Chapter Three.

Chapter Three.Monsieur La Roche.And this feeling grew stronger as the days went on, for Susan found that Sophia Jane was always in disgrace about something; she was so constantly having bad marks and losing farthings, that there seemed no chance at all that she would ever save enough money to buy a new head for the doll. This was partly her own fault, and partly because the whole household seemed to take for granted that she would behave badly and never do right; indeed there were days when, after she had been scolded and punished very often, a spirit of obstinacy entered her small frame, and her whole being was bent upon ill-behaviour and mischief.Susan looked on in dismay, and counted up the farthings as one after the other they were recklessly forfeited by some fresh piece of naughtiness.“You’ve lost two week’s money,” she whispered in Sophia Jane’s ear, hoping to check her; but its only result was to urge her to wilder acts, and the next minute she was detected in making a grimace at Margaretta, whom she specially disliked. Sophia Jane was certainly not a pleasant child, and it was not surprising that no one loved her.“Look at Susan,” they said to her constantly, “how well Susan behaves! how upright Susan sits! how perfectly Susan says her lessons! how good Susan is!”—but Sophia Jane took no heed, it did not improve her a bit, but if possible made her worse to have this shining example held up for her to copy. As to Susan, she now heard her own praises so often that she began to think not only that Sophia Jane was very bad, but that she herself must be uncommonly good. At home it had always been taken as a matter of course that she would be quiet, obedient, and useful, and learn her lessons properly; it had never been considered anything remarkable. Here, however, she was continually called “clever,” and “good,” and “dear little thing,” when she did the most common things, so that she soon began to hold her head higher and to look down upon Sophia Jane with a very condescending air.Meanwhile there was one thing she dreaded, and that was Monsieur La Roche’s French lesson in which she was to join; she had now been a week at Ramsgate, and the day was approaching. Whenever he was mentioned Margaretta had always some giggling joke to make, and Sophia Jane echoed them. They imitated the way in which he spoke English, and the way in which he bowed when he came into the room, and the way in which he smiled and rubbed his hands; everything he did appeared to be laughable, and though Susan had not found it so on the steamboat, she now began to think that they must be right. Even Maria, she remembered, had called him “a figure of fun.” How she hoped that he would not say anything about that journey! Her cheeks grew quite hot when she thought of how she had told him her name, and where she lived, and all sorts of confidential things. They would all laugh at her—it would be dreadful. Now, to laugh at Monsieur might be pleasant, but to be laughed at herself was, Susan felt, a very different matter.So when the day came, and they were all sitting round the table with their books ready for the class, she bent her head down as the French master entered the room, in the faint hope that he would not notice her. But that was of no use. Monsieur had hardly made his bow and taken his seat before Aunt Hannah looked round from her arm-chair at the fireside.“You have a new pupil to-day, Monsieur. My little niece, Miss Susan Ingram.”His attention thus directed, Monsieur leaned forward, and a kindly smile of recognition brightened his face as he saw Susan.“Ah! c’est vrai,” he said; “it is my leetle friend, Mees Susanne. We know ourselves already; is it not so?”The dreaded moment had come, and it was even more uncomfortable than she had expected. Everyone was looking at her, and waiting for her to answer, and she saw a mischievous glitter in Sophia Jane’s eyes which were fixed on her like two blue beads.Aunt Hannah said, “Indeed, how is that?” and Monsieur still leant towards her, stroking his short beard and wrinkling up his face with a pleased smile. But Susan said nothing. She hung down her head, her cheeks crimsoned, and she looked as guilty and ashamed as though she had done something wrong; a very different little girl to the one who had chatted with Monsieur on board the steamboat and shared his biscuit. She was shy, he thought, as the English miss very often was; and, though he did not understand the complaint, he was far too good-natured to lengthen her discomfort. “Nevare mind,” he said kindly, “we shall talk together later.” Turning to Aunt Hannah he explained as well as he could in English how he and Susan had met on the journey, his pupils listening open-mouthed meanwhile and giggling at his broken attempts to make his meaning clear. Then to Susan’s relief the lesson began, and she was no longer the object of everyone’s attention; but she was surprised to find how very little trouble they took to learn anything. Instead of this they seemed to try which could remember least and pronounce the words worst. When Nanna and Margaretta read aloud they made the same mistakes a dozen times in one page, pitched their voices in a high sing-song drawl, and stopped now and then to laugh in a smothered manner at some hidden joke. A little worried frown gathered on their patient master’s brow as this went on, but he never lost his temper or failed to make his corrections with courtesy. Susan at first, from force of habit, bent her attention on the page of French dialogue which she and Sophia Jane had to learn; but too soon the bad example round her had its effect. She began to return Sophia Jane’s nudges, to listen to her whispers, to look out of the window opposite, and to make no sort of effort to learn her lesson. True, when the time came to say it, she was a little ashamed of not knowing a word correctly, and was sorry when Monsieur returned the book with a sad shake of the head. But this feeling did not last; none of the others cared to please him, so why should she? He was only Monsieur La Roche, the French master, the “poor eggsile,” as Sophia Jane had called him. It did not matter. Encouraged by her companions Susan soon became as rude, as careless, and as troublesome as they were. If Monsieur had had any hope that she would prove a better pupil than the rest he was sadly mistaken. “Soyez sage, Mademoiselle,” he said to her pleadingly, but it was of no use. Susan had forgotten for the time how to behave wisely. And it was the same on every occasion: the French lesson was always a scene of impertinence and ill-behaviour. There were moments when Susan, seeing Monsieur look unusually tired and worn, had twinges of conscience and almost resolved to be good. But she had been naughty so long now that it was too late to turn back; they would laugh at her, and it would be quite impossible to be good all alone. Sophia Jane had only to rub her hands like Monsieur, and say in broken English: “Ah! it is my leetle friend, Miss Susanne,” to make Susan ashamed and give up all idea of changing her conduct.Now a complaint to Aunt Hannah would have altered all this at once; but, unfortunately, Monsieur was far too good-natured to make one. Indeed, as she always sat in the room during the French class, he may have thought that she saw nothing wrong, and that these manners were usual in England. The fact was, however, that Aunt Hannah knew very little French, and concluded that as the girls were never troublesome at their lessons with her it was the same thing with Monsieur. If she chanced to hear the sound of a titter, it was at once checked when she glanced round at the offender, and she would have been surprised, indeed, if she had known of the sufferings the French master endured.When she inquired about the progress made, his reply was always the same: “Assez bien,” which she considered quite satisfactory.Time went on. Monsieur had given four lessons, Susan had written four letters to Mother and had been four times to chapel with Aunt Hannah. She had, therefore, now been four whole weeks at Ramsgate, and the days seemed to go by quickly, instead of creeping along as they did at first. And this was in a great measure owing to the companionship of Sophia Jane, for, though Aunt Hannah was kind and Nanna and Margaretta caressing, Susan’s life would have been dull without someone to invent games with her and play in the attic; and, although she thought herself far superior to Sophia Jane, she knew this very well. When she wrote to her mother she was able to say that she liked being at the sea-side very much, but she always added: “We have not been on the sands yet.” Now this was a thing she longed to do, for Sophia Jane had told her of so many delightful things to do and find there, that it seemed the most desirable place on earth; besides, she wanted very much to begin a collection of shells and sea-weed for Freddie. There was a card hanging in her bed-room, on which pink and green sea-weeds were arranged in a sort of bouquet, with some verses written underneath, each ending with the line: “Call us not weeds, we are flowers of the sea.” Susan thought that very beautiful, and determined to try and make one just like it for Mother. But the right day never seemed to come for the sands; it was always too cold, or too windy, or Nanna and Margaretta wanted to go somewhere else. Almost in despair, Susan made her usual request to Aunt Hannah one morning: “May we go on the sands?” It was a Saturday, a whole holiday, and the day was sunny and mild.“On the sands, my dear?” said her Aunt. “I am too busy to go, but I daresay the girls will take you.”But as usual, Nanna and Margaretta had widely different plans for spending their Saturday, and neither of them wished to go on the sands. Nanna had a hat to trim, and Margaretta was to visit some friends. Aunt Hannah saw Susan’s disappointment.“Well,” she said, “we will manage it in this way. I will spare Buskin to go with you and Sophia Jane as far as the little cove near the pier; there she shall leave you to play for an hour and then fetch you again. You must both promise me, however, not to stray further away, not to get wet, not to lose sight of the pier, and to come back with Buskin directly you see her. Can I trust you?”They both promised eagerly, much excited at the thought of such an expedition, and above all at the idea of being left alone for a whole hour. During the morning they watched the weather anxiously and made many plans.“I shall take Grace,” said Susan, “and my little basket. What shallyoutake?”Poor Sophia Jane had not many possessions to choose from.“I shall take my skipping-rope,” she said.Thus provided, they set forth at three o’clock with the grave Buskin in attendance. Susan jumped, and laughed, and chattered with pleasure, she was so glad to think that she was going on the sands at last, and Sophia Jane, though she never showed high spirits in the same manner, was in a cheerful and agreeable mood.Soon they came to the little cove. The sea was as she had expressed it, very far out indeed, and had left the great black rocks wet and shining, all ready to be played on. Between them there were deep quiet pools, so clear that you could see down to the very bottom, and watch all sorts of cunning live things, which darted, or or lay motionless in them; shrimps, tiny pale crabs, pink star-fishes, and strange horny shells clinging so tightly to the rock that no small fingers could stir them. Some of the rocks were bare, and others covered with masses of dark sea-weed which made a popping noise when it was trodden on, like the sound of little pistols. Here and there were spaces of sand, so white and firm that it made you long to draw pictures on it, or at least to write your name there. Could there, altogether, be a better playground than this on a sunny day? Sophia Jane had been quite right; it was a lovely place!It offered so many attractions, and was so new to Susan, that she did not know where to begin first, but stood still uttering exclamations of delight and wonder. Sophia Jane, however, had made the best of her time already. As soon as Buskin disappeared, she at once removed her shoes and stockings, and now stood bare-legged in the middle of a deepish pool poking out crabs from under a ledge of rock.“You’d better begin to collect things,” she called out to Susan, “or you’ll waste all your time.”Susan felt that this was true, but the difficulty now was what to put into the basket, and what to leave out; there were so many lovely things she wanted to keep, and yet it would not hold them all She wandered from rock to rock finding something fresh and curious every minute, and calling out to Sophia Jane to ask what it was. Sometimes she knew, sometimes she did not, but she always gave some sort of name to it which satisfied her companion. So the time went by, and Susan’s little basket had been full and empty over and over again, but she had at last firmly determined to keep the treasures that were now in it, and not to be tempted to change them for anything new; she sat down on a comfortable flat rock, and spread them all out beside her to examine them. At a short distance was the witch-like form of Sophia Jane, bent nearly double in her efforts to peer into the dwelling-place of some sea-creature amongst the rocky crevices; she was very successful in these sharp-eyed inquiries, a match even for the little scurrying crabs, whose only chance of escape was to bury themselves hurriedly deep in the wet sand. All at once she gave a short shriek of surprise and rapture which was evidently wrung from her by some startling discovery. Susan hastened to join her, tumbling over the slippery rocks, and leaving all her possessions behind. It was indeed a very strange and a very beautiful thing that Sophia had found sticking on to the ledge of a rock. Something like a jelly, something like a flower, with crimson petals which stirred faintly about as if moved by the wind.“Oh,whatis it?” said Susan in great excitement, “is it a sea-weed?”“Ofcoursenot,” answered Sophia Jane. “I’ve found ’em before, often. It’s a ‘Seen Enemy.’”“I’ve heard of aflowerwith a name something like that,” said Susan.“That’s a ‘Wooden Enemy,’” replied Sophia Jane with scorn; “this isn’t a plant, it’s an animal.”“Is it alive, then?” asked Susan.“I should just think it is! It can eat like anything.”“What does it eat?”“Little tiny crabs and shrimps. Now, I’m going to drop a pebble into it, and you’ll see it will think it’s something to eat, and shut its mouth. Look!”Susan thought it rather cruel to deceive the Enemy in this manner, but she could not help watching curiously to see what it would do, as Sophia Jane popped a little stone into the midst of its soft waving petals. It happened just as she had said. The Enemy tucked them all in, and suddenly became nothing but a mould of smooth red jelly.The two little girls bent over this new discovery for some time with the keenest interest, but by and by there arose a dispute, for one wished to tear it from its resting-place and carry it home, and the other to leave it where it was. Sophia Jane declared that it was her Enemy because she had found it, and she should do as she liked, and Susan begged her with tears not to disturb it. When these were of no use she became angry, and called Sophia cruel and naughty; but for that Sophia Jane did not care one whit. She only repeated doggedly, “I shall take it home, and keep it in a basin of salt water.”“Then it will die,” said Susan hotly, “and you’re very cruel and wicked.”Sophia Jane did not answer. She was gazing fixedly over Susan’s shoulder at the spot where the basket and collection had been left.“Ha! ha!” she suddenly exclaimed triumphantly, pointing to it.Susan looked quickly round. Alas! while her back was turned the deceitful sea had crawled quietly up and taken possession of her treasures. The flat rock was covered by the waves, and the basket was bobbing lightly up and down on the water.With a cry of vexation she scrambled over the rocks towards it; at least she would try and save the basket, though the other things were lost; it was one Mother had given her, and she was very fond of it. But no, she could not reach it. Sometimes the waves brought it back almost to her feet, but before she could seize it, it sailed merrily away further than ever. After many vain efforts she stood looking hopelessly at it much cast down and disappointed. Not only had she lost her collection, the labours of nearly an hour, but now even if she made another she had nothing to carry it home in. Sophia Jane, who had watched her failures with chuckles of delight, now came and stood by her with her skipping-rope in her hand.“I can get it,” she said.Susan looked round in surprise; this was kind of Sophia Jane after she had said so many cross things to her.“If I get it,” she went on, tying a sort of noose at the end of the rope, “will you give it me for my own?”Susan hesitated. She did not want to lose the basket, and yet it would be almost the same thing to give it to Sophia Jane. Meanwhile it came again nearly within reach of her outstretched fingers, just escaped them, and was borne away by the waves. Sophia Jane stood waiting her answer.“You may have it,” said Susan, for she could not bear to see the basket lost for ever.Then Sophia Jane watched her opportunity, cast the rope over it just at the right instant, caught it in the noose, and drew it safely on to the rock.“Now it’s mine!” she cried exultingly, holding up her dripping prize, “and I shall take the enemy home in it.”What an unpleasant little girl Sophia Jane was! Susan felt at that moment that she almost hated her; she was selfish, and mean, and cruel and unkind, and deserved all the scoldings she had from everyone. She could not bear to be near her just now; she would go as far from her as she possibly could. Leaving her, therefore, crouched on the rock near her prey, Susan turned her back upon her and started off by herself in another direction, and in doing this she also turned her back upon the pier. She was so injured in her mind, however, and so occupied with hard thoughts about Sophia Jane, that she could not notice this or anything else for some time. On she went, jumping from rock to rock with Grace tucked under one arm, pausing now and then to look at some strange and beautiful thing which lay in her path; how she wished for her basket, that she might pick some of them up! But at least she could take a few in her pocket, though it was inconveniently small. Soon it was heavy with damp stones, sea-weed, and shells, then she lifted the skirt of her frock in front and filled that, and all this while she was going further from Sophia Jane, further from the pier, further from the little cove, where they had promised to wait for Buskin. She never once looked back, however, for there were always lovely things still further in the distance that she must get. When she was close to these lovely things they sometimes turned out to be quite common and not worth picking up; but there was sure to be something more tempting just a little way beyond. So she went on and on, and would have gone much further but her progress was suddenly checked in a very disagreeable manner; for, springing too heedlessly on to a slippery rock, and overbalanced by her burden, she fell straightway into a large shallow pool of water. It was such a sudden shock that all her treasures were scattered far and wide, and poor Grace was thrown out of her arms to some distance where she lay flat on her face. Confused and startled, Susan’s first thought was that she should be drowned, and she cried out for help; but, having winked the water out of her eyes, she at once saw that it was quite a shallow pool, scrambled quickly out and stood on the rock. Then she looked down at herself with dismay; for, though there was not enough water to drown her, it had wetted her from top to toe, and she was a forlorn object indeed—her clothes hung to her dripping, her straw-hat floated in the pool, and she had cut her chin in falling against a sharp stone. The only thing to be done now was to get back to Sophia Jane as fast as possible, and she also remembered for the first time that Buskin must be waiting; so, shivering a good deal and feeling very wretched, she fished out her hat, picked up Grace who was the only dry piece of property she now possessed, and prepared to return. But lo! when she looked round, the whole place seemed to have changed! There was no Sophia Jane to be seen, no pier, nothing but high white cliffs, and rocks, and sea. Sophia Jane must be hiding, and Susan felt too miserable now to stand on her dignity, so she called her as loud as she could, several times.No answer. No one to be seen. And where was the pier? How could that have gone away? Confused, and still giddy with her tumble, Susan hardly knew what she was doing, but her one idea was that she must find the pier, and if it was not in this direction it must be in the other. So she turned again, and went onthe wrong way. Now, it was only hidden from her by the projecting cliffs which formed the little bay into which she had wandered, and at that very minute Buskin and Sophia Jane were not really far away. But they could not see or hear her, and now she was going further from them as quickly as she could.Not very quickly, because it was so difficult to get on, with her wet clothes clinging so heavily; even her boots were full of water and made queer gurgling noises at every step, and her hair hung limp and draggled over her shoulders. Susan had never been so uncomfortable. The cut on her chin hurt a good deal too, for the salt water got into it and made it smart; when she drew her handkerchief out of her pocket, it was only a little damp rag, and no use at all; everything was salt watery except Grace, who was dry and clean, and had only suffered a dinge on her nose by her fall. Susan envied her neat appearance; she was a dignified little girl, and could not bear to look odd or ridiculous, so at first she hoped she should meet no one before she got to Buskin and Sophia Jane. The latter would certainly laugh at her; but, after all, the accident had been her fault, for if she had not been so ill-behaved about the Enemy and the basket, it would not have happened.Stumbling on, with these things in her mind, she expected every moment to see the pier, but there were still only rocks and cliffs and sea. The waves came rolling in, each one a tiny bit further than the last, and one splashed suddenly so near her, that it covered her with spray. She started back to avoid it; but “after all,” she thought the next minute, “it couldn’t make me wetter than I am.” On, on, on, and now every step began to be more and more painful, for the sand was so wet that she had to walk on the rough stony beach close to the foot of the cliffs. Poor Susan! she felt very tired and desolate; her feet ached, and her arms ached, and her head ached, she would have been thankful to meet people now, even though they might laugh at her. Worst of all, the thought suddenly darted into her mind that she had lost the way; she stood still and looked vainly round for some familiar object, something to guide her—there was nothing. As far as she could see, it was all the same—tall white cliffs, yellow sand, and tossing waves. The only living creature besides herself was a beautiful grey and white bird with long wings which flew skimming about over the water, and sometimes dipped down into it. As Susan watched it, she remembered where she had seen birds of that kind before, and who had told her that they were called sea-gulls; the steamboat, and Monsieur La Roche’s kind voice came back to her. How good he had been, and how badly she had repaid him since; she had indeed been ungrateful and naughty to laugh at him. How thankful she would be to see him now, and to hear him say, “My leetle friend, Mees Susanne!” But there was no chance of that; Monsieur had helped her once in trouble, but he could not come down from the skies to her assistance, and there was no one in sight on land or sea. Suddenly she felt too tired and aching and miserable to struggle on any further, and sinking down on the hard beach like a little damp heap of clothes, she hugged Grace up to her breast and hid her face against her. She sat in this way for some minutes, hearing nothing but the breaking of the waves on the shore and the rattle of the pebbles, when suddenly another noise caught her ear—the regular tramp, tramp of a footstep crushing down on the hard loose stones. She looked up; was it a dream? Not three yards from her was the tall figure of the man she had been thinking of—the French master! Yes, it really was he! There were his threadbare greenish coat and his tightly-strapped trousers, there was his kind face with its high cheek-bones and short-pointed beard. Had he indeed come down from the skies? There seemed no other way, for Susan did not know till afterwards that there were some steps cut zigzag down the cliff just behind her. But wherever he had come from he was undoubtedly there, real flesh and blood, and she was no longer alone with the dreadful roaring sea. It was such a joyful relief that it gave her new strength; she forgot her bedraggled and woebegone state, and starting up began to try and explain how she had lost herself. Greatly to her own surprise, however, something suddenly choked in her throat, and she was obliged to burst into tears in the middle of her story.Monsieur looked at the little sobbing figure with much compassion in his face and some dismay, then he touched her frock gently:“Ciel! how you are wet!” he exclaimed; “and cold too, without doubt, my poor leetle friend.” He fingered the top button of his coat doubtfully, as though wishing to take it off and wrap her in it; but although it was a great-coat there was no other underneath it, and he changed his mind with a little shake of the head.“Come, then,” he said, taking her small cold hand in his, “we will go home together. You are now quite safe, and soon we shall be there. Do not then cry any more.”Susan did her best to stop her tears, and limped along the beach by his side, clinging tightly on to his hand; but she was tired and worn out, and her wet boots were so stiff and pressed so painfully upon her feet, that at last she stumbled and nearly fell. Monsieur looked down at her with concern.“Ah!” he said, “the road is rough, and the feet are very small. Voyons! An idea comes to me! Instead of going to Madame your aunt, which is so far, we will go to the house of my sister; it is scarcely ten minutes from here. There I leave you, and go to assure Madame of your safety.”If Susan had not been so worn out with fatigue she would have objected strongly to this plan of Monsieur’s, for his sister was a perfect stranger to her, and she would much rather have gone home to Aunt Hannah. But, feeling no strength or spirit left to resist anything, she nodded her head silently and suffered him to lift her gently in his arms and carry her up the steps cut in the cliff. How odd it all was! Confused thoughts passed quickly through her mind as she clung fast to the collar of the greenish coat. How kind Monsieur was! how many steps there were, and how very steep! how heavy she was for him to carry, and how he panted as he toiled slowly up! finally, how her dripping clothes pressed against his neatly-brushed garments and made discoloured patches on them. Would the steps never end? But at last, to her great relief, they were at the top, and Monsieur was once more striding along on level ground, uttering from time to time little sentences in broken English for her encouragement and comfort. They were now in a part of Ramsgate that she did not know at all, quite out of the town, and away from all the tall terraces that faced the sea. The houses were mean and poor, and the streets narrow; now and then came a dingy shop, and in almost every window there was a card with “Apartments” on it. At one of these Monsieur stopped and rang the bell. The door was opened at once, as if someone had been waiting to do so, and a brown-faced, black-eyed lady appeared, who talked very fast in French, and held up her hands at the sight of Monsieur’s damp burden. He answered in the same language, calling the lady Delphine, who, chattering all the time, led them down-stairs to a room where there was a good fire burning. Susan wondered to herself why Monsieur and his sister sat in the kitchen, for she saw pots and pans and dishes, all very bright and clean, at one end of the room. The floor was covered with oil-cloth; but by the fire, on which a saucepan hissed and bubbled gently, was spread a bright crimson rug, which made a little spot of comfort. On it there stood a small table neatly laid with preparations for a meal, and a pair of large-sized carpet slippers, carefully tilted so that they might catch the full warmth of the blaze. Sharing this place of honour a fluffy grey cat sat gravely blinking, with its tail curled round its toes. Opposite the table were a rocking-chair and a work-basket, and Susan noticed that someone had been darning a large brown sock.While she looked at these things from the arm-chair where Monsieur had placed her on his entrance, she also watched the eager face of Delphine who had not ceased to exclaim, to ask questions, to clasp her hands, and otherwise to express great interest and surprise. But it was all in French, as were also Monsieur’s patient replies and explanations. Susan could not understand what they said, but she could make out a good deal by Delphine’s signs and gestures. It was easy to see that she wished to persuade her brother not to go out again, for when he took up his hat she tried to take it away, and pointed to the bubbling saucepan and warm slippers. Monsieur, however, cast a gently regretful glance at them, shook his head, and presently succeeded in freeing himself from her eager grasp; then, when his steps had ceased to sound upon the stairs, she shrugged her shoulders and said half aloud:“Certainly it is my brother Adolphe, who has the temper of an angel, and the obstinacy of a pig!”

And this feeling grew stronger as the days went on, for Susan found that Sophia Jane was always in disgrace about something; she was so constantly having bad marks and losing farthings, that there seemed no chance at all that she would ever save enough money to buy a new head for the doll. This was partly her own fault, and partly because the whole household seemed to take for granted that she would behave badly and never do right; indeed there were days when, after she had been scolded and punished very often, a spirit of obstinacy entered her small frame, and her whole being was bent upon ill-behaviour and mischief.

Susan looked on in dismay, and counted up the farthings as one after the other they were recklessly forfeited by some fresh piece of naughtiness.

“You’ve lost two week’s money,” she whispered in Sophia Jane’s ear, hoping to check her; but its only result was to urge her to wilder acts, and the next minute she was detected in making a grimace at Margaretta, whom she specially disliked. Sophia Jane was certainly not a pleasant child, and it was not surprising that no one loved her.

“Look at Susan,” they said to her constantly, “how well Susan behaves! how upright Susan sits! how perfectly Susan says her lessons! how good Susan is!”—but Sophia Jane took no heed, it did not improve her a bit, but if possible made her worse to have this shining example held up for her to copy. As to Susan, she now heard her own praises so often that she began to think not only that Sophia Jane was very bad, but that she herself must be uncommonly good. At home it had always been taken as a matter of course that she would be quiet, obedient, and useful, and learn her lessons properly; it had never been considered anything remarkable. Here, however, she was continually called “clever,” and “good,” and “dear little thing,” when she did the most common things, so that she soon began to hold her head higher and to look down upon Sophia Jane with a very condescending air.

Meanwhile there was one thing she dreaded, and that was Monsieur La Roche’s French lesson in which she was to join; she had now been a week at Ramsgate, and the day was approaching. Whenever he was mentioned Margaretta had always some giggling joke to make, and Sophia Jane echoed them. They imitated the way in which he spoke English, and the way in which he bowed when he came into the room, and the way in which he smiled and rubbed his hands; everything he did appeared to be laughable, and though Susan had not found it so on the steamboat, she now began to think that they must be right. Even Maria, she remembered, had called him “a figure of fun.” How she hoped that he would not say anything about that journey! Her cheeks grew quite hot when she thought of how she had told him her name, and where she lived, and all sorts of confidential things. They would all laugh at her—it would be dreadful. Now, to laugh at Monsieur might be pleasant, but to be laughed at herself was, Susan felt, a very different matter.

So when the day came, and they were all sitting round the table with their books ready for the class, she bent her head down as the French master entered the room, in the faint hope that he would not notice her. But that was of no use. Monsieur had hardly made his bow and taken his seat before Aunt Hannah looked round from her arm-chair at the fireside.

“You have a new pupil to-day, Monsieur. My little niece, Miss Susan Ingram.”

His attention thus directed, Monsieur leaned forward, and a kindly smile of recognition brightened his face as he saw Susan.

“Ah! c’est vrai,” he said; “it is my leetle friend, Mees Susanne. We know ourselves already; is it not so?”

The dreaded moment had come, and it was even more uncomfortable than she had expected. Everyone was looking at her, and waiting for her to answer, and she saw a mischievous glitter in Sophia Jane’s eyes which were fixed on her like two blue beads.

Aunt Hannah said, “Indeed, how is that?” and Monsieur still leant towards her, stroking his short beard and wrinkling up his face with a pleased smile. But Susan said nothing. She hung down her head, her cheeks crimsoned, and she looked as guilty and ashamed as though she had done something wrong; a very different little girl to the one who had chatted with Monsieur on board the steamboat and shared his biscuit. She was shy, he thought, as the English miss very often was; and, though he did not understand the complaint, he was far too good-natured to lengthen her discomfort. “Nevare mind,” he said kindly, “we shall talk together later.” Turning to Aunt Hannah he explained as well as he could in English how he and Susan had met on the journey, his pupils listening open-mouthed meanwhile and giggling at his broken attempts to make his meaning clear. Then to Susan’s relief the lesson began, and she was no longer the object of everyone’s attention; but she was surprised to find how very little trouble they took to learn anything. Instead of this they seemed to try which could remember least and pronounce the words worst. When Nanna and Margaretta read aloud they made the same mistakes a dozen times in one page, pitched their voices in a high sing-song drawl, and stopped now and then to laugh in a smothered manner at some hidden joke. A little worried frown gathered on their patient master’s brow as this went on, but he never lost his temper or failed to make his corrections with courtesy. Susan at first, from force of habit, bent her attention on the page of French dialogue which she and Sophia Jane had to learn; but too soon the bad example round her had its effect. She began to return Sophia Jane’s nudges, to listen to her whispers, to look out of the window opposite, and to make no sort of effort to learn her lesson. True, when the time came to say it, she was a little ashamed of not knowing a word correctly, and was sorry when Monsieur returned the book with a sad shake of the head. But this feeling did not last; none of the others cared to please him, so why should she? He was only Monsieur La Roche, the French master, the “poor eggsile,” as Sophia Jane had called him. It did not matter. Encouraged by her companions Susan soon became as rude, as careless, and as troublesome as they were. If Monsieur had had any hope that she would prove a better pupil than the rest he was sadly mistaken. “Soyez sage, Mademoiselle,” he said to her pleadingly, but it was of no use. Susan had forgotten for the time how to behave wisely. And it was the same on every occasion: the French lesson was always a scene of impertinence and ill-behaviour. There were moments when Susan, seeing Monsieur look unusually tired and worn, had twinges of conscience and almost resolved to be good. But she had been naughty so long now that it was too late to turn back; they would laugh at her, and it would be quite impossible to be good all alone. Sophia Jane had only to rub her hands like Monsieur, and say in broken English: “Ah! it is my leetle friend, Miss Susanne,” to make Susan ashamed and give up all idea of changing her conduct.

Now a complaint to Aunt Hannah would have altered all this at once; but, unfortunately, Monsieur was far too good-natured to make one. Indeed, as she always sat in the room during the French class, he may have thought that she saw nothing wrong, and that these manners were usual in England. The fact was, however, that Aunt Hannah knew very little French, and concluded that as the girls were never troublesome at their lessons with her it was the same thing with Monsieur. If she chanced to hear the sound of a titter, it was at once checked when she glanced round at the offender, and she would have been surprised, indeed, if she had known of the sufferings the French master endured.

When she inquired about the progress made, his reply was always the same: “Assez bien,” which she considered quite satisfactory.

Time went on. Monsieur had given four lessons, Susan had written four letters to Mother and had been four times to chapel with Aunt Hannah. She had, therefore, now been four whole weeks at Ramsgate, and the days seemed to go by quickly, instead of creeping along as they did at first. And this was in a great measure owing to the companionship of Sophia Jane, for, though Aunt Hannah was kind and Nanna and Margaretta caressing, Susan’s life would have been dull without someone to invent games with her and play in the attic; and, although she thought herself far superior to Sophia Jane, she knew this very well. When she wrote to her mother she was able to say that she liked being at the sea-side very much, but she always added: “We have not been on the sands yet.” Now this was a thing she longed to do, for Sophia Jane had told her of so many delightful things to do and find there, that it seemed the most desirable place on earth; besides, she wanted very much to begin a collection of shells and sea-weed for Freddie. There was a card hanging in her bed-room, on which pink and green sea-weeds were arranged in a sort of bouquet, with some verses written underneath, each ending with the line: “Call us not weeds, we are flowers of the sea.” Susan thought that very beautiful, and determined to try and make one just like it for Mother. But the right day never seemed to come for the sands; it was always too cold, or too windy, or Nanna and Margaretta wanted to go somewhere else. Almost in despair, Susan made her usual request to Aunt Hannah one morning: “May we go on the sands?” It was a Saturday, a whole holiday, and the day was sunny and mild.

“On the sands, my dear?” said her Aunt. “I am too busy to go, but I daresay the girls will take you.”

But as usual, Nanna and Margaretta had widely different plans for spending their Saturday, and neither of them wished to go on the sands. Nanna had a hat to trim, and Margaretta was to visit some friends. Aunt Hannah saw Susan’s disappointment.

“Well,” she said, “we will manage it in this way. I will spare Buskin to go with you and Sophia Jane as far as the little cove near the pier; there she shall leave you to play for an hour and then fetch you again. You must both promise me, however, not to stray further away, not to get wet, not to lose sight of the pier, and to come back with Buskin directly you see her. Can I trust you?”

They both promised eagerly, much excited at the thought of such an expedition, and above all at the idea of being left alone for a whole hour. During the morning they watched the weather anxiously and made many plans.

“I shall take Grace,” said Susan, “and my little basket. What shallyoutake?”

Poor Sophia Jane had not many possessions to choose from.

“I shall take my skipping-rope,” she said.

Thus provided, they set forth at three o’clock with the grave Buskin in attendance. Susan jumped, and laughed, and chattered with pleasure, she was so glad to think that she was going on the sands at last, and Sophia Jane, though she never showed high spirits in the same manner, was in a cheerful and agreeable mood.

Soon they came to the little cove. The sea was as she had expressed it, very far out indeed, and had left the great black rocks wet and shining, all ready to be played on. Between them there were deep quiet pools, so clear that you could see down to the very bottom, and watch all sorts of cunning live things, which darted, or or lay motionless in them; shrimps, tiny pale crabs, pink star-fishes, and strange horny shells clinging so tightly to the rock that no small fingers could stir them. Some of the rocks were bare, and others covered with masses of dark sea-weed which made a popping noise when it was trodden on, like the sound of little pistols. Here and there were spaces of sand, so white and firm that it made you long to draw pictures on it, or at least to write your name there. Could there, altogether, be a better playground than this on a sunny day? Sophia Jane had been quite right; it was a lovely place!

It offered so many attractions, and was so new to Susan, that she did not know where to begin first, but stood still uttering exclamations of delight and wonder. Sophia Jane, however, had made the best of her time already. As soon as Buskin disappeared, she at once removed her shoes and stockings, and now stood bare-legged in the middle of a deepish pool poking out crabs from under a ledge of rock.

“You’d better begin to collect things,” she called out to Susan, “or you’ll waste all your time.”

Susan felt that this was true, but the difficulty now was what to put into the basket, and what to leave out; there were so many lovely things she wanted to keep, and yet it would not hold them all She wandered from rock to rock finding something fresh and curious every minute, and calling out to Sophia Jane to ask what it was. Sometimes she knew, sometimes she did not, but she always gave some sort of name to it which satisfied her companion. So the time went by, and Susan’s little basket had been full and empty over and over again, but she had at last firmly determined to keep the treasures that were now in it, and not to be tempted to change them for anything new; she sat down on a comfortable flat rock, and spread them all out beside her to examine them. At a short distance was the witch-like form of Sophia Jane, bent nearly double in her efforts to peer into the dwelling-place of some sea-creature amongst the rocky crevices; she was very successful in these sharp-eyed inquiries, a match even for the little scurrying crabs, whose only chance of escape was to bury themselves hurriedly deep in the wet sand. All at once she gave a short shriek of surprise and rapture which was evidently wrung from her by some startling discovery. Susan hastened to join her, tumbling over the slippery rocks, and leaving all her possessions behind. It was indeed a very strange and a very beautiful thing that Sophia had found sticking on to the ledge of a rock. Something like a jelly, something like a flower, with crimson petals which stirred faintly about as if moved by the wind.

“Oh,whatis it?” said Susan in great excitement, “is it a sea-weed?”

“Ofcoursenot,” answered Sophia Jane. “I’ve found ’em before, often. It’s a ‘Seen Enemy.’”

“I’ve heard of aflowerwith a name something like that,” said Susan.

“That’s a ‘Wooden Enemy,’” replied Sophia Jane with scorn; “this isn’t a plant, it’s an animal.”

“Is it alive, then?” asked Susan.

“I should just think it is! It can eat like anything.”

“What does it eat?”

“Little tiny crabs and shrimps. Now, I’m going to drop a pebble into it, and you’ll see it will think it’s something to eat, and shut its mouth. Look!”

Susan thought it rather cruel to deceive the Enemy in this manner, but she could not help watching curiously to see what it would do, as Sophia Jane popped a little stone into the midst of its soft waving petals. It happened just as she had said. The Enemy tucked them all in, and suddenly became nothing but a mould of smooth red jelly.

The two little girls bent over this new discovery for some time with the keenest interest, but by and by there arose a dispute, for one wished to tear it from its resting-place and carry it home, and the other to leave it where it was. Sophia Jane declared that it was her Enemy because she had found it, and she should do as she liked, and Susan begged her with tears not to disturb it. When these were of no use she became angry, and called Sophia cruel and naughty; but for that Sophia Jane did not care one whit. She only repeated doggedly, “I shall take it home, and keep it in a basin of salt water.”

“Then it will die,” said Susan hotly, “and you’re very cruel and wicked.”

Sophia Jane did not answer. She was gazing fixedly over Susan’s shoulder at the spot where the basket and collection had been left.

“Ha! ha!” she suddenly exclaimed triumphantly, pointing to it.

Susan looked quickly round. Alas! while her back was turned the deceitful sea had crawled quietly up and taken possession of her treasures. The flat rock was covered by the waves, and the basket was bobbing lightly up and down on the water.

With a cry of vexation she scrambled over the rocks towards it; at least she would try and save the basket, though the other things were lost; it was one Mother had given her, and she was very fond of it. But no, she could not reach it. Sometimes the waves brought it back almost to her feet, but before she could seize it, it sailed merrily away further than ever. After many vain efforts she stood looking hopelessly at it much cast down and disappointed. Not only had she lost her collection, the labours of nearly an hour, but now even if she made another she had nothing to carry it home in. Sophia Jane, who had watched her failures with chuckles of delight, now came and stood by her with her skipping-rope in her hand.

“I can get it,” she said.

Susan looked round in surprise; this was kind of Sophia Jane after she had said so many cross things to her.

“If I get it,” she went on, tying a sort of noose at the end of the rope, “will you give it me for my own?”

Susan hesitated. She did not want to lose the basket, and yet it would be almost the same thing to give it to Sophia Jane. Meanwhile it came again nearly within reach of her outstretched fingers, just escaped them, and was borne away by the waves. Sophia Jane stood waiting her answer.

“You may have it,” said Susan, for she could not bear to see the basket lost for ever.

Then Sophia Jane watched her opportunity, cast the rope over it just at the right instant, caught it in the noose, and drew it safely on to the rock.

“Now it’s mine!” she cried exultingly, holding up her dripping prize, “and I shall take the enemy home in it.”

What an unpleasant little girl Sophia Jane was! Susan felt at that moment that she almost hated her; she was selfish, and mean, and cruel and unkind, and deserved all the scoldings she had from everyone. She could not bear to be near her just now; she would go as far from her as she possibly could. Leaving her, therefore, crouched on the rock near her prey, Susan turned her back upon her and started off by herself in another direction, and in doing this she also turned her back upon the pier. She was so injured in her mind, however, and so occupied with hard thoughts about Sophia Jane, that she could not notice this or anything else for some time. On she went, jumping from rock to rock with Grace tucked under one arm, pausing now and then to look at some strange and beautiful thing which lay in her path; how she wished for her basket, that she might pick some of them up! But at least she could take a few in her pocket, though it was inconveniently small. Soon it was heavy with damp stones, sea-weed, and shells, then she lifted the skirt of her frock in front and filled that, and all this while she was going further from Sophia Jane, further from the pier, further from the little cove, where they had promised to wait for Buskin. She never once looked back, however, for there were always lovely things still further in the distance that she must get. When she was close to these lovely things they sometimes turned out to be quite common and not worth picking up; but there was sure to be something more tempting just a little way beyond. So she went on and on, and would have gone much further but her progress was suddenly checked in a very disagreeable manner; for, springing too heedlessly on to a slippery rock, and overbalanced by her burden, she fell straightway into a large shallow pool of water. It was such a sudden shock that all her treasures were scattered far and wide, and poor Grace was thrown out of her arms to some distance where she lay flat on her face. Confused and startled, Susan’s first thought was that she should be drowned, and she cried out for help; but, having winked the water out of her eyes, she at once saw that it was quite a shallow pool, scrambled quickly out and stood on the rock. Then she looked down at herself with dismay; for, though there was not enough water to drown her, it had wetted her from top to toe, and she was a forlorn object indeed—her clothes hung to her dripping, her straw-hat floated in the pool, and she had cut her chin in falling against a sharp stone. The only thing to be done now was to get back to Sophia Jane as fast as possible, and she also remembered for the first time that Buskin must be waiting; so, shivering a good deal and feeling very wretched, she fished out her hat, picked up Grace who was the only dry piece of property she now possessed, and prepared to return. But lo! when she looked round, the whole place seemed to have changed! There was no Sophia Jane to be seen, no pier, nothing but high white cliffs, and rocks, and sea. Sophia Jane must be hiding, and Susan felt too miserable now to stand on her dignity, so she called her as loud as she could, several times.

No answer. No one to be seen. And where was the pier? How could that have gone away? Confused, and still giddy with her tumble, Susan hardly knew what she was doing, but her one idea was that she must find the pier, and if it was not in this direction it must be in the other. So she turned again, and went onthe wrong way. Now, it was only hidden from her by the projecting cliffs which formed the little bay into which she had wandered, and at that very minute Buskin and Sophia Jane were not really far away. But they could not see or hear her, and now she was going further from them as quickly as she could.

Not very quickly, because it was so difficult to get on, with her wet clothes clinging so heavily; even her boots were full of water and made queer gurgling noises at every step, and her hair hung limp and draggled over her shoulders. Susan had never been so uncomfortable. The cut on her chin hurt a good deal too, for the salt water got into it and made it smart; when she drew her handkerchief out of her pocket, it was only a little damp rag, and no use at all; everything was salt watery except Grace, who was dry and clean, and had only suffered a dinge on her nose by her fall. Susan envied her neat appearance; she was a dignified little girl, and could not bear to look odd or ridiculous, so at first she hoped she should meet no one before she got to Buskin and Sophia Jane. The latter would certainly laugh at her; but, after all, the accident had been her fault, for if she had not been so ill-behaved about the Enemy and the basket, it would not have happened.

Stumbling on, with these things in her mind, she expected every moment to see the pier, but there were still only rocks and cliffs and sea. The waves came rolling in, each one a tiny bit further than the last, and one splashed suddenly so near her, that it covered her with spray. She started back to avoid it; but “after all,” she thought the next minute, “it couldn’t make me wetter than I am.” On, on, on, and now every step began to be more and more painful, for the sand was so wet that she had to walk on the rough stony beach close to the foot of the cliffs. Poor Susan! she felt very tired and desolate; her feet ached, and her arms ached, and her head ached, she would have been thankful to meet people now, even though they might laugh at her. Worst of all, the thought suddenly darted into her mind that she had lost the way; she stood still and looked vainly round for some familiar object, something to guide her—there was nothing. As far as she could see, it was all the same—tall white cliffs, yellow sand, and tossing waves. The only living creature besides herself was a beautiful grey and white bird with long wings which flew skimming about over the water, and sometimes dipped down into it. As Susan watched it, she remembered where she had seen birds of that kind before, and who had told her that they were called sea-gulls; the steamboat, and Monsieur La Roche’s kind voice came back to her. How good he had been, and how badly she had repaid him since; she had indeed been ungrateful and naughty to laugh at him. How thankful she would be to see him now, and to hear him say, “My leetle friend, Mees Susanne!” But there was no chance of that; Monsieur had helped her once in trouble, but he could not come down from the skies to her assistance, and there was no one in sight on land or sea. Suddenly she felt too tired and aching and miserable to struggle on any further, and sinking down on the hard beach like a little damp heap of clothes, she hugged Grace up to her breast and hid her face against her. She sat in this way for some minutes, hearing nothing but the breaking of the waves on the shore and the rattle of the pebbles, when suddenly another noise caught her ear—the regular tramp, tramp of a footstep crushing down on the hard loose stones. She looked up; was it a dream? Not three yards from her was the tall figure of the man she had been thinking of—the French master! Yes, it really was he! There were his threadbare greenish coat and his tightly-strapped trousers, there was his kind face with its high cheek-bones and short-pointed beard. Had he indeed come down from the skies? There seemed no other way, for Susan did not know till afterwards that there were some steps cut zigzag down the cliff just behind her. But wherever he had come from he was undoubtedly there, real flesh and blood, and she was no longer alone with the dreadful roaring sea. It was such a joyful relief that it gave her new strength; she forgot her bedraggled and woebegone state, and starting up began to try and explain how she had lost herself. Greatly to her own surprise, however, something suddenly choked in her throat, and she was obliged to burst into tears in the middle of her story.

Monsieur looked at the little sobbing figure with much compassion in his face and some dismay, then he touched her frock gently:

“Ciel! how you are wet!” he exclaimed; “and cold too, without doubt, my poor leetle friend.” He fingered the top button of his coat doubtfully, as though wishing to take it off and wrap her in it; but although it was a great-coat there was no other underneath it, and he changed his mind with a little shake of the head.

“Come, then,” he said, taking her small cold hand in his, “we will go home together. You are now quite safe, and soon we shall be there. Do not then cry any more.”

Susan did her best to stop her tears, and limped along the beach by his side, clinging tightly on to his hand; but she was tired and worn out, and her wet boots were so stiff and pressed so painfully upon her feet, that at last she stumbled and nearly fell. Monsieur looked down at her with concern.

“Ah!” he said, “the road is rough, and the feet are very small. Voyons! An idea comes to me! Instead of going to Madame your aunt, which is so far, we will go to the house of my sister; it is scarcely ten minutes from here. There I leave you, and go to assure Madame of your safety.”

If Susan had not been so worn out with fatigue she would have objected strongly to this plan of Monsieur’s, for his sister was a perfect stranger to her, and she would much rather have gone home to Aunt Hannah. But, feeling no strength or spirit left to resist anything, she nodded her head silently and suffered him to lift her gently in his arms and carry her up the steps cut in the cliff. How odd it all was! Confused thoughts passed quickly through her mind as she clung fast to the collar of the greenish coat. How kind Monsieur was! how many steps there were, and how very steep! how heavy she was for him to carry, and how he panted as he toiled slowly up! finally, how her dripping clothes pressed against his neatly-brushed garments and made discoloured patches on them. Would the steps never end? But at last, to her great relief, they were at the top, and Monsieur was once more striding along on level ground, uttering from time to time little sentences in broken English for her encouragement and comfort. They were now in a part of Ramsgate that she did not know at all, quite out of the town, and away from all the tall terraces that faced the sea. The houses were mean and poor, and the streets narrow; now and then came a dingy shop, and in almost every window there was a card with “Apartments” on it. At one of these Monsieur stopped and rang the bell. The door was opened at once, as if someone had been waiting to do so, and a brown-faced, black-eyed lady appeared, who talked very fast in French, and held up her hands at the sight of Monsieur’s damp burden. He answered in the same language, calling the lady Delphine, who, chattering all the time, led them down-stairs to a room where there was a good fire burning. Susan wondered to herself why Monsieur and his sister sat in the kitchen, for she saw pots and pans and dishes, all very bright and clean, at one end of the room. The floor was covered with oil-cloth; but by the fire, on which a saucepan hissed and bubbled gently, was spread a bright crimson rug, which made a little spot of comfort. On it there stood a small table neatly laid with preparations for a meal, and a pair of large-sized carpet slippers, carefully tilted so that they might catch the full warmth of the blaze. Sharing this place of honour a fluffy grey cat sat gravely blinking, with its tail curled round its toes. Opposite the table were a rocking-chair and a work-basket, and Susan noticed that someone had been darning a large brown sock.

While she looked at these things from the arm-chair where Monsieur had placed her on his entrance, she also watched the eager face of Delphine who had not ceased to exclaim, to ask questions, to clasp her hands, and otherwise to express great interest and surprise. But it was all in French, as were also Monsieur’s patient replies and explanations. Susan could not understand what they said, but she could make out a good deal by Delphine’s signs and gestures. It was easy to see that she wished to persuade her brother not to go out again, for when he took up his hat she tried to take it away, and pointed to the bubbling saucepan and warm slippers. Monsieur, however, cast a gently regretful glance at them, shook his head, and presently succeeded in freeing himself from her eager grasp; then, when his steps had ceased to sound upon the stairs, she shrugged her shoulders and said half aloud:

“Certainly it is my brother Adolphe, who has the temper of an angel, and the obstinacy of a pig!”

Chapter Four.“Half-a-Crown.”Mademoiselle now turned her attention to her guest with many exclamations of pity and endearment. She took off Susan’s wet frock, boots, and stockings, rubbed her cold feet and hands, and placed her, wrapped in a large shawl in the rocking-chair close to the fire. Next she poured something out of the saucepan into a little white basin and knelt beside her, saying coaxingly:“Take this, chérie, it will do you good.”It was Monsieur’s soup Susan knew, prepared for his supper, and the saucepan was so small that there could not be much left; it was as bad as taking half his biscuit, and after having been so ungrateful to him, she felt she could not do it.“No, thank you,” she said faintly, turning her head away from Delphine’s sharp black eyes and the steaming basin.But Mademoiselle was a person of authority, and would not have it disputed.“Mais oui, mais oui,” she said impatiently, taking some of the broth in the spoon. “Take it at once, mon enfant, it will do you good.”She looked so determined that Susan, much against her own will, submissively took the spoon and drank the soup. It tasted poor and thin, like hot water with something bitter in it; but she finished it all, and Mademoiselle received the empty basin with a nod of satisfaction. Then she busied herself in examining the condition of Susan’s wet clothes, and presently hung them all to dry at a careful distance from the hearth. Susan herself, meanwhile, leaning lazily back in the rocking-chair, began to feel warm and comfortable again; how delicious it was after being so cold and wet and frightened! What would she have done without Monsieur’s help? His fire had warmed her, his broth had fed her, his house had sheltered her, and now he had gone out again into the cold night on her service. And yet, she had always been rude and naughty to him. What would Delphine say, Susan wondered, if she knew of it? She did not look as though she had the “temper of an angel” like her brother. Her black eyes had quick sparkles in them, quite unlike his, which were grey and quiet, shining always with a gentle light. Mademoiselle Delphine looked quite capable of being angry. Susan felt half afraid of her; and yet, it was pleasant to watch her neat movements as she darted swiftly about the room preparing another dish for Adolphe’s supper, and Susan kept her eyes fixed on her. At last, her arrangements over, she drew a chair near Susan, and took up her darning; as she did so there was a sudden pattering of rain-drops against the window-pane.“Ah!” she exclaimed, holding up the brown sock, “that poor Adolphe! How he will be wet!”This made Susan feel still more guilty, but she could not think of anything to say, and Delphine, who seemed to like talking better than silence, soon began again.“Always rain, always clouds and mist, and shadow. The sun does not shine here as in our beautiful, bright Paris?”“Doesn’t it ever rain in Paris?” asked Susan.“Mais certainement, at moments,” replied Mademoiselle; “enough to give a charming freshness to the air.”“Why did you come away?” asked Susan, gathering courage.Delphine dropped the brown sock into her lap, and raised her eyes to the ceiling.“Mon enfant,” she said slowly, “we are exiles! Exiles of poverty.”Susan remembered that Sophia Jane had called Monsieur “a poor eggsile;” but this way of putting it sounded much better, and she repeated it to herself that she might be able to tell her when she went home.Meanwhile Mademoiselle bent her eyes on her darning again, and proceeded:“We were never rich, you see, in Paris, but we had enough to live in a pretty little appartement, very different from this. My brother Adolphe wrote articles for a paper of celebrity on political affairs; he had a great name for them, and if the pay was small it was certain. For me, I was occupied with the cares of the ménage, and we were both content with our lives—often even gay. But trouble came. There was a crise in affaires. Adolphe’s opinions were no longer those of the many; the paper for which he wrote changed its views to suit the world. Adolphe was offered a magnificent sum to change also, and write against his conscience. He lost his post; we became poorer every day. ‘Unless you write, Adolphe,’ I said to him, ‘we starve.’ He has a noble heart, my brother, full of honesty and truth. ‘I will rather starve,’ he replied, ‘than write lies.’ So after a time we resolved to try our fortune here in this cold, grey England. And we came. Adolphe was to become a Professor of French, but it was long before he found work, and we suffered. Mon Dieu! how we suffered during that first month!”She paused a moment when she reached this point, and nodded her head several times without speaking, as though words failed her. Susan, who had listened to it all with the most earnest attention, feared she would not go on, and she wanted very much to know what happened next.“Was it because you had no money?” she asked softly at length.“My child,” said Delphine, her bright eyes moist with tears, which she winked quickly away, “it is a terrible thing to be hungry one’s self, but it is far worse to see anyone you love hungry and heart-broken, and yet patient. That is a thing one does not forget. But at last, when we almost despaired, the Bon Dieu sent us a friend. It is a little history which may, perhaps, amuse you; it was like this:—“One night Adolphe was returning to me to say, as usual, that he could find no place; no one wanted a French master. He had scarcely eaten that day, and for weeks we had neither of us tasted meat, for we lived on what I could make by sewing, and it was very little. Adolphe therefore felt low in spirits and body, for he had walked about all the day, and his heart was heavy. As he passed a butcher’s shop near here, the wife, who stood in the doorway, greeted him. He had once bought of her some scraps of meat, such as you English give to your cats and dogs, but which, in hands that understand the French cuisine, can be made to form a ragout of great delicacy.“‘Good evening,’ said she; ‘and how did the cat like his dinner?’“My brother removed his hat and bowed, (you may have observed his noble air at such moments), then, drawing himself to his full height:—“‘Madame,’ he replied, ‘Iam the cat!’“This answer, joined to the graceful manner of Adolphe, struck the good Madame Jones deeply. They at once enter into conversation, and my brother relates to her his vain attempts to find employment. She listens with pity; she gives encouragement. Finally, before they part she forces upon his acceptance two pounds of fillet steak. He returns to me with the meat enveloped in a cabbage leaf, and that night we satisfy our hunger with appetising food, and our hearts are full of gratitude to Heaven and this good Madame Jones. And from that time,” finished Mademoiselle holding up one hand with the sock stretched upon it, “things mend. Madame Jones recommends Adolphe to Madame, your aunt; she again tells others of him, and he has now, enough to do. We are hungry no longer. It is not very gay in the appartement; the sun does not shine much, but we are together. Some day, who knows? we may be able to return to our dear Paris. One must have courage.” She stooped and kissed Susan’s upturned face, which was full of sympathy.“If she knew how badly I’ve always behaved to Monsieur she wouldn’t have done that,” thought Susan penitently.“There now rests one great wish in Adolphe’s heart,” continued Delphine, “and that is, to be able some day to reward Madame Jones for her goodness. Strangers, and without money, she fed and cheered us, and it is to her we owe our success. Never could either of us be so basely ungrateful as to forget that if we are again blessed by prosperity. Often has Adolphe, who is a fine English scholar, repeated to me the lines of your poet, Shakespeare:—“Freeze, freeze thou winter sky;Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot.”Susan had remained wide awake in spite of great fatigue during the whole of Mademoiselle’s story; but now, when she came to the poetry, which she repeated with difficulty and very slowly, there seemed to be something lulling in her voice. The room was warm too, and presently the sounds in it got mixed up together. The crackling of the fire, the bubbling of the saucepan, and Delphine’s tones, joined in a sort of lullaby. Susan’s eyelids gently closed, and she was fast asleep. So fast that the next thing she knew was that Buskin had somehow arrived and was carrying her upstairs; that Monsieur was in attendance with a candle, and that a cab was waiting at the door. But having noticed this, it was quite easy to go to sleep again, and she scarcely awoke when they arrived at Aunt Hannah’s and she was put to bed.So it was not till broad daylight the next morning that she began to think over her adventures, and to remember all the wonderful things that had happened the day before. And in particular all the details of Delphine’s story came back to her, and the earnest gratitude with which she had talked of Mrs Jones’ kindness. “‘Strangers, and without money, she fed and cheered us.’ Now that is just exactly what Monsieur did for me when I first saw him,” thought Susan; “and all I’ve done in return is to laugh at him and give him trouble. I haven’t been grateful at all.” The more she considered her conduct the more ashamed she began to feel, and she could not help wondering what Mademoiselle Delphine would think of her if she knew. “At any rate,” she resolved, “I won’t do it any more. I never will laugh at lesson-time, and I’ll learn everything quite perfectly and be as good as ever I can, whatever Sophia Jane likes to say.” Sophia Jane, that naughty, badly behaved child! After all, it was her fault that Susan had done wrong, she went on to think, and it was also her fault that she had lost herself yesterday, because she had been so disagreeable about the Enemy and the basket. It was a comfort to be able to shift the blame on Sophia Jane’s shoulder, for Susan liked to think well of herself, and she began to feel more cheerful and satisfied as she dressed and went down-stairs. Here Nanna and Margaretta were prepared with all manner of questions about Monsieur, his house, and his sister, but Susan was quite determined to tell them very little. She repeated gravely, “They were very kind, and I like them very much;” and this was most unsatisfactory to her listeners, who craved for the tiniest details of her adventure. Sophia Jane alone sat mute, but sharply attentive to all that passed, hunching up her shoulders and fixing her blue eyes on each speaker in turn. She was, as usual, in disgrace Susan and, and had been forbidden to speak at meals; but as soon as breakfast was over she made the best use of the hour before lessons began, and examined her companion narrowly:“Whatever makes you look so solemn?” she asked at last.“I’m not going to laugh at Monsieur La Roche ever again,” said Susan solemnly. “I’ve made a good resolution.”“What for?” asked Sophia Jane.“Because he’s been very kind, and it’s wrong to laugh at him,” answered Susan.Sophia Jane made a face that Susan very much disliked, it was so full of contempt.“He hasn’t been kind to me, and I don’t care if it is wrong,” she said. “I shall do as I like.”“But I want you not to either,” said Susan.“I don’t care a bit. Why should I?” asked Sophia Jane, who was evidently in one of her most reckless moods.Susan was silent. There was not much reason certainly that Sophia Jane should wish to please her; then a bright idea came into her head.“If you’ll promise not to laugh at French lessons,” she said, “I’ll give you a new head for your doll as soon as I’ve got enough money.”Sophia Jane considered this offer with her head on one side; then she asked:“What price?”“Half-a-crown,” answered Susan, “and that will buy the very best you can get.”“Well,” said Sophia Jane slowly, “I promise.”“But if you whisper, or make faces, or nudge me with your elbow you won’t have it,” added Susan hastily.“You didn’t say all that at first,” said Sophia Jane; “but Iwillpromise.”So the agreement was made, and moreover written down in Susan’s best printing hand, and signed by Sophia Jane. Even then Susan felt by no means sure of the result, for it was so much more natural to her companion to be naughty than good.Thursday came, and Monsieur La Roche also at his usual hour; Susan put on her most discreet behaviour, and kept anxious watch over Sophia Jane. But there was no need for anxiety, her conduct was perfect, and she not only preserved the strictest gravity, but also showed the most marvellous quickness in learning her lessons. Though she might be a naughty child, no one could accuse her of being a dull one; she grasped the meaning of anything like lightning, and while Susan was steadily bringing her mind to bear on a French verb, Sophia Jane knew it already, and could repeat it without a mistake. She showed indeed such zeal and attention throughout the lessons, that it had a sobering effect even upon Nanna and Margaretta, who were so employed in wondering at her that they did not giggle nearly so much as usual.Monsieur himself was not less surprised at this sudden improvement in his class, and above all in Sophia Jane, who had, without question, been his worst and most backward pupil. When his lesson was finished he beamed kindly at her and said, “It istr–rèsbien, mademoiselle. I am much pleased with you to-day.”It was such a new thing for anyone to be much pleased with Sophia Jane that it hardly seemed possible, and everyone stared at her. Aunt Hannah turned round from her chair at the fireside to see who had deserved this praise. Sophia Jane! It was an unheard-of thing. The child herself was so unused to the sound of kindness and approval, that it startled her as though she had received a blow. She reddened, gave all her features a sudden twist, and blinked her eyes at Monsieur for an answer.“Sit straight, Sophia Jane, and don’t make faces,” said Aunt Hannah, and the well-known accents of blame at once restored her to her usual state. The moment Monsieur was gone she was the old Sophia Jane again, tiresome and disobedient as ever. And Susan, remembering the compact about the half-crown, was not surprised at this, for, she thought to herself, “she’s not really doing it because she wants to be good, but because she wants a new head for the doll.” It was quite possible, therefore, still to feel that she was much better than her companion, and this was not unpleasant.Meanwhile she was much looking forward to seeing Mademoiselle Delphine again, for Aunt Hannah intended to pay her a visit soon to thank her for her kindness, and she had promised to take both the little girls with her. Grace, the doll, must also be fetched home, for Susan had been too sleepy to remember her, and had left her behind. Monsieur’s house was found with some difficulty, but at length Sophia Jane’s sharp eyes spied a dusty card in a window with “Monsieur La Roche, Professor of French,” written on it, and they knew that this must be the right one. Susan wondered whether Mademoiselle would quickly open the door herself as she had done before, but this time a very untidy maid-servant appeared with smudges on her face. There were many other lodgers in the house beside Monsieur and his sister, who had the cheapest rooms of all, an underground one which Susan had thought to be the kitchen, and two tiny attics in the roof. They found Mademoiselle waiting to receive them with a yellow ribbon at her neck, and a manner full of gracious affability. Gambetta sat on the hearth, and the room was perfectly neat and clean, but by daylight; it wanted the air of snugness and comfort which Susan remembered. There was a very tiny fire, and it all looked bare and cold, for the window was so placed that the sunlight could not possibly enter. Mademoiselle partly made up, however, for the dreariness of her lodging by smiles and pleasant conversation. She was delighted to see them all, and to renew her acquaintance with Susan, chattering so fast that Sophia Jane had plenty of time to notice everything, and presently fixed her eyes, full of admiration, on Gambetta, who sat with rather a vexed look on his face by the small fire.Presently he rose, stretched himself, humped his back, and then jumped up on his mistress’ lap.“Fi donc!” said she, settling her knees more comfortably for him.“That is a fine cat,” remarked Aunt Hannah; “a great pet, no doubt?”“You say truly, Madame,” replied Delphine gently rubbing Gambetta under the chin; “but above all with my brother. I may say that Gambetta is the pupil of his eye. How often have I made him reproaches because he will leave the best of his potage, and pour it in the saucer for this cat! And that in the days when there was not too much potage, look you, for either of us. On his side the animal adores Adolphe. He knows his step, he has his little pleasantries for him, and his caresses. When my brother arrives at night tired, and perhaps a little dejected, it is Gambetta who knows how to cheer him. And then, he reminds us of Paris, he is the only thing of value we brought from there. He is an exile as well as we, and has shared our fortunes.”“No wonder you are so fond of him,” said Aunt Hannah; “but I see he has no collar. Are you not afraid of losing such a valuable cat?”“That is often in my mind,” replied Mademoiselle. “I fear it may arrive some day, for at times he makes long courses. The next time we have a little money to spare we will buy him one, and cause the address to be graved upon it.”Both Susan and Sophia Jane listened with much interest to all this, and the latter was particularly impressed by it; she looked from Delphine’s expressive face to Gambetta’s when the collar was mentioned, and seemed about to ask a question, but checked herself suddenly. Grace being now produced from a table drawer, it was found that Mademoiselle’s clever fingers had actually made for her a new bonnet, a most elegant one, of drawn grey silk. While Susan was admiring it, Delphine turned to Sophia Jane:“And the leetle companion?” she said, “has she also a poupée?”Sophia Jane hung her head, and looked rather ashamed. “Only one without a head,” she muttered.“Ah! that is sad indeed,” said Mademoiselle. “It is impossible to fashion a bonnet for a lady without a head, is it not? But when you have a new one, I will also make her a bonnet like this. I have yet some more silk.”Susan could not help giving a glance full of meaning at her companion, but Sophia Jane did not respond to it, except by a dark frown.“When Mademoiselle La Roche is so kind, Sophia Jane,” said Aunt Hannah, “the least you can do is to thank her and look pleasant. You never see Susan frown like that.”On the way home there was a great deal to be said about Mademoiselle Delphine, and Susan was so delighted with Grace’s new bonnet that she could not repeat too often how kind it was of her to have made it.“And aren’t you glad she’s going to make one for you too?” she asked.Sophia Jane had been unusually silent and thoughtful since they had started, and made absent replies to all Susan’s remarks. She seemed to be turning something over in her mind, and the question had to be repeated before she took any notice. Then she only answered calmly:“Oh, yes, of course,” as if it were the very merest trifle, and she had presents every day, which was by no means the case. Susan looked curiously at her, there were often moments when she did not know what to make of Sophia Jane. Then she said:“Shall I ask Aunt Hannah to let us stop and look up at Miss Powter’s window?”Miss Powter kept a toy-shop in the High Street, and only a few days ago had shown in her window quite a collection of dolls’ heads, both china and wax.“If you like,” said Sophia Jane indifferently.Susan ran up to Aunt Hannah, who was walking a little way in front, and put her request, which being granted, the little girls were soon gazing in at Mrs Powter’s shop-front. The heads were still there, a long row of them, some fair, some dark, some with blue eyes, some with black.“Now, which should you choose?” asked Susan with much interest; “a wax or a china one?”“A wax one,” said Sophia Jane; “because I could brush her hair.”“But you couldn’t wash her,” objected Susan; “and china wears best.”Sophia Jane did not seem disposed to linger long, though generally she was never tired of Miss Powter’s window. She did not enter into the matter with nearly enough spirit to please Susan, who as they walked on suggested:“If I were you I should have that one—the last in the row, with fair hair. She’s rather like Grace, and you see, as their bonnets will be alike, we might call them sisters.”“If I buy a head at all perhaps I may,” was Sophia’s puzzling remark.“Well, but you’re sure to,” said Susan. “Next week I shall have the half-crown, and we can go and choose it together. You mean to, don’t you?”“Perhaps I do and perhaps I don’t,” answered Sophia Jane, and could not be induced to say more on the subject.Certainly she would win that half-crown easily, for her behaviour to Monsieur La Roche was worthy of all praise. Susan even began to think that she was overdoing it a little, for she was now beyond all the others in the class. Earnest effort, and a naturally quick intelligence joined to it, produced such good results that Monsieur had now a habit of turning to Sophia Jane when he asked an unusually difficult question. Could it be entirely for the sake of the half-crown that she made these extraordinary exertions? Susan began to feel jealous of her companion’s progress and a little ill-used; for although she tried hard to please Monsieur, it was quite evident that the pupil he was most proud of was Sophia Jane. “If he knew,” thought Susan to herself, “why she does it, perhaps he wouldn’t be so pleased. And I don’t suppose she’ll take so much trouble when once she’s got the money.”It was a very new thing for Sophia Jane to be more praised than herself; and though Susan would not perhaps have acknowledged that she was sorry to see her good behaviour, it yet made her feel uncomfortable when Monsieur looked so very pleased with her. She had fully intended to be his model pupil herself, an example to all the others, and it was disappointing to give up that place to one whom she had considered so far beneath her. Besides this, it was a little difficult when the time came to part with the half-crown. It would only leave sixpence in her purse—Maria’s lucky sixpence with a hole in it—and that she did not want to spend. It was comforting, however, to remember that her birthday was near, when her mother would certainly send her some money as a present. And she was really anxious for Sophia Jane to have a doll to play with, and it would be nice to go and see Mademoiselle Delphine again about the bonnet; and finally, a bargain was a bargain, and decidedly the half-crown had been fairly earned. So, all these things considered, she cheerfully counted out one shilling, two sixpences, and six pennies, and went to look for Sophia Jane.She was in the sitting-room alone, seated in Aunt Hannah’s large arm-chair with an open book in her lap which she was intently studying.“Here’s your money,” said Susan, plunging at once into the business on hand.Sophia Jane neither answered or took the least notice; but as this was often a tiresome way of hers Susan was not surprised, and only repeated a little louder:“Here’s your money!”Sophia Jane looked up from her book, which Susan now saw to be a French grammar, and said, holding out her hand:“Give it to me.”“You ought to say ‘Thank you,’” remarked Susan in the reproving voice she often used to her companion.Sophia Jane counted the coins carefully, going twice through the pennies to be sure there were the right number. Then she said shortly:“It’s all right.”“Of course it’s right!” cried Susan indignantly. But it was not of the least use to be angry with Sophia Jane; she was now dropping the pieces of money one by one into her pocket with a thoughtful air, and seemed hardly to know that Susan was there. The latter waited a moment and then said:“Shall I ask Aunt Hannah if we may go to Miss Powter’s this afternoon?”“What for?” asked Sophia Jane.“What for!” repeated Jane in extreme astonishment. “Why, of course, now you’ve got the money, you’ll go and buy the head.”Sophia Jane took up her grammar again and bent her eyes doggedly upon it.“I’m not going to buy a head,” she answered.This decided reply was so unexpected that for the moment Susan was speechless; for on the whole Sophia Jane had seemed to look forward to the purchase, and they had made many plans together about it, so that she had come to think of it as a settled thing. It made her feel injured and disappointed to be thrust out of the matter in this sudden way, for if the head was not to be bought how would Sophia Jane spend the money? She evidently had some secret plan of her own in which Susan was not to share. With a rising colour in her face she said at last:“I don’t think that’s fair.”“It’s my money, and I shall do as I like with it,” was Sophia Jane’s only reply.“But I shouldn’t have given it you,” said Susan hotly, “unless you were going to buy a head.”Sophia Jane chuckled. “Well, I’ve got it now,” she said, “and I shall keep it.”“What a naughty, selfish, disagreeable little girl she was!” thought Susan as she stood looking angrily at her.“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.“That’s a secret,” said Sophia Jane, chinking the money gently in her pocket.“I believe,” said Susan, now irritated beyond endurance, “that you mean to spend it all on Billy Stokes’ day.”Billy Stokes was a man who came round once a week selling sweetmeats, and it was Sophia Jane’s custom to spend her pennies in this way when she had any.“If you do,” continued Susan, getting more cross every moment, “you’ll be dreadfully greedy, and most likely you’ll make yourself ill.”Sophia Jane only smiled gently and settled herself more comfortably in her chair.“And I suppose you remember,” said Susan, whose voice became louder and more defiant with each sentence, “that if you don’t get the head you can’t have the bonnet.”The last word was almost shrieked, for she had now quite lost her temper, and at this moment Margaretta looked into the room. Now it was always taken for granted by the household that in any dispute Sophia Jane must be in the wrong; so now Margaretta came at once to this conclusion, in spite of Susan’s hot and angry looks.“How can you be so naughty, Sophia Jane,” she said, “as to quarrel with a sweet-tempered child like Susan? You must have been very unkind and tiresome to vex her so much.”Neither of the little girls spoke, for Susan was still feeling too angry, and Sophia Jane took a scolding as a matter of course.“If you don’t say you’re sorry,” pursued Margaretta, “I sha’n’t take you out with me this afternoon. I don’t wish to have a sulky little girl with me. Susan shall go alone.”There was no word from Sophia Jane, or even any sign of having heard this speech. At another time Susan would have said something in her defence, for she knew this blame to be entirely unjust. But just now she was so vexed with her that she kept silence, and allowed Margaretta to go on without interruption.“Very well,” said the latter, “then you stay at home by yourself. Aunt and Nanna are going to see Mrs Bevis, and Susan and I shall have a walk together. Very likely we should call in at Buzzard’s as we come back and have some tarts.”Susan glanced at her companion’s face to see how she took this last remark. Buzzard’s open tarts were things that Sophia Jane specially liked. Was she vexed? No. One corner of her mouth was tucked in, in a way which looked far more like secret satisfaction. It was very annoying, but after all she could not prefer to be left alone in the dull house that bright day, so most likely she was concealing her disappointment.Susan herself did not enjoy that walk so much as usual, though the band was playing gay tunes, and the sun shone, and the sea twinkled merrily. For one thing she felt that she had been unjust to Sophia Jane, and allowed her to be punished for no fault; for, after all, itwasher money, and she had a right to do as she liked with it. Only why should she be so perverse and stupid as to have a will of her own, and not to carry out Susan’s wishes? What could she possibly be going to do with that half-crown? What could it be that she wanted so much that she was ready to give up all the nice games and plans they had thought of together? As she walked soberly along by Margaretta’s side Susan came to the conclusion that it would be best to make no more inquiries about it; she had noticed that Sophia Jane would seldom yield to persuasion and never to force, but sometimes if you left her quite alone she would do what you wished of her own accord. This once settled in her mind she felt more cheerful, but the walk was dull with no one but Margaretta to talk to, the open tarts at Buzzard’s had lost their flavour, and she was not at all sorry to get home.To do Sophia Jane justice she was quite ready to meet Susan’s advances in a friendly spirit, and did not seem disposed to bear malice. The little girls played together as usual, and Susan, true to her resolution, made not the smallest reference to the half-crown, but this silence made her think of it all the more. It was, indeed, seldom out of her mind, and every day her curiosity grew more intense; morning, noon, and night she wondered about that half-crown, and at last her head was so full of it that she mixed it up with everything she did in lessons or play-time. And at last, one day when she and Sophia Jane were reading aloud to Aunt Hannah, a new idea, and she thought a very good one, was suggested to her.In the lesson there happened to be an account of a miser, who lived in a wretched hovel, went without sufficient clothing, and almost starved himself for the sake of hoarding money; everyone thought him poor, but after his death it was found that he had lots of gold and silver coins hidden away in the mattress of his bed.“What makes people misers?” asked Susan, when she came to the end of this history.“Love of money, my dear,” answered Aunt Hannah.“Is every one who saves up money a miser?” continued Susan.“No. Because they may be saving it for a wise and good purpose; but if they hide it up as this man did, and only keep it for the pleasure of looking at it, then they certainly would be called misers.”“Are there any now?” asked Susan, fixing her eyes on Sophia Jane.“Oh, yes, I daresay there are, plenty,” answered Aunt Hannah, who was getting tired of the subject. “Now, get your geography books.”But during the rest of the lesson Susan’s mind was very far away, and she made all kinds of stupid mistakes, for what she was thinking of had nothing to do with the map of England. It was something much more interesting and important; for quite suddenly, while reading about the misers, an idea relating to Sophia Jane and the half-crown had darted into her head. She had hidden it away somewhere, and did not mean to spend it at all. The manner in which she had chinked those coins in her pocket and counted them over, and her secret and crafty behaviour since, all pointed to this. The next question was, “Wherehad she hidden it?” What mysterious hole had she found unknown to anyone? Susan ran over all the possible places in her mind, and was earnestly occupied in this when Aunt Hannah suddenly asked her a question:“Where is the town of Croydon?”“In the attic,” answered Susan hurriedly, and then flushed up and gave a guilty look at Sophia Jane, who merely stared in amazement.“My dear Susan,” said Aunt Hannah, “you are strangely inattentive this morning. I can’t let you play in the attic if you think of your games during lesson-time.”As the days passed, Susan, watching her companion narrowly, felt more and more certain that her suspicions were correct. True, she never saw her retire to the attic alone to count over and rejoice in her secret hoard, which real misers were always known to do; but there was this to be remarked:she bought nothing of Billy Stokes. When Susan saw her look wistfully at the cocoa-nut rock, and twisted sticks of sugar-candy, and remembered all those pennies, she asked:“Which are you going to buy?”“None of ’em,” said Sophia Jane, turning away. And now Susan doubted no longer. Sophia Jane was a miser!Sunday came soon after this. It was a day the children never liked much, because, for several reasons, it was dull. Aunt Hannah did not allow them either to play at their usual games or to read their usual books. Grace was put away, the attic was forbidden, and they had to be very quiet; the only books considered “fit for Sunday,” wereLine upon Line,The Peep of Day,The Dairyman’s DaughterandThe Pilgrim’s Progress. Bits of this last were always interesting, and the more so because it was a large old copy with big print and plenty of pictures throughout. That of Saul raising Samuel had a never-ceasing attraction for Susan, and Sophia Jane was fond of the part about Giant Despair and his grievous crab-tree cudgel. In the morning they all went with Aunt Hannah to chapel, which was only five minutes’ walk from the house; the prayers were long, and they could seldom understand the sermon, though they had to listen to it because Aunt Hannah asked them questions about it afterwards.Mr Bevis, the minister, who was a great friend of hers, often came to Belmont Cottage, and stayed to have tea. On these occasions it was difficult to Susan to think that he really was the same man who wore a long black gown on Sundays, and white bands under his chin, and often hit the red cushion so hard that she had seen dust rise from it. His voice was quite different, all mystery had left him, and he became just a common grey-haired gentleman, eating muffins and asking for more sugar in his tea. She was afraid sometimes that he would ask her some questions about his sermons, or perhaps where some text came from out of the Bible, but he never did so, and indeed took very little notice of the children. On this Sunday they were surprised to find, when the time came up for the sermon, that it was not Mr Bevis that was going to preach. A much younger man mounted the steep stairs into the pulpit, and gave out a text about the widow’s mite, and Susan began to listen attentively to the sermon which followed, for, strangely enough, it was all about “giving.” How exactly suited to Sophia Jane!“To give,” said the minister at the close of the sermon, “though it leaves a man poor, yet makes him rich; but to keep and hoard up treasure, though he be called wealthy, yet makes him exceeding poor. But the thing given need not be money; it may only be a kind effort, a forgiving word, a little trouble for some one, but if love go with it, then it becomes great and worthy at once, for it is part of the giver’s very self. It is not what a man gives, but how he gives it, that matters. Gold and silver coming from a full purse and a cold heart, is a barren gift compared to the widow’s mite, which was ‘all she had.’“‘Not what we give, but what we share,For the gift without the giver is bare.’”On the way home Aunt Hannah talked about the sermon a good deal with Nanna and Margaretta, for it was rather an event to hear a stranger at the chapel. She said that the preacher was “original,” but that she did not consider it a “Gospel” sermon, and preferred Mr Bevis; she doubted also whether the lines quoted at the end were from a sacred writer. Now these lines were just what Susan remembered best; they came into her head again and again that afternoon while she was learning a hymn by heart, and it was difficult not to mix the two up together. She was also occupied with wondering whether Sophia Jane had attended to the sermon, and would alter her mind about the half-crown. That was as mysterious as ever, and Sophia Jane’s pointed little face told nothing, though Susan fancied that there was a softer look upon it now and then, and an expression as of secret satisfaction.

Mademoiselle now turned her attention to her guest with many exclamations of pity and endearment. She took off Susan’s wet frock, boots, and stockings, rubbed her cold feet and hands, and placed her, wrapped in a large shawl in the rocking-chair close to the fire. Next she poured something out of the saucepan into a little white basin and knelt beside her, saying coaxingly:

“Take this, chérie, it will do you good.”

It was Monsieur’s soup Susan knew, prepared for his supper, and the saucepan was so small that there could not be much left; it was as bad as taking half his biscuit, and after having been so ungrateful to him, she felt she could not do it.

“No, thank you,” she said faintly, turning her head away from Delphine’s sharp black eyes and the steaming basin.

But Mademoiselle was a person of authority, and would not have it disputed.

“Mais oui, mais oui,” she said impatiently, taking some of the broth in the spoon. “Take it at once, mon enfant, it will do you good.”

She looked so determined that Susan, much against her own will, submissively took the spoon and drank the soup. It tasted poor and thin, like hot water with something bitter in it; but she finished it all, and Mademoiselle received the empty basin with a nod of satisfaction. Then she busied herself in examining the condition of Susan’s wet clothes, and presently hung them all to dry at a careful distance from the hearth. Susan herself, meanwhile, leaning lazily back in the rocking-chair, began to feel warm and comfortable again; how delicious it was after being so cold and wet and frightened! What would she have done without Monsieur’s help? His fire had warmed her, his broth had fed her, his house had sheltered her, and now he had gone out again into the cold night on her service. And yet, she had always been rude and naughty to him. What would Delphine say, Susan wondered, if she knew of it? She did not look as though she had the “temper of an angel” like her brother. Her black eyes had quick sparkles in them, quite unlike his, which were grey and quiet, shining always with a gentle light. Mademoiselle Delphine looked quite capable of being angry. Susan felt half afraid of her; and yet, it was pleasant to watch her neat movements as she darted swiftly about the room preparing another dish for Adolphe’s supper, and Susan kept her eyes fixed on her. At last, her arrangements over, she drew a chair near Susan, and took up her darning; as she did so there was a sudden pattering of rain-drops against the window-pane.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, holding up the brown sock, “that poor Adolphe! How he will be wet!”

This made Susan feel still more guilty, but she could not think of anything to say, and Delphine, who seemed to like talking better than silence, soon began again.

“Always rain, always clouds and mist, and shadow. The sun does not shine here as in our beautiful, bright Paris?”

“Doesn’t it ever rain in Paris?” asked Susan.

“Mais certainement, at moments,” replied Mademoiselle; “enough to give a charming freshness to the air.”

“Why did you come away?” asked Susan, gathering courage.

Delphine dropped the brown sock into her lap, and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

“Mon enfant,” she said slowly, “we are exiles! Exiles of poverty.”

Susan remembered that Sophia Jane had called Monsieur “a poor eggsile;” but this way of putting it sounded much better, and she repeated it to herself that she might be able to tell her when she went home.

Meanwhile Mademoiselle bent her eyes on her darning again, and proceeded:

“We were never rich, you see, in Paris, but we had enough to live in a pretty little appartement, very different from this. My brother Adolphe wrote articles for a paper of celebrity on political affairs; he had a great name for them, and if the pay was small it was certain. For me, I was occupied with the cares of the ménage, and we were both content with our lives—often even gay. But trouble came. There was a crise in affaires. Adolphe’s opinions were no longer those of the many; the paper for which he wrote changed its views to suit the world. Adolphe was offered a magnificent sum to change also, and write against his conscience. He lost his post; we became poorer every day. ‘Unless you write, Adolphe,’ I said to him, ‘we starve.’ He has a noble heart, my brother, full of honesty and truth. ‘I will rather starve,’ he replied, ‘than write lies.’ So after a time we resolved to try our fortune here in this cold, grey England. And we came. Adolphe was to become a Professor of French, but it was long before he found work, and we suffered. Mon Dieu! how we suffered during that first month!”

She paused a moment when she reached this point, and nodded her head several times without speaking, as though words failed her. Susan, who had listened to it all with the most earnest attention, feared she would not go on, and she wanted very much to know what happened next.

“Was it because you had no money?” she asked softly at length.

“My child,” said Delphine, her bright eyes moist with tears, which she winked quickly away, “it is a terrible thing to be hungry one’s self, but it is far worse to see anyone you love hungry and heart-broken, and yet patient. That is a thing one does not forget. But at last, when we almost despaired, the Bon Dieu sent us a friend. It is a little history which may, perhaps, amuse you; it was like this:—

“One night Adolphe was returning to me to say, as usual, that he could find no place; no one wanted a French master. He had scarcely eaten that day, and for weeks we had neither of us tasted meat, for we lived on what I could make by sewing, and it was very little. Adolphe therefore felt low in spirits and body, for he had walked about all the day, and his heart was heavy. As he passed a butcher’s shop near here, the wife, who stood in the doorway, greeted him. He had once bought of her some scraps of meat, such as you English give to your cats and dogs, but which, in hands that understand the French cuisine, can be made to form a ragout of great delicacy.

“‘Good evening,’ said she; ‘and how did the cat like his dinner?’

“My brother removed his hat and bowed, (you may have observed his noble air at such moments), then, drawing himself to his full height:—

“‘Madame,’ he replied, ‘Iam the cat!’

“This answer, joined to the graceful manner of Adolphe, struck the good Madame Jones deeply. They at once enter into conversation, and my brother relates to her his vain attempts to find employment. She listens with pity; she gives encouragement. Finally, before they part she forces upon his acceptance two pounds of fillet steak. He returns to me with the meat enveloped in a cabbage leaf, and that night we satisfy our hunger with appetising food, and our hearts are full of gratitude to Heaven and this good Madame Jones. And from that time,” finished Mademoiselle holding up one hand with the sock stretched upon it, “things mend. Madame Jones recommends Adolphe to Madame, your aunt; she again tells others of him, and he has now, enough to do. We are hungry no longer. It is not very gay in the appartement; the sun does not shine much, but we are together. Some day, who knows? we may be able to return to our dear Paris. One must have courage.” She stooped and kissed Susan’s upturned face, which was full of sympathy.

“If she knew how badly I’ve always behaved to Monsieur she wouldn’t have done that,” thought Susan penitently.

“There now rests one great wish in Adolphe’s heart,” continued Delphine, “and that is, to be able some day to reward Madame Jones for her goodness. Strangers, and without money, she fed and cheered us, and it is to her we owe our success. Never could either of us be so basely ungrateful as to forget that if we are again blessed by prosperity. Often has Adolphe, who is a fine English scholar, repeated to me the lines of your poet, Shakespeare:—

“Freeze, freeze thou winter sky;Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot.”

“Freeze, freeze thou winter sky;Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot.”

Susan had remained wide awake in spite of great fatigue during the whole of Mademoiselle’s story; but now, when she came to the poetry, which she repeated with difficulty and very slowly, there seemed to be something lulling in her voice. The room was warm too, and presently the sounds in it got mixed up together. The crackling of the fire, the bubbling of the saucepan, and Delphine’s tones, joined in a sort of lullaby. Susan’s eyelids gently closed, and she was fast asleep. So fast that the next thing she knew was that Buskin had somehow arrived and was carrying her upstairs; that Monsieur was in attendance with a candle, and that a cab was waiting at the door. But having noticed this, it was quite easy to go to sleep again, and she scarcely awoke when they arrived at Aunt Hannah’s and she was put to bed.

So it was not till broad daylight the next morning that she began to think over her adventures, and to remember all the wonderful things that had happened the day before. And in particular all the details of Delphine’s story came back to her, and the earnest gratitude with which she had talked of Mrs Jones’ kindness. “‘Strangers, and without money, she fed and cheered us.’ Now that is just exactly what Monsieur did for me when I first saw him,” thought Susan; “and all I’ve done in return is to laugh at him and give him trouble. I haven’t been grateful at all.” The more she considered her conduct the more ashamed she began to feel, and she could not help wondering what Mademoiselle Delphine would think of her if she knew. “At any rate,” she resolved, “I won’t do it any more. I never will laugh at lesson-time, and I’ll learn everything quite perfectly and be as good as ever I can, whatever Sophia Jane likes to say.” Sophia Jane, that naughty, badly behaved child! After all, it was her fault that Susan had done wrong, she went on to think, and it was also her fault that she had lost herself yesterday, because she had been so disagreeable about the Enemy and the basket. It was a comfort to be able to shift the blame on Sophia Jane’s shoulder, for Susan liked to think well of herself, and she began to feel more cheerful and satisfied as she dressed and went down-stairs. Here Nanna and Margaretta were prepared with all manner of questions about Monsieur, his house, and his sister, but Susan was quite determined to tell them very little. She repeated gravely, “They were very kind, and I like them very much;” and this was most unsatisfactory to her listeners, who craved for the tiniest details of her adventure. Sophia Jane alone sat mute, but sharply attentive to all that passed, hunching up her shoulders and fixing her blue eyes on each speaker in turn. She was, as usual, in disgrace Susan and, and had been forbidden to speak at meals; but as soon as breakfast was over she made the best use of the hour before lessons began, and examined her companion narrowly:

“Whatever makes you look so solemn?” she asked at last.

“I’m not going to laugh at Monsieur La Roche ever again,” said Susan solemnly. “I’ve made a good resolution.”

“What for?” asked Sophia Jane.

“Because he’s been very kind, and it’s wrong to laugh at him,” answered Susan.

Sophia Jane made a face that Susan very much disliked, it was so full of contempt.

“He hasn’t been kind to me, and I don’t care if it is wrong,” she said. “I shall do as I like.”

“But I want you not to either,” said Susan.

“I don’t care a bit. Why should I?” asked Sophia Jane, who was evidently in one of her most reckless moods.

Susan was silent. There was not much reason certainly that Sophia Jane should wish to please her; then a bright idea came into her head.

“If you’ll promise not to laugh at French lessons,” she said, “I’ll give you a new head for your doll as soon as I’ve got enough money.”

Sophia Jane considered this offer with her head on one side; then she asked:

“What price?”

“Half-a-crown,” answered Susan, “and that will buy the very best you can get.”

“Well,” said Sophia Jane slowly, “I promise.”

“But if you whisper, or make faces, or nudge me with your elbow you won’t have it,” added Susan hastily.

“You didn’t say all that at first,” said Sophia Jane; “but Iwillpromise.”

So the agreement was made, and moreover written down in Susan’s best printing hand, and signed by Sophia Jane. Even then Susan felt by no means sure of the result, for it was so much more natural to her companion to be naughty than good.

Thursday came, and Monsieur La Roche also at his usual hour; Susan put on her most discreet behaviour, and kept anxious watch over Sophia Jane. But there was no need for anxiety, her conduct was perfect, and she not only preserved the strictest gravity, but also showed the most marvellous quickness in learning her lessons. Though she might be a naughty child, no one could accuse her of being a dull one; she grasped the meaning of anything like lightning, and while Susan was steadily bringing her mind to bear on a French verb, Sophia Jane knew it already, and could repeat it without a mistake. She showed indeed such zeal and attention throughout the lessons, that it had a sobering effect even upon Nanna and Margaretta, who were so employed in wondering at her that they did not giggle nearly so much as usual.

Monsieur himself was not less surprised at this sudden improvement in his class, and above all in Sophia Jane, who had, without question, been his worst and most backward pupil. When his lesson was finished he beamed kindly at her and said, “It istr–rèsbien, mademoiselle. I am much pleased with you to-day.”

It was such a new thing for anyone to be much pleased with Sophia Jane that it hardly seemed possible, and everyone stared at her. Aunt Hannah turned round from her chair at the fireside to see who had deserved this praise. Sophia Jane! It was an unheard-of thing. The child herself was so unused to the sound of kindness and approval, that it startled her as though she had received a blow. She reddened, gave all her features a sudden twist, and blinked her eyes at Monsieur for an answer.

“Sit straight, Sophia Jane, and don’t make faces,” said Aunt Hannah, and the well-known accents of blame at once restored her to her usual state. The moment Monsieur was gone she was the old Sophia Jane again, tiresome and disobedient as ever. And Susan, remembering the compact about the half-crown, was not surprised at this, for, she thought to herself, “she’s not really doing it because she wants to be good, but because she wants a new head for the doll.” It was quite possible, therefore, still to feel that she was much better than her companion, and this was not unpleasant.

Meanwhile she was much looking forward to seeing Mademoiselle Delphine again, for Aunt Hannah intended to pay her a visit soon to thank her for her kindness, and she had promised to take both the little girls with her. Grace, the doll, must also be fetched home, for Susan had been too sleepy to remember her, and had left her behind. Monsieur’s house was found with some difficulty, but at length Sophia Jane’s sharp eyes spied a dusty card in a window with “Monsieur La Roche, Professor of French,” written on it, and they knew that this must be the right one. Susan wondered whether Mademoiselle would quickly open the door herself as she had done before, but this time a very untidy maid-servant appeared with smudges on her face. There were many other lodgers in the house beside Monsieur and his sister, who had the cheapest rooms of all, an underground one which Susan had thought to be the kitchen, and two tiny attics in the roof. They found Mademoiselle waiting to receive them with a yellow ribbon at her neck, and a manner full of gracious affability. Gambetta sat on the hearth, and the room was perfectly neat and clean, but by daylight; it wanted the air of snugness and comfort which Susan remembered. There was a very tiny fire, and it all looked bare and cold, for the window was so placed that the sunlight could not possibly enter. Mademoiselle partly made up, however, for the dreariness of her lodging by smiles and pleasant conversation. She was delighted to see them all, and to renew her acquaintance with Susan, chattering so fast that Sophia Jane had plenty of time to notice everything, and presently fixed her eyes, full of admiration, on Gambetta, who sat with rather a vexed look on his face by the small fire.

Presently he rose, stretched himself, humped his back, and then jumped up on his mistress’ lap.

“Fi donc!” said she, settling her knees more comfortably for him.

“That is a fine cat,” remarked Aunt Hannah; “a great pet, no doubt?”

“You say truly, Madame,” replied Delphine gently rubbing Gambetta under the chin; “but above all with my brother. I may say that Gambetta is the pupil of his eye. How often have I made him reproaches because he will leave the best of his potage, and pour it in the saucer for this cat! And that in the days when there was not too much potage, look you, for either of us. On his side the animal adores Adolphe. He knows his step, he has his little pleasantries for him, and his caresses. When my brother arrives at night tired, and perhaps a little dejected, it is Gambetta who knows how to cheer him. And then, he reminds us of Paris, he is the only thing of value we brought from there. He is an exile as well as we, and has shared our fortunes.”

“No wonder you are so fond of him,” said Aunt Hannah; “but I see he has no collar. Are you not afraid of losing such a valuable cat?”

“That is often in my mind,” replied Mademoiselle. “I fear it may arrive some day, for at times he makes long courses. The next time we have a little money to spare we will buy him one, and cause the address to be graved upon it.”

Both Susan and Sophia Jane listened with much interest to all this, and the latter was particularly impressed by it; she looked from Delphine’s expressive face to Gambetta’s when the collar was mentioned, and seemed about to ask a question, but checked herself suddenly. Grace being now produced from a table drawer, it was found that Mademoiselle’s clever fingers had actually made for her a new bonnet, a most elegant one, of drawn grey silk. While Susan was admiring it, Delphine turned to Sophia Jane:

“And the leetle companion?” she said, “has she also a poupée?”

Sophia Jane hung her head, and looked rather ashamed. “Only one without a head,” she muttered.

“Ah! that is sad indeed,” said Mademoiselle. “It is impossible to fashion a bonnet for a lady without a head, is it not? But when you have a new one, I will also make her a bonnet like this. I have yet some more silk.”

Susan could not help giving a glance full of meaning at her companion, but Sophia Jane did not respond to it, except by a dark frown.

“When Mademoiselle La Roche is so kind, Sophia Jane,” said Aunt Hannah, “the least you can do is to thank her and look pleasant. You never see Susan frown like that.”

On the way home there was a great deal to be said about Mademoiselle Delphine, and Susan was so delighted with Grace’s new bonnet that she could not repeat too often how kind it was of her to have made it.

“And aren’t you glad she’s going to make one for you too?” she asked.

Sophia Jane had been unusually silent and thoughtful since they had started, and made absent replies to all Susan’s remarks. She seemed to be turning something over in her mind, and the question had to be repeated before she took any notice. Then she only answered calmly:

“Oh, yes, of course,” as if it were the very merest trifle, and she had presents every day, which was by no means the case. Susan looked curiously at her, there were often moments when she did not know what to make of Sophia Jane. Then she said:

“Shall I ask Aunt Hannah to let us stop and look up at Miss Powter’s window?”

Miss Powter kept a toy-shop in the High Street, and only a few days ago had shown in her window quite a collection of dolls’ heads, both china and wax.

“If you like,” said Sophia Jane indifferently.

Susan ran up to Aunt Hannah, who was walking a little way in front, and put her request, which being granted, the little girls were soon gazing in at Mrs Powter’s shop-front. The heads were still there, a long row of them, some fair, some dark, some with blue eyes, some with black.

“Now, which should you choose?” asked Susan with much interest; “a wax or a china one?”

“A wax one,” said Sophia Jane; “because I could brush her hair.”

“But you couldn’t wash her,” objected Susan; “and china wears best.”

Sophia Jane did not seem disposed to linger long, though generally she was never tired of Miss Powter’s window. She did not enter into the matter with nearly enough spirit to please Susan, who as they walked on suggested:

“If I were you I should have that one—the last in the row, with fair hair. She’s rather like Grace, and you see, as their bonnets will be alike, we might call them sisters.”

“If I buy a head at all perhaps I may,” was Sophia’s puzzling remark.

“Well, but you’re sure to,” said Susan. “Next week I shall have the half-crown, and we can go and choose it together. You mean to, don’t you?”

“Perhaps I do and perhaps I don’t,” answered Sophia Jane, and could not be induced to say more on the subject.

Certainly she would win that half-crown easily, for her behaviour to Monsieur La Roche was worthy of all praise. Susan even began to think that she was overdoing it a little, for she was now beyond all the others in the class. Earnest effort, and a naturally quick intelligence joined to it, produced such good results that Monsieur had now a habit of turning to Sophia Jane when he asked an unusually difficult question. Could it be entirely for the sake of the half-crown that she made these extraordinary exertions? Susan began to feel jealous of her companion’s progress and a little ill-used; for although she tried hard to please Monsieur, it was quite evident that the pupil he was most proud of was Sophia Jane. “If he knew,” thought Susan to herself, “why she does it, perhaps he wouldn’t be so pleased. And I don’t suppose she’ll take so much trouble when once she’s got the money.”

It was a very new thing for Sophia Jane to be more praised than herself; and though Susan would not perhaps have acknowledged that she was sorry to see her good behaviour, it yet made her feel uncomfortable when Monsieur looked so very pleased with her. She had fully intended to be his model pupil herself, an example to all the others, and it was disappointing to give up that place to one whom she had considered so far beneath her. Besides this, it was a little difficult when the time came to part with the half-crown. It would only leave sixpence in her purse—Maria’s lucky sixpence with a hole in it—and that she did not want to spend. It was comforting, however, to remember that her birthday was near, when her mother would certainly send her some money as a present. And she was really anxious for Sophia Jane to have a doll to play with, and it would be nice to go and see Mademoiselle Delphine again about the bonnet; and finally, a bargain was a bargain, and decidedly the half-crown had been fairly earned. So, all these things considered, she cheerfully counted out one shilling, two sixpences, and six pennies, and went to look for Sophia Jane.

She was in the sitting-room alone, seated in Aunt Hannah’s large arm-chair with an open book in her lap which she was intently studying.

“Here’s your money,” said Susan, plunging at once into the business on hand.

Sophia Jane neither answered or took the least notice; but as this was often a tiresome way of hers Susan was not surprised, and only repeated a little louder:

“Here’s your money!”

Sophia Jane looked up from her book, which Susan now saw to be a French grammar, and said, holding out her hand:

“Give it to me.”

“You ought to say ‘Thank you,’” remarked Susan in the reproving voice she often used to her companion.

Sophia Jane counted the coins carefully, going twice through the pennies to be sure there were the right number. Then she said shortly:

“It’s all right.”

“Of course it’s right!” cried Susan indignantly. But it was not of the least use to be angry with Sophia Jane; she was now dropping the pieces of money one by one into her pocket with a thoughtful air, and seemed hardly to know that Susan was there. The latter waited a moment and then said:

“Shall I ask Aunt Hannah if we may go to Miss Powter’s this afternoon?”

“What for?” asked Sophia Jane.

“What for!” repeated Jane in extreme astonishment. “Why, of course, now you’ve got the money, you’ll go and buy the head.”

Sophia Jane took up her grammar again and bent her eyes doggedly upon it.

“I’m not going to buy a head,” she answered.

This decided reply was so unexpected that for the moment Susan was speechless; for on the whole Sophia Jane had seemed to look forward to the purchase, and they had made many plans together about it, so that she had come to think of it as a settled thing. It made her feel injured and disappointed to be thrust out of the matter in this sudden way, for if the head was not to be bought how would Sophia Jane spend the money? She evidently had some secret plan of her own in which Susan was not to share. With a rising colour in her face she said at last:

“I don’t think that’s fair.”

“It’s my money, and I shall do as I like with it,” was Sophia Jane’s only reply.

“But I shouldn’t have given it you,” said Susan hotly, “unless you were going to buy a head.”

Sophia Jane chuckled. “Well, I’ve got it now,” she said, “and I shall keep it.”

“What a naughty, selfish, disagreeable little girl she was!” thought Susan as she stood looking angrily at her.

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.

“That’s a secret,” said Sophia Jane, chinking the money gently in her pocket.

“I believe,” said Susan, now irritated beyond endurance, “that you mean to spend it all on Billy Stokes’ day.”

Billy Stokes was a man who came round once a week selling sweetmeats, and it was Sophia Jane’s custom to spend her pennies in this way when she had any.

“If you do,” continued Susan, getting more cross every moment, “you’ll be dreadfully greedy, and most likely you’ll make yourself ill.”

Sophia Jane only smiled gently and settled herself more comfortably in her chair.

“And I suppose you remember,” said Susan, whose voice became louder and more defiant with each sentence, “that if you don’t get the head you can’t have the bonnet.”

The last word was almost shrieked, for she had now quite lost her temper, and at this moment Margaretta looked into the room. Now it was always taken for granted by the household that in any dispute Sophia Jane must be in the wrong; so now Margaretta came at once to this conclusion, in spite of Susan’s hot and angry looks.

“How can you be so naughty, Sophia Jane,” she said, “as to quarrel with a sweet-tempered child like Susan? You must have been very unkind and tiresome to vex her so much.”

Neither of the little girls spoke, for Susan was still feeling too angry, and Sophia Jane took a scolding as a matter of course.

“If you don’t say you’re sorry,” pursued Margaretta, “I sha’n’t take you out with me this afternoon. I don’t wish to have a sulky little girl with me. Susan shall go alone.”

There was no word from Sophia Jane, or even any sign of having heard this speech. At another time Susan would have said something in her defence, for she knew this blame to be entirely unjust. But just now she was so vexed with her that she kept silence, and allowed Margaretta to go on without interruption.

“Very well,” said the latter, “then you stay at home by yourself. Aunt and Nanna are going to see Mrs Bevis, and Susan and I shall have a walk together. Very likely we should call in at Buzzard’s as we come back and have some tarts.”

Susan glanced at her companion’s face to see how she took this last remark. Buzzard’s open tarts were things that Sophia Jane specially liked. Was she vexed? No. One corner of her mouth was tucked in, in a way which looked far more like secret satisfaction. It was very annoying, but after all she could not prefer to be left alone in the dull house that bright day, so most likely she was concealing her disappointment.

Susan herself did not enjoy that walk so much as usual, though the band was playing gay tunes, and the sun shone, and the sea twinkled merrily. For one thing she felt that she had been unjust to Sophia Jane, and allowed her to be punished for no fault; for, after all, itwasher money, and she had a right to do as she liked with it. Only why should she be so perverse and stupid as to have a will of her own, and not to carry out Susan’s wishes? What could she possibly be going to do with that half-crown? What could it be that she wanted so much that she was ready to give up all the nice games and plans they had thought of together? As she walked soberly along by Margaretta’s side Susan came to the conclusion that it would be best to make no more inquiries about it; she had noticed that Sophia Jane would seldom yield to persuasion and never to force, but sometimes if you left her quite alone she would do what you wished of her own accord. This once settled in her mind she felt more cheerful, but the walk was dull with no one but Margaretta to talk to, the open tarts at Buzzard’s had lost their flavour, and she was not at all sorry to get home.

To do Sophia Jane justice she was quite ready to meet Susan’s advances in a friendly spirit, and did not seem disposed to bear malice. The little girls played together as usual, and Susan, true to her resolution, made not the smallest reference to the half-crown, but this silence made her think of it all the more. It was, indeed, seldom out of her mind, and every day her curiosity grew more intense; morning, noon, and night she wondered about that half-crown, and at last her head was so full of it that she mixed it up with everything she did in lessons or play-time. And at last, one day when she and Sophia Jane were reading aloud to Aunt Hannah, a new idea, and she thought a very good one, was suggested to her.

In the lesson there happened to be an account of a miser, who lived in a wretched hovel, went without sufficient clothing, and almost starved himself for the sake of hoarding money; everyone thought him poor, but after his death it was found that he had lots of gold and silver coins hidden away in the mattress of his bed.

“What makes people misers?” asked Susan, when she came to the end of this history.

“Love of money, my dear,” answered Aunt Hannah.

“Is every one who saves up money a miser?” continued Susan.

“No. Because they may be saving it for a wise and good purpose; but if they hide it up as this man did, and only keep it for the pleasure of looking at it, then they certainly would be called misers.”

“Are there any now?” asked Susan, fixing her eyes on Sophia Jane.

“Oh, yes, I daresay there are, plenty,” answered Aunt Hannah, who was getting tired of the subject. “Now, get your geography books.”

But during the rest of the lesson Susan’s mind was very far away, and she made all kinds of stupid mistakes, for what she was thinking of had nothing to do with the map of England. It was something much more interesting and important; for quite suddenly, while reading about the misers, an idea relating to Sophia Jane and the half-crown had darted into her head. She had hidden it away somewhere, and did not mean to spend it at all. The manner in which she had chinked those coins in her pocket and counted them over, and her secret and crafty behaviour since, all pointed to this. The next question was, “Wherehad she hidden it?” What mysterious hole had she found unknown to anyone? Susan ran over all the possible places in her mind, and was earnestly occupied in this when Aunt Hannah suddenly asked her a question:

“Where is the town of Croydon?”

“In the attic,” answered Susan hurriedly, and then flushed up and gave a guilty look at Sophia Jane, who merely stared in amazement.

“My dear Susan,” said Aunt Hannah, “you are strangely inattentive this morning. I can’t let you play in the attic if you think of your games during lesson-time.”

As the days passed, Susan, watching her companion narrowly, felt more and more certain that her suspicions were correct. True, she never saw her retire to the attic alone to count over and rejoice in her secret hoard, which real misers were always known to do; but there was this to be remarked:she bought nothing of Billy Stokes. When Susan saw her look wistfully at the cocoa-nut rock, and twisted sticks of sugar-candy, and remembered all those pennies, she asked:

“Which are you going to buy?”

“None of ’em,” said Sophia Jane, turning away. And now Susan doubted no longer. Sophia Jane was a miser!

Sunday came soon after this. It was a day the children never liked much, because, for several reasons, it was dull. Aunt Hannah did not allow them either to play at their usual games or to read their usual books. Grace was put away, the attic was forbidden, and they had to be very quiet; the only books considered “fit for Sunday,” wereLine upon Line,The Peep of Day,The Dairyman’s DaughterandThe Pilgrim’s Progress. Bits of this last were always interesting, and the more so because it was a large old copy with big print and plenty of pictures throughout. That of Saul raising Samuel had a never-ceasing attraction for Susan, and Sophia Jane was fond of the part about Giant Despair and his grievous crab-tree cudgel. In the morning they all went with Aunt Hannah to chapel, which was only five minutes’ walk from the house; the prayers were long, and they could seldom understand the sermon, though they had to listen to it because Aunt Hannah asked them questions about it afterwards.

Mr Bevis, the minister, who was a great friend of hers, often came to Belmont Cottage, and stayed to have tea. On these occasions it was difficult to Susan to think that he really was the same man who wore a long black gown on Sundays, and white bands under his chin, and often hit the red cushion so hard that she had seen dust rise from it. His voice was quite different, all mystery had left him, and he became just a common grey-haired gentleman, eating muffins and asking for more sugar in his tea. She was afraid sometimes that he would ask her some questions about his sermons, or perhaps where some text came from out of the Bible, but he never did so, and indeed took very little notice of the children. On this Sunday they were surprised to find, when the time came up for the sermon, that it was not Mr Bevis that was going to preach. A much younger man mounted the steep stairs into the pulpit, and gave out a text about the widow’s mite, and Susan began to listen attentively to the sermon which followed, for, strangely enough, it was all about “giving.” How exactly suited to Sophia Jane!

“To give,” said the minister at the close of the sermon, “though it leaves a man poor, yet makes him rich; but to keep and hoard up treasure, though he be called wealthy, yet makes him exceeding poor. But the thing given need not be money; it may only be a kind effort, a forgiving word, a little trouble for some one, but if love go with it, then it becomes great and worthy at once, for it is part of the giver’s very self. It is not what a man gives, but how he gives it, that matters. Gold and silver coming from a full purse and a cold heart, is a barren gift compared to the widow’s mite, which was ‘all she had.’

“‘Not what we give, but what we share,For the gift without the giver is bare.’”

“‘Not what we give, but what we share,For the gift without the giver is bare.’”

On the way home Aunt Hannah talked about the sermon a good deal with Nanna and Margaretta, for it was rather an event to hear a stranger at the chapel. She said that the preacher was “original,” but that she did not consider it a “Gospel” sermon, and preferred Mr Bevis; she doubted also whether the lines quoted at the end were from a sacred writer. Now these lines were just what Susan remembered best; they came into her head again and again that afternoon while she was learning a hymn by heart, and it was difficult not to mix the two up together. She was also occupied with wondering whether Sophia Jane had attended to the sermon, and would alter her mind about the half-crown. That was as mysterious as ever, and Sophia Jane’s pointed little face told nothing, though Susan fancied that there was a softer look upon it now and then, and an expression as of secret satisfaction.

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