidedly repulsed.
ANN and Violet had returned to Barford a week before the date on which it had been arranged for the pupils of Helmsford College to reassemble, and, as the weather continued fine, they spent most of the days out-of-doors, taking long walks in the surrounding country. It was on their way back from one of these pleasant excursions, in which Mrs. Reed had joined, that they were one afternoon overtaken by Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway near her own door. The lady doctor was delighted to see them, especially the girls, whom she had not met for nearly two months.
"Now you must come in and have tea with me," she said, as soon as greetings had been exchanged, "I am at leisure, or I wouldn't ask you. I never give invitations which I don't wish people to accept. You'll come? Yes. That's right. I want to hear how these young folks have spent their holidays."
She led the way into her house and into the sitting-room, where she took off her bonnet and cloak and handed them to the servant, who had appeared upon the scene attracted by the sound of the opening of the front door, and ordered tea to be brought at once.
"How is Mr. Luscombe?" she inquired, when her visitors were seated; "I was so sorry to hear of his illness; it upset your plans, did it not?"
"Yes," Mrs. Reed answered, "for we had intended paying a visit to my mother-in-law during Ann's holidays. Mr. Luscombe is much better, I am glad to say; he will be about again very soon, so now my husband and I hope to go to Devonshire at the end of next month."
"Have you had your holiday, yet, Dr. Elizabeth?" asked Violet. Then, as Dr. Elizabeth shook her head, she said: "But you'll take one, won't you? I am sure you must need a change."
"I don't know that I do, my dear," was the smiling response; "but I shall see. Ah, here comes tea!"
"And I for one am ready for it," confessed Mrs. Reed; "we have been for a very long walk, and I was feeling nearly done up when you overtook us. I am so glad to have a rest."
"We are making the most of the fine weather and the few remaining days of the holidays," explained Ann; "but I am afraid we are tiring mother out; we go on and on and forget that we have to walk back."
After having drunk a cup of tea Mrs. Reed declared herself to be greatly refreshed. She sat quietly listening whilst Ann and Violet talked to Dr. Elizabeth, telling her how they had spent their time at Teymouth. By-and-by the conversation took a more serious turn, and Ann spoke of poor Malvina Medland, and expressed her regret that Lottie continued to give her mother so much anxiety.
"Have you seen Lottie since you came home?" Dr. Elizabeth inquired.
"Yes," Ann replied; "Violet and I went to see her on Saturday. She was out when we arrived, but it was not long before she came in. As soon as she caught sight of us in the kitchen with her mother, she ran upstairs and shut herself into her room—Malvina's room, you know. I went up, afterwards, and had a short conversation with her, but she talked so wildly that she quite frightened me. She said she was wicked, and a miserable girl, and not fit to pray, and she seemed in a terrible state of grief. I did not know what to say to her, I can't understand her."
"Nor I," admitted Dr. Elizabeth thoughtfully; "I've only seen her once since her sister's death, on an occasion when I called in to see Mrs. Medland —I happened to be passing and thought I might be able to speak a comforting word to the poor woman. It struck me then that there was something weighing on Lottie's mind; she seemed so restless, and I noticed a furtive look in her eyes, a look I did not like at all. I tried to gain her confidence, but I failed. The more I think of her the more puzzled I become."
"Do you not think that the recollection that but for her bad behaviour Malvina would have been much happier during her last illness weighs upon her mind?" suggested Mrs. Reed.
"Doubtless it does to a great extent," agreed Dr. Elizabeth; "but I do not fancy that alone is accountable for her strange conduct."
"I promised Malvina I would be a friend to Lottie if I could," Ann said in troubled tones.
"Yes," she went on, as she met Dr. Elizabeth's inquiring glance, "that was the promise which she mentioned to you. But how can I befriend a girl who evidently wants to have nothing to do with me?"
"At any rate you have tried to help her," said Violet; "you have done all you could."
Shortly after that Mrs. Reed and the two girls rose to leave, and Dr. Elizabeth accompanied them to the front door. As they lingered exchanging a few words on the doorstep, their ears caught the sound of music and many voices in the distance.
"There is a rabble in the Recreation Ground, I hear," observed Dr. Elizabeth, "A large round-about has been there these last few days, and it always attracts a crowd."
"That must be the round-about Mrs. Medland mentioned," remarked Violet to her two companions when they had said good-bye to Dr. Elizabeth and were pursuing their way along the street; "don't you remember she said Lottie spent her evenings in the Recreation Ground now?"
"Yes," Ann assented; "Oh, how utterly heartless her behaviour seems!"
Dr. Elizabeth's house, as has been already stated, was situated in the heart of the town, so, on their homeward way, Mrs. Reed and the girls had to pass through the poor district in which was the Medland's home, where the shops were small and dingy, with goods of most inferior quality exhibited in the windows.
"See, mother," said Ann presently, "this is the pawnshop which we saw Lottie Medland go into with a friend; don't you recollect we told you about it?"
"Yes, certainly," Mrs. Reed answered.
"I suppose they must have been going to pawn something," said Violet; "I wonder if they had ever been there before, or if that was their first visit."
With one accord they paused and glanced curiously at the shop in question. The window was filled with a medley of second-hand articles—clothing, pictures, jewellery, and ornaments of every description. Mrs. Reed noticed amongst other things a large family Bible opened to exhibit a handsome print, a baby's coral with silver bells, and a dice-box lying close together, and, as she looked, her face saddened. She was turning away when Violet suddenly caught her by the hand, and in a voice which was shrill with excitement, cried:—
"Look, look! There, there! Oh Mrs. Reed, look at that purse—that tortoise-shell purse! Oh, I'm sure it's the one Agnes Hosking lost! Oh, Ann, look! Don't you recognise it? Oh, it must be the same! There couldn't be two so exactly alike!"
Violet's agitation was extreme. Her cheeks were crimson, and her face was twitching nervously. Following the direction her pointing finger indicated, Mrs. Reed and Ann saw a tortoise-shell purse, a little open to reveal its red morocco lining.
"Can it be Agnes Hosking's, I wonder?" said Ann. "Oh, how strange if it is!"
"I am certain it is," declared Violet; "don't you see it has gold rims and a gold clasp? I recognised it the moment I set eyes on it. Surely, Ann, you must recognise it, too?"
"Yes, I do—at least I think so," replied Ann. She was the more cautious of the two girls and was fearful of making a mistake. "At any rate the purse is exactly like the one Agnes showed us," she added.
"There are not many purses so handsome as that one," Mrs. Reed remarked; "if it is real tortoise-shell and real gold it is valuable." She was feeling excited herself, and hopeful that Violet was right, that this was indeed the purse about which there had been so much trouble and fuss. "Perhaps someone picked it up in the street and sold it," she suggested, "at any rate now we shall most likely be able to find out. We will go home and tell your father about it, Ann, and leave the matter in his hands. No doubt he will be able to ascertain from whom the pawnbroker obtained the purse. I wonder if Agnes Hosking would be able to identify it?"
"Oh, I should think there is no doubt about that!" exclaimed Violet. "Oh, Mrs. Reed, oh, Ann, if that is really Agnes' purse my character will be quite cleared, won't it? Oh, how thankful I am we looked in that window!"
Arrived at home it was most disappointing to find that Dr. Reed had driven into the country and had left a message to the effect that dinner was not to be kept waiting for him as he could not tell what time he might return, it might not be until late.
"Never mind, Vi," said Ann consolingly; "we will tell him about the purse at breakfast to-morrow, if we do not see him to-night."
"But someone may take a fancy to it and buy it before them," returned Violet, her bright face clouding over. Upon reflection, however, she came to the conclusion that that was very unlikely to be the case.
Neither of the girls had much appetite for dinner; they were too excited to eat, and Mrs. Reed being in the same condition, they did not linger over the meal. In the drawing-room afterwards the conversation was almost entirely about the tortoise-shell purse, and all three continually watched the clock and kept remarking that surely Dr. Reed would be at home soon. But it was ten o'clock before he, at length, returned.
He entered the house by the back door, having driven the gig, in which he generally did his country journeys, round to the stables himself, as he had dropped his groom in the town to execute an errand for him.
Ann was the first to hear her father's footsteps in the hall, and she would have rushed to meet him had not her mother stopped her.
"Don't be so impetuous, my dear," Mrs. Reed said quickly; "and don't be in too great a hurry to speak of the purse. I expect your father is tired and hungry; let him have a rest and something to eat, and afterwards tell him our news."
But Dr. Reed was neither tired nor hungry as it happened. He had dined at the country house where he had been to visit a patient—an old gentleman who was a chronic invalid.
"I should have been home half-an-hour earlier, but as I was passing the Recreation Ground I was stopped and told there had been an accident there," he explained, "so I got out of the gig and went to see if my services were required."
"And were they, Andrew?" asked his wife.
"No, my dear. Dr. Elizabeth Ridgeway had already been sent for and had arrived before me."
"I hope nobody was much hurt," said Ann; "what was the accident, father?"
"A girl fell off the round-about—I daresay you know there is one in the Recreation Ground. Well, it appears it was going at full speed when this poor girl, who was riding on one of the hobby-horses, somehow managed to fall off. She was picked up insensible. Her home, it seems, is near the Recreation Ground, and, under Dr. Elizabeth's instructions, she has been taken there; she is one of Dr. Elizabeth's patients."
"You did not hear the poor girl's name, father, did you?" asked Ann eagerly.
"No, I did not," the doctor responded.
"Did you see her?" inquired Violet, glancing from Ann to Mrs. Reed whose interest had quickened on hearing that the injured girl was Dr. Elizabeth's patient.
"Yes, and helped to put her on the ambulance on which she was conveyed to her home. There's injury to the head, I fear. She's in good hands with Dr. Elizabeth. It's a sad case, though, for someone—a bystander—told me that she is the only child of a widowed mother who lost her other daughter only a month ago."
"Oh!" cried Ann distressfully, "Oh, I'm afraid it's Lottie Medland!"
"It really seems likely," said Mrs. Reed, in tones of deep concern. "Lottie is the sister of that poor deformed girl in whom we were all so much interested," she proceeded, as her husband looked at her inquiringly, "I don't think you ever saw Lottie, but you have heard of her. Don't you remember."
"Oh, yes," answered Dr. Reed, "I remember. Lottie is the girl who bets."
"Was the poor girl who met with the accident in mourning?" questioned Mrs. Reed.
"Yes, I believe she was," was the reply, given after a minute's reflection.
"Then I am afraid it is Lottie," said Violet. "Oh, what a trouble this will be for Mrs. Medland!"
"Well, we will not make up our minds that it is Lottie," remarked Mrs. Reed; "whoever it is, though, it is very sad. Perhaps she was only stunned; at any rate let us hope she is not seriously hurt. Now, Violet, dear, you tell your news."
"I hope it is good news?" Dr. Reed said, with a smile at Violet.
She told him that she considered it was, and went on to explain how she had caught sight of the tortoise-shell purse in the pawnshop window, and that she believed it to be the one Agnes Hosking had lost.
"I will certainly see about it to-morrow," he said gravely, as soon as she had finished her tale, "I suppose most people would go to the police and let them take the matter in hand, but I feel I would rather deal with it myself. It is just possible the person who sold the purse—I have little doubt it has been sold—may have picked it up and not seen the bills I had posted about the town, and if that is the case I should not like to get that person into trouble. I must act cautiously; but rest assured upon one point, Violet, if it is Agnes Hosking's purse the rightful owner shall have it again."
"Thank you, Dr. Reed," Violet answered gratefully. "I know you will do what is right," she proceeded, "I am glad you do not mean to go to the police. Oh, I do feel so excited to think the purse is found! I never thought it would be! How glad they will be at home! And I wonder what Agnes Hosking will say when she knows!"
"I don't know what she will say, but I should think she will be utterly ashamed of herself!" cried Ann, hotly, "I know I should be in her place."
"I can't fancy you in her place," Violet said, with a tender inflection in her voice, which was not lost upon her listeners.
Dr. and Mrs. Reed exchanged a quick glance of satisfaction. It pleased them to see the affection which had sprung up between the two girls; and Mrs. Reed was glad that she had agreed to her husband's plan, on which she had looked somewhat dubiously at first, of taking one of the Wyndham girls into their home, for it seemed, on the whole, to be answering well.
"MOTHER, Violet and I are very anxious to find out if it was really Lottie Medland who met with an accident in the Recreation Ground last night. May we go and inquire?" asked Ann, after breakfast, the following morning.
"Certainly," Mrs. Reed replied; "I would accompany you, but I have duties at home which I cannot very well put off. By the way, I'd rather you did not stop to look in the pawnshop window; your father will bring us news of the purse before the day is out."
"Very well, mother," acquiesced Ann.
"I shall only glance to see if the purse is there all right as we go by," said Violet.
And that was what she did. The one glance was sufficient to assure her that the purse had not been removed, and she was satisfied.
When the two girls arrived at the Medlands' home, Ann knocked gently upon the door, and her summons was answered more promptly than she had expected, not by Mrs. Medland, however, but by the little charwoman, Grace Jones.
"Oh, Miss Reed, is it you?" cried Grace, in a hushed voice; "I suppose you have heard about Lottie and have come to inquire for her. Please come inside."
"Then it was. Lottie," Violet whispered to Ann, as she followed her into the kitchen. Aloud she said: "Is Lottie much hurt?"
"Oh, yes, miss," Grace responded, "she's had a blow on her head and broken two ribs. Dr. Elizabeth says the ribs are the least of her injuries. She's been raving all night and Mrs. Medland's been up with her, but she's quieted down a bit now and seems more like herself. It did scare me to hear her going on like a mad thing, calling herself such dreadful names and saying as how she was a thief and would be sent to jail."
"Poor girl, she was delirious," said Ann; "I suppose her mother is with her now?"
"Yes, miss. I'll call Mrs. Medland, shall I?"
"No, no! You must not disturb her on our account. We only came to know if it was really Lottie who fell off the round-about last night—we had an idea it must have been—and, if so, to find out how she is. You think she is better this morning?"
"She is quieter, miss, so I suppose she is better."
"It must be dreadful to hear anyone raving in delirium," observed Violet, who was looking very grave and concerned.
"Oh, dreadful!" agreed the little charwoman. "If the police had really been after Lottie last night she couldn't have yelled louder," she proceeded; "and there was no sense in what she said—it was all about a purse she fancied she'd stolen. She'd keep on like this: 'It wasn't stealing—yes it was—she dropped it—nobody saw it but me—a tortoise-shell purse with money in it, lots of money!' She was just mazed, you know," she concluded, noticing that her graphic description of the sick girl's wandering talk was making a great impression upon her listeners. Violet and Ann had both started violently, and now they were exchanging glances expressive of mingled bewilderment and dismay.
"Did she say a tortoise-shell purse?" asked Ann, in a shocked tone.
"Yes, miss, she kept on about it, and once she said 'a tortoise-shell purse with a golden clasp.' Oh, she was clean off her head! No one could make any sense of what she said, except to understand that she was in dreadful fear of being sent to jail. But here comes Mrs. Medland; she'll be able to tell you more about Lottie than I can."
"I recognised your voices," Mrs. Medland said, as she entered the room. "Grace, will you go and sit with Lottie for a while?" Then, as soon as the little charwoman had gone upstairs, she added: "I take it as very kind of you two young ladies to come to me in this fresh trouble."
"Please tell us how Lottie is," said Ann earnestly.
"She's very ill, miss, there's no doubt of that, but Dr. Elizabeth says there's no reason why she shouldn't pull through if she's kept quiet. She's terribly bruised one side—the side on which she fell, you know she fell off the round-about—and two of her ribs are broken, and she's had a nasty blow on the head—that's what Dr. Elizabeth thinks most seriously of."
"Is she asleep now?" asked Violet.
"No, miss, but she's lying quiet—very different from what she was a few hours ago. She doesn't know you're here, I believe if she did she'd want to see you, Miss Ann, for in the night she kept on talking about you, begging me to send for you because there was something she wanted to tell you about before she died. She talked a lot of nonsense, but I could catch a grain of sense in it now and again. She said that you'd offered to be her friend—oh, miss, was that true? Yes, Then, perhaps the rest was true, too, but no, no, I can't believe it! Maybe you'll know. She kept on repeating that she was a thief—that she had stolen a purse—oh, Miss Ann, there isn't any truth in that, is there?"
"I—I don't know," faltered Ann, looking anxiously at Violet, who, with flushed cheeks and eyes gleaming with excitement, was listening with breathless interest; "I don't know how she could have done it, but—oh, Vi, don't you remember Lottie called at our house that evening Agnes lost her purse? Why, she was in the hall when Agnes left!"
"I remember! I thought of that just now!"