Kitabı oku: «The Children of Wilton Chase», sayfa 5

CHAPTER IX.
FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING

"Maggie, Maggie, wake up, I say!"

"Yes, who's there. I'm so sleepy. Oh, it's you, Eric. What do you want?"

"It's father's birthday, and the clock has just struck four. You promised you'd get up at four."

"Yes; but, oh dear me, I am so sleepy."

Marjorie yawned, and twisted about on her pillow.

"Are you sure it wasn't three that struck, Eric?"

"No, four; I counted the strokes. I thought you liked getting up early."

"So I do, but don't talk so loud, or you'll wake Ermie."

"Catch me wanting her to get up, cross old thing!"

"Eric, you are unkind, and Basil wouldn't like it."

"Bother Basil! what do I care? I say, Mag, are you going to pop out of bed?"

"I suppose so. Go outside the door and wait for me, Eric, and do be quiet."

Eric departed, whistling under his breath, and kicking his heels so restlessly that only the soundest sleeper could still remain in the land of dreams.

Marjorie rubbed her eyes, stretched herself, yawned, and finally, stimulated by threatening knocks of Eric's on the other side of the door, managed to tear herself away from her warm snug bed. She saw the sunlight streaming in through the closed window-curtains, but August though it was, this early hour of the morning was chilly, and Marjorie shivered as she tumbled not too tidily into her clothes. Eric would not give her time to take her usual cold plunge-bath, and she was decidedly of opinion that plans which looked delightful the night before are less alluring when viewed by the candid light of morning.

Marjorie was a hearty child in every way, hearty at work and at play, hearty, too, at sleep, and it was hard to be debarred of quite a third of her usual allowance. She dipped her face and neck, however, in cold water, which effectually woke her up, and when she had brushed out her thick hair, and knelt for a moment or two at her little bed to say her usual morning prayers, she felt quite cheerful, and joined Eric with her usual sunny good humored face.

"That's right," said Eric, clasping her hand. "Isn't the morning scrumptious? Not a bit of a cloud anywhere. Now let's be off to wake father."

"To wake father! at four o'clock in the morning! What do you mean, Eric?"

"It's twelve minutes past four, if it comes to that," said Eric. "You were an awful time getting into your clothes, Mag. And why shouldn't we wake father? It's his birthday. He will like us to wake him!"

Marjorie, however, judging from her own too recent experience, thought differently.

"It really is too early," she said. "He wouldn't like it a bit, and why should we vex father because it's his birthday?"

"You forget that he never is vexed with anything we do on his birthday," said Eric. "It's our day, and we couldn't be scolded, whatever we did. Do come along, Maggie; I have it all planned so jolly. Father is to come with us, and unmoor the boat, and help us to gather the water-lilies. Do come on, and don't waste the precious time. I tell you, father will like it."

Marjorie was very unselfish, but she was also easily persuaded, particularly by her chosen and special chum, Eric. Accordingly, after a little further demur, she consented to go with her brother to their father's room.

It was very still in the house, for not a servant as yet had thought of stirring. Eric pushed back the oak doors, which so effectually divided the nursery people from the grown ups.

"There you stay, you nasty things!" he said, hooking them back with an air of great triumph. "This is our day, and you can't keep us prisoners. Come along, Mag, I've broken the prison-bars."

Marjorie's own spirits were rising fast. After all, it was delicious to be up in the early morning. She was glad she had taken the trouble to get out of bed now.

The children ran down the wide corridor into which the best bedrooms opened. They paused at length outside their father's door. Here Marjorie once again grew a little pale, but Eric, with a look of resolution, turned the handle of the door and went in.

Marjorie followed him on tiptoe. Father's room was very large, and to the culprits who stood just inside the door, looked solemn and awe-inspiring. Even Eric felt a little subdued; the chamber seemed so vast, and the great four-poster, away by itself in an alcove, had a remote and unapproachable aspect. It was one thing to have a rollicking, merry, good-humored father to romp about with all day, and another to approach the solemn personage who reposed in the center of that bed.

"Let's come away," whispered Marjorie.

"Fudge!" retorted Eric. "It's father's birthday! It's our day! Come along – he can't be angry with us even if he wished."

Thus exhorted, but with many misgivings at her heart, Marjorie followed her brother across the big room and up the two steps which led to the alcove.

A picture of the children's mother hung over the mantelpiece. It was a very girlish picture, and represented a slim figure in a white dress, with a blue sash round her waist. The face was a little like Ermengarde's, but the eyes which looked down now at the two children had Marjorie's expression in them. There were other portraits of Mrs. Wilton in the house, later and more matronly portraits; but Marjorie liked this the best – the girlish mother seemed in touch with her youthful self.

"Do come away, Eric," she said again, and tears almost sprang to her eyes. It seemed cruel to wake father just to add to their own pleasure.

Eric, however, was not a boy to be lightly turned from his purpose. He had very little sentiment about him, and had stern ideas as to what he termed his rights. Father's birthday was the children's lawful day: on that day they were one and all of them kings, and the "king could do no wrong."

Accordingly this little king, with a somewhat withering glance at his sister, stepped confidently up to the big bed, raised himself on tiptoe, so as to secure a better view, and looked down with his chubby expectant face on his slumbering father.

It is all very well for the little folk, who are in bed and asleep as a rule between eight and nine in the evening, to feel lively and larky, and quite up to any holiday pranks at four o'clock on a summer's morning; but the older and less wise people who sometimes do not close their eyes until the small hours, are often just enjoying their deepest and sweetest slumbers about the time the sun likes to get up.

This was the case with Mr. Wilton. He had not arrived home until midnight – he had found some letters before him which must be replied to – he had even dipped into a book in which he was specially interested. Then his favorite spaniel Gyp had begun to howl in his kennel, and Mr. Wilton had gone out to see what was the matter.

So, from one cause or another, he had not laid his tired head on his pillow until one and two o'clock in the morning.

Therefore Mr. Wilton was now very sound asleep indeed, and not Eric's buzzing whispers nor Marjorie's cautious repentant "Hush – hush, Eric!" disturbed him in the very least.

"How lazy of father!" pronounced Eric in a tone of withering scorn. "He has not even stirred. Oh, you needn't go on with your 'hush – hush!' Mag – he's as sound as a button. Look here, I must speak a little louder. Fa – ther! oh, I say, father, open your eyes!"

Eric's voice became piteous, but the eyes remained closed, the face peaceful and immovable.

"We might both of us jump on the bed at the same moment," said Eric. "That ought to shake him a good bit, and perhaps he'd begin to yawn. Oh, jolly, it's a spring mattress; we can give him a great bounce if we jump on together. Now then, Mag, be sure you jump when I do."

Marjorie, still looking rather terrified, but led on by Eric's indomitable spirit, did spring on the bed, and so heavily that she rolled on to Mr. Wilton's leg. He started, groaned, said "Down, Gyp!" in a very angry voice, and once more pursued his way in dreamland, without any idea that two little imps were perched each on one side of his pillow.

"It's too bad," said Eric. "The whole morning will go at this rate; it will soon be five o'clock. Oh, I say – pater – father – gov! do wake!"

"You shouldn't say pater or gov," said Marjorie. "Father doesn't like it."

"Much he cares! He doesn't hear anything. He's stone deaf – he's no good at all!"

"Well, we shouldn't say words he doesn't like, even if he is asleep," said Marjorie in her properest tones.

"I like that," said Eric. "And why mayn't I say pater, I wonder? Pater is the Latin of father. It's a much nicer word than father, and all our fellows say it. You think it isn't respectful because you're an ignorant girl, Maggie, but Julius Cæsar used to say pater when he was young, so I suppose I may."

"Father looks very handsome in his sleep," said Marjorie, turning her head on one side, and looking sentimentally at her parent.

"He doesn't," said Eric. "He looks much better with his eyes open. Oh, I say, I can't stand this! The morning will go, and we'll never get our water-lilies. Father, wake up! Father, it's your birthday! Don't you hear us? Here, Mag, let's begin to jump up and down again on the bed. Couldn't you manage to hop on his leg by accident? You're heavier than me."

Marjorie and Eric joined hands, the fun entered into their souls, and they certainly jumped with energy.

Mr. Wilton began to have a very bad dream. Gyp, his favorite spaniel, seemed suddenly to have changed into a fiend, and to have seized him by the leg. Finally the dream dissolved itself into a medley of laughter and childish cries. He opened his eyes: two little figures with very red faces and very disordered hair were tumbling about on his bed.

"Eh – what? Is the house on fire?" he gasped.

"Oh, father! At last!" exclaimed Marjorie. She flung herself upon him, and began to kiss him all over his face.

"My dear child – very affectionate of you, no doubt, but why this sudden rush of devotion in the middle of the night?"

"It isn't!" exclaimed Eric in a voice of awful emphasis. "It's nearly five o'clock!"

"And it's your birthday," said Marjorie, beginning to kiss him again.

"Yes," continued Eric, "it's your birthday, father. Our day, you know."

The victim in the bed lay quite still for a moment. That much grace he felt he must allow himself to recover from the shock of the announcement. Then he said, as cheerfully as he could speak, "What did you say the hour was?"

"Close on five o'clock – awfully late," answered both children, shouting their words into his ears.

"All right; what do you want me to do?"

"To get up at once, and come with us to gather water-lilies."

"Oh!"

"Isn't it a delightful plan?"

"Very. Are you sure the morning isn't wet?"

"The morning wet, father! The sun is shining like anything. Run to the window, Mag, and pull the blind up. Now you can see, can't you, father?"

"I can, thanks, Eric."

"Well, aren't you getting up?"

"I will, if you will both favor me by retiring into the corridor for five minutes. And listen, even though it is my birthday, it isn't necessary to have any more vic – I mean, we need not wake the rest of the house."

"Oh, we'll be as quiet as mice," retorted Marjorie. "Dear father, you'll promise to be very quick?"

"Dear Maggie, I promise; I am your devoted and humble servant for the rest of the day."

"Isn't father delicious?" said Marjorie, as they waited in the passage.

"Delicious!" retorted Eric; "what a girl's expression! One would think you were going to eat him. I tell you what it is, pater ought to be very much obliged to us for waking him. He was lazy, but he'll have a time of it for the rest of the day."

CHAPTER X.
THE REIGN OF CHAOS

A cold bath and a rapid toilet afterward effectually removed all traces of sleep from Mr. Wilton's eyes.

"I feel like a sort of knight putting on my armor," he said to himself. "I am going on a crusade for the rest of the day. A crusade against all my established customs, against all my dearly loved order, against my newspaper, my books, my quiet pleasant meals. Well, it is for the sake of the children; and their mother, bless her" – here he glanced at the picture of the girl over the mantelpiece – "would smile at me if she could. Oh, yes, I buckle on my armor cheerfully enough. Hey, for Chaos! Hey, for wild Mirth and childish Frivolity! Here I come, Eric and Maggie – poor patient little mice that you are! Here's father at last. Give me your hand, Mag: you may jump on my shoulder, if you like. Now for a race downstairs to the garden, and then you can tell me what you got me out of my bed in the middle of the night for."

Miss Wilton was quite right when she left the Chase the day before. She certainly would not have enjoyed being awakened from her early morning slumbers by the wild raid which now took place through the old house. There was a scamper, a rush, some shouts, not only from childish throats, but from a manly and decidedly bass voice. The poor respectable old house would have looked shocked if it could, but who cared what anything looked or felt when Chaos was abroad?

About three hours later a somewhat draggled-looking party might have been seen approaching the Chase. They were all dead tired, and all very untidy, not to say disreputable in appearance. The little girl's brown Holland frock was not only torn, but smeared with mud and some sort of green mossy stuff which produces a deep stain very difficult for laundresses to remove. The little boy was also in a sorry plight, for he had a scratch across his cheek, and his knickers were cut through at the knees; while the big boy, in other words, the man, looked the most untidy, the most fatigued, the most travel-stained of all.

Ermengarde, in her neat white cool frock, with a green sash tied round her slim waist, and her long fair hair streaming down her back, came out to meet this party. She was accompanied by Lucy, who was also neat and fresh and trim. The two had stepped out of the house to gather a few flowers to put on the breakfast-table, and now they assumed all the virtuous airs of those good moral people who do not get up to catch the early worm.

"What a figure you are, Maggie! and what a disgraceful noise you and Eric made this morning," she began, in her most grown-up and icy tones.

"Oh, please don't scold us, Ermengarde," said Mr. Wilton. "Look at our water-lilies, gaze well at them, and be merciful."

Yes, the water-lilies were superb – each jaded conqueror was laden with them – buds and blossom and leaf, all were there —such buds, such blossoms, heavy and fragrant with richness.

Ermie adored flowers. She uttered a little shriek of delight when her father held up a great mass of enormous waxen bells for her to bury her face in.

"Oh, delicious!" she exclaimed, "but how tired you all are!"

"Yes, yes, yes," exclaimed Victor No. 1, "tired and starving, absolutely starving. Get us some breakfast, good Ermie, and put the lilies in water as quickly as you can."

Miss Nelson presided at the breakfast-table, and as this meal was eaten in the comfortable old schoolroom, and as Miss Nelson looked just as usual, just as orderly, just as neat and prim as she did yesterday, and as she would again to-morrow, her presence had a certain calming effect upon the rioters. They ate their meal with some decorum, and not more than three children spoke at the same moment.

There was a grand consultation immediately after breakfast as to the proceedings of the day, and here it must be confessed Chaos once more mounted his throne, and held a most determined sway.

After ten minutes of babel, Marjorie suddenly squatted herself on the floor, and began to write furiously.

This was her programme: "Rush upstairs and dress as fast as possible – don't be long on account of keeping the carriages waiting. Put on our oldest, but we must be neat on account of father not liking dirty hands, and smuts on the top of the nose, and smears anywhere – we had better wear our best, perhaps – tumble into the carts and carriages and wagons, and drive to Bee's Head, that's ten miles away. Eric wants to go, the others don't; Lucy and I are for Salter's Point, on account of the shells, and that's in the other direction. I think it's quite eleven miles. Ermengarde votes for the Deep Woods, although I hate midges. Well, we'll all go somewhere, and we'll take every scrap of food that the house holds, even if there is to be a famine afterward; well, perhaps we oughtn't to take every scrap, for the servants at home will be hungry, and we'll want supper ourselves; we'll be starving for it, I expect. Eric says the ferrets must come with us, for they ought to have fun like the rest of us on father's birthday, particularly Shark, who has a great sense of humor. Ermie is nearly crying, for she's afraid Shark will bite her, and Basil is winking at her, and trying to comfort her, and he's frowning at Eric with the other side of his mouth, and Eric is putting out the tip of his tongue when he thinks no one is looking at him, which is vulgar, even though it is father's birthday. What was I saying? I do get cramped and mixed, huddled up on the floor, scribbling. We're to go for a long drive, to Bee's Head, or somewhere, and the horses and the carriages and the servants and the ferrets and the children and father and all the food are to come too, and we are to have a great ball – no, that's in the evening – and supper, and the fireworks will go off. Dear, dear, where are the fireworks to be squeezed? it's a most confusing sort of day."

"Maggie!" suddenly exclaimed Basil.

She raised a flushed face.

"What are you doing, huddled up on the floor like a ball; and what's that queer squiggly bit of paper in your hand? – it looks all over hieroglyphics. Here, I must see!" he snatched at the paper, held it aloft, and read Marjorie's programme aloud amid the roars of the company.

"I was only trying to make what we said less confusing," answered Marjorie. "I was getting it down as hard as I could, and I said I was mixed; anyone else would have been mixed too, I think."

"I should rather think they would," said Basil. "So that's the nonsense we have been talking all this time. Thank you, Maggie, for showing us ourselves. Now, sir," here Basil turned round and addressed his father. Mr. Wilton looked at him with the greatest admiration; he felt years younger than his son at the moment.

"Now, sir," proceeded Basil, "we cannot go to Bee's Head, and Salter's Point, and the Deep Woods all in the same morning, as the three places happen to be in totally different directions, and as each of them also happens to be from ten to twelve miles from here. We must make a choice, and we must abide by it. It's your birthday, father, and you ought to choose. Which shall it be?"

"Thank you, my boy, but I would not have the responsibility of a choice for the world – I don't feel equal to it. You young folks must make the selection among you."

"I'm for Bee's Head and the lighthouse!" screamed Eric; "there's a man at the lighthouse of the name of Bolster, and he promised to get me some crabs, and I know he'd like to have a good stare at Shark. I'm for Bee's Head and the lighthouse; that's what I'm for!"

"I think the Deep Woods would be best," said Ermengarde. "It's sure to be grilling in the sun to-day, and I expect there'll be a good deal of dust, and the dust and the sun together do make your face feel so horrid and smarty. Don't they, Basil?"

"I don't know," said Basil, whose eyes were trying to interpret whether his father had any unspoken choice which might guide his own.

"Whereas in the Deep Woods it will be deliciously cool and fresh," proceeded Ermengarde in her sedate tones.

"Think of the midges and the gnats!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Oh, I'd rather have the sun any day! Who cares whether we are burnt or not? Now at Salter's Point there are such lovely shells, real cowries, and those little pointers, and those sweet little yellow sea-snail shells."

"Yes – yes – yes – I want to go to Salter's Point!" exclaimed Lucy.

"Oh, the lighthouse is twice the fun," exclaimed Eric, "and I know Shark – "

"Once for all, father," exclaimed Ermengarde, "you are not going to allow that odious ferret to destroy the whole pleasure of our day? I do wish, father, you'd vote for the Deep Woods."

"Here comes Miss Nelson; she shall decide," answered Mr. Wilton. "No, Eric, my boy, Shark must stay at home. There! I have said it – no more words. Miss Nelson, please come and be our deliverer. These young people have divided ideas with regard to the locality for the great birthday picnic. Some vote for Bee's Head, some for Salter's Point, some for the Deep Woods – all cannot be pleased; you shall therefore make the choice. Where are we to go?"

All the anxious pairs of eyes were immediately turned on Miss Nelson. She quite blushed under their battery.

"Think of Bolster and the lighthouse!" exclaimed Eric. "Bolster has a tank where he keeps his crabs alive. He can take us up the tower, too, and show us the lanterns."

"Think of the shade of the Woods," said Ermengarde.

"Oh, those cowrie and yellow snail shells!" sighed Marjorie.

Miss Nelson only caught these last words. She looked down into the pleading gray eyes of her favorite, and her choice was made.

"We will go to Salter's Point," she said.

Some hurrahs, accompanied by some groans, met her decision; but it was a satisfaction to have anything fixed, and the children rushed upstairs to prepare for the great picnic.

It was discovered that the large wagonette and the pony-carriage could accommodate the whole party, and accordingly, soon after eleven o'clock, they started in the highest possible spirits – even Miss Nelson casting away her mantle of care for the time, and Mr. Wilton, who had now thoroughly entered into the spirit of the fun, enjoying himself as much as the youngest child present.

It was a glorious day, the breeze was only fresh, and the dust, notwithstanding Ermengarde's fears, by no means excessive.

The little girl soon therefore got over her slight disappointment at Miss Nelson's choice not having been the same as her own. She was seated by her favorite Basil's side, in the pony-carriage, the more riotous party, with Mr. Wilton at their head, having elected to go in the wagonette.

Miss Nelson and two of the younger children sat opposite to Ermengarde and Basil. Ermengarde would rather have had another vis-à-vis, but as the governess devoted her whole time to amusing the two little ones, Ermengarde decided to take no notice of her, and to give herself up to the delights of Basil's conversation.

Basil was a boy who, with all his sunny and pleasant ways, had a very reserved nature. There were in reality two Basils: one with a kindly word, a joke, a light jest, an affectionate manner for each and every one he came across; the other was made of sterner stuff – grave, with deep thoughts and high aspirations, and very strong, almost rigid ideas with regard to honor and rectitude – this was the inner Basil, whose existence Ermengarde knew of, whom she adored, loved, admired, dreaded.

This Basil had a heart which could be wounded, and Ermengarde knew well that, if she caused that deep heart a pang, it might close its doors against her, and shut her out in the cold, outside its affection and influence forever.

By superficial observers Basil was considered one of the most forgiving and the most easily pleased people in the house. But Ermengarde knew better. She knew things might happen which might make Basil a very stern and unrelenting young judge.

This morning, however, all was sunshine. Basil was in his sunniest humor. He would not talk all the time to Ermengarde, but gave Miss Nelson and the children enough of his conversation to make them feel in it all, and consequently in excellent spirits. But for his sister he had some tender glances, and one or two allusions which no one understood but herself, for the brother and sister had spent happy birthdays like this in their mother's time, and they were both thinking of her to-day.

A part of the road which led to Salter's Point wound through the woods which lay at the back of Wilton Chase. There was plenty of shade, therefore, here, and Ermengarde lay back on her comfortable seat with a great feeling of rest and security. She almost forgot that miserable day which followed the boys' return from school; she even looked at Miss Nelson without being haunted by any sense of reproach. The governess's worn face looked quite peaceful and happy; and Ermengarde hoped that she had really forgotten that tiresome old-fashioned miniature which had so mysteriously disappeared from her room. Ermie trusted that the stolen miniature would soon be forgotten, and she was fully convinced that her share in its disappearance would never be known.

The wagonette, with its two horses, had disappeared from sight, and the pony-carriage, drawn by the pretty Shetlands with their tinkling bells, was about to emerge through the park-gates, when there came a sudden interruption. This was caused by Collins, the head keeper, who stepped across the road, and touched his hat to the whole party, and to Ermengarde in particular.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Nelson," he said, addressing himself first of all to the governess, "but the fact is we are in a little bit of trouble at home, and the good wife said if I stood here I'd be sure to see Miss Ermengarde passing, and she knew Miss Ermengarde would come to Susy, just for one minute, as she wants her so very badly."

On hearing these words Ermengarde turned so white that Miss Nelson thought she was going to faint. She started to her feet at once with a half-cry. "Oh, please let me go," she said eagerly. Her hand shook; she would have leaped out of the carriage had not Basil held her back.

"Sit quiet, Ermengarde," said her governess authoritatively. "Now, Collins, please explain why it is necessary that Miss Wilton should see your daughter at this inconvenient moment, when we are just on our way to Salter's Point; you are aware that Mr. Wilton has forbidden any intimacy."

"Oh, let me go; I won't keep you two minutes," said Ermie.

"Quiet, Ermengarde. Now, Collins, what does Susan want with Miss Wilton?"

Collins had a strongly-marked face, and it flushed now rather angrily.

"I can't say, I'm sure, miss," he said. "The poor child is all in a fluster, and as to Miss Ermengarde, poor Susy worships the very ground she walks on. You haven't, maybe, heard of the accident that has happened to her, miss?"

Miss Nelson's manner became gentle at once. Ermengarde was about to burst forth with another exclamation; the governess laid her hand on the little girl's arm with a not unkind pressure. "One moment, Ermie. No, Collins, we have not heard of any accident. I sincerely trust your daughter has come to no harm."

"Well, miss, for the matter of that, Susy's life ain't in danger, but she has broke her leg; a bad fracture, too, midway between the knee and the ankle. Poor child, she's for all like a boy in some of her ways, and she was climbing a tree to get a glimpse of me, she said, the rogue; and a rotten bough broke under her, and she came down right on her leg. The poor thing was insensible when I took her up, miss, but she's better now, of course, and the leg was set by Doctor Reeves last night."

"Oh, do let me go to her," said Ermengarde; "what does a stupid picnic matter? Basil, won't you speak up for me. Do get Miss Nelson to let me go at once."

"Poor Susy, she's feverish a bit," said Collins, favoring Ermengarde with a quick grateful glance, "and she has been crying out all the morning and half the night for missie. It was that made the wife think of me standing here to watch, in case Miss Ermengarde might spare a minute or two from the day's pleasure to give to the poor child."

"I am sorry for you, Collins," said Miss Nelson; "and the story of the accident certainly alters matters a good deal. I do not think Mr. Wilton will object to Ermengarde's going to Susan for a moment."

"Thank you," said Ermie, with a great breath of relief.

"My dear child, you need not tremble so. Steady, you will fall on your face. Basil, help your sister out of the carriage. We will give you five minutes, Ermengarde. Collins, be sure you send for anything necessary for Susan to the Chase."

Collins touched his hat and withdrew. Ermengarde had already flown down a little path which led directly to the keeper's little cottage.

"Poor child, I did not know she was so sensitive," said Miss Nelson to Basil. He was standing by the side of the carriage, and she thought he had not heard her remark, for he turned his head away.

Meanwhile Ermengarde, having reached the cottage, was promptly taken upstairs to Susy's little attic-room by her mother.

The poor little girl had gone through a night of dreadful suffering, and at another time her flushed face and feverishly bright blue eyes would have excited Ermengarde's pity, and she would have been as gentle and sympathetic in her manner as heart could wish. The influence of fear, however, and the consciousness of wrong-doing, have a wonderfully hardening effect upon the best of us, and Ermie only waited until Mrs. Collins's back was turned to say crossly: "What did you mean by sending for me in that fashion, Susy? and after what I said to you yesterday. I do think you have no consideration! I got a horrible fright when your father came up, and asked point-blank for me, and before Miss Nelson, too!"

The harsh words made Susy cry.

"I'm dreadful bad," she said, her pretty lips quivering. "Oh, Miss Ermie, don't look at me like that. I did think you'd have been sorry for me, and when I always set such store by you, miss."

"Of course I'm sorry for you, Susy, but I really can't stay now, or they'll remark it. If you want me very badly, I'll try and slip up here one evening. There, if you like, and it really quiets you, I'll come to-night. I'll promise that I'll manage it somehow, but I must go now."

"Oh, miss, please take the picture with you! Put it in your pocket, miss. Oh, do take it away, Miss Ermengarde; I had such awful, awful dreams about it all night long, and I fancied as the little lady herself come and told me I was to put the picture back. I saw her come in at the door heaps of times, and she always told me to put the picture back, and to be quick about it. Please put the picture into your pocket, Miss Ermengarde."