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The Four Miss Whittingtons

“It is not,” said Barbara impetuously, “as if we were young. If we were, why, of course, the whole thing would be different.”

“And it is not as though we were giddy or flighty either. Even Bess’s mother-in-law allows that we are quite sensible young persons.”

“Ah, but that was before we ever thought of this, Nance! She would be quite horrified if ever she heard about it.”

“Well, I don’t suppose she ever will. There is no need for her to do so at any rate. It is not likely,” with a merry laugh, “that we shall move in the same circle of society.”

The laugh was echoed by three other voices, in one of which, however, a ring of bitterness might have been detected. It was the owner of this voice who spoke next, and then the slight bitterness had quite disappeared from it, and it was full of eager hope.

“And when we become rich and famous how lovely it will be! I don’t know which I want most, riches or fame. Fame, I think; but I am not quite sure. But I shall be both. Great singers always are. Why, perhaps by this time next year I shall be getting a hundred pounds a night just for singing two songs, and the encores, of course. Won’t we all have a good time then just! A house in town, or a flat perhaps, flats are more fashionable, and we will keep a carriage, and have a cottage on the river, and Mrs. Barker shall come and live with us, and, let me see, what else shall we do?”

“Patronize Bess’s mother-in-law,” said Barbara, laughing. “Your ambition can soar no higher than that, Nance, I am sure.”

“Perhaps not,” said Nance slowly, too slowly, she thought a moment later, for, before she had time to complete the building of her airy castle, another voice, a cool, high voice, with rather a disdainful note in it, interposed.

“We came out here to settle our futures and to discuss plans sensibly, and I don’t know why Bess’s mother-in-law has come into the conversation at all. She has nothing to do with us or with our plans.”

“And a good thing too, Helen,” put in Barbara, “for if she had we should stay on at Greenfields for ever.”

“And never become rich or famous,” said Nance dreamily. In imagination she was singing to a crowded audience at the Albert Hall, or at Covent Garden, she was not sure which, and was already far away from the sunny bank on which she and her sisters were sitting.

Cecil glanced at her half-despairingly, Barbara smiled, and Helen, the only one of the four whose fingers were not idle, looked up from the sketch-book in which she was drawing a spray of buttercups that she held in her left hand, and shrugged her shoulders.

“It seems to me,” she observed, going on with her work, “that you are not much more forward than when we came out. You haven’t even decided yet whether you are to go or to stay.”

“You,” said Barbara, quick to observe the pronoun. “Then, whether we go or stay, you go.”

“Yes, I am going.”

The quiet matter-of-fact tone in which her younger sister spoke seemed for the moment to deprive Cecil of breath. But though the tone was quiet, almost to indifference, it contained a note of decision which did not escape her ears.

“We are all going,” she said quickly. “That was put to the vote some time ago, and carried. It is the difficulties that lie in the way that we are discussing now.”

“Is it?” said Helen dryly. “I thought it was what people would say that has been troubling you most.”

“Of course that has to be considered too,” Cecil admitted. “I don’t say that their opinions need influence us, but there is no denying the fact that one or two people will be shocked. You see, for four girls, the eldest of whom is only eighteen and the youngest of whom is fifteen—”

“Sixteen next week,” put in Barbara quickly, “and as sensible and trustworthy as all the rest of you put together.”

“To go off to London by themselves to seek their fortunes, is rather an unusual thing—”

“Not at all,” put in the irrepressible Barbara; “how about our famous namesake, dear old Dick, thrice Lord Mayor of London town. He was not a girl, though, I forgot that.”

“Especially,” Cecil continued, disregarding these interruptions, “when they propose to live on their capital, which, all told, comes to exactly four hundred pounds. You should have heard what Mr. Vickers said this morning when I told him what we were thinking of doing.”

“I suppose,” said Helen sarcastically, “he suggested that we should live upon our income. Sensible that, very. Three fours are twelve. Twelve pounds a year to feed and clothe four hungry girls. And what about education? Was that to come out of the twelve pounds too?”

“Don’t be so fierce, Helen,” Cecil said. “Poor old man! He was really and truly quite concerned about us. He said our plan was the maddest of all mad plans, and so, when he had abused it to his heart’s content, I asked him his advice.”

“His advice, indeed!” said Helen contemptuously, hunting in the grass for her india-rubber. Anger had caused her to draw a buttercup that might have been mistaken for a daisy.

“Is sure to be worth listening to,” said Barbara, who had an odd way of finishing people’s sentences and turning them to quite a different meaning.

“Mr. Vickers is an old dear, and if it had not been for him poor Cousin Mab,” here Barbara’s voice sank to one of respectful regret, “wouldn’t have allowed me to learn a single word of Greek or Latin. So, of course, I love him. Fire away, Cecil, and tell us what he said. He encouraged us to persevere like our famous ancestor, I expect.”

The corners of Cecil’s mouth twitched, and she kept her eyes fixed on Barbara’s changing face as she spoke.

“Indeed, he did nothing of the sort. To begin with, he pooh-poohed the idea of further education being necessary for any of us, yes, even for you, Babs. He said education was not much good for girls, and that the best thing we could do was to teach. As nursery governesses we should lead safe, uneventful lives, and our four hundred pounds could accumulate for us until we were old ladies.”

“A charming programme truly,” said Helen, while Barbara, after a moment of astonished silence, burst out laughing.

“Mrs. Vickers speaks in that speech,” she said. “Dear old Mr. Vickers would never have given utterance to such atrocious sentiments had she not put them into his mind. Education no good for girls, indeed! That those are not his real opinions I at least have good cause to know. If he had not taught me Greek and Latin all these years I wonder where I should have been now.”

“Precisely where you are, no doubt,” said Helen; “reclining in the ditch with your heels in the air and your elbows on my knee, and very much in my way.”

“Ah,” said Barbara, suddenly sitting very bolt upright, “but I meant as regards my education!”

Her face was flushed, and her eyes, dark earnest eyes, were shining. Books were perhaps the things that Barbara loved best in the world, better, Cecil thought sometimes with a sigh, than she loved any of her sisters, even Cecil herself, who had been mother, elder sister, friend, and sympathizer, all rolled into one, to the youngest of the family.

“We have wandered from the subject again, haven’t we?” said Helen, holding her sketch-book at arm’s-length, and examining her work with a critical eye. “As our migration to London seems a settled thing, the next thing that we have to do is to discuss ways and means.”

“Never mind about the ways,” said Barbara, “it is the means that will trouble us most, or rather,” with a gay laugh, “the want of them.”

“Now, girls, listen to me. . . . I want to discuss this matter . . . seriously.”

“Yes, it is just that,” said Cecil gravely. Poverty had no more terrors for her than it had for the others, but she was not prepared to face it quite so lightly as Barbara was. “Now, girls, listen to me. Nance, wake up, and Helen, put down your pencil for a few minutes. I want to discuss this matter really seriously.”

Nance woke up, and Helen closed her book in the quick, abrupt way that characterized all her movements. Now that Cecil was prepared to talk seriously she was willing to give her undivided attention. Hitherto not to have drawn would have been to waste time, and Helen never, if she could help it, wasted anything, especially time.

“There is, you know, a certain amount of sense in what Mr. Vickers—well,” as Barbara made an expressive face, “in what Mrs. Vickers says. It does seem rather reckless to deliberately make up one’s mind to live upon one’s capital until it is all gone. Let us look at both sides of the question. If we stayed here we should, to begin with, live rent free, for then Greenfields would remain in our possession. The poultry and the garden might be made to pay so well that, with the help of the money that you and I, Helen, should make from teaching, we might be able to refrain from touching the capital at all. I do not quite know whom we are to teach all the same, but that is a detail. That is one side of the question at any rate. Do you all follow me?”

“Perfectly,” said Helen. “We are to be half nursery gardeners and half nursery governesses. As I said before: charming, but not for me.”

“Nor for any of us,” said Cecil, her gravity relaxing for a moment; “but that is what nine people out of ten would advise us to do. The great drawback to it seems to me to be that, though it is true enough that we should be able to hoard up our four hundred pounds for a longer time, we should not be one whit better fitted to get on in the world when it was gone than before.”

“In fact,” said Barbara, breaking in impetuously, “we should nibble away gently at our cake and not get one bit of real good from it all the way through. What we are going to do is to divide it up into four big slices and spend a hundred pounds a year in getting a real good education during the next four years, at the end of which time my brains, Helen’s fingers, and Nance’s voice will be ready for use, or, at any rate, not quite so unready as they are now.”

“Hear, hear!” said Helen approvingly; “you can put things in a nutshell when you like, Barbara, I will say that for you, and,” she added, more earnestly than she had yet spoken, for Barbara’s earnestness was infectious, “I may tell you all that long before the four years are over I hope to be earning money. I shall never be an R.A., nor shall I ever get things, except perhaps in time quite small things, into the Academy, but I shall be able to earn my own living by illustrating books and that sort of thing in about two years’ time, of that I am sure.”

As Helen rarely spoke about her work, and never uttered vain boasts, her words created a considerable impression on the small circle of her listeners. She had more to say, but before she could say it Nance struck in, and with a contemptuous curl of her lip Helen resumed her work.

“Why, you all seem to think more of Helen saying that she will be able to earn her own living than of my brilliant prospects. What is a paltry two or three pounds a week compared to the hundred pounds a night that I shall be paid as soon as ever I get known.”

It was impossible, even for the sisters who had known her all her life, to tell whether Nance was altogether in earnest when she talked in this strain. It was only since the death, a fortnight ago, of Miss Taplow, the Cousin Mab who had brought the four girls up since their father and mother’s death, that Nance had indulged, openly at least, in these extravagant dreams, dreams for which Cecil feared there was no shadow of foundation. It was cruel, she thought, to waken hopes that could never be realized, and though she knew very well who the culprit was, remonstrance would be useless.

“It is very curious to think,” said Cecil, suddenly leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand, “that just one short month ago our lives were jogging on in the fashion in which they have jogged ever since we can remember, and we had no thought at all of the tremendous change that was getting ready for us. Then Cousin Mab was with us, and we had plenty of money. Now we are wearing these,” and she softly fingered her black serge dress, “and have but four hundred pounds all told between us and—and—” as she hesitated in doubt whether to say “starvation” or the “workhouse”, Barbara stepped in and finished the sentence in a less tragic manner.

“Between us and a nursery full of troublesome children.”

“Mrs. Vickers said cruel things of Cousin Mab this morning,” said Nance, “and would have said more, but I stopped her.”

“Did you?” said Barbara, in involuntary surprise.

“Oh, I know I am a coward!” Nance said. “Cousin Mab has told me so often, but I could not, and would not, stand by and listen to Mrs. Vickers criticizing her. If Cousin Mab did lose all our money for us, she paid for it dearly enough, and she meant it for the best. If those mines and things had turned out well we should have been great heiresses now, and it would all have been owing to her.”

That was undeniably true, as true as the fact that had it not also been for her rash, ill-considered course of action the modest fortune of six thousand pounds which their father left them would have been intact, and they would not have been obliged to set out to seek their own fortunes.

At that very moment, but separated from the four girls by the length of two fields, a shady lawn, and the width of a verandah, Mrs. Vickers was seated in her own drawing-room, summing up a long discussion that had been held on the future prospects of the four girls by a brief expression of her opinion as to the character of the late Miss Taplow.

“She was a much-mistaken woman,” said the vicar’s wife, who always said what she thought, making no exception when her thoughts were unpleasant ones. “Pride and ambition caused her to dissipate the small fortune which their father left them. She despised him thoroughly as an unpractical man, which no doubt he was, and she never forgave the girls for being his daughters. That,” as the doctor’s wife made a small, timid interruption, “—that did not prevent her from giving the girls a home and bringing them up as if they were her own. I dare say not. People do sometimes behave well to those whom they dislike. I happen to know for a fact that she rarely spoke kindly to any one of them, and lived as much as possible as if she were alone in the house. Wild horses would not make one of the girls own as much. Even Nance, who I always thought could not say boh to a goose, flew at me this morning because I said that Miss Taplow had ruined them. So she has. The vicar says that she meant it all for the best, but I say that she had not even that excuse. She wished to be able to boast that she, a woman, had at one stroke doubled the fortune which was all that their father could leave them. And this is the result.”

It was as well for Mrs. Vickers that none of the girls could hear her, and as well for them. Their indignation at her calm dispassionate criticism of their cousin’s conduct would have been great. But Cecil would have been the only one who would have felt pain, for she would have recognized the truth of the criticism. She was certain of what the others only felt, and that very dimly. Cousin Mab had disliked their father exceedingly, and she had only tolerated them for their mother’s sake. Mr. Whittington’s first offence had been given when he married their mother. She was young, very beautiful, and Miss Taplow, her only near living relative, was exceedingly ambitious for her. At that time Mr. Whittington was just leaving Cambridge. He had taken a double first, and had been made a fellow of his college. Every profession seemed open to him. He chose the Church. That was his second offence in Miss Taplow’s eyes. But when it became evident, as it speedily did, that he possessed rare and brilliant preaching powers, she grew reconciled to his choice. There was every possibility that he would rise in time to the front ranks of his profession. And then he became guilty of his third offence. He suddenly threw up his curacy and left the Church for a reason that was no reason at all in the indignant opinion of his wife’s cousin. Shortly afterwards he died; his wife did not long survive him; and their five little daughters—Bess, mention of whose mother-in-law has already been made, was the fifth—together with their fortune of six thousand pounds, were left to Miss Taplow’s care. She accepted the charge, built an ugly house in an ugly little village in Sussex, and lived there with them until the day of her death, which took place about a month ago.

For some time the girls had been too much stunned by the suddenness of the calamity which had fallen upon them to realize that they had been left almost destitute; and it was not until the Vickers, who were their most intimate friends in the place, had urged upon them the necessity of getting work of some kind that they saw that their whole mode of living would have to be altered. From the first Cecil had set her face steadily against teaching. It was not only that she had an innate distaste for the work, but she knew that both she and Helen were quite incapable of doing justice to any pupils they might obtain. Besides, if they remained in the country and taught, they might bid farewell to any chance of realizing the hopes and schemes they entertained for themselves.

Their few friends and neighbours in the little country town were horrified when it became known that the four Miss Whittingtons were thinking of going to London to seek their fortunes. And yet even the persons who were most shocked and horrified at the independence of this step recognized the impossibility of their continuing to live at Greenfields on twelve pounds a year. “It is a great pity,” Mrs. Vickers had said severely, “that no trustee was appointed to manage their affairs for them until they were at least of age.”

But what a trustee could have done for them Mrs. Vickers did not explain. The two executors of the will were a lawyer and a banker. The former was ill from overwork, and was on the Riviera; the latter, who was the manager of the bank at which Miss Taplow had an account, came down to the funeral, and after seconding Mrs. Vickers’ advice that the two elder girls should seek situations as nursery governesses and support the two younger ones until they were old enough to do the same, went back to town again.

And their futures were thus left entirely in their own hands. The thought of the responsibility that rested with her as the eldest had brought a serious look to Cecil’s face. She knew that they were very young to be so entirely independent of everybody, and that few girls had ever been situated as they were. At the same time, however, she felt confident in their ability to stand alone. Besides, she was used to looking after her sisters. Though Miss Taplow had given them a home, and provided them with all the necessaries of life, she had never in any sense been a mother to them. It was Cecil to whom they had come in their childish troubles, and she, while still a mere child herself, had never failed them.

The knowledge that they depended on her had early made her self-reliant, and given to her considerable strength of character, and so when she was left actually as much their guardian as she had always been virtually, the sense of her responsibility did not dismay her.

As a family the Whittingtons were both good-looking and clever, and though it remained to be proved which was the cleverest, there was no doubt that Nance was the best-looking. It was Cecil’s private opinion that she would some day be lovely. She was as sure of that as that Barbara would come out above the Senior Wrangler, and Helen would be a distinguished artist. But of herself Cecil entertained a very modest opinion. She knew that she was neither the best-looking nor the cleverest, and her highest ambition was to see the aspirations of her three sisters gratified. Her expression was Cecil’s chief beauty; it was so sweet and gentle, and yet full of such earnest purpose, that strangers instinctively took a liking to her, and children loved her at first sight. Her eyes were dark, and when she laughed, which was often, for, in spite of her serious face, Cecil was as full of fun and laughter as any of the others, her eyes seemed to sparkle and dance.

Helen and Nance were both fair, but there the resemblance between them ended. Nance had a sweet, almost childlike, expression, dark-blue dreamy eyes, beautiful brown hair, and a complexion like the petals of a wild rose.

The great fault in Helen’s face was its extreme coldness; at times it even wore a curious hard look most unusual in a girl of her age. Her eyes, of a lighter blue than Nance’s, had a keen, critical glance; her mouth a scornful, impatient curve that gave her face an expression that was almost disagreeable. And yet she was by no means a disagreeable girl, and she would have been very genuinely surprised had anyone suggested that she was.

Barbara shared the family likeness that they all bore to one another. She had a merry, laughing face, great dark eyes, short curly hair, and very white even teeth. She was as frank and impulsive as Helen was cold and reserved, and yet the two shared one great characteristic in common. They were both intensely earnest over anything they undertook to do, and would both strain every nerve to carry out any purpose which they had set themselves. And, in addition, though this was a small matter in their eyes, they were both supremely indifferent to their personal appearance, and though Helen’s innate sense of the fitness of things saved her from ever looking untidy, the same could not be said for Barbara, who, as Cecil said despairingly, “put her clothes on anyhow.”

With a shrug of her shoulders that was half-impatient, half-disdainful, Helen picked a purple knapweed that was growing in the hedge beside her, and, turning over a fresh leaf, began to draw again. She was irritated at the way in which the conversation kept wandering from the main point. Before, however, she had time to do more than sketch in the outline of the flower, Cecil woke up from her brief fit of abstraction and spoke in a brisk, decided tone that really did seem to promise business.

“By the way, girls, when I suggested that we should all come out here this afternoon to discuss our futures, I did not tell you that if we make up our minds to leave Greenfields we must leave next week.”

Down went Helen’s sketch-book upon her knee again, and her face took a more amiable expression.

“The sooner the better!” she exclaimed. “But why this particular hurry?”

“Because if we will let her come in next week, a sister of Mrs. Vickers—a Mrs. Lyall—will take part of the house furnished for six months or a year.”

“We shall roll in riches, then, after all!” exclaimed Nance light-heartedly. “I suppose this Mrs. Lyall will pay three or four guineas a week at the very least.”

“Dear me, no!” Cecil answered; “nothing like that. Besides, it has nothing whatever to do with us. If we go away the house goes to Mrs. Barker for her lifetime. The money she will earn by letting will be just enough to keep her here. Don’t you remember the wording of the will? ‘But should my wards elect not to live at Greenfields, the said house to belong to my faithful servant and friend of thirty years’ standing, Amelia Jane Barker, for her sole use and benefit during her lifetime, together with the fields and garden adjoining thereto.’ I had a long talk with her this morning, or rather,” Cecil said, correcting herself, with a smile, “she had a long talk with me, and she is full of all sorts of plans. She is going to rear chickens and ducks for the London markets, grow vegetables, let lodgings, take in needlework, and do anything else that she may have time for. So she is provided for, at all events. Our going away is a good thing for her, there is no doubt of that. She gets the house for her own; whatever she makes she keeps, and she has, besides, the small annuity that Cousin Mab bought for her some time ago. Mr. Edwards said that the will was made when Cousin Mab thought that we should have our own money all right, and he said that if we liked we could go to law about keeping the house for ourselves now, but I would not do such a thing for worlds. Mrs. Barker deserves her good fortune every bit, for she has worked hard ever since I can remember. But this application for rooms has come sooner than anyone could have expected, and it all depends upon our being able to turn out in a few days whether Mrs. Lyall will take them or not. And naturally Mrs. Barker is anxious not to lose such a good ‘let’.”

“Naturally,” Barbara and Nance echoed together.

“It is very short notice,” said Helen musingly. It was she who had been the most anxious to leave Greenfields without loss of time, and to embark on their career in London. But now that she realized that once the step was taken it would be decisive, that there could be no going back, she understood better why Cecil had been so anxious to put both sides of the matter, as plainly as she knew how, before them. But though Helen grasped more clearly than she had yet done the seriousness of their position, she had not the slightest desire to change her mind.

“It is very short notice,” she repeated, after a scarcely perceptible pause, “but I suppose we can do it. One of us must go up to London to-morrow and look for rooms. Unfurnished lodgings would be best for us, or a small flat. I believe there are workmen’s flats somewhere that you can get for eleven shillings a week.”

And so the subject that had been much discussed by them all, seriously considered perhaps only by Cecil, was finally settled, and somewhat with the feeling that they were planning some delightful picnic they entered upon the details of their scheme.

Nance turned up her nose at the suggestion of renting a flat, and when Helen admitted that she did not know where these cheap flats were situated, although she believed that they were somewhere in the east end, Cecil shook her head too.

“Do you remember the lady who came down to stay at Barratt’s farm one summer holidays?” Barbara said. “She was a daily governess, you know. Well, she told me of a boarding-house in Chelsea, managed by ladies, where they took you in for fifteen shillings a week. That seems cheap, doesn’t it?”

“Absurdly,” Nance echoed; “but I don’t much like the idea of a boarding-house.”

“The idea does not much like us,” Helen retorted, when, with the aid of a pencil, she had made a rapid calculation on the cover of her sketch-book. “Four fifteens are sixty. Three pounds a week make one hundred and fifty-six pounds a year. At that rate we should be spending more than half as much again as we mean to for mere board and lodging alone, leaving dress, fares, and college fees still unaccounted for.”

“Well, I am glad that that is out of the question,” said Nance. “I must say that I did not like the idea of a boarding-house.”

“A flat in Buckingham Palace is the only thing that would really please your royal highness,” said Barbara, in an amused tone.

“Don’t get frivolous, please,” said Helen, with a quick frown at this levity. “Just when we have begun to talk sensibly, too. Now, Cecil, how much do you think you ought to give for house-rent?”

“A tenth of one’s income, people say, is the correct amount to give. Say we allow ourselves a hundred pounds a year, we ought not to pay more than ten pounds a year. But that, of course, is ridiculous. Country cousins though we are, we none of us expect to get either a flat or lodgings, or even one bare unfurnished room, for that.”

“I should object to all of us living in one room,” said Nance softly; “it would be uncomfortable, to say the least of it.”

“I don’t know,” Barbara replied in the same tone; “there would be a corner apiece for us, and we could meet for meals in the middle.”

“We ought to go to as central a position as possible,” Helen continued, addressing herself pointedly to Cecil and ignoring the other two. “It would save in the end, for the ’bus and underground fares would be less.”

“I wonder if it is possible for four girls to live on a hundred pounds a year,” said Cecil, while a look of anxiety overspread her face.

“We shall be better able to answer that question six months hence,” said Helen, who, now that she had the conversation fairly in her own hands, did not intend to allow it to again wander from the point. “In the meantime we must settle which of us two ought to go up to-morrow and look for rooms. I think it had better be you, Cecil. Luckily, to-morrow is Friday, the cheap-train day. I will have a look at the map of London to-night, and write down a list of the different localities that you must hunt about in.”

“Couldn’t you come too?” said Cecil, whose breath was rather taken away by the quick decisive way in which Helen was arranging everything.

“No use two of us going,” Helen replied. “We should have double fares to pay. As it is, your return ticket will be six shillings, and your lunch and going about will come to another four at least. And we ought to begin to look at every halfpenny now.”

“You are quite right,” Cecil said, to which Helen replied that she generally was.

“Of course, if we could have had a little longer time, we might have written to agents and saved the expense of a journey up, but every day is of importance if we really must clear out next week.”

“We really must,” Cecil said; “it would never do for Mrs. Barker to lose the chance of letting. And now I think we had better be going home. It is nearly tea-time.”

The sun was setting, and a chill autumn breeze, for the season was late in the month of August, was blowing across the marshes. And yet the four girls lingered for a moment, taking as it were a last farewell of the peaceful scene. For henceforth they would look at it with different eyes. It would no longer be their home.

Willingsgate was not a pretty place. Even Cecil, who loved it more than any of the others, was obliged to own that. With the exception of a distant view of the downs that lay to the right, the country that surrounded it was monotonously flat, and for the greater part marsh-land. A few years back Willingsgate had been a little village, dull perhaps but quiet, containing no house but the rectory, Greenfields, and one or two farm-houses and cottages, all of which clustered round the little village church. But when two sister villages, one five miles off on the coast in one direction, and another six miles off in the other direction, had sprung up into fashionable watering-places, Willingsgate had grown too, and had become a railway junction for the two towns. Hideous lines of little red-brick houses had been built on the marshes, coal-sheds had been put up at the side of the line, and with shrieking trains rushing through it all day long, the little village had entirely lost its one charm of peaceful solitude.

But the field to which Cecil had brought her sisters for the important consultation that had just taken place lay nearer the downs, and was one of the prettiest spots in the neighbourhood. It was on the edge of a wood, over the tall trees of which the rooks were slowly making their way homewards, and the air was filled with the pleasant sound of their cawing, mingled with the bleating of the sheep and the soft sighing of the wind.

“Why, I really believe,” said Helen, gazing at Cecil with genuine astonishment depicted on her face, “that you are sorry to leave this place.”

“So I am in a way,” said Cecil thoughtfully. “I love the country, and perhaps if this had been some lovely place, like the photographs one sees of beautiful out-of-the-way spots in Devonshire or Cornwall, I might have found it hard to tear myself away from it.”

“And you would have left us to shift for ourselves,” said Barbara reproachfully, as she slipped her arm within that of her eldest and her favourite sister. “Oh, Cecil!”

Cecil returned the pressure affectionately. “That is very likely,” she said, laughing. “I consider that you would all do extremely badly without me. Why, who but me is going to look after you all while you are all working away at your different professions—Helen as an artist, Nance as a singer, and you, Babs, as a person of learning. Why, you would forget to eat your meals; and as for your clothes, you would be in rags at the end of the month.”

“I wonder what Bess will think of this move on our part,” said Helen suddenly, “and Godfrey too! What a good thing that Bess is married! She was so dreadfully frivolous that she would never have done any work herself, and would have disturbed us dreadfully.”

But Nance sighed, and looked wistfully in the direction in which she imagined India to be. For merry, chattering, good-natured Bess had been her favourite sister, and she had never grown quite reconciled to her marriage.

Then they followed the example set them by the rooks, and strolled slowly homewards, exchanging pleasant greetings and smiles with the people they met as they passed up the straggling village street. Had they heard the pitying comments that these humble friends and neighbours passed upon them they would have been both amused and surprised.

Poor! Why, they felt rich in their hopes and plans for the future, in their love for each other, and in the knowledge that, whatever fate held in store for them, they were at least to share it together.

The cheap train by which Cecil was to travel up to London left Willingsgate at 8.30. The return fare was six shillings. She was accompanied to the station by all her sisters, and when they had seen her safely seated in a corner of a third-class carriage, they lingered on the platform to give her parting advice and directions.

“Mind, above all things, a central situation,” said Helen.

“And a fashionable one,” Nance pleaded. “I should like to be near Hyde Park.”

“I am afraid if we are near any park it will be Battersea Park or Bethnal Green Park, if there is such a place,” said Cecil, laughing.

“I should like to be near the British Museum,” said Barbara, “so hunt round that district, please.”

“Have you the list that I made out?” Helen asked. “Yes,” as Cecil produced a folded slip of paper from the pocket of her coat, “that’s right. Keep it safe. Go to the house-agents in each district, that will be the shortest way.”

“What train will you come back by?” asked Barbara.

“Not till the one that gets in about midnight if I am to go to half the places that Helen has marked down,” Cecil replied, glancing somewhat ruefully over the long list with which her business-like sister had provided her. “It would have answered the purpose just as well, Helen, if you had said: ‘Search London thoroughly’.”

“Nonsense!” said Helen brusquely. “You will find my list of the very greatest assistance.”

“Mind,” Barbara added, “near the British Museum, if possible.”

“I should like the National Gallery better,” said Helen.

“Hyde Park or Piccadilly, please,” Nance said coaxingly. “Do your best, Cecil, like the old dear that you are.”

“Whatever you do, remember Moses at the fair, and keep your wits about you,” Barbara added.

It was as well, Cecil felt, that at that point the train began to move. The many conflicting directions with which she had been favoured during the past few minutes threatened to make her brain reel.

“Good-bye!” she said, leaning out of the window. “Remember that I can’t please you all.”

“Then please yourself,” Barbara said, running alongside and giving her sister a bright nod of farewell; “and if you do happen to pass any second-hand book-stalls and see a cheap edition of—”

But the rest was lost, for the train, which had been gradually increasing its speed, shot ahead, and Barbara pulled up and rejoined the others.

Meanwhile Cecil leant back in her corner and gave herself up to rather anxious reflections. She could not help feeling that she had started off on what was very likely to turn out a wild-goose chase. Could she hope to secure rooms at a price which would enable them to live on the sum which was all that they ought to allow themselves during the year? She was afraid not. However, realizing that it was of no use to look on the gloomiest side of things, she opened Helen’s list, and smiled as she ran her eye over the column.

Helen had gone most systematically to work, and had arranged the different districts in the order in which, starting from Victoria station, she would come to them. A sort of walking tour through London had been thus considerately planned out for her. Up Victoria Street, through Westminster, along into the Strand. The Strand was underlined, for, being near the National Gallery, it seemed to Helen a desirable neighbourhood in which to fix their abode. She was then to go across Trafalgar Square and into Oxford Street, and so into the neighbourhood of the British Museum. Here Barbara had in her turn underlined the paper. The streets and squares leading out of Museum Street were to be thoroughly searched, and then Cecil was to go to Gower Street, for it was not unlikely that in the neighbourhood of University College rooms might be found to suit them.

From Gower Street she was to proceed to Baker Street, and then by way of Paddington and Bayswater to strike across the park to Kensington, and so back to Victoria by the Knightsbridge Road, Sloane Street, and Belgravia.

“By which time,” Helen had remarked, as she surveyed her work in a well-satisfied manner, “if you have not found anything that will suit us, we shall have to give up the idea of London proper, and go to the suburbs or into the East End.”

A search through the pages of the daily paper showed Cecil that there was nothing there likely to be of any use to them. No lodgings or unfurnished rooms at all were advertised, and the rentals of the few flats mentioned varied from a hundred and twenty to three or four hundred pounds a year.

A flat was what Cecil had secretly set her heart on. It would be so much nicer to have a place, however small, to themselves; it would be so much more home-like. In lodgings there would always be the landlady to consider, and she might not be an agreeable person. For some things it was a great pity that they were obliged to turn out of Greenfields at such very short notice. None of the plans with which their minds had been busy during the past few days were really definitely settled upon as yet. Helen wanted to go to an art school, Nance to an academy of music, Barbara to a high school; and all of them, even Cecil, had the very vaguest idea what were the first steps to be taken to accomplish their desire. Of course once they were settled in London, inquiries might easily be made; but then in the meanwhile a neighbourhood that was convenient for none of them might have been chosen. Punctual to the minute the train arrived at Victoria, and, eager to set to work, Cecil sprang out and mingled with the crowd that was hurrying up the platform. It was a crowd composed mostly of ladies from those two watering-places to which Willingsgate Junction owed its existence, and who were in the habit of coming up to town by the cheap train for shopping. Once outside the gates, Cecil paused for a moment, and then, recollecting her instructions, proceeded up Victoria Street. She had never spent longer than a week at a time in London, and then only very occasionally; but, ignorant though she was of the value of house property, it needed but a very cursory glance to tell her that she was not likely to find what she wanted in Victoria Street. She even doubted the wisdom of applying to any of the house-agents in the neighbourhood, but coming upon one midway between the station and Westminster Abbey, she paused to study the cards pinned to the red baize-covered board in the window.

She read them all through attentively and then went in.

There was only one clerk in the office, and he was attending to a lady; and so Cecil seated herself beside a small table on which lay several catalogues. Taking up one of these, she turned over the pages in search of something that might prove suitable, but before she had read far she found herself listening to the conversation that was going on near her.

“It is quite impossible, madam,” the clerk was saying, “that we could do anything of the sort. Of course you might apply to the owner, but I very much doubt if he would let you off your lease—in fact, I am sure he would not. And you must own that it would be the height of unreasonableness to expect him to do so.”

“I don’t see that at all,” the lady returned in quick, impatient tones. She was young—two or three years older than Cecil, perhaps—and she was dressed in a dark-blue coat and skirt, which, though of such rough material that it forced itself upon Cecil’s notice, was cut extremely well and fitted perfectly. She spoke with a strong American accent.

“I don’t see that at all. Why shouldn’t he take it off our hands? We don’t want to live in it now. In fact we are leaving England the day after to-morrow, for two or three years perhaps, and it seems unreasonable to expect us to pay rent for a flat for three years when we shall never spend a single day in it.”

“Well, madam, I have offered to let it for you, and that is the most we can do. If you like to place the matter in our hands, I have no doubt we shall be able to let it for you in the course of the next few weeks.”

“Next few weeks!” she echoed, and Cecil noticed that she was in such a fever of impatience that she could scarcely stand still. “Why, we shall be thousands of miles away by that time, and I want to let the flat to-day, and as you say that you can find a tenant shortly, I do not see why you can’t oblige me by taking the lease back at once. It would be a great convenience to me, I assure you.”

The clerk shook his head. He was an elderly man, with a patient, resigned expression of face, which not even the persistent unreasonableness of this client could shake.

“You see, madam,” he said, rather in the tone of one who condescends to argue with a troublesome child, “it would be a little hard on the landlords if their tenants could throw up their leases whenever they repented of their bargains. If you will just think for a few minutes, you will, I am sure, see this for yourself.”

Whether she saw it or not she did not say, but it was the tone in which he spoke rather than what he said that seemed to strike her, and glancing down with an amused smile she suddenly caught an answering smile on Cecil’s face.

Then she laughed outright, and apologized to Cecil in a frank, friendly tone for keeping her waiting so long.

“I really am very sorry,” she said; “and perhaps your business is quite as important and pressing as mine.”

“It is important,” said Cecil, “but I don’t know that it is so pressing as yours is. I want,” she added, addressing herself both to the clerk and to the girl, “to rent a flat or some unfurnished rooms.”

“And I want to let a flat,” the girl cried; “how very funny!” Then a thought seemed to strike her. “And why shouldn’t you take mine off my hands?” she cried excitedly.

Cecil shook her head. It seemed to her that the flat which this girl had rented, and which she wanted to get rid of so impulsively, was not likely to suit them. The rent of it would probably represent their entire capital.

But the girl took no notice of that slight shake of the head.

“How much do you want to give?” she said, coming straight to the point. “My flat is seventy pounds a year—two bedrooms, one sitting-room, kitchen, bath-room, and usual offices. A dear little flat as far as it goes, but I don’t want it now.”

“Seventy pounds is too much,” Cecil said; “I want one for about forty.”

“You won’t get one for that anywhere in this neighbourhood, or in any other nice neighbourhood. You won’t really. Will she?” turning to the clerk. The clerk shook his head and spread out his hands without speaking. He would have liked to have protested against the utter irregularity of a proceeding which bid fair to deprive him at one blow of two clients, but the girl gave him no time.

“I tell you what,” she said, “I have no time to haggle or bargain. You come round and see the flat; it is not five minutes from here. If you like it you shall have it for fifty pounds a year, on the condition that you pay me the three years’ rent—one hundred and fifty pounds, down on the nail.”

“But,” began Cecil, in a bewildered tone.

“Please don’t begin to ‘but’. I really haven’t time. Look here,” to the agent, “I will write and let you know if this lady and I come to terms. If we don’t, you can try and let for me. Good-morning! Come along.”

And before Cecil quite realized what was happening she was whisked out of the shop, and the clerk was left alone behind the counter in a state of collapse.

“This way,” she said, turning down a side street. “You must excuse my taking possession of you in this violent manner. But when I tell you that I haven’t literally a second to spare, and have yet been obliged to waste half an hour in that office, you will understand why I am in such a desperate hurry. By the way I ought to tell you my name. It is Dorothy Marchpoint. What is yours?”

Cecil told her.

“Well, then, Miss Whittington, I can explain things as we go along. It will save time. I took this flat a fortnight ago, meaning to make it my head-quarters for the next three years. We spend most of our time yachting, you know; but it is nice to have some place of your own to live in when you are on dry land, and it doesn’t always do to go to relations. Well, no sooner had I signed the lease, and begun to pick up odd bits of furniture, than we were bitten with the gold-fever. And we are leaving for Klondyke the day after to-morrow.”

“Not really!” Cecil exclaimed.

“Fact. There is any amount of money to be made out there; and though no one can go in till the spring, still we mean to be there in time. We are going to trade too. Supplies are dear and scanty, and we are bringing out no end of things to sell to the miners. We have turned every farthing of ready money that we possess into dry goods—rice, flour, sugar, coffee, potatoes, hominy, and things of that sort, you know. Harry, that is my brother, has gone off to the city to buy a gross of picks and shovels. They say it is a curious fact that most miners quite forget to bring those things with them, and have to buy them at a ruinous price out there. Frying-pans, too, are used a great deal, so we are bringing out six dozen of those. I tell you we expect to be rolling in riches by the end of next year.”

Cecil turned eyes which became rounder with astonishment every moment on her companion, but, seeing that she was quite serious, controlled an inclination to laugh, but not so successfully as she thought.

“Pray laugh if you want to,” Miss Marchpoint said coolly. “We turn to the left here, please. Do you mind if we walk a little quicker? Everybody laughs at us, and some think us mad, and prophesy that we shall be dead by the spring. But they laugh all the same. They will only stop laughing when we come back with pailfuls of nuggets. Pails seem quite the correct thing to carry your gold in when you have got it; so we must not forget to take some out with us. I have told you all this to explain why I want to let the flat, and why I am willing to let it go at such a reduction, as the auctioneers say. One hundred and fifty pounds can be easily turned into fifteen thousand pounds out there.”

Cecil fairly gasped. Doubts as to Miss Marchpoint’s sanity crossed her mind. The quick wits of the girl detected her thoughts.

“Ah!” she said; “you are one of the ones who think that we are mad. Just wait a year or two. But I don’t want to distract your mind just now by talking about myself and Harry. Look round you. This is rather a slummy street, isn’t it? It is the shortest cut to Victoria Street. There is a nicer way by Dean’s Yard, but it is rather longer. There is still another way by the Houses of Parliament. So if you don’t like dirty streets, you need not come through them. If you liked the flat, could you pay me the hundred and fifty pounds to-day?”

“I really don’t know,” said Cecil. “I—well—you see there are four of us, and I should have to consult my sisters.”

Her wits seemed to be deserting her. The quick way in which Miss Marchpoint jumped from one subject to another baffled and bewildered her. No sooner did she fix her attention on the streets through which they were passing, and consider the desirability of the neighbourhood, than she was brought sharp up by a question as to the payment of the money; and just as she was wondering whether or not she had the power to draw one hundred and fifty pounds of that four hundred pounds, she was interrupted by Miss Marchpoint coming to an abrupt stand-still in the middle of the road.

“Look here,” she said, “don’t think me uncivil. But I really have no time for shilly-shally. It is a case of ‘yes’ or ‘no’, not for consultations: I know what they mean.”

In the midst of her perplexity Cecil could scarcely help smiling. “I have not very much more time for shilly-shally than you have,” she said. “I have to find a flat, or rooms, or something of that kind for us to move into early next week.”

“That sounds like business,” said Miss Marchpoint in a more satisfied tone. “Shall we move on? A small crowd is collecting.”

They walked on, and Cecil, who only a moment before had been wondering at the frank confidences which this girl, an utter stranger, had given her, found herself giving in return a brief outline of the affairs of herself and her sisters.

Miss Marchpoint listened with interest.

“I am glad I met you,” she exclaimed emphatically. “We shall do business after all. When you began to talk of consultations I began to regret that I had not gone into the city to see about half a hundredweight of concentrated soups that I have to buy. But they can wait; in fact, if we come to terms I can buy a whole hundredweight instead of half. Here we are at last. Before we go inside just take a look at the outside of the flats. They are very airy and clean-looking, aren’t they?”

Cecil looked up and found herself face to face with a big block of red buildings, evidently quite new, and which towered above the dingy small houses by which they were surrounded. Clean and airy they might be, but they were certainly not beautiful. They were built of staring red brick, and not a single projection or a bay-window broke the line of the straight high walls.

“Don’t let yourself be prejudiced,” said Miss Marchpoint, who had become impatient of the pause, brief though it was, that Cecil had made. “After all, the outside view doesn’t matter in the least. It is with the inside that one is chiefly concerned. Come along.”

She began to ascend the whitewashed stone steps.

“The staircase isn’t grand,” she said, “but it is generally pretty clean. My flat, which I hope will soon be your flat, is on the sixth floor. You don’t mind the stairs, do you?”

“Not in the least,” said Cecil.

“Let’s run, then,” said Miss Marchpoint, and holding up the front of her skirts she sped up the fourteen short flights of steps at a pace with which Cecil could not hope to keep up, and was soon out of sight.

Cecil’s eyes were dancing with amusement as she followed her queer new acquaintance. Surely all owners of flats did not try to let them to chance passers-by in such a haphazard, headlong fashion. What would the staid Helen say if she could see her sister at that moment? Was it going to be a case of Moses at the fair after all?

But at this point an impatient summons from above caused her to finish the remainder of the stairs two at a time, and at a pace which effectually banished all reflection.

With a frown on her brow Miss Marchpoint was hunting in the many pockets of her serge coat for her latch-key, and only found it when she had searched every pocket but the right one.

“The door is nice, isn’t it?” she said, as she turned the latch-key. “It was freshly painted for me. See, there is a brass knocker and a letter-box.” The door being opened she motioned Cecil to precede her, and, following, she closed it behind them.

“Now,” she said, “having succeeded in getting you here I won’t hurry you, although I am in a terrific hurry myself to get everything settled. I will give you as long as you like, say ten minutes, to make up your mind. That will be enough, won’t it?”

Cecil, however, was saved the necessity of an answer, for Miss Marchpoint set to work without delay to play the part of a house-agent.

“This, you see,” she said, “is the hall; it is really a passage. On the right-hand side is the sitting-room, facing it is one of the bedrooms; facing us at the other end is the other bedroom, behind are the kitchen and bath-room. Now,” she added, a trifle anxiously, “what is your first impression? I can always tell directly whether I am going to like a place or not.”

“My first impression,” Cecil said promptly, “is that fifty pounds is a great deal to pay for such a small place.”

“The rent is really seventy pounds,” said Miss Marchpoint, whose face had fallen somewhat at Cecil’s remark; “and after my three years are up it is to be raised five pounds. Fifty pounds is not dear when you take everything into consideration. But come along and see the rooms. The tour will not take long.”

The sitting-room into which they went first was a square, airy room with a good-sized window looking out over some very ugly roofs to the beautiful Clock-tower. There was also a long, narrow glass door opening on to a tiny balcony.

Two huge packing-cases stood in the middle of the floor, which was uncarpeted, and littered with straw.

“Our goods for Klondyke,” Miss Marchpoint said, pointing to the cases; “mostly tinned things and flour. You are seeing the rooms, you know, under very great disadvantages. If they had been empty they would have looked larger, and if they had been furnished they would have looked ever so much nicer. But it was just when the flat had been repainted and papered, and was about ready for us to move in, that we decided to go off to Klondyke. It is a pretty paper, isn’t it? Light-green. I chose it myself.”

The two bedrooms were about the same size as the sitting-room; one faced the front, the other looked into the square at the back, as did also the tiny kitchen and bath-room.

As Miss Marchpoint had said, the tour of the entire premises did not last long, and in less than the allotted ten minutes Cecil had been into every room. And by that time she had received a very strong second impression. It was that this tiny flat would, if they could only afford it, suit them admirably. In short, she fell in love with it on the spot. She felt that here she and her sisters could make a home for themselves, which in lodgings, even with the nicest landlady, they could not do. The flat really seemed as if it were made for them. She and Barbara would have one room, Helen and Nance the other. Then the sitting-room could be made to look so snug and pretty. The paper would satisfy even Helen’s critical taste, and some of the old furniture which their father—

But when her meditations had reached this point Cecil pulled herself up abruptly. These daydreams were worthy of Nance. How could they afford to spend half their income on house-rent? It was absurd.

“Well?” said Miss Marchpoint. They had returned to the sitting-room, where, while Cecil walked to the window, her hostess seated herself on the top of one of the huge packing-cases and played with a straw. “Well?”

“I like it,” said Cecil, with a slight sigh. “I think it would do for us beautifully. But, as I told you before, I do not think that we can afford to give fifty pounds for house-rent.”

“Let us talk it over,” said Miss Marchpoint, selecting two more straws and proceeding to plait them with the one she already held in her hand.

“By all means,” said Cecil, half smiling. “But I am afraid that no amount of talking will make fifty pounds the tenth part of our income, and that is what they say we ought to give for house-rent.”

“What ‘they say’ is often great nonsense,” said Miss Marchpoint. “Now, if you don’t mind my asking, what is your income?”

“A hundred a year, and it has to do for four of us.”

“Well, fifty pounds for the flat would leave you another fifty pounds for dress, food, and fares. You would have a pound a week to spend.”

“Not quite,” said Cecil. “You see there are fifty-two weeks in the year. And, besides, there are college and academy and school fees to be paid out of the remaining fifty.”

“H’m!” said Miss Marchpoint, her face assuming a graver expression, “I see. It would be an awfully tight fit.”

Cecil felt inclined to say that it would be no fit at all, but Miss Marchpoint gave her no time.

“Still, you know, if you have to live on a pound a week you could do it better here than in lodgings. In lodgings you would have the landlady’s cat to feed.”

“Her cat!” Cecil exclaimed, in bewilderment.

“Dear me, yes! There is always a troublesome cat in lodgings, you know—one with an insatiable appetite, which eats everything: butter, sugar, meat, eggs, lard, everything you can think of. The poor landlady is generally in despair about it; but it is a pet of the children’s, and she does not like to give it away.”

“Oh, I see!” said Cecil, laughing. “But it is hardly fair to say that all landladies are dishonest.”

“Of course not. I was only joking. But seriously now, do you really expect to get two bedrooms and a sitting-room, for that is what you want, isn’t it, for a pound a week? Why, you would have to go right out to some dreadful suburb for that, and then you might just as well not live in London at all.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Cecil, sighing.

“Dear me, yes they can! There is always a choice of evils. Say you go to Clapham or Balham or Peckham Rye, or any place of that sort. Have you considered what your fares will cost you? About a shilling a day each.”

“No!” said Cecil, aghast. “Surely not!”

“Fact,” said Miss Marchpoint tersely. It was a favourite expression of hers. “Look here now. Of course you know I am desperately anxious that you should take this flat, I have taken no pains to hide that. We want to scrape together as much money as ever we can, and one hundred and fifty pounds now means fifteen thousand a few months hence. Not one of our relatives would lend us a five-pound note, although we promised to pay them back cent for cent. However, it’s their own look-out, and they only have themselves to blame for the loss of a splendid investment. Now if I was to advertise this flat at the rate at which I am offering it to you, I should have dozens of applications. But there isn’t time; the steamer sails the day after to-morrow, and I simply must have the money to-day, for we want to invest it in that soup. Come now. You like the flat, don’t you?”

“Very much. I should think myself fortunate to get it. But—”

“You like the neighbourhood?”

“Yes,” said Cecil again. “But—”

“And you don’t think the rent too high, apart, of course, from the consideration as to whether it is too much for you. Wait a moment. I have given you no proof that I do pay seventy pounds.”

“Oh, I quite believe you!” Cecil said hastily.

“Never believe anyone,” said Miss Marchpoint, and the American accent came out strongly for a moment. She drew a large blue envelope from her pocket, and taking out the folded paper which it contained handed it across to Cecil. “It’s my lease,” she said. “I took it round to the agent, hoping to get rid of it.”

Cecil unfolded it, and running her eyes over the legal phraseology succeeded in picking out the few sentences which told her that the flat known as “No. 10 St. Christopher’s Mansions” was let to Miss Marchpoint for a term of three years at a yearly rental of seventy pounds.

“You see,” said Miss Marchpoint, as Cecil gave her back the paper, “I am letting it go cheap, but then I can’t help myself. Well, is it to be ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Would you like to toss?”

“To toss!” Cecil exclaimed, not understanding her for a moment.

“Yes. Heads you take it, tails you don’t. When we simply cannot make up our minds, Harry and I often settle things in that way. For instance, the other day we couldn’t decide whether to take oatmeal or not. You see, if there are any Scotch miners at Klondyke they would give anything for their favourite porridge, but of course if there aren’t any there the oatmeal would be a dead loss to us. Well, we tossed. Heads we’d take it, tails we wouldn’t. Heads had it. So we’ve taken fifty pounds, and we ought to make no end on it if we make anything at all. But we are wandering from your business. Here’s a two-shilling piece.” And before Cecil could prevent her she rested it on her finger and thumb, spun it up to the ceiling, and caught it deftly.

“Heads!” she cried. “You take it.”

“Indeed,” Cecil said, “I couldn’t think of—”

“Hush!” said Miss Marchpoint, suddenly interrupting her; “there’s Harry. How lucky! I am glad that he has come while you are here.” And, jumping off the packing-case, she ran out of the room and opened the hall-door just as a latch-key was being inserted in the lock.

“Come in, Harry, and let me introduce you to our possible tenant, Miss Whittington. She is real smitten with the flat, but is just uncertain about the price. I have offered it to her for three years for one hundred and fifty pounds. Was I right?”

“I reckon you were,” returned her brother as he followed her into the room and bowed to Cecil. He was a tall, sunburnt young fellow, and looked about a year or so older than his sister. He spoke with the same American accent that tinged her speech, and though he did not show it quite so much, it was evident that he was in every bit as great a state of excitement as she was.

“You’ve done a smart thing, Dorothy, if you’ve managed to fix this business while I’ve been in the city. You can have possession the day after to-morrow, if you like, Miss Whittington, for we shall be dropping down Channel by that time, I guess.”

But at that point Cecil felt that she really must interpose, and wishing that they would not take things quite so much for granted, she explained to Mr. Marchpoint what she had already explained to his sister, that though she liked the flat extremely, she did not know if she could afford the rent. His face fell considerably as she spoke, but, greatly to her relief, he did not, as his sister had done, immediately inquire her income and proceed to map it out for her.

“Well, of course you know best about that,” he said. “I am sorry, for from what Dorothy said when I came in I thought the whole thing was fixed up. And I was real glad too, for we expect to turn every hundred into a thousand out there. By the way, Dorothy,” he added, turning to his sister, “I have got those picks and shovels. Eight dozen of each. They are to be here directly, for I am going to see everything packed under my own eye.”

At the mention of the picks and shovels Cecil had risen, but as she held out her hand to say good-bye, Miss Marchpoint placed her own hands with great promptitude behind her back.

“Not a bit of it,” she said. “I am not going to say good-bye just yet. Now listen, Miss Whittington. In all London you won’t get such a cheap place as this. You don’t believe it, and you are going to see for yourself. All right! It is what I should do in your place. But now, do you mind my going with you? I sha’n’t try and influence the landladies or the house-agents to ask you double, nor will I go on teasing you about the flat. I will stay outside the different places while you go in, if you like. But I don’t want to lose sight of you. A couple of hours ought to be enough to convince you that you won’t get a better or a cheaper place than No. 10 St. Christopher’s Mansions, and then you could come on to the bank and make over that hundred and fifty pounds to me. Then, Harry,” wheeling round to her brother, “we might arrange to meet in the city and go to that concentrated-soup place. What is your bank, Miss Whittington?”

“The Great Eastern, Threadneedle Street,” Cecil said, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to be vexed at Miss Marchpoint’s persistency. Every moment she thought it more unlikely that she and her sisters would become the tenants of the flat, but it seemed useless to say so any more.

At the mention of concentrated soup, Mr. Marchpoint’s face assumed an even more business-like expression, and taking a bulky note-book from his pocket he consulted its pages.

“Ah!” he said then, “there are three crosses against soup. That means that we decided that we could do with any quantity, and if we get the rent we will certainly invest a good part of it in soup. There is still a cross against flour, by the way. We want more of that too. What do you say, Dorothy? Shall we spend that hundred and fifty pounds in flour or soup?”

But that was altogether too much for Cecil’s gravity, and she broke into a laugh. She thought this brother and sister were the funniest pair she had ever come across. They reminded her irresistibly of a couple of children playing at being business men.

“Don’t you think you are rather counting your chickens before they are hatched?” she said mischievously, and then, when it was too late, would have recalled her words, fearing that they would be offended.

But the Marchpoints proved themselves able to enjoy a joke, even when it told against them, and they found Cecil’s laughter infectious.

Miss Marchpoint was the first to recover her gravity. “But this isn’t business,” she said briskly, “and we ought to be starting. But first, Miss Whittington, let me offer you some refreshment. If you have come up from the country you must be hungry.”

Cecil’s first impulse was to decline anything. But now that the fact was brought to her notice, she discovered that she was very hungry, for it was then nearly half-past eleven, and she had breakfasted at a quarter to eight.

“That’s right,” said Miss Marchpoint, who had been watching her face. “I thought you were going to be stiff and say ‘No, thank you’. Harry, go into the larder, like a good boy, and bring some milk and biscuits.”

“This doesn’t in any way bind you to take the flat, you know, Miss Whittington,” Harry said, as he went off laughing to do his sister’s behest.

In a few minutes he returned with a tray on which were a couple of tumblers of milk and a tin of biscuits.

“I’ve got an idea,” he exclaimed, setting the tray down on the nearest packing-case and whipping out his note-book again. “Milk is sure to be a scarcity at Klondyke, and—”

“Are you thinking of taking a cow out?” Cecil inquired gravely. And indeed it would not have surprised her in the least to hear that he did contemplate doing so.

“We settled not to take live stock,” his sister interposed; “the outlay and risk would be too great,” she added thoughtfully. “But you are quite right, Harry. Milk will be at a premium out there.”

“Just so; therefore I propose to take out some dozens of tins of condensed milk. What do you say to that, Dorothy? I take it to be rather a cute move,” he added triumphantly, as he made a fresh entry in his note-book.

“I guess so,” she said, with emphatic admiration. “Miss Whittington, we are real grateful to you for putting the idea into our heads. It means money. Can you suggest anything else?”

Her brother looked up eagerly, with his pencil poised over an open page, and, suppressing an inclination to give way once more to the mirth that consumed her, Cecil suggested cocoa. It would mix well, she thought, with the milk, and would be an admirable drink for the miners after a hard day’s work. With a nod of approval Harry made a note of this, and then, while the two girls drank their milk and munched a few biscuits, he launched into an account of their hopes and plans. They would both come back millionaires, of that he was certain. Cecil listened sympathetically. Though she could not help thinking that the expedition was the maddest, the most crack-brained thing she had ever heard of, Mr. Marchpoint’s sober eagerness, no less than his sister’s wild enthusiasm, impressed her with their intense earnestness, and if she did not share their confident belief in the great riches that awaited them out there, she at any rate hoped that their dreams would be realized. But presently, as Mr. Marchpoint was in the midst of a glowing account of the smart business that he was going to transact in the intervals of gold digging, Cecil’s eye fell on a small travelling-clock that stood on the mantel-piece, and her thoughts came back abruptly from Klondyke. What would her sisters, especially Helen, say if they could see her at that moment, as, seated on a packing-case with two people who less than an hour ago had been complete strangers to her, she listened absorbed, while one of those two strangers held forth in such a manner about his affairs that it actually made her forgetful of her own.

Miss Marchpoint, more observant than her brother, noticed her glance, and she interrupted him unceremoniously as, somewhat after the fashion of the farmer’s wife with the basketful of eggs, he enumerated everything they had bought, and calculated what he should do with the profits he received on their sale.

At the same moment heavy feet were heard slowly ascending the staircase, and pausing outside No. 10.

“The picks and shovels,” Harry said, jumping off the box.

“Let us get out first,” said his sister, hurrying past him, “and don’t forget, Harry, be outside the Great Eastern about three o’clock.”

“And in case I am not there I will say good-bye now,” Cecil said, shaking hands with him; “and I wish you every success at Klondyke.”

“If you really and truly wish that,” Dorothy Marchpoint said as, leaving her brother struggling with sundry huge ungainly bundles, she led the way downstairs, “you must take the flat, you know. Unless we get your money we shall have to strike soup, and milk, and cocoa off our list.”

After that, however, Miss Marchpoint kept her word, and did not, as she had herself phrased it, bother Cecil about the flat. At the corner of the street, after a careful scrutiny of the horse, and in spite of Cecil’s protestations that they had better walk, she engaged a hansom, telling the driver that she wanted it by the hour.

“I pay for this, of course,” she said; “it is to my interest to get this fixed up prompt. Now tell him where you want to go.”

They rattled off down Parliament Street, and Cecil could not but confess that this was a pleasanter way of searching for lodgings than going on foot and alone. Miss Marchpoint proved herself capable of being a lively and entertaining companion, but as they neared the Strand, and Cecil became immersed in anxious reflections, she had the tact to lapse into silence.

Cecil had mentally termed the Marchpoint expedition a wild-goose chase, but it gradually dawned upon her that the same might be said, and with even greater truth, of her own. In and out of the Strand they went, exploring a great many of the streets that led right and left off it. And nowhere did Cecil find a landlady who was willing to let them have two bedrooms and a sitting-room for less than thirty shillings a week, with extras. Extras she learned might mean anything from two and sixpence to fifteen shillings a week.

And occasionally, when Cecil, lured by the suggestion that they might come to terms, named the sum for which she had hoped to obtain rooms, she met either with scornful contempt or downright insolence.

Provoked at these repeated failures, Cecil at last decided to leave the neighbourhood of the Strand, and told the driver to go to Bloomsbury. There, however, she met with no better success, and they went on to Gower Street. Here for a time it did really seem that she might get what she wanted, and her spirits went up, and those of Miss Marchpoint went down. In a dingy street about ten minutes’ walk from Gower Street Station, in which nearly every window was ornamented with a card announcing that furnished apartments were to let, she got out of the hansom with the intention of having a regular house-to-house search.

“Cecil was accordingly conducted to a big room on the first floor.”

“I will stay here, then,” said Miss Marchpoint, who for the first time was becoming afraid that her tenant would after all slip through her fingers. But at first she had not much cause for anxiety. In less than five minutes Cecil had rung as many bells, seen as many landladies, and met with as many disappointments. As long as the interviews were conducted on the door-step, Miss Marchpoint felt safe. It was when Cecil disappeared inside that she felt uneasy. And in the sixth or seventh house Cecil remained so long that it was all Miss Marchpoint could do to keep her promise and remain in the hansom. This house had both furnished and unfurnished rooms to let, and in answer to Cecil’s ring, a pleasant-faced woman appeared at the door, and said she would be happy to show the rooms, and Cecil was accordingly conducted to a big room on the first floor. The rent, the woman said, would be five shillings a week, and she had two bedrooms on the top floor which she would let for three-and-sixpence a week each.

Cecil’s face lit up with pleasure. Her long, weary search had met with success at last. Twelve shillings a week! Why, that was very little more than half what she would have been obliged to pay for the Marchpoints’ flat. How lucky she had not taken it! It cost her a pang, nevertheless, to give up all idea of becoming the owner of that pretty little flat with its new papers and fresh paint. These rooms, though clean and airy, had a dingy, dull appearance. The street was not very wide, and the house opposite seemed to her country mind unnecessarily, and inconveniently, near.

But twelve shillings! It really was ridiculously little! Even in the midst of her exultation though, she felt sorry for the Marchpoints. She must pay for the cab; she would, of course, insist upon doing that. Then she turned to the woman.

“I think I shall take your rooms,” she said. “Twelve shillings a week; is not that what you ask for the three?”

“For the three rooms, yes,” said the woman. “But, of course,” she added, “there will be a few extras.”

Extras! Cecil’s experience that morning had taught her to dread that word. The woman began rapidly to enumerate them. “The attendance would, of course, be extra. My usual charge is generally a shilling for each person for the week, but I am willing to make it less for four young ladies. I would charge you three shillings for attendance, and for that I would keep the bedrooms and the sitting-room in order. Meals, of course, would be an extra, but I dare say you would take those outside. Breakfast, of course, you would have here, and for the use of the kitchen fire I would charge, say, one-and-sixpence a week; I generally ask two shillings. Then, carrying the things upstairs and washing up afterwards would be an extra, and so would the boots. I make a small charge also for baths. Then I make a charge for the gas in the hall and on the stairs, for, you see, you have the use of that the same as everybody else.”

“Oh!” said Cecil. She had said “oh” at intervals during this speech, and at every fresh extra which the woman volubly named her hopes sank lower and lower. While she paused for breath Cecil made a rapid calculation, and found that all these items brought the rent to nearly a pound a week.

“I am not one who puts it on afterwards,” the landlady continued, “and it is best to come to a clear understanding at once. So I must tell you that besides these—”

“Much better,” interrupted Cecil hurriedly, seeing that more “extras” were trembling on the woman’s tongue; “so I must tell you that I do not think the rooms would suit us. At least,” she added honestly, “the rooms would, but the price would not.”

“You won’t get no rooms in this neighbourhood for less, miss,” said the woman in surprise. “Twelve shillings for three rooms, and good rooms too, is not out of the way.”

“It is not so much the rent as the extras,” Cecil was driven to say. “You see, they mount it up very much.”

“They have generally been considered fair enough too,” the woman replied; “you see, you could not expect to get three rooms in this street for twelve shillings a week, and I am bound to make it up by extras. If you can say which of them you think too much, I will reduce the charge.”

But Cecil declined to accept the challenge. It was not each individual extra, but the sum total that was so alarming.

“Well,” said Miss Marchpoint eagerly, as Cecil stepped into the hansom, “am I to congratulate you?”

“No, you are not,” Cecil replied with a somewhat rueful smile; “the rooms seem as dear here as anywhere else we have tried this morning, and not very nice. But in the last house my hopes went up sky-high, only to be brought down with a rush. The woman told me that she would let me have three rooms for twelve shillings, and then seemed hurt and indignant because I really expected to get them for that.”

“And now?” said Miss Marchpoint in a questioning tone. The hansom was going at a walking pace up the street, and the driver, who took a great interest in the business on which his fares were engaged, was studying the cards in the window as they passed.

Cecil glanced at the list in her hand. There were still a great many districts to be explored, but there seemed no reason why she should succeed in any of them when she had failed everywhere else. She felt discouraged. Looking back over the many rooms she had seen, she knew that in none of them could she and her sisters hope to make a home. And though they might not mind that as much as she was prepared to mind it for them, she was sure that sooner or later discomfort and bad cooking would tell upon their health, and so interfere with their work. Her thoughts turned more and more to the Marchpoints’ little flat. There they could live as they pleased, untroubled either by extras or by landladies.

As these thoughts were passing rapidly through her mind, leaving her as hopelessly undecided as ever as to what she ought to do, the hansom pulled up, and the driver looked through the trap-window and asked if the ladies wished to visit any more houses in the street.

“I think not, thank you,” said Cecil, and then paused.

Miss Marchpoint looked at her watch and remarked that it was a quarter to three, and the bank would close at four; and if one hundred and fifty of their four hundred pounds had not by that time been transferred to the Marchpoints, the flat would be placed on the agent’s books, and would have slipped through Cecil’s fingers.

The decisive moment had then really arrived.

“Do toss,” said Miss Marchpoint persuasively; “you don’t know what a help it is if you can’t make up your mind. I believe in chance, you know. Let’s give it a trial, anyhow.”

She produced a shilling from one of the little pockets in her coat, and spun it up to the roof of the hansom.

“Heads, you take it; tails, you don’t.” She caught the coin, and Cecil, interested in spite of herself, bent over and looked on.

“Tails!” Miss Marchpoint cried in a mortified tone. “But we’ll have the best out of three, of course.”

She tossed again, and both the second and the third time the “head” was uppermost.

“The flat is plainly to be yours,” she cried exultingly, “and the one hundred and fifty ours. You can’t go against the coin for the second time.”

But though her tone was confident, her mind was by no means so; and her surprise and delight were equally great when Cecil echoed:

“No, of course not. I will take the flat.”

“You really will, because of the coin?”

“No,” said Cecil, laughing, “not quite because of that. But look up the road and you will see what has helped me to make up my mind.”

On the door-step of a house a few hundred yards up the road stood a fat, red-faced woman, with her arms akimbo and a look of defiance on her face. In loud tones she was shouting out abuse, evidently of the coarsest nature, to a little, spare, elderly, shabbily-dressed lady, who, laden with several big paper parcels, was struggling down the steps. Now and again she would pause, and look hopelessly up and down as if in search of a cab. Once she turned and spoke to the woman behind her, eliciting, however, in reply a fresh torrent of abuse that made her hurry on with a shudder. It was a quiet street, with few passers-by, yet already the woman’s loud voice was attracting a small crowd to the spot. Heads were appearing at the windows, and the little lady, hampered as she was with her parcels, and anxious to get beyond the reach of the woman’s tongue, was at a sore disadvantage. The crowd was increasing, a barrel-organ stopped playing, while a distant policeman was to be seen making his way very leisurely towards the spot. The publicity of it all unnerved the little lady to such an extent that she dropped one of her parcels, and in picking it up she dropped another. No one in the crowd offered to help her. They were listening with appreciative grins to the coarse witticisms which the woman continued to hurl down the steps.

“There,” Cecil said, “that is what I meant. Oh, I could not run the risk of getting such a landlady as that! It would be too dreadful.”

“It would,” Miss Marchpoint said, reflecting as she spoke that they could not have passed at a more opportune moment. The scene might have been purposely got up on behalf of her brother and herself.

The little lady looked up eagerly as the hansom containing the two girls approached, but her face fell when she saw that it was occupied. The scared, appealing glance was too much for Cecil. Calling to the driver to pull up, she jumped out, and picking up the scattered parcels, gave her arm to the little lady, and before the latter or Miss Marchpoint had quite recovered from their astonishment, had safely bestowed her prize within the shelter of the hansom.

Miss Marchpoint made room for her with an amused smile. It would not have occurred to her to have done this thing, but she was glad that Cecil should have done it. And the little lady was so very spare and small that there was plenty of room for them all.

“Where shall we take you to?” said Cecil gently.

The little lady was so much agitated that for a moment or two she could not speak, but as soon as she recovered her breath she expressed a wish to be put into a Bayswater omnibus.

Cecil was about to call up these instructions to the driver, when that worthy put his face to the little trap-door.

“Would you like to look at these rooms, miss?” he said; “I sees as how there are several cards in the window.”

Before Cecil could reply, the woman, who had overheard the question, hastened down the steps. The scowl on her brow had cleared, her angry mouth had closed and widened into a smile, and her whole manner had changed from abusive contempt to cringing servility.

Cecil was as much amazed as indignant at her audacity. How could she think it possible that any witness of the disgraceful scene which had just passed would become a tenant in her house?

“No, thank you,” she said coldly, with so much repugnance in her voice and manner that the woman could not fail to perceive it. Once more her attitude underwent a swift change, but before she could give vent to her rising anger the driver touched up his horse, and they drove quickly on.

The little lady heaved a deep sigh of relief.

“My dear,” she said, “how can I thank you? Oh, that dreadful woman!” She held out her hand, cased in a threadbare cotton glove, and shook Cecil’s gratefully. “Merely because I refused to be imposed upon, she has treated me in this infamous manner. I took these rooms this day last week without a personal recommendation. My dear,”—she spoke always to Cecil, ignoring Miss Marchpoint altogether, greatly to that young person’s amusement. “My dear, whatever you do, never take rooms without a personal recommendation—it is most unwise. Fortunately I only took them for a week, and before I was two days in the house I decided not to stay beyond the week; for I had discovered a most dreadful thing. My dear, the woman was dishonest; her thefts were fearful. I have lived in lodgings for the last twenty years, and have had a wide, I may say, a very wide, experience of lodgings and landladies. She was quite among the worst with whom I have ever had to do. Out of thirty-three lumps of sugar that I brought with me on Friday, no less than twenty-one were gone before the following Sunday. And as I never take more than one lump in a cup, and never drink more than three cups in a day, it was evident that a certain number of those lumps had been stolen from me. I saw plainly that I should be ruined if I stayed there, and so the very next day I gave notice; and ever since then the woman has been most insolent. I was quite glad to leave, and I am going back to some old lodgings in Bayswater, where I have been before. I sent my box by the parcels people this morning, and would have sent one or two of these parcels also, but they charge so disgracefully. Fancy, my dear, twopence for a parcel, however small it is; is it not shameful?”

Miss Marchpoint was convulsed with suppressed laughter. Out of the corner of her eye Cecil could see her fairly shaking. She herself had been amused at first. The episode of the sugar was decidedly amusing, but then a feeling of intense pity for anyone who should be obliged to practise such pitiful economies had overtaken her.

“And cabs are so extravagant,” the little lady prattled on, in tones which, though almost peculiarly soft, were, owing to the odd way in which she emphasized her words, jerky and uneven. “I hope, my dear, you made a bargain with this man beforehand. I never dream of hiring a cab without inquiring the fare, and getting him to take sixpence less if possible. Now I am going to get into a bus in Oxford Street which will take me to Bayswater for twopence. Most persons would have taken it from the nearest corner, and would have to pay threepence.” She rubbed her hands softly together, and was evidently much pleased with herself for practising this piece of economy.

Presently remarking that it was as well to have one’s fare ready in one’s hand, for then the conductors did not try to cheat you, she drew off her shabby gloves and extracted two coppers from a little lean purse. A pang of pity shot through Cecil’s heart; the purse looked so empty, and the pennies were drawn out reluctantly, as though their owner were loth to part from them. But on the fingers of her small white hands several beautiful diamond and emerald rings blazed; and after looking at them for a moment, Miss Marchpoint glanced significantly at Cecil, and formed the word “miser” with her lips. They certainly were lovely rings, and there was something incongruous in the idea that the owner of them should be obliged to count lumps of sugar.

Presently they turned into Oxford Street, and at her own desire the lady, who had carefully drawn on her gloves again, was set down beside the pavement. But as it seemed an impossibility that she would ever manage to convey herself and her numerous packages into an omnibus, Cecil alighted with her, and when two wrong buses had been hailed, the right one came by, and the little lady with all her belongings was safely hoisted into it.

The incident had quite taken Cecil’s mind from her own affairs, but as, still thinking of the queer, solitary, selfish little lady, she stepped into the hansom, Miss Marchpoint abruptly recalled her to them by remarking:

“I told him to go to Threadneedle Street; and we shall really have to hurry up. We have no more time for rescuing distressed old ladies. What a funny little soul she was! Those diamond rings, if I know anything of stones, and I guess I do just, would have kept her in comfort to the end of her days. Say, let me congratulate you on the flat. You will never regret it, I am certain.”

“No,” Cecil said, “I really don’t believe that we shall. What a melancholy picture that little old lady gave us of life in lodgings! Fancy spending twenty years in furnished apartments. Do you know, I fell in love with your flat almost directly I went into it. And yet I am not sorry that we have spent all this time looking for rooms. Unless I had seen for myself how unsatisfactory and uncomfortable lodgings might be, I should not have felt justified in taking the flat. I think it was the dreadful face and manner of that last landlady that decided me.”

“She appeared at a most lucky moment for me, then,” Miss Marchpoint said laughingly. “It really seems as though Harry and I had arranged that little scene to further our own ends.”

Chatting and laughing in a light-hearted way, the two girls drove down Regent Street, where the shop windows enchanted Cecil. As there was a great deal of traffic, the hansom went almost at a walking pace, and Cecil made the most of the few brief peeps that she obtained.

“I am a dreadful country cousin!” she exclaimed. “I love looking at shops, but the pretty things make one wish that one had heaps of money to spend. Oh, how gloriously those diamonds sparkle! Nance would gaze at them by the hour together. And oh, what a lovely hat shop! I must come there to get some ideas. Hat-trimming is one of my few accomplishments. Do you see that big Gainsborough? It would suit Nance admirably. It is just a little too much turned up at the side, though.”

The shop that was attracting her attention was just at the corner of a street that turned out of Regent Street. As a block had occurred in front of them, their hansom was brought to a stand-still; and while it waited, Cecil ran her eye critically over the few hats and bonnets that were displayed in the window.

“It’s a very good shop,” she said; “but don’t you think that there is a certain likeness between all the things? They seem to me as if one person had trimmed them all, or, at any rate, had designed them all.”

“Now, that is what I call real cute on your part,” said Miss Marchpoint. “One person does design, and what is more, trims them all. That shop belongs to a cousin of mine.”

“To a cousin of yours!” Cecil exclaimed.

Miss Marchpoint nodded. “Fact. She calls herself Madame Marcelline. Her setting up like this was the talk of town some two or three seasons back, I believe, but people have got accustomed to it by now. And she is making no end of money, thousands and thousands a year, they say; but I dare say the amount is greatly exaggerated. Just now her place is considered the smartest in town, and she asks a pretty long price, I can tell you.”

“But how tremendously hard she must work,” said Cecil, “if she does everything herself!”

“She doesn’t put her best in the window either. She likes to design a hat for the person who is to wear it, and she looks upon a ready-trimmed hat much in the same way as she would look upon ready-made dresses or boots.”

“She must be very clever,” Cecil said; “please tell me some more about her. I always like to hear about women who are earning their own living, for I have to do the same myself, you know.”

“Say,” said Miss Marchpoint in her abrupt way, “did you trim the hat you have on?”

“Yes, I did,” said Cecil. “Do you propose that I should set up a rival establishment?”

“No, not quite; but seriously, if you want money you might do worse than take employment with Madame Marcelline. I know she wants somebody to help her, for she told me the other day that the work was getting almost beyond her sole powers. And if that hat is a fair sample of what you can do, I reckon she would jump at you. And you would get a pound a week to begin with.”

Cecil shook her head. If she had found out nothing else about Miss Marchpoint, she had at least discovered that she was an exceedingly sanguine young person, and she by no means shared her belief that Madame Marcelline would jump at her services.

“Don’t you make any mistake,” said Miss Marchpoint, “I know what I am talking about. And I tell you that that hat has a real Parisian look about it, and the set of that bow is as cunning as it can be.”

Cecil’s hat was certainly a very pretty one, for though it was trimmed with the utmost simplicity, there was a quiet style and finish about it which would not have made it unworthy of a place in the window of Madame Marcelline’s shop.

“I am less stupid with my fingers than with my brain,” Cecil said, rather amused at Miss Marchpoint’s unstinted praise. “My three younger sisters have all the talent of the family divided between them.”

“Is that so? Well, I guess you must be a clever family. Have you ever tried hat-trimming—professionally, I mean? No!” as Cecil shook her head. “Well, if I wasn’t in this Klondike-digging get-up, I would go in and ask my cousin to give you a place on the spot; but she would hate me to go in unless I was properly got up, and it would probably make her refuse off-hand. But I tell you what, I will write to her, and mention that I have found somebody who can trim hats against anybody, and that she had better secure you at once. I will drop her a line to-night.”

And with that assurance Miss Marchpoint dismissed the subject, not only from the conversation, but also from her thoughts. Dismissed it so completely that, as Cecil found out afterwards, the promised line to Madame Marcelline was never dropped.

After a long and, to Cecil, a most interesting drive through the city, the bank in Threadneedle Street was reached at last, and as Harry Marchpoint was not in sight, the two girls passed through the swinging doors into the outer office, where Cecil gave her name to a clerk, and asked for an interview with Mr. Edwards.

Mr. Edwards was a man for whom, as far as integrity and uprightness went, Miss Taplow had always entertained a strong regard, but she thought little of his business capacity; and though she always made a point of consulting him before she embarked upon any of the little speculations by which for many years past she had successfully added to her income, she never took it, for it was invariably the same: “Don’t speculate, Miss Taplow. No woman ought to meddle with business affairs, they don’t understand them.” Miss Taplow delighted to prove him wrong, and did so time after time, but although he could not but own that she was exceptionally lucky, he never failed to warn her against the dangers of speculation, and at last his repeated warnings were justified. His pity for her was, however, tinged with contempt when he found that, though he was left executor of her will, he was not nominated trustee. Her nieces, under age though they all were, had full power to squander the pitiful fortune of four hundred pounds as fast as ever they pleased. When Cecil’s name was handed in to him, he supposed that, though barely a month had elapsed since they had obtained possession of the money, she had come to draw a cheque for the full amount; but rather less than half their capital was, he learnt, what she required.

“You are determined to have the money. I suppose nothing I could say would have any influence with you,” he said in a dry, formal manner.

“I should respect any advice you give me,” Cecil answered, “but I have made up my mind to take the flat.”

“In that case I will not trouble you with my advice,” he retorted grimly. “I must, however, express my opinion. It is that you are doing an exceedingly foolish thing. What do you want to come to London at all for? You ought to go on living quietly in the country. Home is the best place for girls. They have no business to want to push their way out into the world.”

“But if they have no home, Mr. Edwards,” Cecil said, “what then?”

But he did not condescend to argue the point. He had given her his opinion, and there was an end of the matter as far as he was concerned; but before he washed his hands of them for good and all, he would, for his old client’s sake, give a somewhat more business-like aspect to the foolish, irregular proceeding.

He could find no fault with the lease which Miss Marchpoint produced for his inspection, but, sending for a clerk, he caused him to draw out an agreement in which she acknowledged the receipt of one hundred and fifty pounds, and formally made over the lease to Cecil and her sisters. And when Miss Marchpoint had signed this in the presence of two witnesses, and paid seven-and-six for the stamp, Mr. Edwards handed Cecil a cheque to sign.

“It will hardly be worth while to give you a cheque-book, or a banking-book either, if all your cheques are to be on this scale,” he remarked dryly.

“But they won’t be,” Cecil said. “Why, the rest of the money has to last us four years.”

“I suppose I can cash this right away?” Miss Marchpoint said, receiving the cheque with unconcealed delight. She had been much entertained by the very obvious disapproval and suspicion with which Mr. Edwards regarded her, and on being coldly answered in the affirmative, she nodded a careless farewell and went out to the cashier’s desk.

But Cecil lingered for a moment to thank Mr. Edwards for the interest, slight and grudgingly yielded though it had been, that he had shown on their behalf, and to assure him that she had neither the wish nor the intention to squander their small fortune.

He replied that he found it difficult to credit that, in view of the cheque which she had just drawn. “And I presume,” he added, “from what you have told me, that you intend to live upon your capital?”

Cecil admitted the fact somewhat guiltily, for his tone made her feel as if she were going to embark upon a course of riotous living.

“Well, as I said before, I shall not give you advice. I may mention, however, that the idea that such would be your course of action not having occurred to me, I had been on the look-out for a suitable investment, and had found a mortgage which would have given you five per cent.”

“But we could not have lived on twenty pounds a year,” Cecil said. “There are four of us, you know, Mr. Edwards,” she added, anxious if possible to exculpate herself in his eyes, “and my three younger sisters want to educate themselves.” But he was so obviously out of sympathy with them and with their plans that she could not go on, and she rose and held out her hand. “Please do not think me ungrateful for the trouble you have taken,” she said, “for I am not indeed.”

“Old curmudgeon!” was Miss Marchpoint’s comment when she and Cecil found themselves once more in the street, the former with a roll of bank-notes firmly grasped in her hand. “I could see he thought I was cheating you like anything. But what does that matter? We have each got what we wanted, and I hope you are as pleased with your share of the bargain as I am with mine.”

But before Cecil could reply Miss Marchpoint caught sight of her brother sauntering slowly along the pavement in front of them, and with an exclamation of “There’s Harry!” she darted swiftly through the hurrying crowd and caught hold of his coat sleeve.

“I have got it!” she exclaimed in a voice so brimful of delight that one or two passers-by turned to look at her. “It is ours!”

His delight, though quite as great, was less demonstrative.

“No!” he said. “I am real glad. It’s a pure matter of business, of course, Miss Whittington,” he said, turning to her as she came up. Here Cecil suppressed a smile, remembering the very different light in which Mr. Edwards looked upon the transaction. “You are our sub-tenants, you know. We are still responsible to the landlord for the seventy pounds rent, and though we lose twenty on the transaction we are not likely to regret it. Your cheque may be worth a fortune to us.”

Then he insisted on carrying them both off to what he said was the best restaurant in the city, where he ordered a sort of mixed lunch and afternoon tea. And as by that time Cecil stood in need of food, she did full justice to it; but the other two scarcely touched what was on their plates. Without the loss of a moment they fell to discussing their plans, and were soon absorbed in the weighty question as to the number of tins of cocoa, soup, and condensed milk that they should take with them. They could not agree as to which of the three they should take most. Every now and again they would see that their guest had everything she required, but it was evident that for her and her concerns they had now not a moment to spare. However, Cecil was not offended at that. On the contrary, she was glad, and while they carried on an animated dispute as to whether a hungry miner would prefer soup or cocoa after a hard day’s work, she was mentally fitting carpets and arranging furniture. Stored away in the attics at Greenfields there was more than enough furniture belonging to them to furnish the flat. A judicious selection should be made from it. And in the dining-room there were one or two fine pieces of oak, which had likewise belonged to their father, and which Cecil felt would look very well in the pretty little sitting-room.

“What a brown study you are in!” Miss Marchpoint exclaimed, laughing. “I know you are planning furniture, I can see it in your eye. But say, give us the benefit of your advice. Which do you think a tired miner would prefer after a hard day’s work—soup or cocoa? Think now. It would make a difference of some thousands to us.”

Cecil gave the matter her serious consideration, and pronounced in favour of soup. Mr. Marchpoint’s face fell; he had been the advocate for cocoa. “But, on the other hand,” Cecil continued, “cocoa would be better for breakfast than soup.”

“So it would!” he exclaimed. “You have hit the right nail on the head, Miss Whittington. I am sure we are ever so much obliged to you. We’ll take equal quantities of both.”

A few minutes later they left the restaurant, and on the pavement outside Cecil bade good-bye to the sanguine, light-hearted pair. They had, as they themselves said, a thousand-and-one things to look after, and their business with her was finished. Indeed, it was already so much a thing of the past that it did not occur to either of them to tell Cecil when she might take possession, and the key of No. 10 St. Christopher’s Mansions might have gone off with them to Klondike had she not asked when the flat was to be ready for its new tenants.

“You can come to-morrow night if you like,” Miss Marchpoint said readily. “Our goods must go down to the docks to-morrow, and we are off ourselves the day after. There will be a good deal of straw about, I am afraid. I will tell the porter to sweep it out, and leave the key with him. Good-bye! It was a stroke of luck my meeting you this morning, and no mistake.”

“Good-bye!” Cecil said, shaking hands with them both. “I hope you will come back millionaires.”

“We intend to,” they both answered at once in tones that were not so much hopeful as confident, “and then we will come and look you up, and give you a real good time.”

It was past eight o’clock when Cecil reached home that evening, and by that time she was very tired. Her sisters met her at the door, and they one and all exclaimed when they caught sight of her pale face. Nevertheless, they began at once to ply her with eager questions. Had she been successful? Where had she been? Was everything settled, or would she be obliged to go up to town again?

“She has been successful!” Barbara cried, dancing round her. “I can see it in her face. Do hurry up, and tell us all about it!”

“Don’t you think that it is rather a shame for us to keep her on the door-step?” Nance exclaimed, making way for Cecil to enter. “Come along in and sit down, and tell us all about it from the very beginning. Is it anywhere near Hyde Park?”

Cecil shook her head and laughed. “I have got rather an interesting story for you,” she said. “Don’t spoil it by dragging it out of me bit by bit. I suppose dinner is ready. Let us go into the dining-room, and I will tell you all my news while we are having it.”

But at that Barbara looked at Helen and laughed, while Nance screwed up her face into an expression of disgust.

Helen explained that they were not going to dine. “Late dinner is a luxury, you know, not a necessity,” looking immensely pleased with herself for her show of prudence and economy; “and so the sooner we learn to do without it the better. And though Nance grumbled dreadfully, we dined early, and there is just some cold supper for us.”

Cecil could not help wishing that Helen had waited until the next day to start her reforms, but she knew that her sister had common sense on her side—Helen generally had—and so she sat down without a murmur to the cheese and sardines which had been substituted for the nice, and by no means extravagant, little dinner which Cecil had carefully ordered before she left in the morning.

But as it turned out, poor, hungry, tired Cecil was not left altogether to Helen’s tender mercies. Mrs. Barker, who had a very poor opinion of Helen’s housekeeping powers, had calmly ignored her orders, and sent in a meal which was suspiciously like a late dinner, although it was all served at the same time.

“H’m!” Helen remarked, surveying the hot dishes with strong disapproval, “this isn’t the way for us to live on a hundred a year.”

“Oh, but we haven’t begun yet!” said Nance, who had been eyeing the sardines with even greater disapproval; “and I am sure that Cecil must want something to eat. What did you have for lunch, and where did you have it?”

“I had roast chicken and tea,” Cecil replied, “at a restaurant in the city.” She enjoyed their astonishment for a minute, and then added, “And I was not allowed to pay for it either.”

“Then who did?” they all cried together.

“Mr. Marchpoint,” Cecil answered mischievously.

“Look here, girls,” Barbara cried, “we simply won’t have this. She has got to begin from the very beginning, and go straight on; we won’t be tantalized in this manner.”

So Cecil began from the very beginning, and gave them a clear, full account of all the events of the day. Helen’s eyebrows went up as soon as the flat came into the story, her lip curled when Cecil was whisked off to see it.

“What a waste of time,” she remarked, “for of course you did not for a moment dream of taking it!”

This was discouraging, but Cecil meant to adhere to her resolve of relating everything exactly in the order in which it had happened, and so without answering Helen’s exclamation she went on to describe in somewhat minute detail the rooms she had inspected and the landladies she had interviewed. She did not exaggerate the discomforts they would have to encounter in apartments, but she certainly did not underrate them. She stated them as fairly as she could, and wound up by telling them about the little old lady, and the abusive manner in which her landlady took leave of her.

Then she paused, and appealed to them to know what they would have done had the decision rested with them and not with her.

“Oh, I should have taken the flat,” Barbara cried, “instantly! Oh, Cecil, I do hope you have! But I believe you have. I can see it in your eye.”

“I don’t know what I should have done,” Nance said thoughtfully. “I suppose the flat would be better than lodgings, but I don’t like the idea of all those dirty streets to go through.”

“They weren’t dirty,” Cecil said quickly. So quickly that Barbara guessed the secret at once. “They are poor, it is true, but what does that matter?”

Then she turned somewhat anxiously to Helen, and waited for her opinion. Helen had a wise young head on her shoulders, and from the bottom of her heart Cecil hoped that she would approve of the step she had taken. She had begun to stand in need of somebody’s approval, for on the journey down disquieting doubts as to whether she had after all acted wisely had arisen within her, and would not be dismissed.

“What would you have done, Helen?” she repeated.

“I should certainly not have taken the flat,” Helen cried out. “What, spend a hundred and fifty of our four hundred all at once! Surely, Cecil, you never seriously thought of doing anything so insane?”

This was scarcely fair on Helen’s part. She was as well aware as Barbara that the flat was taken, and that therefore reproaches were as useless as they were unkind.

Cecil’s colour rose slightly. Not even in her most despondent moments had she anticipated that her news would be received in this fashion.

“I have taken the flat,” she said quietly, “and I don’t think that it was an insane action either. It seemed to me the only thing to be done.”

But Helen would not withdraw or even modify her opinion.

“We shall be absolute beggars in six months at this rate,” she said. “How am I to get a good education if all the money is to go on house rent? I would rather have taken my hundred pounds and gone off by myself. I am sure that I should have done better.”

“Oh, Helen!” was all that poor Cecil could say; and she said it in such a pained, shocked voice that warm-hearted Barbara sprang up and hugged her.

“Never mind what Helen says,” she cried. “You have done the best for us all. I think the idea of a flat is perfectly lovely. Lodgings would have been hateful.”

“I don’t deny that we shall be more comfortable in a flat,” Helen said scornfully; “but, after all, what is comfort?”

“Everything,” Nance put in, while Barbara shrugged her shoulders, and, catching Cecil’s eye, smiled and winked. Helen was, as her sisters knew, given to saying that she despised the good things of this world, but as a matter of fact none of them appreciated them more than she did. Surroundings influenced her to a great extent; an ugly piece of furniture or a hideous wall-paper was a perfect eyesore to her. She loved neatness and order; a soiled tablecloth took away her appetite, and an untidy room made her fidgety and cross.

“I shall be out all day working,” she said, “so it really would not in the least matter to me how uncomfortable our rooms were. I should merely sleep in them, that is all, and have breakfast and supper there. A glass of milk and a bun is all that I shall need in the middle of the day.”

Another of Helen’s theories was that what one ate did not matter in the least as long as it was nourishing. To like dainty dishes was to be greedy, yet as she spoke she was enjoying the hot things that Mrs. Barker had sent in, and the cheese and sardines of her own ordering stood neglected on the sideboard.

“I acted for the best,” Cecil said rather wearily. “Time alone will prove whether I have done right or wrong.”

“And long before the three years are up,” Nance said gaily, “I shall be earning lots of money, so don’t worry, Cecil. What does it matter how or where we live for the next few years when we have got such a good time waiting for us at the end? We shall do all right, you’ll see. Go on with your story, Cecil, you have not half finished.”

But Helen’s selfishness had taken all the zest from Cecil. She felt dispirited. She naturally set more store on Helen’s judgment than on that of the others, for they were younger in every way, and had very little notion of the real value of money.

“I thought you would have been so pleased,” she said; “and you know, Helen, we simply could not have got rooms anywhere under a pound a week, and though a hundred and fifty pounds seems a large sum of money to spend at once, you know it means rent for three years.”

Helen admitted that there was something in that, and though the admission was made in a grudging, ungracious way, Cecil knew from her tone that she would say no more against the flat.

But she had been more hurt and more surprised than even Barbara suspected at Helen’s outburst of selfishness, and especially at the insinuation that she would have got on better had she cut herself adrift from the others. Even the certainty that Helen was quite wrong in supposing this did not comfort her. And it was with an effort that she brought herself to continue the recital of the day’s doings. For some reason which she could not have explained, even to herself, she did not say a word about Madame Marcelline. She had intended to have laughed with them over Miss Marchpoint’s suggestion that she should seek employment with her cousin the milliner, but she changed her mind and said nothing about it. If Helen was right, and she had been unduly extravagant, it would be a small triumph for her when she told her sister that she had the power to make up to them all for it.

Helen sniffed expressively when Cecil related her interview with Mr. Edwards, and the sniff said as plainly as words could have done, that his unequivocal disapproval of Cecil’s headlong rashness was only what might have been expected of a business man. His further remarks, however, which Cecil, hearing and understanding the sniff, was careful to give in detail, that a girl’s proper place was at home, and that she had no business to try and win a name or a place in the world, were not greeted with the same sign of approval.

“Those Marchpoints must have been rather fun,” said Barbara. “I wonder if they will become millionaires! I am sure I hope they will, for they were so nice to you, Cecil. Do you know, I quite agree with them that it was a slice of luck your meeting them.”

“No doubt about it,” said Helen, “for them.”

“No, for us,” said Barbara. “For, you see, whatever happens, no one can turn us out for not paying our rent; and if we are to starve, as Helen seems so certain, we can at least do so in comfortable retirement. And there is a great deal in that, you know.”

Long after her sisters were all asleep that night Cecil lay awake. She was the eldest, and the chief responsibility naturally therefore rested with her. If she mismanaged affairs she would spoil their futures, and though she felt confident that they would not come to the dismal end which Helen prophesied, she knew that if the money did not last over the four years, it would be almost an impossibility for them to continue the education and training on which her three ambitious young sisters had set their hearts. And though she knew perfectly well that Nance and Barbara would never blame her if things went wrong, she was by no means sure that she could say the same for Helen. And yet she had acted for the best. Slowly and carefully she reviewed all the events of that day, and when she had done so, she was sure that if she could have the last twenty-four hours over again she would not act differently.

And when she had come to that conclusion she was able to sleep.

And that was as well, for the next day she had to undergo several trying interviews. Mrs. Vickers, fully expecting to hear that the London scheme had been abandoned altogether, came up directly after breakfast to tell Cecil that she had been very busy making inquiries on her behalf, and had been told of a situation as nursery governess, which Cecil might obtain if she applied for it at once.

She lifted up her hands in horror when she heard that not only were the four girls as determined as ever to seek their fortunes in London, but that they had actually taken a flat there for three years, and paid away nearly half their ridiculous capital as rent for it.

“Upon my word, Cecil,” she said, “I gave you credit for more sense. How do you expect you are going to live? On air, or water? Not that you will get good air in Westminster—nasty, foggy district.”

“Then we must fall back on the water,” Cecil said, smiling, though in reality she found Mrs. Vickers’ remarks the very reverse of amusing. “And we can drink as much as we like of that, for it is included in the rent.”

Mrs. Vickers sat down on the sofa and untied her bonnet-strings. That was always a sign that she intended to speak her mind, and Helen gave an inward groan. The other two had escaped. They had been sunning themselves at the front-door when they had seen Mrs. Vickers making her way across the dewy fields, and they meanly fled, without pausing to give warning to their sisters. And at that moment Barbara was perched with a book on the bough of an apple-tree in the orchard, while Nance, having waited until the door of the drawing-room was closed on their visitor, was strolling across the fields in the direction of the village.

“You will regret it all your life,” she said, and her words applied equally to the situation which Cecil was wilfully throwing away, and to the step which they had taken on their own account. “Such a charming family, and three dear little children; and you were to be treated quite as one of the family.”

“And the salary?” Cecil asked, not in the least because she wanted to know, but because it seemed ungrateful not to show some interest in the arrangements which Mrs. Vickers had been making for her benefit.

Mrs. Vickers cleared her throat. “Oh, the salary!” she said. “Well, nothing at all to begin with; but your washing would be paid for, and of course your board and lodging would be provided. You see, you have never been out before, and the experience would be most valuable to you. However, it is no use talking of that any more. I have done my best for you, and if you choose to throw my help back in my face, well, I cannot help it.”

Cecil would have liked to protest that she had no wish or intention of doing anything of the sort, but Mrs. Vickers gave her no opportunity.

She demanded what it was that they all thought they were going to accomplish in London.

Now she knew as well as they did themselves what their hopes and ambitions were, and one of the main purposes of her visit was to convince them, if possible, of the folly of entertaining those hopes and ambitions.

Helen remained obstinately silent, and Cecil said mildly:

“Barbara hopes to get a scholarship and go to college; Nance hopes to earn her living by singing”—(Nance would have cried out indignantly had she heard this very modest statement of her expectations); “Helen hopes to be an artist.”

“I intend to be one,” Helen said curtly.

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Vickers, “Willingate did not know what a talented family it had in its midst! I knew that Nance could sing a little, and that Helen could draw a little, and that Barbara was a clever girl for her age; but I did not know that you all hoped—no, intended is the right word, is it not?—to become famous. What about yourself, Cecil? Is there no profession that you intend to become famous in also—the stage, perhaps, or literature?”

Helen, who had listened to this speech with an angry countenance, opened her lips to speak, but Cecil was before her.

“I mean to keep house for them all while they are working,” she said, “to encourage them when they meet with adverse criticism. They may sometimes, you know,” she said, with a smile at her visitor. “To spur them on when they get lazy, and yet to keep them from overworking themselves. Now, Mrs. Vickers, please do not throw any more cold water on us and our plans. You may be very sure that Helen and I, at any rate, know that we have plenty of hard work before us, and really we are not as giddy and vain as you think us.”

No one looking at Cecil at that moment could possibly have accused her of being either giddy or vain. Though her wakeful hours had left no traces on her face, her anxiety, the sense of the great responsibility that rested upon her, and, more than anything else, the remembrance of Helen’s few bitter words, had left their traces on her mind, and her eyes looked thoughtful and sad. But there was such a winning sweetness and gentleness in her voice and manner that Mrs. Vickers could not but be mollified, and, her heart being as kind and impulsive as her tongue was sharp and hasty, she apologized for her words on the spot.

“You are good, Cecil,” Helen said, half-reluctantly, an hour or so later, when, having spent that time in hearing all their plans and giving them much excellent advice, Mrs. Vickers took her departure. “I was never so near quarrelling with Mrs. Vickers in my life as when you prevented me from speaking. I simply could not have answered her in the sweet way you did.”

“Mrs. Vickers is really so kind, and takes such an interest in us, that it would be ungrateful to quarrel with her merely because she does not approve of what we are going to do,” Cecil said. “I wonder if Dick met with as many discouragements as we are meeting with?” she added with a sigh.

“Anyway, he did not take any notice of them,” Helen replied; “and we are going to follow his example.” She was marching up and down the room with her hands behind her back, and suddenly paused just before Cecil.

“I have been thinking over what I said last night,” she began, “and I see now that it was not quite fair—”

Cecil thought that she was going to apologize, and she hastened to accept the apology before it was uttered.

“Oh, it does not matter in the least!” she said. “Of course you were taken by surprise, and—”

“That is what I was going to say,” Helen said, interrupting her in her turn. “It was not fair of you to spring your news on me, and then to ask my opinion so suddenly. Of course I had not had time to weigh the pros and cons as you had, and so could not be expected to know so much about it. Now that I have thought it all over, I see that, had I been in your place, I should have taken the flat too.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” Cecil said, and the thought never as much as crossed her mind that Helen might have made a more generous amendment. As a matter of fact, Helen had gone as near as ever she went to owning that she had been in the wrong, and Cecil was quite satisfied.

The afternoon post brought two letters to Greenfields: one was for Cecil, the other for Mrs. Barker. Both had to do with the Whittingtons’ movements. Cecil’s was from Miss Marchpoint, and was dated midnight. After informing her that the hundred and fifty pounds had been satisfactorily converted into seven thousand tins of cocoa and condensed milk, which she and Harry were going to spend the entire night in packing, she added that the flat would be ready for the occupation of its new tenants any time after mid-day on Saturday. The letter, which was such a blotted scribble that Cecil could scarcely read it, concluded with the hope, expressed in warm terms, that the Whittingtons would, one and all, follow the example of their famous namesake and make their fortunes.

The four girls had hardly finished laughing over the idea of the seven thousand tins of cocoa and milk when Mrs. Barker came in with a troubled countenance. She had an open letter in her hand. The lady who was to be her lodger had written to say that she wished to come in, not at the end of the week, as she had at first said, but in the middle, and she had fixed Wednesday.

“And what to say I am sure I don’t know,” Mrs. Barker said, handing the letter to Cecil to read.

“Why, what would you say but that she can come?” Cecil said, glancing over the letter, which was somewhat peremptory, and conveyed the impression that if the writer could not come in on the day she named, she would not come at all.

“We have just heard that our flat is ready for us, so we can go in on Monday or Tuesday, and that will give you time to get the house ready. You agree with me, girls, that we can turn out by then?”

Agree! If Cecil had said that it was necessary for them to start off that very afternoon, they would not have thought it too soon; and as to Monday or Tuesday, why, of course they could be ready by then.

“It seems so like driving you all away from your own home, and I do not like it at all,” Mrs. Barker said, beginning to cry; “and I can’t help thinking that if my poor mistress had known that you were to be left so badly off, she would never have given me the use of this house for my lifetime.”

“You must not think anything of the sort,” Cecil said hastily. “Remember we had our choice, and if we had decided to stay, Greenfields would have been ours. But it would have been a dreadful white elephant to us, for we could not have done all the things that you are going to do. And of course we should have had to send Jane and Eliza away, and keep no servant at all; and think how uncomfortable that would have been for us all. Why, we could not have lived here, now that the money is gone; and I don’t suppose we should have got much for it even if we had been able to let it, which is very doubtful.”

Mrs. Barker dried her tears. The same thought had occurred to her also, but it was comforting to be assured of it from Cecil’s own lips. But though they could not have continued to live at Greenfields without a moderate income, it would be quite possible for her to do so.

“I shall keep pigs, Miss Cecil,” she said; “they pay wonderfully. And fowls; maybe also cows. Jane and Eliza are leaving the end of this month, and I have written for a nephew and niece to come and live with me. He can help outside and she inside, and in time I hope to do without letting my rooms altogether, and become a regular dairy-farmer and market-gardener.”

Cecil was a good listener in every sense of the word, and Mrs. Barker, who was full of her projects for gaining a livelihood, proceeded to confide a good many of them to her. Her pride and satisfaction, which, though she strove to disguise them, peeped out continually, at having for her own a house in which for so many years she had served as a dependent—a privileged one, it is true, but still as a servant—were great; and it was not until she had traced her progress from a seller of eggs to a thriving owner of many cows, that she came down again to the subject that had brought her into the room.

“Then I may write to Mrs. Lyall, and tell her that I will be ready for her next Wednesday?” she asked. “Though really,” she added, before Cecil could answer, “sooner than any one of you, my dears, should be put to any inconvenience, or hurried in any way, I would write and tell her that she could not come. I am not going to have my young ladies turned out before they are ready to go, by anyone, and I would tell her so this minute if she were here.”

“You are an old dear to say so,” Cecil answered, reflecting that it was just as well for Mrs. Barker’s interests that her future lodger was not there to be told anything of the sort. For Mrs. Barker, carried away by the contemplation of the top stories of her castles in the air, was in danger of forgetting that Mrs. Lyall was the foundation-stone. “But we should not dream of standing in your way of taking such a good offer, and we shall go to London on Tuesday.”

Someone else besides Mrs. Barker had been building castles in the air during the last half-hour, and the second builder was Nance. She took little or no interest in Mrs. Barker’s castle, which, had she stayed to hear about it, would have seemed to her a very homely, insignificant erection. But she did not stay. She had an appointment to keep, and, slipping from the room just as Mrs. Barker was selling her first brood of chickens at an outrageous profit, she took a shady hat from a peg in the wall and went out.

Helen, seeing her go, shrugged her shoulders, and observed in an undertone to Barbara:

“There goes Nance to Madame Salvicini, to have her head stuffed full of nonsense, as usual.”

There were several ways of getting to Madame Salvicini’s house. One was by the white, dusty high-road; another was by the footpath which ran along the other side of the hedges which bordered the high-road, and which was hardly if at all less dusty than the road itself; and the third, and by far the pleasantest way, was through the Worley woods and across the marshes. As a rule, if the weather were fine enough, Nance went that way; but it was nearly a mile longer than the road, and to-day she was in a hurry.

So when she had crossed the fields from which Miss Whittington’s house took its name, she struck into the footpath, and walked at a brisk pace between the corn and the dusty hedgerow.

As she went she dreamed the pleasant dream which of late had filled her mind whenever she was alone. It was always the same dream. She stood on a platform before a crowded audience, and sang in a way that held the people spell-bound until her last note had died away. Then there was a breathless silence. Nance was very particular about that silence; she never allowed her audience to break at once into applause. But after that one moment of perfect stillness a tremendous uproar shook the vast hall. Never before had a voice of such marvellous beauty been heard. On all sides people asked who this new singer was. They clamoured for her to come on again, they would take no denial. Blushing and bowing, but with perfect ease of manner, she once more mounted the platform. Her second triumph was even greater than the first. She left the concert-room one of the greatest, if not the greatest singer in Europe. She had not toiled up the ladder of fame, she reached the top rung at one bound; and from its dizzy height she showered wealth, and everything that money could give, on her sisters and on her friends—especially on Helen, to whom her gifts would seem like coals of fire. For Helen did not believe in her, and her little cool, sneering speeches wounded poor Nance more than anyone was aware of. She had seen Helen’s disdainful shrug of the shoulders as she passed the windows just now, and she knew, as well as if she had heard it, that her sister had made some slighting remark about her.

But the day would come, it was perhaps not far distant, when Helen would be obliged to confess that she had been wrong; and that would be a part, and no insignificant part either, of the triumph that awaited Nance. Helen should, of course, be among the audience that first night. Nance would sing under an assumed name on purpose to keep her identity a secret from her. When she stepped on to the platform, Helen would be so lost in utter amazement that she would not hear the first few words of the song; then, partially recovering herself, she would mutter to Cecil, who of course was in the secret, “Surely that is not Nance!” The people near, who were hanging breathlessly on every word, would say “Hsh, hsh!” indignantly, but Cecil would nod, and Helen, covered with mortification at her own want of perception, and yet with a dawning pride in her talented sister, would sit silent and listen. But Nance would be very generous and forgiving, as indeed she could afford to be, and never by word or look would she remind Helen of her past unkindness and lack of sympathy.

Such dreams as these made the two miles that lay between Madame Salvicini’s house and Willingsgate seem a mere nothing even on that hot September afternoon, and it was not until she had turned into the long winding drive thickly bordered with fir-trees, that she reluctantly shook herself free from them. The house lay a few hundred yards away from the road, in a hollow, and it was surrounded and overshadowed by the same dark, gloomy-looking trees that lined the drive. Even on a summer’s day the house had a dreary, damp appearance, and it was so shut in by the trees that not a glimpse of it could be obtained from the road. It was not a healthy house, and Madame Salvicini looked anything but a healthy woman.

She was lying in a listless attitude on a couch by the window, occupied neither with a book nor with work, and when the door opened she turned her head with a frown. She smiled, however, when she saw who her visitor was.

“Ah, it is you!” she said, speaking with a slight foreign accent; “I am pleased.”

Her dark eyes lit up in a way that made them look beautiful for a moment; but then the light died out of them, and left them hard and lustreless as before. As she lay on the sofa she looked, as indeed she was, a mere wreck of a woman, and yet she was scarcely past middle age.

Her complexion was sallow, and there were deep wrinkles on her forehead and round the corners of her mouth. An expression of bitter discontent stamped her features.

The room was a depressing one; it wanted freshness and light. The walls were painted a sombre hue, the floor was stained a dark oak, and even the rugs that lay on it were subdued in colouring. The furniture was stiff and ugly, and the only thing of beauty in the room was a magnificent grand-piano.

Heavy curtains hung on either side of the window, which looked out on to a square piece of lawn, where the grass grew badly because of the shade cast by the fir-trees that encircled it. Even at mid-day, although the window faced the south, scarcely a ray of sunshine penetrated the room. Neither on the lawn nor within the room was there a single flower to be seen.

“If it is one of your bad days,” said Nance, as she saw the look of settled gloom that rested on Madame Salvicini’s face, “I can go away again.”

“I am well enough,” Madame Salvicini said, rather absently. “And so you have come for your last lesson!”

She looked at the girl a little sadly, for though there seemed little in common between the melancholy middle-aged woman and the young, hopeful girl, Madame Salvicini felt a warm interest in Nance because of the genius which she thought she discerned in her; while for her part, Nance felt that she never could be grateful enough to Madame Salvicini for the lessons which she gave her.

“I have come for advice too, madame,” Nance said somewhat nervously.

“Presently, presently, and as much as ever you like, and may it do you good!” madame replied, and, rising from the sofa, she crossed the room and seated herself at the piano. “Come, come,” she said, running her fingers over the keys, “the music; I am impatient to hear you sing. Have you practised—what is it?—ah, ‘Nobil Signor’, good! Now then.”

Madame Salvicini was like a different person directly she seated herself at the piano, her languor and listlessness disappeared, a fire came into her eyes, she looked ten years younger.

Once or twice she frowned, once she nodded with satisfaction, and when once Nance brought the long run that ends the prologue to a conclusion, she jumped up and clapped her hands.

“That was good!” she cried. “Nance, you sing as the birds sing, without effort. That run could not have been better. Now, then, continue.”

A flush of pleasure came to Nance’s cheek. Praise was sweet to her, and though she generally got it in unstinted measure, it never lost its sweetness. Oh, if only Helen were there to hear! A few moments later, however, she was glad that she was not. With a discordant crash Madame Salvicini lifted her hands from the keys.

“That is all wrong,” she cried, “far too heavy. Remember who you are, a sprightly Italian page, gay and full of mischief. Sometimes,” she added, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “I despair of you. You are but Nance, Nance Whittington, a young English girl all through. Shake yourself out of yourself, forget yourself. Look! you enter like this.”

And Madame Salvicini sprang up and went towards the door, then, turning as if she had just entered, she advanced, humming above her breath the words of the song. She did not sing them out loud.

And when she turned she was no longer Madame Salvicini, a worn, gloomy-looking woman, she was a gay, mocking boy.

Nance had never seen a great actress, so she did not realize how good this impersonation was, but she felt that to change her identity in that manner, and without the aid of a single addition to her attire, was altogether beyond her powers. Madame Salvicini motioned her to the piano, and in rather a stumbling, halting fashion she played the difficult accompaniment, while madame acted and sang it below her breath. With eyes that danced with mischief, and in a tantalizing, teasing manner, she offered the letter first to one signor then to another, and Nance watched and listened with breathless, absorbed interest. But presently a look of anxiety overspread her face, and she sprang up from the piano. With an imperious movement madame compelled her to go back, and Nance sat down again and went on playing. Then what she had dreaded came to pass.

Gradually Madame Salvicini became carried away by her own acting, she forgot that she could not sing, and her voice rose harsh and cracked.

Nance bit her lip. Not to keep from laughing. She had no desire to laugh, although the sound that issued from Madame Salvicini’s lips was grotesque in the extreme.

Once or twice before Madame Salvicini had forgotten in the same manner the tragedy of her life, and the awakening was appalling.

She stopped short now, as if she had been shot, pressed her hands over her ears, and in a moment was her own unhappy self again.

“Is it I who am singing?” she cried, lapsing, as she always did when much moved, into the language of her husband’s country. Then she laughed in bitter mockery of herself. “It is like a cat on the wall at night. Don’t look so sorry, child.” Then her mood changed. “Ah, la mia voce, la mia perduta voce!” she cried, in a voice of such poignant despairing regret, that quick tears started to Nance’s eyes; but she dared not move. Madame Salvicini staggered rather than walked to the sofa, and flinging herself down beside it on her knees, buried her face in the cushion.

There was a dead silence in the room, broken only by the sound of dry, passionate sobs. Nance longed to comfort her, but she knew she must not. The first occasion on which madame had given way before her like this, Nance had rushed to her side, and putting her arms round her neck, had begged her, as she would have begged one of her sisters in any trivial trouble, not to cry. But she had been so fiercely, so ferociously, repulsed, that she had never dared since to offer a word or a sign of consolation. She dried her tears softly, and, glancing in a commiserating way at the dark kneeling figure, began to play the first thing that came into her head. Her heart was wrung with pity, and yet this was a grief that Nance could not quite grasp. It must have been a dreadful, fearful disappointment, of course, to have lost her voice at the very beginning of a triumphant career, but still, to have gone on regretting it all these years seemed very strange. And she had had a fortune left to her, too, and that must have compensated in a very great measure for the loss of her voice.

Presently Nance began to sing, choosing an airy, fantastic song in which no passion or power was required, but which nevertheless demanded great flexibility of voice; and flexibility was what Nance possessed in a degree which was nothing less than marvellous in a girl of her years.

Shakes and trills, in which some singers only perfect themselves after strenuous practice, seemed to come almost naturally to her, and they flowed from her lips without the slightest effort.

Her voice was a soprano, pure and true, and wonderfully sweet, but of no great compass or strength.

The song that she was singing now suited her admirably. The rather laboured manner which had spoiled her rendering of “Nobil Signor” was not noticeable in this, and yet, though it demanded but little artistic feeling or expression, it was a song that few untrained girls like Nance could have sung, and sung so well. The execution it displayed was little short of wonderful.

As she brought the brilliant little thing to a close with an ascending run and a shake, another run and a shake, yet one more run and an astonishing shake on her two topmost notes, a voice cried “Brava, brava!” and, flushing with pleasure, she turned, to find Madame Salvicini standing at her elbow.

“I repeat,” she said, “you sing as the birds sing, without knowledge and without effort.” Nance’s blue eyes took a startled, slightly doubtful expression; she wondered whether this were praise or blame. “And I say it, I, Salvicini, who was the Diva of a season at the Opera House in Milan. Come now, we will go over my favourite parts in the old operas. Bring me that pile there. But quickly, child.”

Nance brought forward the pile of books, and Madame Salvicini seized one at random.

“Ah, ‘Il Trovatore’!” she said. “Leonora was one of my favourite parts.” When Madame Salvicini spoke about music it was always in the past tense. “We artistes,” she went on, “always love what we create, and I created Leonora. Before my time she had always been bungled and misunderstood. The manager was aghast at my departing from the prescribed traditions. He feared a fiasco; but I had my own way—I generally had in those days—and the result was a triumph for me. Leonora is always played now as I interpreted her that winter.”

Nance had never seen the score before, and as she could not sing from sight, the result was by no means good; and yet, strangely enough, Madame Salvicini, fastidious critic though she was, seemed perfectly satisfied. True, she frowned several times, and once she made an impatient movement as though she would spring up and act the part herself, but that was quite at the beginning of Leonora’s first song. As Nance went on she gained courage, from not being, as she expected, interrupted, and though her rendering of the part was lame and halting in the extreme, she struggled on.

As she listened, Madame Salvicini’s head was bent forward as if she would not lose a note; and her eyes, when from time to time she lifted them from the score—which, indeed, she knew perfectly—had a rapt, inward look.

She understood the art of accompanying to perfection, and yet, as the opera went on, a marked change came over her method. At first she had aided Nance over the difficult passages—waited for her if she sang too slowly, hurried on when she went too fast. But gradually all that changed, and soon, regardless of Nance’s imperfections and inaccuracies, she played straight on, accompanying, not Nance at all, but the ghost of her own lost voice.

She filled her day with dreams, as Nance had lately come to fill hers. But the dreams differed; for whereas Nance’s were all of the future, Madame Salvicini’s were all of the past. And though she had by no means realized it, this was the secret of the great liking that this once-famous woman, whose sudden and tragical disappearance from the world had filled all Europe with regret and pity, entertained for simple, inexperienced Nance.

But Nance, blissfully unconscious of the fact that when Madame Salvicini’s face kindled with enthusiasm and intense appreciation it was at the sound of an inward voice which the interval of half a lifetime had not enabled her to forget, piped on, and whenever she came to the end of a song, Madame Salvicini, with the sound of her own incomparable notes still lingering in her ears, would turn to her and tell her there was no one like her—no one.

And so the strange lesson would continue. It would always take Madame Salvicini a moment or two to banish Nance’s soft, sweet pipe from her ears and mind, and during those few minutes she would frown and mutter impatiently; but soon the music she was playing would call up the great Milan stage to her mind—she would see herself again and hear herself again, with her superb acting and matchless voice, and then, losing herself in the part, would be neither Madame Salvicini sad and lonely, nor Salvicini in her brief, glorious career, but Leonora, or whatever heroine she was playing.

And when she awoke it would be to give Nance the credit of it all.

No wonder, then, that Nance had come to believe that there was no height in the musical world to which she could not climb, nay, on which she did not already stand. She only needed to be heard to become famous.

It was Madame Salvicini who said so, and surely she ought to know.

After going through one or two operas in that manner, Madame Salvicini became exhausted. She was far from strong, and the varied emotions she had undergone during the past hour and a half began to tell on her.

“You will be a great singer some day, Nance,” she said this evening as she rose and wearily began to put the music together. “How a mere girl like you should come to have the power and passion you possess is a marvel to me. It is intuition, it is genius, for how else can you, a happy, light-hearted girl, understand the sorrows of a woman like Leonora. When I played her, my heart was always so moved that I could scarcely sing the notes. And yet you, a mere child so to speak, interpret her with a simple direct truth that makes her tragical fate seem as real as though it had happened but yesterday. You must be exhausted, child, lie on the sofa and rest. Don’t tell me you are not worn out, you must be after undergoing such a fearful mental strain.”

“I am a little tired,” Nance admitted, but she could not help thinking that that was due to the fact that she had stood for upwards of an hour, and not to any mental strain that she had undergone. However, Madame Salvicini must of course know best, and though Leonora’s tragical fate had given her no great concern while she was singing it, no doubt she had felt it more than she was aware of at the time.

“Tell me, child,” Madame Salvicini said abruptly, “do you love Art?”

Nance looked up in surprise, and was just about to reply that it was Helen who was going to be an artist and not she, when she perceived that Madame Salvicini was alluding to her own profession.

“I wonder if you love it as I have loved it—if you are willing to give up everything to it—everything, everything, and live for it alone! I was willing, and gave all freely, friends and home and Love itself. And as a reward Art turned her back upon me, left me broken, forsaken, desolate. And then Love was kinder to me than I deserved, and gave me all unasked. But, ah, if I had the choice again I would choose as I chose then. Ay; though I knew that twenty long years of bitter, black, hopeless misery were to follow those six brief months of pure happiness. For the greatest happiness the world can give you is to succeed in the profession you love. It was good to think that I was earning name and fame, it was heaven itself to know that I was worthy to follow the great Art I had chosen. And then, as I said, she turned her back upon me, and my life ended on the night that I found it out. It is strange that I should speak to a child like you of these things, is it not? I who have nursed my grief in my heart for the last twenty years. But you have an extraordinary power of bringing my past back to me. When you sing I seem to live again, for you bring my old parts vividly before my mind. And if you can so convince me—Salvicini—you can convince the whole world. You want no study, you need no training. I tell you you are perfect as you are. Take this opera. Sing it but as you sang it to me just now, make Leonora live and move and suffer, and your name is made. Nance, you have a grand future before you, the future that might have been mine.”

Nance had had this said to her several times before. It was on prophecies like these that all her pleasant dreams were based, but to-day she wanted something more definite.

She knew that she was destined to become famous, but what she wanted to know was how she was to set about it, what was the first step to take.

Could Madame Salvicini, in short, give her some introductions to one or two well-known musical people, to the manager of the Opera House, for instance?

With some diffidence she asked this, but Madame Salvicini shook her head. She had lived out of the world so long, she knew no one in it. But Nance needed no introduction beyond that of her own voice. She had only to obtain a hearing and her success was assured. She need have no fear.

This of course was very nice as far as it went, but still Nance was not satisfied. An introduction would be something tangible to go upon. Her face betrayed the disappointment she felt.

“But stay,” Madame Salvicini continued, in a slow, musing tone, “there is one man, and only one, to whom I can send you. His name is Rannini. He is an Italian, and he—” But observing that Nance’s face had suddenly become radiant, she added, “You know, then, whom I mean?”

“Oh, yes!” Nance cried eagerly. “Of course I do.” This would indeed be a splendid piece of news to carry home! An introduction to Rannini would surely convince even Helen that her dreams were not so utterly ridiculous.

“He is a great man in London now, I know,” Madame Salvicini said, “and he used to be a very good friend of mine. See, I will give you a note to take to him. He will give you a hearing for my sake, and more than that you will need from no man.”

Going to her desk, she hastily wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper, which she signed “Salvicini”, and gave to Nance in an open envelope, which she had previously directed to “Il Signor Rannini”.

“He is somewhat of a bear, I believe,” she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “but this will be a passport to his presence at any rate. More I cannot help you, but I repeat, you need no further help. And now go, child, I am strangely tired this evening.”

“But before I go,” Nance cried eagerly, “you must let me thank you for all you have done for me. But for you I should never have known even that I had a voice, and I should certainly never have thought of going on the stage. It is all owing to you, and I can never be grateful enough to you. For it is you who have awakened this ambition in me, and if I succeed I shall be the happiest girl in all England.”

Her words arrested Madame Salvicini as she was in the act of lying down on the couch; she turned sharply, and, placing her hands on Nance’s shoulders, swung her almost roughly round to the light.

“And if you fail,” she said, in quick, agitated accents, “what then?”

“But I sha’n’t fail,” Nance said with a happy laugh, “for you have said that I shall succeed.”

“But I may have been mistaken. Or you may lose your voice, as I lost mine. What then?”

“Oh, I should be terribly sorry,” Nance said, “for I do so dreadfully want to be rich! It is horrid being poor.”

“And that would be your greatest regret? Answer me truly.”

Her dark eyes seemed to pierce Nance’s inward soul and drag her answer from her. And yet without that compelling power she would have answered truly.

“Of course,” she said, feeling vaguely that her answer would make madame despise her, and yet without in the least understanding why. “I want to be rich above all things, but I want to be famous too.”

“Listen. If Poverty and Art stood hand and hand on one side, Wealth alone on the other, which would you choose?”

“Wealth,” said Nance without an instant’s hesitation.

An expression of grief, mingled oddly enough with one of intense thankfulness, crossed Madame Salvicini’s worn features. It was not until long afterwards that Nance understood the meaning of the look.

“Then whatever happens,” she said, “I have done you no harm. I am glad. Should your heart’s desire not be granted to you, your life will not be laid waste. And you will probably succeed all the better because of it. That is the way of the world.”

And then Madame Salvicini fell into a fit of musing, in which, though she returned Nance’s affectionate, regretful leave-takings kindly enough, she scarcely seemed conscious of what she was saying.

And as Nance, with shining eyes and a heart that beat high with hope, passed the window on her way down the drive, she saw her reclining on the couch with her eyes fixed in an unseeing gaze on the dreary grass plot and gloomy trees, and she knew that Madame Salvicini’s thoughts were busy with her dead past.

Two days later the Whittingtons left Willingsgate, and every one who knew them wished them well, and some of these well-wishers had the kindness to keep to themselves the thought that the wish was a vain one.

For the past few days they had all worked, as Barbara expressed it, like niggers.

The packing up of their own personal possessions had been no light task, but that had been by no means the most difficult part of the business of removal. A great deal of the furniture in Greenfields had belonged to their father and mother, and of course this was to go with them. Cecil would have felt some reluctance at stripping the house of furniture in that manner had she not known that Mrs. Barker was delighted to get rid of it. For Mrs. Barker had furniture of her own, which had stood in a warehouse for years, and which she was anxious to bring out now and arrange in her own rooms. And as she was of opinion that shiny mahogany and polished rosewood were infinitely prettier than the oak, black and dull with age, “that the young ladies set such a store by”, she did not at all feel as if she were being hurt by its removal.

In one of the attics a square wooden box had been stored for many years. A label, so torn and defaced that only the one word China could be read, was nailed to the lid, but none of the four girls had ever seen the contents of the case.

“We will take it with us,” Helen said, when Cecil asked her advice as to whether the box should be left behind or not. “That is father’s handwriting, I know, and the China may turn out to be pretty or valuable, or both.”

“It will be more to the purpose if it turns out to be something useful,” Cecil said. “A tea-set, for instance. We are dreadfully short of cups and saucers.”

So a fresh label was nailed on the case, and it was put aside with the things that were to go with them.

Then there were all their father’s books. Ever since she could read, Barbara had had the run of his book-shelves, and by common consent their contents were now all looked upon as hers, and they were treasures with none of which she would willingly have parted.

Her method of packing, however, was a peculiar one. Comfortably seated on the floor with an open box and a pile of books before her, she would balance each book on the edge of the box, and either scan through its contents, or read it industriously for half an hour or so. Cecil, coming in and finding her, after she had been two hours at work, in the act of putting the third book into the box, guessed the true state of things at a glance, and, sending the reluctant, protesting Barbara off to pack her clothes, said she would finish the box of books herself.

The furniture and the books went off on Monday. The four girls with their trunks were to leave on Tuesday. Cecil had intended to travel up by an early train and get things into some semblance of order before the others arrived, but Mrs. Vickers, who had asked them all in to lunch on Tuesday, would not hear of her doing anything of the kind.

For Mrs. Vickers was firmly convinced that the dinner she would give them on that day was the last good meal they would get until their four hundred pounds were all spent, and they were driven to accept situations as governesses either in schools or in nice private families.

And when dinner, at which she insisted on their taking second helpings of everything whether they wanted it or not, was over, she insisted on their staying to afternoon tea, and as there was no good train until half-past five, they could not refuse to do so.

And so it happened that it was nearly half-past seven before they got into Victoria Station that evening. They were all dead tired, but the excitement of seeing their new flat kept them up, and Cecil declared that she began to feel afraid of what they would do to her in case they did not approve of it.

“I feel more like Dick Whittington than ever,” Barbara said, laughing, as she stepped out on to the platform. She spoke to Cecil, but the latter did not hear her. She had already secured a porter, and was following him to the luggage-van.

“The next time I come up to London will probably be after a continental tour, and I shouldn’t wonder if I did not have a special,” said Nance dreamily as she gazed round at the bustling, struggling crowd, “and I expect every one of the porters will know me by sight.”

“Well, on this occasion they don’t happen to know your boxes by sight,” Helen said, ruthlessly interrupting this dream, “so please come along and help to point them out.”

The luggage being in due time collected and put on a cab, the four girls got in and drove away from the station. The cabman had looked puzzled when Cecil gave him the address, and said he had never heard of such a place, and where was it?

But before Cecil could tell him that she was as ignorant as he was of the exact locality in which St. Christopher’s Mansions were situated, another cabman volunteered the information that they were in Brown Square, and that a turning to the right after the Army and Navy Stores were passed would bring them into the square.

“Oh, are we close to the Army and Navy Stores?” Nance said. “That will be a lovely place to do all our shopping. Cousin Mab took me there, I remember, the last time she brought me up to town, and I did like it so much. The people are all so nicely dressed, and I love watching them. But Brown Square hasn’t a very aristocratic sound, has it? I wonder if No. 10 St. Christopher’s Mansions would be enough to put on our letters. I don’t think, Cecil,” she added, looking out of the window, “that the streets seem so very mean after all.”

“I am glad the neighbourhood pleases you,” Cecil said, laughing. “We are in Victoria Street just now. Look, there is Westminster Abbey a little farther on, and now we are turning up by the Houses of Parliament.”

For the cabman, evidently distrusting the information given him, had ignored the short cuts, and was taking them a longer way round.

“Oh, I am getting so excited!” Barbara said, moving about as restlessly as the narrow confines of the cab would allow. “Aren’t you, Helen? But no, I don’t believe that you ever get excited about anything.”

A few minutes later they arrived at the Mansions, and drew up at the entrance on which the numbers, one to ten, were painted in big black letters on the gas globe.

“How funny!” Barbara exclaimed. “There is no front-door! What is our number, Cecil? Ten, isn’t it? Well, I am going to have the first look at it.”

And as soon as the door of the cab was opened by the hall-porter, who came out touching his cap, she sprang out and dashed impetuously, two steps at a time, up the narrow, whitewashed steps to No. 10.

To find when she got there that the door was shut.

That was a great disappointment; but, glancing down over the banisters, she saw that a small procession, headed by the hall-porter with the key, was wending its way upwards with the luggage, and in another moment the Whittingtons were admitted into their domains.

They were in utter darkness at first, but the porter speedily touched the electric button, first in the passage and then in the sitting-room, and flooded the place with a brilliant light.

“Oh!” Barbara exclaimed. “How lovely! I didn’t know that we had the electric light.”

“It’s in all the rooms, miss,” the porter said, depositing what he had carried upon the floor. It was a small bag, but he put it down with the air of a man who relieves himself of a heavy weight. He had a civil, pleasant manner, and though he did nothing further to assist them himself, he took care that the men who brought up the heavy luggage placed it exactly where Cecil wished it placed. The Marchpoints had given him a very handsome tip when they left, and had asked him to do what he could to assist the Whittingtons on their arrival. His personal attendance on them this evening was the result, for as a rule he took no notice at all of the occupants of the flats. His wife whitewashed the steps once a week, and he was willing to take charge of any letters or parcels if the flats were temporarily vacant, but there his duties seemed to end. After the cabman and the man who had helped with the boxes had tramped downstairs, he lingered for a moment to tell them that the milkman called at eight o’clock, and that if they did not wish to open the door themselves, they had better leave a can outside, and a notice pinned to the door saying what quantity they required, and then, evidently thinking that he had made a sufficient return for the tip that had been bestowed on him, he took his leave, and the heavy clang of the door as it shut behind him was a most welcome sound to the four Whittingtons.

For now they were free to explore every corner of their tiny flat. This Cecil and Helen did slowly and deliberately, but Nance and Barbara dashed hastily and excitedly from room to room, flying in and out, and calling to the others to come and look at this or that.

“This is the sitting-room, of course,” Helen said, glancing round approvingly. “It is in a state of perfect chaos at present, but one can see that it has the makings of a very pretty snug room in it. What a pretty paper! I should not have thought that those Marchpoints had so much taste. Our oak things and china will look very pretty here, Cecil. We can make this really a pretty room.”

“That is what I thought,” Cecil said, looking very pleased; “and it is a bigger room, too, than you would think. All these great packing-cases fill it up dreadfully. However, to-morrow we will soon put things straight. But now come along and see the bedrooms.”

Their two faces, however, lengthened considerably when they saw the state that the bedrooms were in. The carpets were rolled in bundles, the furniture stood in the middle of the room, and, worst of all, the bedsteads had not been put together.

“Where on earth are we to sleep to-night?” Helen cried in dismay.

“It is my fault,” Cecil said with contrition. “I ought not to have let myself be persuaded to stay to lunch at the Vicarage. I ought to have come up early this morning, as I wanted to. But really I did think that the furniture men would have done this for us.”

As they stood ruefully contemplating the beds, Nance and Barbara came rushing in. They had been in and out half a dozen times already, and not perceived that anything was seriously amiss with the furniture.

“Oh, what does it matter?” Barbara cried gaily when the cause of her sisters’ downcast faces was explained to her. “The floor is nice and clean. We can spread our mattresses there. Bedsteads are, after all, a luxury, not a necessity. Eh, Helen?” she added mischievously. “And we don’t read that dear Dick took one with him when he came up to London; and if he did without one, surely we can. But I say, come along to the kitchen you two. Nance and I have made such a discovery. There is a great sack of something out there with a note sewn on to it for you. I believe it is coal.”

“It is not,” said Nance, “for it is all white and floury.”

“It is some of the stores that the Marchpoints have left behind,” Cecil said when she and Helen entered the kitchen, and saw, as Barbara had said, that there was a big fat sack of flour propped up against the wall. “But not by mistake, however,” she added as Barbara, whipping out a pocket-knife, cut the twine that fastened the card to the sack. “Look! Miss Marchpoint says that the sack contains oatmeal, and that they found that they could not take it with them, and that therefore she hopes that we will eat it every morning for breakfast, as porridge is a capital thing to do a good day’s work upon.”

“Well, we shall get fat if we eat all that,” Barbara said, laughing. “Mrs. Vickers would not say that we were going to starve if she could see that monstrous thing, would she? Oh, Helen, I thought I should have died of laughing at the expression on your face when, after two helpings of soup, two of beef, and two of apple-pudding, she pressed you to have some jam tarts.”

“I know I felt then that I should never want to eat anything again,” Nance said. “But all the same, I am beginning to feel hungry now, and I can’t find a larder anywhere, although I suppose if there was one it would be as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. I begin to feel sorry that I did not accept Mrs. Vickers’ offer to cram my pocket with biscuits.”

“You shall have some supper presently,” Cecil said. “But we must finish our tour first. The larder we can’t visit. It consists of a safe outside the kitchen window. The scullery, as you see, is represented by that tiny cupboard fitted with a sink out there, and that other cupboard does duty for a pantry. As a house-agent would say, the back premises are compact.”

“The bath-room is nice,” Barbara said, running in and turning on the taps. “Hot and cold water; but of course, as there is no kitchen fire lit, both are equally cold just now.”

An inspection of the second bedroom, which, though it looked out at the back, was of the same size as the front, completed the tour, and then Cecil said that it was time to think about supper.

The other three looked inquiringly and expectantly at her. The thought of providing themselves with something to eat upon their arrival had not entered any of their heads, and it was good to hear that Cecil had not been equally improvident.

“You think of everything, Cecil,” Barbara said, dancing round her, and watching with great interest the unpacking of a hamper which had come up with them that day.

The first thing to be lifted out of that hamper was a large bunch of flowers—bright, yellow perennial sunflowers, purple Michaelmas daisies, and a few early chrysanthemums.

“Pretty, but hardly to the point just now,” Nance remarked.

“Wait, Miss Nance, until you have been in London some time and you will think more of flowers,” Cecil said wisely. “Run and put these in a jug of water, Babs, will you?”

The next thing to appear was a cold fowl wrapped in a white cloth, a loaf of bread, some butter, four cups and saucers, a tin of cocoa, a methylated-spirit stove, and a can of milk.

Then while Helen and Barbara cleared a table, laid a cloth, and set out the things daintily, and Nance collected some chairs, Cecil boiled the milk and made the cocoa, and in a very few minutes the supper was ready.

They sat down to it in high spirits, and while they ate it they laughed and chattered, and were one and all as merry and light-hearted as though they had been, like most girls in their station of life and of their age, without a care in the world, possessed of a safe home, pocket-money and friends, and with very little to do all day long but to amuse themselves. When they had finished, and there was very little of the fowl left by that time, they went into the bedrooms and began to make the beds. The great difficulty was to find clear spaces on which to lay the mattresses; chests of drawers and washhand-stands seemed to cumber the floor in all directions, but by dint of perseverance and a good deal of contriving and managing they succeeded at last in spreading them.

Then followed a great hunt for pillows and bed-clothes, and before everything had been arranged to their satisfaction it was nearly eleven o’clock.

After such a tiring day they could not fail to sleep well, and they slept so late into the morning that it was only the vigorous rat-tat of the postman on the front-doors of the flats above and below that roused them.

Cecil was the first on whom the unwonted sound took effect, and she started up quite at a loss for a moment to imagine what she was doing on the floor, but then recollection returned to her and she lay back again and yawned sleepily.

Helen was the next to awake, and when she saw what time it was she sprang up with a vexed exclamation.

“Half the day will be gone before we know where we are,” she said, “if we dawdle like this. Wake up, you two.”

“What’s the hurry?” Nance said drowsily. “We can have breakfast any time we like.”

“My dear Nance,” Helen said in tones so brisk and energetic that Nance instinctively buried her head under the bed-clothes, “this is our first day in London. The spending of the four hundred pounds has already begun, and it will be downright wrong of us to lose one single moment of time from now on.”

A groan was Nance’s only reply, and from under the bed-clothes she began to sing in muffled tones:

As, however, it was even more uncomfortable to lie in bed and have her sisters walking over her than to get up, she roused herself reluctantly, and comforting herself with the thought that when she was a prima donna she would lie as late as ever she pleased in bed, began to dress. By the time that the others were ready, Cecil had washed up the supper-things from the night before, had laid the cloth again, made some tea, and, producing some eggs from that wonderful hamper of hers, had boiled them.

“It is very evident,” said Nance as they all gathered round the breakfast-table, “that we are not going to starve just yet.”

“Eat your egg slowly, Nance, and enjoy every mouthful,” Cecil said laughingly, “for I warn you that it is the last fresh egg that you will eat for many a long day. Porridge and milk, or perhaps even without milk, will be our breakfast fare from this time forward.”

“You don’t say so!” said Nance, in tones of such distress that the others laughed outright. “Never mind,” she added by way of self-consolation, “the very first song I sing will change all that. Don’t you think that I had better go round to Signor Rannini this morning?”

“What! So that he may give you eggs for breakfast?” Barbara asked mischievously.

“Ah, you may laugh, Miss Babs,” Nance said good-humouredly, “but the laugh will be on my side soon. Seriously though, Cecil, I may as well take this note.” Nance carried the precious note about with her in her pocket. She liked to feel it there from time to time. It was the key that was to unlock for her the door into the palace of fame. “I may as well take this note round to Signor Rannini to-day. Who knows but he might give me an engagement for to-night!”

“My dear Nance,” Cecil said, ignoring the concluding part of Nance’s speech altogether, “London is not like a small country place. People don’t live just round the corner, so to speak. Besides, you don’t know where he does live. Madame Salvicini seems to have forgotten to put his address on the envelope.”

“So she has!” Nance exclaimed, drawing it out and noticing the omission for the first time. “But that does not matter. Almost anybody would know where he lives.”

“At any rate it may be at the other end of London,” Helen interposed, “and probably he is out of town still. Most people are at the beginning of September. You had better put off your visit for a bit, Nance. I know I am as anxious as possible to find out what art school I can go to, but I think the best plan will be to get settled down here first. So I suggest that we all set to work at once and put the flat straight.”

The proposal was carried by general consent, and in her heart of hearts Nance was not sorry to be obliged to defer the momentous visit until another day.

All the morning they worked hard, and by mid-day they had got the place into some appearance of order.

For, when all was said and done, they had not so very much furniture to arrange. The bedrooms contained little more than two bedsteads, a chest of drawers, a washhand-stand, a wardrobe, and a couple of chairs apiece; while the sitting-room had only a table, five chairs, one of which was a deep, luxurious easy-chair, a book-shelf, the piano which Nance so cordially despised, and the old oak dresser, which, with its high shelves and deep recesses, was the joy of Helen’s heart.

When all these things had been dragged by the united efforts of all four girls into their places, Helen got a chisel and a hammer and set to work to open the case which contained the china.

“Judging by the care with which they are wrapped up they ought to be exceedingly valuable,” she remarked when, having prised open the lid, she lifted out layer after layer of straw.

“I do hope it will be a tea-set,” said Cecil, who, with Barbara and Nance, had gathered round to watch the opening of the case; “we want some more cups and saucers badly.”

“You have got your wish, then,” Barbara exclaimed a moment later when Helen had removed another layer of tightly-packed hay. “But, good gracious, what a gimcracky affair, and how hideous! Do hand it up to me, Helen.”

But Helen, kneeling in front of the box, calmly put the tea-pot on the farther side of her, and continued to search among the hay until she had extricated a cream-jug, a sugar-basin, and four cups and saucers. Then, while the others exclaimed that they were the ugliest things they had ever seen in their lives, she contemplated them in silence.

The set was certainly a very peculiar-looking one. The groundwork was turquoise blue, covered with raised white hawthorn blossoms, tendrils and berries, all of which were sharply cut of the thinnest china. The handles were white and gold, terminating in lions’ masks, and were painted with brilliantly-coloured insects. The cups were supported by slender gold feet, and the whole set was spirally fluted.

“It looks to me the sort of thing that is given away with a pound of tea,” Barbara remarked. “Anything more useless and more ugly I have not seen for a long time. And how fearfully chipped it will get! The edges of those flowers look as though they would break with a touch, and won’t they be uncomfortable to drink out of!”

Then Helen looked up with an expression of startled horror in her eyes.

“You are surely not thinking of using these!” she exclaimed involuntarily.

“Well, they are ugly,” Cecil began; “but, you see, we are so short of cups.”

“Then buy some,” Helen returned, “but don’t dream of using these; they must stand on the sideboard.”

“Why, do you think they are valuable, then?” Cecil said, surprised in her turn.

Helen paused, wondering what had made her speak so strongly. She knew no more about the possible value of the china than her sisters. This set might be worth a good deal, or it might, on the other hand, be worth nothing. It was not of the money value that she had been thinking when she exclaimed at the idea of taking it into everyday use. It looked so quaint and so old that it seemed a pity that it should be broken, that was all.

“Well, do you know,” Cecil said reflectively, “it rather grows on one. Perhaps we had better keep it strictly for ornament; and it was packed so carefully, too, that it must be of some value. Arrange it on the sideboard, then. And now,” she added, brushing the hay from her dress, “I am going to see about dinner. Barbara, you might come and help me to light the kitchen fire. I discovered this morning that the Marchpoints have kindly left us a lot of coal and wood.”

“Light the kitchen fire!” Nance exclaimed in tones of horror, as, disregarding Helen’s call to stay and help her with the litter of straw, she followed the other two out into the kitchen. “Cecil, you don’t mean to say that you are going to do that, and that we shall always have to do that sort of thing for ourselves?”

It may seem strange—Cecil herself found it difficult to grasp the fact—but it had really never before struck Nance that they would have to do all the work of the flat themselves, and her dismay and consternation were so great that Cecil could scarcely help smiling.

“My dear Nance,” she said, as with a shovel full of coals in one hand and a bundle of wood in the other she made her way towards the stove, “if we don’t do things for ourselves, who do you think is going to do them for us?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” Nance said dolefully. “However,” she added, brightening up, “it won’t be for very long. I shall soon change all that for you.”

But here, as was the case as often as she could manage it, Nance’s dreams were ruthlessly cut short by Helen, who called out that it would be more to the purpose just then if she would come and help to take away the empty packing-case.

More by good luck than by good management, for some art is required to lay a kitchen fire, especially in a strange stove, and Cecil was ignorant of the first principles of it, the fire blazed up at once, and was soon ready for her to do the simple cooking which she meditated.

There was a saying among her sisters that Cecil could put her hand to anything, and it was quite true that she had a knack of doing things that she had never done before, as well as, and sometimes a great deal better than, persons who had been accustomed to doing those things all their lives.

And so now by the time that Helen and Nance, with a good deal of driving on one side and some protestations on the other, had cleared up the straw, Cecil had cut up the cold fowl, grilled it, put it to one side to keep warm, and, having set Barbara to peel and cut up some potatoes that she had produced from that seemingly exhaustless hamper, was now making fritters of them.

“How good they smell!” Nance exclaimed. “Don’t you think that as we have to wait upon ourselves it would be much better to make this our dining-room? It will save us no end of running backwards and forwards, and we shall get out things so beautifully hot.”

The suggestions met with Cecil’s approval also, but hers was given more on the ground of economy than on any other. She foresaw that the arrangement would prove an immense saving of coal in the winter, and coal, she was afraid, was going to prove a heavy item in their expenditure.

However, she kept these thoughts to herself, and, sitting down at the head of the table, gave her attention to a lively discussion that was going on as to what they should do that afternoon.

Barbara wanted to go to the British Museum, Helen to the National Gallery, Nance to a concert or to the park, she did not much care which.

“Well, as it is impossible that you can each have your way,” said Cecil, “I may as well have a voice in the matter, and I propose that we first of all go and do a little shopping that has to be done, and then go for a walk in St. James’s Park. The shopping really is necessary,” Cecil added, seeing that this programme appeared to please none of them; “and as for the park, I suggested St. James’s because it is the nearest, and we sha’n’t have any bus or underground fares to pay in order to get there.”

Half an hour later, with the latch-key safely reposing in Cecil’s pocket, the four girls sallied out. They were all in the highest spirits, and were pervaded with a delightful feeling of which even the prudent Cecil could not altogether rid herself, that their life in London was one of the most enjoyable adventures in which four girls had ever embarked.

Cecil had intended to do all her shopping—which was chiefly in the grocery line—at the first shop to which she came, but those in the immediate neighbourhood were all so very small that she did not care to make her purchases in any of them, and, presently turning into Victoria Street, the idea struck her that she might as well do her shopping in the Army and Navy as anywhere else. Miss Taplow had been a member for many years. Nance was delighted, and as soon as Cecil was safely seated at a counter, with the prospect of having to wait there some time before she could get served, they all wandered away to amuse themselves by looking round. Even Helen, on whom she had rather depended for advice and assistance, left her side, and she was the last to return. Cecil had completed her purchases, and was ready to leave the stores, when Helen suddenly emerged with a crowd of passengers from the lift and made her way towards her sister. There was such a business-like look upon her face, however, that Cecil knew, before a glance at the little bundle of papers which Helen carried in her hand told her as much, that she had not been wandering aimlessly about.

“I saw a notice saying that there was a Scholastic Agency in the Auxiliary, and so I thought that I would go over there and see if I could get any information. And I have got the prospectuses of half a dozen art schools, academies of music, and high schools here. We had better look over them at once and settle where we are to go.”

“But not here,” said Cecil, “let us go to the park first. It would be a great pity to spend the afternoon here.”

It was a fine, bright September day, there was not a hint of autumn in the warm, soft air, but when the four girls reached St. James’s Park and sat down on a secluded seat facing the water, they could not help observing how very brown and shabby the trees looked compared to the ones they had left in the country.

“I wonder what Mrs. Vickers meant by saying that London was foggy and unhealthy, though,” Nance said reflectively. “I think the weather is just the same as in the country.”

“Wait until we see a pea-soup fog or a black fog,” Cecil said, laughing, “and then you will better be able to judge. Now for your papers, Helen, though it seems a shame to talk business in such a pretty spot.”

“Nonsense!” Helen returned brusquely, unrolling the papers as she spoke and passing the ones that referred to Nance and Barbara to them; “I have an uneasy suspicion that the term has already begun, and it is dreadful to think that I may have lost even as much as a single day.”

“It is only the 10th to-day,” Cecil replied; “surely no places open before that, do they?”

There was no answer. Helen was eagerly reading the various prospectuses, and did not speak again for nearly a quarter of an hour.

Nance did not apply herself nearly so industriously to the perusal of hers. She idly glanced down the pages of one or two, and then raising her eyes from them she leant back against the seat and gave herself up to dreaming. Besides, what was the use of her going to an academy or to a college of music? Had not Madame Salvicini said that she needed no further training? What she ought to do was to accept engagements now, not study.

Meanwhile, Cecil and Barbara looked over the prospectuses of the high schools together, and as they read, Cecil’s face grew grave and thoughtful, while Barbara’s brightened and glowed with pleasure and excitement.

“What a splendid lot I should learn at any of these places!” she said. “Look, this one has two valuable scholarships for Girton. Oh, Cecil, wouldn’t it be lovely if I could get one? And here is another with a scholarship for Newnham. Now, which one shall I go to, Cecil, for it really does not matter in the least, does it? The terms are about the same.”

“Twenty pounds a year,” Cecil said.

“That’s very little, isn’t it? I don’t know, of course, but I should say that it was.”

And without giving another thought to such an unimportant item as the fees Barbara went on reading.

But Cecil could only think of the paragraph that referred to the fees. Twenty pounds! It might be, nay probably was, an exceedingly small sum for which to get a thoroughly good education, and perhaps a scholarship into the bargain, but it nevertheless was only five pounds short of the half of the sum of their yearly allowance, and there were Helen and Nance still to be considered.

Presently Helen looked up and handed a paper across to Cecil.

“I think I shall go to this one,” she announced in a tone of decision; “it seems a good place in every way.”

“What are the fees?” said Cecil apprehensively.

“Ten pounds a year. It’s very little, Cecil, for what you get. The hours are from ten to four, and you get a model to draw from three days in the week. I call ten pounds a year absurdly cheap.”

Cecil suppressed a smile. Ten and twenty are thirty. That left exactly twenty pounds, and there remained Nance yet to be considered.

“What about yours, Nance?” she said.

Thus abruptly roused from her dream, Nance started, and said that she had not yet looked at the papers properly.

“But they all seem pretty much the same,” she said indifferently; “and the fees are all very small, three guineas a term. As they are so low I suppose I had better go somewhere, but you know Madame Salvicini said there was really no need for me to study anywhere.”

“Fiddlesticks!” Helen said contemptuously. “I don’t profess to know much about music, but I know you require as much, if not more training for it than for any other profession. Why, Madame Salvicini herself studied for years and years, didn’t she? And if she required study, I should think that you must too.”

Nance smiled. The remembrance of the very different opinion that Madame Salvicini had expressed at their last meeting made her quite impervious to whatever Helen might choose to say on the same subject. It was very foolish of both her and Cecil to say that she ought to go to some academy, and to think that they were more competent to judge of what was necessary for her than Madame Salvicini was; but if they chose to insist upon it, she had no objection at all to going to any place that they might select.

“Then we had better write to this place,” Helen said, picking up a prospectus that had a long list of professors’ names attached to it, and which, moreover, gave particulars of many honours and scholarships that were open for competition to the students. “The fees are only three guineas a term, but I expect we may reckon that they will come to ten pounds in the course of the year.”

“It is very probable,” Cecil said, and she made another addition to her mental sum—“and ten are twenty. That leaves us exactly ten pounds a year to live upon.”

“What are you smiling to yourself about?” said Barbara suddenly; “not at our hopes and ambitions? Do you know, Cecil,” she added teasingly, “that you are going to be the only idle one of us all? I really do not think that it is at all fair. Every morning you will turn us all out, and you will have that snug little flat all to yourself for the whole day.”

“I hope you won’t find it very dull,” Helen said seriously; “for of course our minds will be very much occupied with our work, and we shall have no time to—to—”

“Play with you,” Barbara put in demurely. But both her eyes and Cecil’s sparkled with fun. The condescension in Helen’s tone tickled them immensely.

“To be idle,” pursued Helen, disregarding the interruption. “For even when we are at home we shall have to work. I shall try and do some black-and-white work; and Barbara, I suppose you will have your lessons to do for the next day?”

“Well, in any case I should not expect you to amuse me,” Cecil said, laughing. “So make your mind quite easy on that score, Helen. And as for finding the day dull, I do not think there is much chance of that either. Who knows but that I also may work at some profession during your absence!”

Cecil spoke jestingly, but she was a great deal more in earnest than any of them guessed. If forty from fifty utterly declined to leave more than ten she must find some means of earning money, and though she kept her own counsel, her thoughts turned more than once that afternoon to Madame Marcelline. She, as the eldest, must accept all the responsibility of their pecuniary affairs, and there was no object to be gained in making them as anxious as she was herself. It would not be fair to them either, for they ought to have their minds perfectly free for their work.

“Indeed,” Cecil said, “I don’t at all like the idea of any of you going out without a penny in your pockets.”

“Give us a guinea each, then,” Barbara said merrily, “as the Vicar of Wakefield gave his daughters, but only on the condition that we never change it.”

It was the Monday following the Whittingtons’ arrival in town, and Nance and Barbara and Helen were on the point of starting off for the first time to their respective schools and colleges.

Curiously enough, the Art School, the Academy of Music, and the North London High School, that had been finally decided upon for Barbara, all opened upon the same day. The preliminary fees had been paid, books and other necessaries had been bought, and nothing now remained but, as Helen remarked, “to put their shoulders to the wheel and show what they could do”.

It had been decided in family conclave, that though Helen and Nance could make their own arrangements for themselves, Barbara could not very well put herself to school. The head-mistress would probably require either to be written to or to have a personal interview with her pupil’s guardian, and so Cecil had gone there on the preceding Saturday to find out as much as she could about the school. She had returned exceedingly well pleased with everything she had seen and heard. The head-mistress, Mrs. May, seemed a charming woman, and though she was evidently greatly pressed for time, had taken a good deal of interest in Barbara.

But she would hold out no hopes of Barbara getting a scholarship. There were, she said, some extremely clever girls in the school, and as quite forty per cent of them had entered for the sake of obtaining one of the scholarships, the competition for them was exceedingly severe.

Barbara had said nothing when this conversation was reported to her, but the firm, set look that came into her face showed that she did not intend to be discouraged from entering the contest.

The first thing, however, was to get a good place in the school; and there was an entrance examination to be gone through, the result of which would decide in which form she was to be placed. Cecil was of the secret opinion that she would go straight into the sixth, for she was confident that very few girls of Barbara’s age knew as much Latin or Greek. But the most that Barbara herself hoped for was the upper fifth, for she was conscious that, though her classics were good, her English was very weak.

It had been settled that breakfast on this and every future morning should be punctually at half-past seven, for though the Academy was no farther off than Oxford Street, while Helen, still more fortunate, had become a student at an art school in Westminster, which was only ten minutes’ walk from Brown Square, the North London High School was a great way off, and as Barbara had to be there at about ten minutes to nine, an early start was very necessary.

Nance grumbled a good deal at this half-past seven breakfast, but Helen and Cecil were rather glad of it. The former never found time hang heavily on her hands, while Cecil had a double motive for being pleased. Not only would she have a longer morning, but Nance and Helen would be able to help her in the work of dusting and sweeping before they set off.

She had offered to accompany Barbara to school on this her first morning, but that independent young person had declined the offer with a very decided shake of her head. The sooner she learnt, she said, to find her way about by herself the better, and Cecil had given her such minute, detailed instructions as to which bus to take and what fare to pay, that she was sure that even an ignorant country cousin like herself could not fail to find the way. Two penny fares and a walk in between and at the end would land her at the High School, and if Cecil gave her fourpence that would be quite sufficient. But Cecil did not like the idea of any of them having nothing in their pockets in case of unforeseen contingencies, and it was that which had caused Barbara to suggest that they should all be given a guinea each on the understanding that they should not change it.

“I tell you what I will do,” Cecil said, producing her purse. “I will give you each a couple of shillings, and then you can come to me if you want any more this week.”

“Mine will last till Saturday,” Barbara said, pocketing her coin and beginning to collect her books. “And now I must be off. Good-bye, Cecil, darling! Wish me luck.”

“I feel as if I were starting you off into the world,” Cecil said, following her out into the passage. “Good-bye, Babs! And do take care of yourself, and don’t lose yourself or get run over.”

“Don’t be anxious, Mother Cecil; I shall be all right. Expect me back about five o’clock, and be ready to hear all my adventures. My career as a lineal descendant of Dick Whittington may be said to be fairly beginning.”

And with a laugh that echoed all down the stairs, Barbara tucked her books more firmly under her arm and set off.

Helen was the next to go, and she did not make her exit in the same noisy fashion. She said good-bye quietly and sedately, and went off with an air of business-like resolve that sat very well on her serious young face, and was a very true index to the state of her mind.

“Upon my word,” Cecil said, as she closed the door upon her also, “I feel exactly like a mother sending all her boys off to school. Now there only remains you, Nance, and I am sure that it is time that you started.”

Nance was lying back in the only easy-chair that the sitting-room possessed, and her eyes were fixed in a dreamy gaze on the top of the beautiful clock tower, the upper half of which could be seen above the ugly roofs of the houses that lay between.

“It’s not half-past nine,” Nance said with a lazy yawn; “Helen went off much earlier than she should have done. She said that the earlier she was, the better the place she would get in the studio. It seemed to me a very selfish sentiment, and very hard on those that like to be late. I think she is very lucky to live so close, and not have any of those dreadful buses to go in.”

“Yes; I wish with all my heart that you two were as close,” Cecil said. And particularly did she wish it for Nance. For Nance was too pretty and too young to go about London alone; and not only that, but she was so dreamy and absent that Cecil was very much afraid that she would get into any bus but the right one, and so be landed in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. And it was partly nervousness, and partly because she had to go in that direction herself, that made Cecil say that she would accompany Nance to the academy when it was time for her to go.

“Oh, will you really?” Nance said eagerly. “I did not like to ask you before the others, but I do so dislike the thought of going about by myself. I know I shall be too shy to stop the buses when I want to get in, or when I want to get out. But don’t tell Helen or Barbara that I said so; they would laugh tremendously, or at least, if Barbara did not, I know Helen would.”

“Oh, you will soon get over that feeling!” Cecil said encouragingly, for as Nance would have to go about alone, it was of no use to sympathize too much with her nervousness; “but for the first few times, at any rate, I will go with you. Perhaps I may always be able to do so if we breakfast as early as we did this morning, and if you help me to make the beds afterwards.”

“Oh, the thought of not having to go alone reconciles me to early breakfast, bed-making, and any amount of sweeping and dusting!” Nance cried eagerly. “I will go and get ready at once.”

As getting ready was an occupation that always took Nance a considerable time, Cecil sat down and made up her accounts. She kept them with the utmost regularity and exactness, and could always tell by referring to her book how much to a farthing she had spent, and what it had been spent upon. When she had entered the six shillings that she had just given to her sisters she shut the book, and, resting her chin upon her hand, became immersed in thought. She was meditating an important step, no less than applying to Madame Marcelline for employment, but she wished to be quite convinced first of all that the step was really a necessary one. Her account-book told her that it was, for though as she carefully scanned the items she could not see that a single unnecessary penny had been spent, yet things had mounted up alarmingly, and she knew that unless she could earn some money, their expenses, which were already curtailed to the utmost limit, would have to be decreased still further. She brought her meditations to a close with the resolve that she would go to Madame Marcelline that very morning.

Having settled that, she went to get ready. The door of the room that Helen and Nance shared together—and never did two persons of more uncongenial tastes share a room—was wide open, and as she passed she saw Nance standing before the glass trying on in turn the few hats that she possessed. As Cecil entered she was in the act of putting on a big black straw, trimmed with drooping ostrich feathers. A knot of pale-blue ribbon was fastened to the side that rested on her head, and the colour exactly matched her eyes. In that hat Nance looked distractingly, almost startlingly pretty; her soft fair hair was shown off to perfection by the black straw, as was also the lovely wild-rose flush on her cheeks, to which a slightly conscious look had given a deeper tint than usual.

“Oh, you can’t wear that!” Cecil cried out hastily, for she felt instinctively that every one they passed would turn round to look at Nance if they saw her as she appeared then. “The hat is too striking; besides,” she added, touching the knot of ribbon, “you could not wear this yet.”

“Give your real reason,” Nance said, surveying her image in the glass with frank pleasure. “That it makes me look too pretty?”

She spoke without the slightest trace of vanity. Nance could not help knowing that she was pretty, but it never entered her head to be conceited about her looks. She took off the hat as she spoke, and put on a plain black sailor, which she wore every day, and in which, though she looked exceedingly pretty, she did not present that appearance of almost striking beauty which had so startled Cecil.

At the corner of Parliament Street they got into a bus, which took them for a penny into Piccadilly Circus, and from there, in a manner which seemed nothing short of marvellous to Nance, who both looked and felt absolutely helpless and bewildered, Cecil piloted her over crossings, turned down a side street, and finally brought her safely to the very gates of the academy. A good many girls, some young men, and others who were older, and who, from the length of their hair, Cecil judged to be professors, were making their way across the court-yard, and with a nod, encouraging on one side and rather nervous on the other, the two sisters parted.

It was a curious thing, Cecil reflected, as she made her way back to Piccadilly, that Nance, who entertained far greater ambitions than either Helen or Barbara, and who was seemingly so exceedingly full of self-confidence, should yet place so very little reliance on herself that she always wanted to lean upon somebody else.

But it was a comfort, nevertheless, to Cecil to think that, if she succeeded in getting work at Madame Marcelline’s, she would at least be able to take Nance as far as the Circus every morning.

As she turned into Regent Street, however, she dismissed Nance from her mind, and began to think about the coming interview, and she was half-amused and half-annoyed to discover that she was experiencing the same nervous qualms with which Nance had been seized at the last moment.

She began to wonder if Miss Marchpoint had remembered her promise to write to Madame Marcelline, introducing her, and mentioning that she was likely to apply for an engagement. If not, it would be rather awkward.

At that early hour—it still wanted some minutes to ten o’clock—Regent Street was comparatively empty, and so, while she was still some distance off, she saw a smart brougham drawn by a pair of high-stepping horses, draw up before Madame Marcelline’s door. A spruce footman swung himself off the box and held the carriage-door open, while a fashionably-dressed woman got out and entered the shop. After taking a pile of cardboard boxes from the brougham, the man followed her.

“Oh, dear!” Cecil thought to herself in vexation. “What a pity a customer should come just when I get here! I sha’n’t dare to go into the shop as long as she is there.”

So she walked past some little way, and then, standing before a window, looked round. The carriage still stood before the curbstone. But in a few minutes she heard the sound of wheels, and, looking round again, she saw that the carriage was driving rapidly away.

Considerably relieved at having the coast so soon left clear, Cecil briskly retraced her steps, and, without giving herself time to get nervous, entered the shop. There were two ladies in it, and it was something of a shock to Cecil to perceive that the lady who, she had thought, has just driven away was one. She was a fine-looking, rather handsome woman of about forty, dressed in the height of fashion, and yet in a manner that was suitable to her years.

The other could be no other than Madame Marcelline. She was a plain, elderly woman, severely dressed in black, with a quiet manner and a grave expression of face. She looked round as Cecil entered, and made as if she would draw the other lady’s attention to her; but after a quick glance at Cecil the lady waved her hand impatiently, as much as to say that the new-comer could wait, and continued her low-toned conversation.

Cecil decided that she would like Madame Marcelline, and having come to that satisfactory conclusion, she amused herself by looking round.

The shop was of exceedingly small dimensions, and seemed to Cecil more like a lady’s boudoir, into which a glass counter and a couple of hat-stands had found their way by accident. The carpet was a rich Axminster, the walls were covered with a handsome, costly paper, and the electric-light fittings were of the newest and latest designs.

At the back of the shop, partly shut off by curtains, was a small, cosily-fitted-up room, in which stood a couch, a tea-table, and a revolving book-case. Cecil had got thus far in her investigations when the conversation at the counter came to a sudden end, and Cecil felt that the moment had come for her to state her business. Indeed, both ladies were looking enquiringly at her, and so, though she found it very embarrassing to speak in the presence of a third person, she went forward at once.

“Perhaps Miss Marchpoint has written to you about me,” she said. “My name is Cecil Whittington.”

The lady behind the counter, the elderly one to whom Cecil had addressed herself, looked interrogatively at the other, but showed no recognition of her name. She seemed about to speak, but before she could do so Cecil went on, with a disappointment that she could not altogether conceal.

“Oh!” she said; “I suppose she forgot. But she promised to write, introducing me to you, and mentioning that I should like to be engaged to trim hats for you.”

“I think you are making a mistake, I am not Madame Marcelline. That lady,” indicating the lady beside her, “is she.”

“Is it?” Cecil cried in astonishment, and she glanced in some confusion at the real Madame Marcelline. And yet, now that she had her mistake pointed out to her, she wondered how she could ever have made it. For this handsome, dashing-looking woman, with her slightly imperious manner, seemed far more the sort of person to carry on an enterprising business of this nature than her pale, subdued-looking companion. There was, moreover, a shrewd look in Madame Marcelline’s eyes and a certain hardness about her mouth which seemed to indicate that in none of her dealings would the opposing party be likely to come off best.

“I beg your pardon,” Cecil said, feeling that she had a much more formidable person to deal with than she had at first supposed. “But seeing you get out of your carriage just now, I concluded that you were a customer.”

Madame Marcelline nodded, as much as to say that the mistake was an excusable one, but she made no attempt to help Cecil out with what she had to say.

“I am sorry Miss Marchpoint did not write to you about me,” Cecil said. “We have taken her flat, and we were passing your—your—” She hesitated, for a doubt as to whether the word that was on the tip of her tongue was a right one to use flashed across her mind. Ought she not to say “place” or “establishment”?

“There is no objection to the use of the word ‘shop’,” Madame Marcelline interposed with a humorous glance, that made Cecil feel more at ease at once.

She smiled and finished her sentence.

“And she seemed to think that there was a chance that you might be willing to give me employment.”

“Oh, did she?” Madame Marcelline said; and now the gleam of humour had quite disappeared from her face. But she did not speak in an unkindly tone, and it was evident to Cecil that Miss Marchpoint’s name carried a good deal of weight with it. “Miss Marchpoint is a hare-brained young person and thinks a great many foolish things, but I own that her taste in hats is good. But what made her entertain such a supposition? Can you trim hats?”

“I have always trimmed my own and my sisters’ hats,” Cecil said, feeling, as she said it, what a ridiculous recommendation that was. How many girls who lived in the country did not trim their own and their sisters’ hats?

“Have you brought any specimens of your handiwork with you?” was Madame Marcelline’s next question; “but no, I see that you have not.”

“I trimmed the hat that I am wearing now,” Cecil said eagerly; “and it was that which made Miss Marchpoint say that she thought that I could trim hats well enough for you. She said,” continued Cecil hopefully, as she remembered Miss Marchpoint’s unstinted praise, “that it had a real Parisian look about it.”

“Did she really?” Madame Marcelline said, and there was something so peculiar in her tone that Cecil glanced up hastily, and, catching sight of herself in the glass, broke into a laugh, for the hat she was wearing was nothing more nor less than a plain black “sailor”, trimmed with the conventional plain band.

Madame Marcelline smiled also, but she quickly resumed her business-like manner.

“Well, I hardly know what to say,” she began; and then, knitting her brows, she appeared to ponder deeply for a few minutes.

“What do you advise, Matt?” she said finally.

Miss Matilda Pinney was kneeling on the floor unfastening one of the boxes which Madame Marcelline had brought with her. She rose, however, on being thus appealed to, and her slow, rather grim accents, no less than her quiet grave manner, caused the thought that her sobriquet was highly inappropriate to her to flash through Cecil’s mind. And she might have been mistaken, but it also occurred to her that Miss Matilda did not like being so familiarly addressed before a stranger.

To her great satisfaction, however, she perceived that Miss Pinney was decidedly on her side, for she said that if Miss Marchpoint had spoken so highly of the hat it must have been something very much out of the common, and therefore in view of the large order which had come—

But at that point Madame Marcelline interrupted her hastily. “That is what I think,” she said. “Dorothy was sane enough until she took this mad Klondike freak into her head, and her taste in hats was—well, almost equal to mine. On one occasion, I recollect, she gave me a few hints for a hat that I was designing for the Duchess of Doorminster, which raised it from a dream into a positive creation.”

“Really!” said Cecil, seeing that she was expected to say something, and successfully overcoming an inclination to laugh, as she inwardly wondered in what the difference between “a dream” and “a creation” consisted. And it was fortunate that she did overcome that inclination, for it would have been unpardonable to laugh—in the wrong place at least—at any incident connected with her dealings with her aristocratic customers that Madame Marcelline might choose to tell her.

“Of course,” Cecil said, “I don’t expect you to engage me without knowing what I can do. Would you like me, first of all, to trim a trial hat here, or shall I go home and fetch that hat I spoke of just now? I quite meant to have worn it this morning.”

“That would be best,” Madame Marcelline said; “but stay, I will show you first what I can do, and what, if you are to be of any use, you must also be able to do. Hand me that box, Matt, please, and Miss—I am afraid that I did not quite catch your name.”

“Whittington.”

“Thank you. Miss Whittington, then, would you be kind enough to bring me a chair?” There was nothing unusual in the request, it was one that any girl might receive from a lady very much older than herself, but there was an indescribable something in the way it was made which grated on Cecil, and made her feel instinctively that she would never like Madame Marcelline.

“An involuntary exclamation of delight broke from her when she saw the contents of the boxes.”

An involuntary exclamation of delight broke from her when she saw the contents of the boxes. Having first of all carefully spread a sheet of tissue-paper upon the counter, Miss Pinney laid out three white hats in a row. They were big Leghorn hats, trimmed with feathers, tulle, and tiny ruches of silk, and Cecil’s exclamation of delight was not out of place. They were truly exquisite hats, trimmed with unerring taste and daintiness, and in their case the air of similarity which, as Cecil had remarked to Miss Marchpoint, had characterized all the hats in the window, was not a fault, for they were intended to be alike.

“Well,” said Madame Marcelline, watching her face, “do you think that you could originate anything like that?”

For a moment Cecil felt almost impelled to say that she could not, but then she looked at them again, and her confidence returned. For to begin with, she had never had the opportunity of working with such beautiful materials, and so did not know what she could do.

“Could you copy them, then?” Madame Marcelline asked.

“Oh, yes!” Cecil answered, without an instant’s hesitation; “that would be easy enough.”

“Very well, then,” Madame Marcelline said with decision, “I will engage you; I have made up my mind. It seems a rash thing, but Dorothy’s recommendation goes a long way with me.” She did not think it necessary to add that what went a good deal farther was the fact that she had been nearly at her wits’ end to find someone who could assist her, and that Cecil’s application could not have come at a more opportune moment. The order to which Miss Pinney was referring when she had been so unceremoniously checked was a most important one, and a mistake of a week had been made in the date in which it was to be carried out. But of this she chose to say nothing.

“Give Miss Whittington three, no, four hats,—she ought to be able to do four by this evening,—and the feathers and the rest of the things, Matt.”

Miss Pinney complied in silence, it was extraordinary how little she spoke; and Cecil, overjoyed at having been so successful, and when she had almost given up hope, turned to Madame Marcelline and impulsively thanked her.

“We have said nothing about terms yet,” Madame Marcelline said hastily, fearing perhaps that from the exuberance of her gratitude Cecil expected to be paid very highly for her services. “How much do you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know!” Cecil said. “I would very much rather that you gave me what you thought right. You should know better than I what I am worth.”

That was true enough, but all the same Madame Marcelline had no intention of giving Cecil what she was worth, especially as Madame Marcelline entertained the belief that she was going to prove worth a good deal. She felt annoyed that the girl should expect her to do anything so unreasonable, and yet with Cecil’s clear, truthful eyes fixed on her, she could not bring herself to name the paltry sum that was in her mind.

“Well, we will defer that question until I see what you can do. You must take these three hats with you and bring them back by six o’clock.”

Cecil hardly knew whether to be pleased or the reverse at the thought that the work must be done at home. The going backwards and forwards would be rather inconvenient, especially if she were expected to carry those large cardboard boxes with her.

“They could go into one box now, of course, but when they are trimmed they will need a box apiece, and it was on that account that I judged it better to give you these two extra boxes,” Miss Pinney said, understanding her rather dismayed look. “And, of course, you will go in a hansom,” she added, glancing at Madame Marcelline, who perforce assented, though with scarcely-concealed reluctance, and taking out her purse she handed Cecil a shilling.

“The fare to Westminster is eighteenpence,” Miss Pinney said. But Madame Marcelline either did not or would not hear.

The fare was eighteenpence, and Cecil had to pay the extra sixpence herself. But she felt that the journey had been worth a great many sixpences to her, and it was with a light heart that she climbed up the steep stairs carrying the three precious boxes with her.

The flat felt very lonely and empty without the others, but Cecil would not allow her mind to dwell upon that. Hastily taking off her outdoor things and washing her hands, she went into the sunny sitting-room and set to work. She wanted to finish the hats, to take them to the shop, and to return again ready to greet the others with the news that she had found employment and was in receipt of a weekly salary by the time they came home. How delightfully surprised they would be!

Cecil smiled to herself with pleasure as she pictured it all, and in the meanwhile her deft white fingers were hard at work.

It had not occurred to her to ask if she might bring one of those ready-trimmed hats away with her as a model; but that did not matter, for whenever she chose she could see them before her mind’s eye.

It was a pleasure to her to see her work grow beautiful under her hands, and though once or twice she was tempted to use an idea of her own, she successfully resisted the temptation. She would have plenty of opportunities to show Madame Marcelline what she could do in that way later on.

A neighbouring clock struck one as she finished the first hat. In all respects it seemed to her exactly similar to those she had been shown in the shop, and she was so pleased with herself and it that she decided to have lunch before beginning another. Some cold meat, bread and butter, and a glass of water formed her frugal lunch, and promising herself some coffee later on she went back to work.

But she never got that coffee, for something went seriously wrong with the second hat. She found out after struggling with it for some time that she had been rather too reckless with the trimming on number one, and had unconsciously borrowed from the amount due to numbers two and three; but, as she could not bring herself to take the first to pieces, she exerted her utmost ingenuity, and by dint of a good deal of contriving, succeeded in finishing them to her satisfaction.

“There,” she murmured, as she jumped up and stretched her aching arms. “I do hope that Madame Marcelline will not notice that two and three are a bit skimpy. And now for tea.”

But when she glanced at the clock on the mantel-piece and saw that it was already a quarter past five, she decided to postpone tea until she came home again. For by the time she had packed up the hats and taken them to Regent Street it would be nearly six, and that was the hour which Madame Marcelline had fixed for her return.

“It will mean another hansom, I am afraid,” she said to herself hastily, putting on her hat and gloves. “What would Helen say to such reckless extravagance?”

In the hope of saving sixpence she walked as far as the cab-rank near the House of Lords; and the distance being then well within the two miles, she found a cabman who was willing to take her to her destination for a shilling.

When she reached the shop she found that there was nobody there but Miss Pinney, who, as the door opened, came forward from the little sitting-room at the back.

“Madame Marcelline is seldom here at this time,” Miss Pinney said, observing that Cecil glanced round in a somewhat disappointed way, “but she has left me full instructions with regard to you.”

“I have finished the hats,” Cecil said, “and I was so proud of them that I wanted Madame Marcelline to praise them. I hope you will like them.”

“I think they are eminently satisfactory,” Miss Pinney said in her prim, stilted voice as Cecil submitted them one by one to her inspection. “And such being my opinion, I am empowered to engage you at a fixed salary of one pound a week.”

“Oh!” Cecil cried out; “not really?”

“You think it is too little,” Miss Pinney said.

“Dear me, no!” Cecil cried, horrified that she should be suspected of harbouring such a thought. “I think it is most liberal of Madame Marcelline to give me a whole pound a week. I never expected so much to begin with, at any rate.”

“I am glad you are pleased,” said Miss Pinney, rather dryly, and though Cecil never knew it for certain, in time she came to suspect that it was to Miss Pinney she owed the fact that she received as much. For Madame Marcelline thought that she would carry out her intention of offering her new assistant as little as possible, by deputy, and an hour or so back, when she was leaving the shop for the evening, she had in a casual tone instructed Miss Pinney to engage Miss Whittington, should her work prove satisfactory, at a salary of ten shillings a week. This, however, Miss Pinney had firmly declined to do, and had named a pound as the very lowest sum that could be offered to Cecil with any chance of its being accepted. In that, however, Miss Pinney now saw that she had been wrong, for Cecil would have taken even the ten shillings thankfully. And it was as well for her that Madame Marcelline had been reluctant to make her stingy offer in person.

“And, of course,” Miss Pinney added, “any necessary cab fares will be extra. That is to say, that if you are obliged to take a hansom either to or from here, I am to defray the cost on behalf of Madame Marcelline.”

Then she proceeded to explain to Cecil the manner in which she would be expected to carry out her duties. Every morning she would come and receive orders.

“Like the baker or the butcher,” Cecil reflected with an inward smile.

But her work, for the present at all events, was not to be done on the premises. Sometimes, in the case of very particular customers, she would be required to be in attendance in the background to study their features and their figures, and so design a hat or a bonnet that should suit them in all respects.

“And I think that that is all that I have to say at present,” Miss Pinney said when she had brought these remarks to a conclusion. “Six more hats, which are to be trimmed in precisely the same manner as the ones you have already done, will be sent to you this evening, and called for about mid-day to-morrow. Then if you will call in yourself at about this time to-morrow, I will give you any fresh instructions that I may have received.”

“Six more!” Cecil said with an uplifting of her eyebrows. “I shall have to be up very early in the morning to get them done. I had no time even to stop for tea this afternoon, so I must hurry back and get some. Good-night, Miss Pinney!”

She held out her hand, but, somewhat to her surprise, it was not taken. And she was still more surprised when, speaking in tones that were no whit less cold or formal than usual, Miss Pinney asked her to stay and take tea with her.

“Oh, thank you very much!” Cecil answered, becoming aware for the first time that a little brass kettle was singing merrily on a spirit-lamp in the cosy little alcove at the back of the shop, where a tea-table was drawn up to the couch. “Thank you very much, but I must go home, I think. My sisters will think I am lost if I am not there by the time they come home. Besides, I have to make tea for them.”

She put out her hand again, and this time Miss Pinney took it, but an expression that seemed almost like one of disappointment swept over her face.

“And yet,” Cecil said to herself as she walked briskly homewards, feeling exceedingly elated and proud—“and yet she could only have asked me out of politeness. My remark about tea must have seemed a desperate hint. What a funny, shy little manner she has! But all the same she is rather nice, and I am not sure that I do not like her better than Madame Marcelline, although she is not nearly so friendly as madame. I wonder if she ever forgets to be stiff, and what she is like then!”

The front-door of No. 10 stood wide open when Cecil reached the top of the stair, and that she knew for a sign that Barbara had been the last to pass through it. She could not get her youngest sister to understand that a London front-door is not, like a country one, accustomed to being left open all day long.

A perfect babel of voices greeted her while she was yet in the passage, and for a moment she wondered if they had each brought an assortment of their new school and college companions home to tea with them.

“Come and give an account of yourself, please!” Nance cried out when she appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “This is a nice way for our housekeeper to treat us.”

“After giving us such careful instructions to hurry home and not to lose ourselves you go quietly out and lose yourself,” Barbara said.

“Come and sit down,” Helen said. “We have just made some tea and some toast, and decided not to wait a minute longer for you. We have been waiting nearly half an hour, and are nearly famished. Where have you been?”

“To Regent Street,” Cecil said with a smile as she sat down and began to pour out the tea.

“Then you have been dawdling about and looking at the shops,” Nance said with pretended severity. “A very nice example to set your hard-working sisters! Oh, Cecil, I am ashamed of you!”

“There was one bonnet shop from which I simply could not tear myself away,” Cecil said mischievously, “and six of the loveliest white hats that you ever saw in your life are coming round from there presently. But never mind my adventures just now. Tell me yours. How did you all get on?”

But at that they all began to speak at once, so that when, after a few minutes, they paused for breath, Cecil was no whit wiser than she had been before.

“One at a time, please,” she said as she handed the cups round. “Oh, dear,” she added as she glanced round the table, “it is so nice to see you all again! I am so glad that I did not accept Miss Pinney’s invitation to stay to tea!”

“It must have been very dull for you all alone here,” said Helen more sympathetically than she generally spoke. She had had such a full, busy day herself that she could not help feeling truly sorry for Cecil.

“Miss Pinney!” said Barbara inquisitively. “Who is Miss Pinney? And why did she ask you to tea?”

“Ah, that is part of my story!” Cecil said; while Barbara, whose curiosity was aroused, remarked that she believed that Cecil had spent her day making friends with the people who lived in the flat below. “And I want to hear all yours first. Now you begin, Helen.”

“Well, to start with, I lost my way this morning, although, as you know, I had taken care to walk past the school once or twice both yesterday and the day before. It was lucky that I had left myself plenty of time, for owing to the many wrong turnings I took I did not get to the school until it was just striking ten. But, as it was the opening day, that did not matter so much. And I found out too that we have to draw for places, so you don’t get any advantage by being first in the room.”

“And a very good thing too,” said Nance, who had a fellow-feeling for dilatory persons.

“The model this week is a man, but he is awfully difficult to draw. What I found so strange is having to depend so much on one’s self. I had an idea that the professor would be always at one’s elbow, but he isn’t. And, of course, as there are about forty students, he couldn’t be. He only came to my easel once during the morning, and then it was nearly lunch-time. I had been working away hard for nearly three hours. I hadn’t got a very good place, but still, I had tried to make the best of it, and I don’t think I had stopped drawing for one single minute; and not all the students could say that. Some of them laughed and talked all the time, and never drew a stroke.”

“Well, I expect the master, or the professor, or whatever you call him, praised your work when he did come round,” said Cecil, who, in common with Nance and Barbara, was listening most intently to this account.

“No, indeed, he did nothing of the sort,” Helen said smiling, though rather ruefully, at the recollection of what he had said. “He stood beside my stool for a minute, and I was just going to get up and let him sit down, for I thought, of course, he had come to help me as he had been helping the others all the morning, but he just looked at my drawing for a moment and then said: ‘Don’t move, Miss—er—’ and then he looked at my name, which I had written across the board—‘Miss Whittington, but take a fresh piece of paper and begin again’.”

“Oh, Helen!” Cecil cried sympathetically. “What did you do?”

“Why, I took a fresh piece of paper and began again,” said Helen; “there was nothing else to be done.”

“And did any one else hear, do you think?” Nance asked.

“Probably. But I certainly don’t care if they did. I heard the girl next to me giggle, but as she had been giggling all the morning, that especial giggle may not have had anything to do with me. About one o’clock the model went away for an hour, so did the professor. Some of the girls went out to lunch, but most of them stayed and ate sandwiches. And the noise that the rowdy ones made was something awful. Then from two to half-past four we went back to work again, but I did worse even than I had done in the morning. I believe it was partly because I am not accustomed to sitting still so long. And I was very glad that Mr. Smithson did not come to me again.”

“Do you mean to say that those few uncivil words were all the teaching that you got to-day?” Cecil cried.

“I found them quite enough,” Helen answered dryly. “Thank goodness we work at casts to-morrow! I hope I shall find them easier.”

“Well, but are you pleased on the whole?” Cecil said anxiously. “Do you think that you will get on there, Helen?”

“Oh, yes!” Helen answered; “but if I had any conceit in me it would have been taken out of me by my experiences to-day.”

Nance opened her eyes rather widely at that. In her opinion Helen did not lack conceit. But there she was wrong. Conceited Helen was not. She was merely extremely self-satisfied, and not even the treatment she had received that day had power to shake her belief in herself.

“And are any of the girls decent?” Barbara asked. “There are some awfully jolly ones at our place. Regular scrumptious ones.”

“Oh, Barbara,” Cecil said half-laughing, for slang did not seem to her such a dreadful thing as perhaps, in her character of eldest sister and guardian, it ought to have done, “are you taking to slang already? Remember how Cousin Mab disliked us to use it.”

“Everyone talks it at the North High,” Barbara said; “and the sixth form are as bad as any of us.”

“What form are you in?” Cecil said, forgetting the new language Barbara had brought home with her in this far more important subject of her place in the school.

“I sha’n’t know till to-morrow. There are no fewer than thirty new girls, and Mrs. May goes through all the papers herself, so you may guess that there was no time for the result to be given out to-day. Oh, Cecil, do you know that I was examined in seven or eight different things? Fancy, they make needlework one of the subjects, and I was given a button-hole to do. I did such a bad one, too; but they say that needlework does not really make the slightest difference to the place you take. Then I had a paper on English Literature, one on History, one on Geography, Arithmetic, Mathematics, Political Economy, Domestic Economy, French, and Latin.”

“Good gracious!” said Nance, surveying her sister with mingled pity and admiration, “I am thankful that I was not in your shoes. I am certain that I could not have answered a single question.”

“The papers were given according to age. And by the way, Cecil, it is awfully unlucky that I am just over sixteen, for the papers were for girls from ten to twelve, from twelve to fourteen, and from fourteen to sixteen, and as few girls enter when they are over sixteen, I had some special questions set to me. Wasn’t it hard luck? As if a week or so could make any difference to your cleverness. I did a fairly good Latin paper, but the others were rather feeble, I am afraid.”

“Then you think there is no chance of your being in the sixth?” Cecil said.

“Rather not. And I should be awfully sorry for myself if there were. Why, I could never do the work. The sixth form are all girls of seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen. And in the upper sixth there is one older even than you, Cecil; she is nearly twenty, and is going up for a scholarship, you know. They say she is nearly certain of it, but there are three or four others trying for it too.”

“Tell me some more,” said Cecil. “I want to hear everything about you all, and then I can picture to myself what you are doing when you are away.”

“We had lunch at eleven, and I can tell you that I was hungry by then. We had biscuits and milk. And we had dinner at a quarter to two. I thought of poor Helen and Nance having sandwiches, and I was sorry for them. We had roast-beef and rice-pudding. Nearly all the day girls stay for dinner except those that live quite close, because lessons go on until half-past one, and so by the time they got home their own dinners would be over; besides, they could not be back again in time. From half-past two till half-past three we do drilling and gym,—you will have to make me a gym dress, Cecil,—and after that those that want to, stay and do an hour’s prep. The others go home and do it there, but I think that I shall always stay, for it would be harder to settle down when I got back. As it is, I shall always have another two hours after tea every evening. And now I think that I have told you everything that I can think of, and it is Nance’s turn to take the floor.”

“I am not a step-dancer, thank you,” Nance said; “though, all the same, step-dancing is exactly what I have been doing most of the afternoon.”

Then, as her sisters one and all looked as if they thought that that was a most extraordinary way of learning singing, Nance proceeded to explain herself.

“They are going to do ‘Dorothy’ at the academy at the end of this term,” she said, “and who do you think has been chosen to take the part of Dorothy, the principal part in the play, you know?”

Nance tried hard to speak in an ordinary voice, to keep the triumphant expression out of her face, but she could not quite succeed, and the sidelong glance of elation which she shot at Helen would have been alone enough to betray her secret.

“Not you, Nance!” Cecil cried. And then, fearing that the involuntary note of incredulity would have hurt poor Nance’s feelings, she added, “Oh, I am glad! But what is ‘Dorothy’?” she added. “Is it a great opera? I never heard of it, I am afraid.”

“Really!” said Nance, forgetting that she had only heard of it herself for the first time that day. “It is an operetta, and the music is so pretty! I have got a copy, and after tea I will play you some bits from it. Fancy, out of nearly two hundred girls I was chosen for Dorothy!”

Here Nance somewhat exaggerated the honour that had been done her. There were certainly nearly two hundred girls at the academy, but only one-half of them learnt singing, and out of that number only one-third possessed soprano voices. And the part of Dorothy had, of course, to be taken by a soprano. But it was, nevertheless, a triumph for her, and her sisters, when she had fully explained this to them, congratulated her heartily; and Helen kept the surprise she felt to herself.

“You don’t know what this may not lead to,” said Nance, and her mind started off once more on its soaring dreams. “Perhaps the manager of Covent Garden may come and hear me, and I shall get an engagement straight away, either for the opera or for a whole series of concerts at St. James’s Hall. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

And in an instant she was picturing the whole scene to herself. It was after the second act, and she was in the dressing-room changing when a tap came at the door, and a note and a card were handed in. It was the card of the manager of the Opera House, and was accompanied by a request that she would grant him a few minutes’ interview immediately. She went out to the green-room, where all the other members of the company stood in knots, talking in low tones and looking at the great man. And in a voice loud enough to be heard by everybody present he offered her the leading part in a new opera that he was producing, at her own terms. That was the climax. But before she could reply the call-bell rang, and, telling the manager that she would let him have her decision presently, she hurried away.

And at that point she had to rouse herself and go on with her account of the day’s doings.

“But do you mean to say,” Helen asked incredulously, “that you are singing all day long? And if not, what are you doing? Give us your programme in detail, please, as we have given you ours.”

“Yes, from the very moment I left you,” said Cecil. “I felt so sorry for you having to go in alone.”

“I felt sorry for myself,” Nance returned; “but it was not as formidable as it looked after all. I just followed the stream, and presently found myself in a cloak-room where, as all the other girls were taking off their things, I took off mine too. There were ever so many new students, and as all the old ones were talking together, we somehow gathered together too, and presently a very nice girl began to speak to me. She was a tall, dark, graceful-looking girl. She told me her name afterwards. It is Ethel Saunders, and she is going in for the violin. She looks as if she could play, too. Well, presently we all went upstairs to the waiting-room,—there is one for the men and one for the girls,—and then, after dawdling about till nearly eleven, we went down to the concert-room. Oh, such a lovely room, Cecil! Rather like a theatre, with a big stage and a gallery running right round it. There the head of the academy—I have forgotten his name—made us all a speech, but I don’t think that anybody but those quite near him heard what he said. Ethel Saunders and I went up to the gallery and saw everybody splendidly. The men students are so peculiar-looking, Cecil. Their hair is dreadfully long, and their clothes all seem as if they were put on anyhow. Well, after the address was over we all went back to the waiting-room, from where some of them went straight off to their different professors; and then at intervals a man appeared at the door and called out the names of the new students. Ethel Saunders, who seemed to know all about it, told me that these were going up for their entrance examination, and that it was according to how they sang or played that they were told off to the different professors. She asked me if I had put my name down for any, and when I told her that I had not, she advised me to ask, if I were given my choice, for Mr. Landor.”

“And did you get him?” Cecil asked eagerly.

“Yes, I did; but I am coming to that presently. At last my name was called out, and, taking my music, I followed the porter to the concert-room. There were three or four elderly gentlemen sitting on the stage, one of them played my accompaniment for me, and I sang the song right through to the end. Most of the students, you know,” Nance explained, seeing that her sisters did not look as much impressed at this last bit of information as she had expected; “most of the students are stopped half-way through the song, or their piece if they are playing, for the examiners can generally tell after the first few lines what your voice is like and how much you know.”

“And did that mean that they were pleased with you?” Cecil asked.

“Well, I think it did; and I really did sing well. I was not a bit nervous, and all the trills and shakes—I sang the ‘Romeo and Juliet’ song, you know—were as true as anything. You know, it was the first time I had ever sung before anyone but Madame Salvicini, so I am rather proud of myself for not being frightened.”

“Don’t forget us,” put in Barbara laughing; “I assure you we retain a vivid recollection of those same trills and shakes.”

“Oh, but I was not counting you, I meant real musical people, you know. And I had expected to be horribly nervous, but they were all so kind. After I had finished, one old gentleman pulled his spectacles down to the end of his nose, and asked me what professor I would like; so I remembered what Ethel Saunders had told me, and said I wanted Mr. Landor. You should have seen how amused he looked, for what do you think, he was Mr. Landor himself! But before he could answer, another one looked up and said, ‘Oh, that’s quite impossible, Miss Whittington; Mr. Landor has as many pupils as he can possibly arrange for this term. He has refused half a dozen already this morning.’

“But Mr. Landor said, ‘Not so fast, Miles, please; I think I shall take Miss Whittington. I believe I can fit in one more pupil if I make a few slight alterations.’

“Wasn’t that a splendid compliment for me?” Nance cried. “Just think; he had refused six others already, and yet he consented to take me! Oh, I must write and tell Madame Salvicini all this! I do think the academy is a nice place. Well, next I had to go through a harmony examination, and as I hardly know anything about harmony, I have been put into the very lowest class of all. There is far more work than I expected. I get a singing lesson twice a week, and one piano lesson, for you have to take up a second subject, and I have chosen that. Then there is the operatic class and a deportment class, both twice a week, two harmony classes, also twice a week, besides an elocution class every day. So all that, with my practising at home, will pretty well fill up my day, I think. And then, of course, there are the rehearsals for ‘Dorothy’; they are to be held twice a week. Oh, I shall get on, I know I shall! It is a lovely place.”

Cecil was greatly relieved to hear her speak so enthusiastically. She had known that the other two would be happy, but she had feared that Nance would encounter disappointments at the very outset of her career; and that then she would get discouraged and would lose all incentive to work. What was to become of Nance in the end she did not know, for Cecil was certain that there was not the least prospect in the world of her extravagant dreams being realized, and she feared that no rung short of the topmost would satisfy her ambitious young sister. However, as yet all these considerations were happily in the future, and Nance, enraptured with the teaching, with the professors, and with the academy in general, seemed for the time being to have abandoned the idea of coming forward at once as a public singer, and to have settled down to a course of hard study.

“But what do you do when you are not having a lesson, and are not at a class either? For I expect you have a few odd spare hours.”

“Oh, there is the waiting-room to sit in, and the girls talk! Some of them are very amusing.”

“I hope they are nice girls,” Cecil said, a little anxiously.

Nance laughed. “Some are, and some aren’t,” she said; “but I know you would like Ethel Saunders. And now, Cecil, it is fairly your turn to relate your adventures.”

“Well, mine are not so interesting as yours, I warn you. They are far more prosaic, and they need a little leading up to, to heighten their effect. So let us go into the sitting-room; we have all finished, I think, and I can tell you better there.”

Cecil had been careful to clear away every scrap of feathers and trimming before she went out, so there was nothing left to tell tales of what she had been doing, and in a state of growing curiosity the other three followed her in and seated themselves at the table.

“First of all,” said Cecil, taking her account-book from the desk, “I am going to tell you how we stand with regard to our money matters.”

“Oh, is that all?” Barbara exclaimed in disappointed accents; “I don’t call that very exciting.”

“Don’t be so sure, Babs. When you have heard a bare statement of the state of our affairs and nothing more, I think even you will say that our situation is painfully exciting. Look, here it is in black and white. As you know, we allow ourselves a hundred pounds a year; fifty of that has gone on rent, so that leaves us exactly fifty, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” said Barbara, “I call that a very easy sum. I wish my arithmetic paper had been as easy.”

“Out of that fifty,” Cecil continued, “twenty goes on your fees, Babs; ten on Helen’s, ten on Nance’s; so we are left with exactly ten pounds for food and dress, and coals and fares and everything else.”

A dead silence followed this statement. Barbara straightened herself and looked quite serious enough to satisfy Cecil; an expression of alarm and anxiety came into Helen’s face; while Nance, who had pulled her copy of “Dorothy” towards her, and had been turning over its pages and drumming little tunes on the table with her fingers, closed the book with a bang and pushed it away from her, exclaiming as she did so:

“Oh, Cecil, and I have spent four-and-twopence of that ten pounds already on this book! I wish I had never bought it.”

“I simply can’t give up the studio,” Helen cried; “I really can’t. Whatever happens, I must go on with my education.”

“None of you will be required to give up anything,” Cecil said hastily, grieved beyond measure to perceive how Helen’s first thought was always of herself. “And now for my news, girls. You see, I knew that we simply could not live on ten pounds a year, and so I saw the only thing for me to do was to earn more in some way; and I have got a situation, and my salary is fifty-two pounds a year.”

“No!” they all cried in varying tones of excitement and astonishment. “Where is it? What have you got to do?”

Before Cecil could reply, and while she was still enjoying their amazement, there was a loud knock at the door, followed by a sound as of a box being heavily deposited.

No visitors had come to disturb them as yet in their lofty retreat, and as they knew no one in London, they did not expect anyone; nor did they think that it was the postman, for it was neither his hour nor his knock.

“What can it be?” said Barbara, jumping up and going out. There was a short colloquy at the door, and then Barbara came staggering back with a large, shallow, wooden box, bound round with a leather strap, and having the name “Marcelline” painted in black letters round the side.

“ ‘Marcelline!’ ” Helen said; “it must be some mistake. Run, Barbara, and call the boy back quickly.”

“It can’t be a mistake,” Barbara said; “for he asked if Miss Whittington lived here, and when I said ‘yes’ he ran off.”

“It’s all right,” Cecil said laughing; “I won’t mystify you any longer. It is for me.” She unfastened the strap, and, taking the six hats out of the box, laid them one by one on the table before the wondering gaze of her sisters. “They have just come in the nick of time. Now girls, look at me most respectfully, for in me you behold Madame Marcelline’s chief bonnet and hat trimmer, engaged permanently at a salary of one pound a week.”

The three younger girls went early to bed that night, for they had no work to do for the next day, and they were thoroughly tired out. Cecil was also tired, but she kept that fact to herself; laughed at them for going to bed shortly after nine o’clock, and sat up working until long after eleven herself. And yet she was up again before any of them in the morning, and had successfully trimmed four out of the six hats before she went into the kitchen to get breakfast for them all.

What made her perhaps more thankful than anything else that she had secured work, was the fact that now she would be able to give her sisters better food than they could otherwise have had. Bread and tea for breakfast, sandwiches for lunch, and tea again in the evening, might be economical fare, but it certainly was not wholesome, and Cecil was wise enough to know that it would be next to impossible for young, growing girls to do good work upon it.

That morning they set off more quietly to their various destinations. They all, even Nance, seemed to recognize the fact that they had settled down to a long course of hard work, and that it behoved them to make the best possible use of their time. Helen’s face looked almost grim, so strong was the determination she had formed never to waste a single moment; and she ate her breakfast in a silent, self-absorbed way, that showed how completely she was becoming wrapped up in herself.

As soon as they had all gone, Cecil sat down again to the white hats, of which, by that time, she was growing rather tired, and worked at them so industriously that they were quite ready for the messenger when he came for them. Then her time was her own until five, at which hour she had to repair to the shop for further orders. So, when she had had her lunch, and thoroughly tidied out the flat, she went to the stores to make a few necessary purchases, and then walked all the way to Regent Street.

She had been accustomed all her life to do a great deal of walking, and though she had not been long in finding out that walking along the hard London pavements, and rambling about on the downs or covering great stretches of country roads, are two very different things, she yet preferred to walk whenever she could do so. It not only kept her in good health, but it also saved some of those pennies which had such an alarming way of slipping from her, and turning themselves with uncomfortable speed into shillings and half-crowns.

Somewhat to her dismay, Cecil found when she arrived there that Madame Marcelline’s shop was full of ladies. It certainly did not require many people to fill the tiny shop, and when Cecil had slipped unobtrusively through to the back-room and seated herself in a retired corner, she saw that besides Madame Marcelline herself, and a stout, handsome, good-natured-looking woman, there were but two more. Yet the little shop had the appearance of being inconveniently crowded.

These two, who were young and very smartly dressed, soon made Cecil acquainted with the fact that they were Americans, but why they were in the shop at all it was not so easy to divine. The ostensible reason, of course, was to purchase a hat, but though Madame Marcelline was bringing out her choicest goods for their inspection, they barely glanced at her or at them, but stared, with a persistency that must have been very embarrassing to the recipient, at the stout, good-natured-looking lady. And the oddest part of it all was that Madame Marcelline did not seem to resent this extremely rude conduct in the least; in fact, both she and the stout lady appeared greatly amused at it, for more than once Cecil saw them exchange laughing glances. But in spite of her amusement, Madame Marcelline was not neglecting her business, and the prices which she asked for the simplest hats made Cecil draw in her breath with wonder. For one trimmed merely with black ostrich feathers and tulle she asked three guineas, another very similar to it, but with a large paste buckle fastened in a velvet bow, was four guineas, another five, and there was nothing at all under two guineas.

Cecil, as she watched and listened, could not help mentally appraising the value of these different hats, and she came to the conclusion that not one of them could have cost, at the outside, more than a guinea; so that Madame Marcelline was allowing a really generous margin for profit. But the two Americans appeared to consider the price as little as they considered the hats. When they tried them on, they looked not at their reflections but at that of the lady, as if to see what her opinion was; and finally, with a long, last lingering glance, they took their departure, having paid four guineas apiece for hats that did not suit them in the least. When they were gone Madame Marcelline and the stout lady looked at one another, and then laughed until the tears came into their eyes.

“That, Mary, is the most amusing thing that has happened for some time,” said Madame Marcelline, who was the first to recover herself. “Those two were determined to get an introduction to you, and I was equally determined not to give it. They paid eight guineas cheerfully for the sake of being able to say that they had spent as many minutes in the same room as you.”

“I felt quite sorry for them,” the other returned; “and if they had remained much longer in the shop, I should have felt obliged to speak to them. It made me feel quite rude to be so irresponsive.”

“Rude!” said Madame Marcelline briskly. “Nonsense! It was a great piece of impertinence on their part to follow you in here. Though, really,” she added, a smile appearing again at the corners of her mouth, “I have no reason to complain of their forwardness; I have done an excellent piece of work.”

From this short conversation Cecil gathered that the stout, good-natured-looking woman was some great personage, and presently, when she and Madame Marcelline left the shop in the latter’s smart carriage, which had driven up a few minutes previously, Miss Pinney told her that such was the case.

“She is the Duchess of Doorminster,” she said, “and one of the oldest friends that Lady Knelworth has. Oh,” as Cecil made a movement of surprise, “did you not know that that was Madame Marcelline’s real name? It is mainly owing to the Duchess of Doorminster that she has succeeded so well. And the duchess is such a charming lady too! She never omits to shake hands with me when she comes, and to enquire after my health. She does not think that because I serve in a shop I am not a lady myself.”

“No, of course not; why should she?” said Cecil soothingly, for there was a flush on Miss Pinney’s pale face, a note almost of pain in her voice. “It would be very silly of people if they thought anything of the sort. But I don’t think it would matter much if they did.”

“I do not like people for one instant to forget that I am a lady,” said Miss Pinney with dignity; “but I am sorry to say that a great many persons who come here appear to ignore the fact altogether, and speak to me as if I were any other shop person. However, the duchess always treats me as if I were on an equality with herself, and that is what I like people to do.”

When Cecil came to know Miss Pinney better, she found out that nothing hurt the poor little lady more than to be treated with any lack of respect; that she was constantly on the look-out for slights, and so often took offence where none at all was meant. But the simple act of politeness, which the Duchess of Doorminster never neglected to perform towards her, always raised her self-respect many degrees, and made her impervious for the rest of the day to any fancied slights.

This afternoon she was thawed out of her usual chill and formal manner, and while she put the shop to rights she chattered away to Cecil in quite a friendly way.

“Madame Marcelline ought to roll in riches soon if she gets four guineas for every hat she trims,” Cecil said.

“Ah, but she does not! Madame Marcelline charges exactly what she pleases. She will ask ten guineas from one lady for a bonnet that she will let another lady have for two.”

“But I should think, then, that she offended a great many people,” Cecil said, surprised at what seemed to her a very novel way of doing business.

“No, I do not think she does. Besides, few people would like to quarrel with Lady Knelworth. She is connected with a great many aristocratic families; and she goes out a great deal, and is to be met with everywhere in the season.”

“But, then, I can’t understand her keeping a shop,” Cecil cried. “I thought everyone who had a title was well off, as a matter of course. I suppose she does not do it for pleasure?”

“She is making an enormous income,” Miss Pinney said, dropping her voice to a confidential key. “But she has to spend every penny of it again. There is no harm in my telling you all this, for it is known all over London. When she married the late Lord Knelworth she brought him a large fortune, but he dissipated it all, and when he died, which he did two years ago, the estate was found to be heavily mortgaged. Every one thought that it must pass out of the family for ever, for the interest that has to be paid every year on the mortgages is, I believe, very great. If it had not been for her little son—she has only one child—Lady Knelworth would have allowed the mortgages to be foreclosed, but she could not bear the thought of the place passing away from him, and so she started this shop. Her great ambition is to pay off the principal, and so free the estate entirely, and to do that she would work all night and all day. She works very nearly all night and all day as it is. But when she opened this shop she gave fearful offence to her own family, who are very rich Manchester people. They thought it was terribly infra dig on her part, not only to keep a shop, but to speak of it in society quite openly. And they are not yet reconciled to the idea. But her husband’s family, on the other hand, thought her conduct extremely plucky,—the Duchess of Doorminster is a second cousin of her husband’s,—and they have supported her in every way that they possibly could.”

While she talked, Miss Pinney had been moving to and fro, and the shop now being in perfect order, she set out the little table with a tea-service for two, and invited Cecil to stay and take tea with her.

And this time Cecil did not refuse. She could not help feeling intensely interested in hearing about Madame Marcelline, and she more than agreed with Lord Knelworth’s side of the family, that her conduct in setting to work to retrieve the fallen fortunes of her house was exceedingly plucky.

And on her side, Miss Pinney seemed pleased to have found such an attentive listener, and she unbent in a way that only the day before Cecil would have believed impossible to her. But about herself and her own affairs she was curiously reticent, and beyond the fact, which she gathered from chance allusions, that she had known Madame Marcelline in the days of her girlhood, and had seen her at frequent intervals during her married life, Cecil knew nothing further about her companion.

“You must see a great many things from this snug retreat behind the curtain,” Cecil said. “I know I enjoyed watching that little comedy this afternoon.”

A slight expression of weariness crossed Miss Pinney’s features. She had not that keen zest for the comic side of things which Cecil possessed, and during the two years that she had been in the shop she had seen too constant a repetition of that sort of little scenes to be even faintly amused by them.

“Madame Marcelline was very pleased with those hats,” she said; “they are all done now.”

“Oh, what were they for?” Cecil asked. “I could not help wondering when I was working at them. Were they for bridesmaids’ hats?”

“No, they were for a grand fancy bazaar, at which all the stall-holders were to be dressed alike. Madame Marcelline made a mistake in the date by which they were to be finished, and we were very nearly too late with them; and that would have been a very serious matter, for the order was for fifty at three guineas each.”

“No!” Cecil cried out. “Why, that makes one hundred and fifty guineas! Did Madame Marcelline do all the rest herself?”

“Every one of them,” Miss Pinney replied. “And now, Miss Whittington, Madame Marcelline wishes to see what you can do on your own responsibility, so she has instructed me”—Miss Pinney had unconsciously lapsed into her most formal mode of speech—“to forward you a few untrimmed hats and bonnets, together with a certain quantity of velvet, feathers, flowers, and lace, and other trimming materials. She wished you to be guided entirely by your own judgment, and you will kindly send as many as are completed of the hats back by the messenger to-morrow morning.”

Cecil said she would do her best and get as many finished as possible, and then, having bidden Miss Pinney good-evening, she went home.

“Upon my word,” was Helen’s comment when Cecil had related all that had passed between Miss Pinney and herself; “upon my word, Cecil, your Madame Marcelline might pay you more for your services. Why, you have earned thirty guineas for her already by two days’ work, and all you get is a wretched pound a week.”

“I won’t have my salary called wretched, please,” Cecil said, laughing; “nor must you try and make me discontented with it. But I acknowledge,” she added frankly, “that I was rather inclined to grumble to myself when I heard what big profits Madame Marcelline makes. But then you must remember that I could not earn that money on my own account, and that, therefore, I ought to be thankful for what I get.”

But Helen could not be brought to see it in that light; she considered that Madame Marcelline, by paying Cecil such a small salary, was defrauding her, and, through her, all the rest of the family.

Helen was not at all communicative about herself that evening, and Cecil was afraid that she had not got on so well at the studio as she had expected that she would; but, knowing that it was of no use to force a confidence that was withheld, Cecil respected her sister’s silence and put no questions to her.

But Nance was in radiant spirits. Mr. Landor was everything that a professor should be, and though as yet she had not said anything to him about the high ambitions she entertained, she was certain that when she did he would encourage her in them fully as much as Madame Salvicini had done.

Barbara, on the other hand, had sustained a great disappointment. In spite of her proficiency in Greek and Latin she had only been put into the fourth form, and, as removes only took place at the end of the summer term, she would have to remain there a whole year.

But she and Cecil had a long talk that night as they were getting ready for bed, and Cecil encouraged her to bear her disappointment bravely, pointing out how in the end it would probably prove of great advantage to her that she had not gone up too high at first.

For there was no doubt that in her English subjects she was decidedly backward, while in both mathematics and French she was weak. If she had been put into the fifth straight away it would have been a constant struggle for her to keep her place, and she would never have had time to go over back work and read up to what she was doing.

So Barbara fell asleep, feeling somewhat comforted, though when she thought of the comparatively advanced Latin that the upper fifth would be working at, she could not help being exceedingly sorry for herself.

But the very next morning at breakfast she received a letter which banished even that last regret. It was from Mr. Vickers, and was enclosed in one from his wife to Cecil. After saying how much they were missed in their old home, Mr. Vickers said that he, too, missed them all, and especially his good, industrious little classical pupil. “And as”, the letter went on, “I think it unlikely that your schoolfellows of your own age will be as advanced as you are, you will probably be put back to their level, and though that will not do you the least harm, for your groundwork will thereby be doubly assured, it seems to me a pity that your progress should be temporarily checked. Therefore I propose that we carry on our lessons by correspondence.” Taking her consent to this scheme for granted, Mr. Vickers then went on to arrange details, and concluded by telling her that she was not to write and thank him, for it was fully as great a pleasure for him to teach as it was for her to learn.

“What do you think of that?” Barbara said when she had finished reading this letter aloud. “Isn’t Mr. Vickers a perfect darling? I don’t care a bit now about only being in the fourth, but I shall grind away as hard as ever I can.”

And to that determination Barbara adhered firmly. Both in school and at home she worked as hard as ever she could, but by degrees the Latin and Greek which she was doing for Mr. Vickers came to absorb more and more of her time, to the great detriment of her school-work. At first she had only prepared the work for her old tutor at odd hours of the day, that is to say, before breakfast and after she was in bed. Cecil frequently kept very late hours now, and although she always insisted upon the others going to bed early, Barbara got into the habit of taking her books with her, and she would read and study for a couple of hours after Cecil imagined her to be asleep. The natural consequence was that in the daytime she felt fagged, and her school-work suffered in consequence.

The fourth form happened that year to be the dullest form on an average in the whole school. Several of the bigger girls in it who ought to have got their removes at the end of the previous term had failed to do so, and, finding the work in their old form comparatively easy, had become lazy. Their example was infectious, and as the term progressed the fourth form became unpleasantly notorious in the school as an idle form, the members of which were in perpetual disgrace.

But from Barbara, Miss Seeley, who was the mistress of the form, had hoped great things. For it was easy to see that Barbara was intensely in earnest, and meant to do good work. She was, therefore, proportionately disappointed when she found that Barbara’s lessons came to be more and more carelessly prepared, and that, so far from making her way to the head of the form, she was slipping back. As Miss Seeley knew that the work of the form was by no means beyond her, she not unnaturally concluded that it was sheer idleness on her part.

And so Barbara got into trouble. It became no infrequent thing for her to have one or more of her lessons turned every morning, but the climax was reached when, one morning when the term was about a month old, every single mistress who took the fourth failed her. Three of the idlest girls in the form shared the same fate.

Miss Seeley was the last to take the form, and the class was a Latin one. Before it began she glanced at the mark-book, which lay open on the desk, and in which each of the mistresses who had taken the form already had recorded the marks of the different girls; and when she saw the many bad marks which her form had managed to gain that morning, she looked anything but pleased. With Barbara she felt especially annoyed and impatient; the other three girls were, she knew, incorrigible idlers, but Barbara was capable of better things.

But with her Latin Barbara proceeded to do even worse than she had done that morning with all her other lessons. Cecil had been very late in coming to bed the night before, and the consequence was that Barbara, too, had sat up late, reading and studying and muddling her brains long after she ought to have been asleep. She had merely glanced over her school Latin, and seeing that it was some she had gone through months before with Mr. Vickers, had not given it a second thought. She might have scraped through her lesson successfully enough, had her previous failures not only made her nervous, but incensed Miss Seeley against her. And to her mingled surprise and mortification Barbara had her Latin turned also.

After that things seemed to go from bad to worse with Barbara. She sank gradually to the bottom of the form, and, in spite of all her efforts, remained there. And as the weeks passed, and the middle of the term, which always brought with it a half-term report, drew near, she began to be afraid that she would get a very bad report indeed.

“And yet I am always working,” she said to Cecil one evening. “When I am not at my school prep. I am grinding away for Mr. Vickers. I ought to get on like a house on fire, but I don’t. I am hopelessly stupid, that’s what is the matter with me.”

“Don’t you think you are working too hard, Babs?” Cecil said anxiously. “Perhaps you ought to give up doing anything for Mr. Vickers for a little while.”

“Indeed I won’t!” Barbara cried impetuously; “it’s not as if the school-work were too hard for me. At least, if it is,” she added somewhat contradictorily, “it ought not to be; and it would be a thousand pities to give up the good work that I am doing for Mr. Vickers for its sake.”

Cecil shook her head, and she would have shaken it still more vigorously had she known at what a sacrifice of sleep Barbara prepared those tasks for Mr. Vickers.

A day or two later, as Barbara was starting for school, she met the postman on the stairs, and although she was already rather late, she turned back with the letters.

“One from Bess,” she said, handing the thin foreign envelope to Cecil. “My Greek exercise, with corrections, from Mr. Vickers, and this long thing from the North High. It is addressed to Miss Whittington, but as it is my report, I suppose I can take it. It will be a nasty pill, no doubt, but here,” tapping Mr. Vickers’ letter, “is the sugar to take the taste out of my mouth.”

No opportunity to examine the report, or to read the letter, occurred during the morning, but after dinner she carried them both with her into the playground, and, sitting down on a bench at the top of the field, drew them both from her pocket. A hockey match between the first and second elevens was in progress, and Barbara was glad of it, for all the girls who were not playing were watching those who were, and she was thus likely to be free from interruption. There was a certain set among the girls, who, in Barbara’s opinion at least, seemed quite mad about the game. They seemed to talk of nothing else. Even Miss Seeley herself, who captained the first eleven, was not, as Barbara noted with a sort of scornful wonder, above hockey talk. She herself had never felt the slightest desire to play; mere games seemed to her dreadful waste of time.

With a half-smile at her own childishness she laid Mr. Vickers’ letter on her lap, in readiness to be opened directly the report was read. The latter she was fully prepared to find most unpleasant reading, and the result fully justified her expectation. The maximum marks that were given were five, her average was one. And for Latin, which she had always considered her best subject, she had no mark at all. “Bad” was the adjective written against it in the column reserved for comments.

Above and below it stood other adjectives which varied from “bad” to “pretty fair”, but which never rose higher. “I could understand my history being ‘poor’ and my arithmetic ‘fair’, and ever so many things being ‘indifferent’,” Barbara said half aloud, “but that they should say my Greek was ‘poor’ and my Latin ‘bad’ passes my comprehension.” But unsatisfactory as all this was, there was worse to follow in the shape of the remarks as to her general progress during the half-term, which had been added by the various governesses under whose hands the fourth form passed. One or two said she was lazy, another said she was careless, Mademoiselle said she was inattentive. “No wonder,” Barbara thought, “considering that I cannot understand half of what she says.” Mrs. May had nothing to do with the actual teaching of the fourth, as she took no form lower than the fifth; but she signed all the reports, and in Barbara’s case at all events had added a few words:

“A most unsatisfactory report. I hope especial attention will be paid to Miss Seeley’s remarks.”

Curiously enough, Miss Seeley’s remarks had so far escaped Barbara’s notice; and now she turned her eyes to the few lines of small, neat handwriting which she recognized as that of her form mistress.

“Barbara is undoubtedly clever,” so ran Miss Seeley’s words, “but not so clever as she imagines herself to be. Conceit has hitherto stood in the way of her making any real progress.”

A flush of indignant colour dyed Barbara’s face from brow to chin as she read. Anything more unfounded and more unfair it would, she told herself angrily, have been impossible to imagine, even from Miss Seeley.

She crumpled the obnoxious paper in her hand, and tore the letter open, fully expecting to find there the consolation of which she stood in need. But in that she was doomed to disappointment. Mr. Vickers’ letter was, if possible, an even more bitter pill to swallow than the report. For, though he said it in the kindest way possible, he told her that for the present, at all events, the correspondence classes had better cease. He had, he said, observed a marked falling off in her work, and he feared that he had been taking her on too fast. It would be better if she broke no fresh ground for some time to come, but went back over her previous work.

And so he too had given her up as a hopeless duffer. What, she asked herself despairingly, had come to her of late that everyone should set her down as stupid or idle? Everyone could not be wrong; and now that Mr. Vickers had ranged himself on the same side as Miss Seeley, she began to think that the latter might have some reason on her side. She had not, however, whatever anyone might say, been idle. The secret of her failure was that she had tried to do too much. She recognized the fact now, and it was with a very wry face that she reviewed her short school career. Was there any other girl, she wondered, who had worked so hard and accomplished so little?

Well, from that day forward she would alter her tactics, and confine herself only to her school-work. And to her surprise a feeling of actual relief crept over her as she came to this resolution, and realized that when in future she got into bed it would be to go straight off to sleep, and not to sit up for a couple of hours poring over Greek and Latin.

“But,” she said to herself aloud, “it would be nice if I could take Miss Seeley into a corner for just five minutes, and tell her what I think of her for calling me conceited.”

And then she looked up with a start, to find Miss Seeley standing just beside her.

“Oh!” Barbara said, springing to her feet in confusion, and realizing that Miss Seeley must have overheard her remark. “I thought you were still playing.”

But Miss Seeley did not seem at all offended. She was scrutinizing Barbara’s flushed face in a thoughtful manner.

“You shall have your wish,” she said. “Here we are in a corner, and we can have the five minutes you mentioned.”

Surprise held Barbara speechless for a moment, and then she recognized that Miss Seeley really was in earnest. Then she, too, became rather thoughtful.

“I think you were right,” she said at last, “but not quite in the way you meant. I have not been idle or lazy, indeed I have not, but I have been trying to do too much.”

And then, for Miss Seeley’s manner somehow invited confidence, she told her how anxious she was to get on—how important it was that she should do so. She spoke, too, of the correspondence classes that she had been carrying on with Mr. Vickers.

“But now,” she added, “he gives me up, and advises me to confine myself only to my school-work.”

“And excellent advice it is too,” Miss Seeley said. “So this is the real reason of your bad work for me. For you know, Barbara, that you have been doing atrocious work. I am glad to have had this explanation. I confess that I have been pained and surprised at finding the first impression I had formed of you an apparently incorrect one. However, I am certain that from this day forward you will do better.”

At that moment a girl came running up to them, hockey-stick in hand.

“Oh, Miss Seeley,” she said, “I shall be one short! My left wing has had to go. Whom shall I have?”

To the surprise of both girls, Miss Seeley looked at Barbara.

“You can have Barbara,” she said. “I know she has never played before, but a game will do her good.”

The captain of the second eleven glanced somewhat dubiously at Barbara, who, for her part, looked rather blank. But as Miss Seeley appeared to consider the matter settled, they all three walked on to the ground.

And in that way Barbara began a new era at school.

The necessity of making a few small purchases took Cecil to the Army and Navy Stores that afternoon. Soap was among the things on her list, and as Nance firmly refused to use any but the very best, it was with rather a sober face that Cecil left the counter and made her way, bill in hand, to the desk. Nance’s pet theory was that they were too poor to buy cheap things, and though Cecil agreed with her to a certain extent, she was inclined to think that soap might be an exception. The stores were more than usually crowded that afternoon, and Cecil had to wait her turn at the desk; but when it came, and she was in the act of putting her bill through the window, a hand was thrust over her shoulder, another bill was laid on the counter, while the arm to which that hand belonged swept her—the action only just escaped coming under the head of a shove—to one side. Indignant at this unceremonious treatment, and yet not knowing how to resent it, for to remonstrate with a stranger was the last thing that would have occurred to her, she waited while the lady, a middle-aged, fashionably-dressed woman, slowly gathered up her change. Cecil could not see her face, indeed she was too much annoyed to wish even to look at her, and she was very much surprised when, a moment later, the same hand was laid on her arm and a voice said, “Why, Miss Whittington, what are you doing here?”

“Trying, but without success, to pay my bill,” Cecil might have answered, for as she turned in surprise she was again pushed aside, and this time by an irascible old gentleman, who, muttering that if ladies wished to talk to each other they might choose a less inconvenient spot, planted himself firmly in front of the desk. And meanwhile Cecil had recognized Mrs. Carr-Davison, Bess’s mother-in-law, in the fashionably-dressed woman who had usurped her place a few moments ago.

“Let me see, it is Helen. No, I forget your name. But you are the eldest, are you not?”

“Yes, I am Cecil,” the girl answered, taking the extended hand and shaking it, but without warmth. She did not like Mrs. Carr-Davison.

“And where are the others, and what are you doing in town? Dear me, though, I forgot! Your aunt is dead, and you are living here. Godfrey told me so in his last letter. He writes pretty regularly. I suppose his wife keeps him up to that. Very good of her, I am sure. Do you hear from them often?”

“Yes, Bess writes to us every week,” Cecil answered, as the old gentleman, having bustled away, she advanced to the desk and succeeded at last in getting her bill receipted. “She seems very well,” she added.

“As well as she can be in such an unhealthy place,” was the reply. “However, that is Godfrey’s business, not mine. I spoke my mind pretty freely at the time, and my opinion has not altered. It was an insane thing for Godfrey to marry a girl without a penny. It ruined his career.”

Cecil glanced round. Mrs. Carr-Davison’s voice was by no means a soft one, and her words were perfectly audible to everybody who chanced to be within earshot.

“I think I must say good-bye,” she said coldly, holding out her hand. “I have several things to do.”

“So have I,” the elder lady said, ignoring the outstretched hand, “but mine can wait. I will come with you. You have not yet told me where you are living and what you are doing. Come now, there is no need for you to be offended at anything I have said. I want to hear all about you. But this is not a very good place for talking. My carriage is outside. I will take you for a turn in the park.”

But Cecil declined this offer. She had no desire whatever to tell Mrs. Carr-Davison all about themselves, and she explained that after she had bought the few things she required she must go home and give her sisters their tea.

But that excuse availed her little. “Very well,” Mrs. Carr-Davison returned, “if you will not come with me I will go with you. What are these important purchases?”

“Nothing very great,” Cecil said, laughing, and feeling a little ashamed of her ungraciousness. “Butter and eggs.”

“We must cross over to the Auxiliary, then. Dear me, this place seems more crowded every time I come here!”

But for once Cecil was thankful that the Stores were such a crowded place, for as they made their way in single file through the china department, even Mrs. Carr-Davison tacitly recognized the fact that conversation was impossible, and she postponed her cross-questioning for the present.

The short respite gave Cecil time to collect her thoughts, and to remember that Bess would be greatly distressed if her mother-in-law were to meet with anything short of civility, at least, at her sisters’ hands, for Bess’s otherwise perfect happiness was marred by the knowledge that her marriage had caused a decided coolness between Godfrey and his mother. At the time, Mrs. Carr-Davison had raised no active objection. She had been present at the quiet wedding, had lent her town-house for the honeymoon, and besides many handsome presents to the bride had given her son a big cheque. But she had not increased his allowance, and when Godfrey, rather than ask her to do so, had exchanged into the staff corps without telling her of his intention until the exchange was effected, she had been extremely angry, and had blamed him in bitter terms for marrying a penniless girl. Since then she had asserted that the marriage had been contrary to her wishes. And though Cecil and the others were naturally indignant with the attitude that Mrs. Carr-Davison had assumed, Bess always declared that she could not wonder at it, for with her eldest son Mrs. Carr-Davison had never got on. Godfrey had been her favourite, and now that he was stationed permanently in the East he was as good as lost to her. And Bess, who was as much in love with Godfrey as on the day two years ago that she married him, thought that that was more than enough to make her mother-in-law dislike her. So, making a noble effort to conceal the regret she felt at their chance meeting, Cecil gave Mrs. Carr-Davison brief but polite answers to the many questions that were showered upon her, even as they traversed the short distance that lay between the entrance to the Auxiliary and the provision department. She told her that they had been in London for nearly two months, that they were all pretty well, that Barbara was at school, that Nance was at a school for music, that Helen was at an art school, that no, she herself did not intend to follow any profession, that her aunt’s death had been very sudden, that yes, her affairs had been left in a somewhat unsettled condition, that Mr. and Mrs. Vickers had been most kind, that no, they had neither let nor sold Greenfields, for it was not theirs to dispose of while Mrs. Barker lived.

“A most ridiculous will!” Mrs. Carr-Davison exclaimed; “most absurd! What?” as Cecil mildly observed that they all thought that their aunt had only done what was right in making provision for a servant who had been with her for nearly forty years. “Yes, yes, suitable provision, of course; but to bundle you out of house and home for her sake does not seem to me suitable provision.”

“The arrangement suits us very well,” Cecil said coldly, her resentment rising again at the freedom with which Mrs. Carr-Davison commented upon their affairs. “I have finished now,” she continued, “and I think that I ought to be getting home. The others will wonder if I am not there to make tea for them.”

“Where do you live?” Mrs. Carr-Davison said; “you have not yet told me that.”

As she had not asked, and as Cecil had confined herself strictly to answering questions, that was her own fault.

“We are in a flat,” Cecil said, speaking with more reluctance than she had yet felt. Her one consolation throughout the interview had been that a meeting was not likely to occur again, but if Mrs. Carr-Davison learnt their address, what might they not have to expect?

“In a flat, are you? But where? Dear me, Helen—Cecil, I mean—you make me feel like a grand inquisitor. A more uncommunicative person I never met. I have to drag every single piece of information out of you.”

“No. 10 St. Christopher’s Mansions is our address,” Cecil replied, colouring a little and laughing.

“Never heard of the place in my life. Where is it?”

“Close by here, at the back,” Cecil answered.

“Close by, is it?” Mrs. Carr-Davison echoed. “Then I tell you what. I will go home with you, and if you will offer me a cup of tea I shall be very glad. I have nothing particular to do and can spare the time.”

“We shall be very glad, of course,” Cecil said, feeling sorry that truth and politeness were so much at variance; “but I ought to warn you that we are on the sixth floor, that there is no lift, and that the stairs are steep.”

But Mrs. Carr-Davison was not to be deterred from carrying out her newly formed intention of paying them a visit.

“I dare say, with your assistance,” she said, “I shall manage the stairs; but I wonder that you did not go somewhere where they had a lift. It must be very convenient for you though, being so close to the stores. It is the sort of place to which a girl can come alone quite well.”

An amused look came into Cecil’s eyes. What would Mrs. Carr-Davison say if she knew that not only she, but her three younger sisters as well, went all over London by themselves. However, true to her plan of not volunteering any information, she kept her own counsel, and followed Mrs. Carr-Davison out of the stores and into the smart victoria that was waiting outside.

“Tell him where to go, will you?” Mrs. Carr-Davison said as the footman arranged the heavy fur rug over their knees. And Cecil, feeling that a person who was carrying home butter, and eggs, and the soap which had been the cause of her undoing, and who had to own to living in a square with such a plebeian name, was very much out of place in a carriage and pair, gave the footman the address, and then directed him how to find the square. The carriage with its high-stepping bays created quite a sensation in the narrow streets, and Cecil wondered what the others would say if they were to come suddenly upon them.

“My dear Cecil,” Mrs. Carr-Davison said, speaking for the first time since they had turned out of Victoria Street, “is not this a—well, rather a poor neighbourhood?”

“Nance calls it horribly slummy,” Cecil replied frankly; “but Brown Square is perfectly respectable. You see,” she added, as, a moment later, the carriage turned into the square and an enormous pile of red brick faced them, “those are the flats; quite imposing, aren’t they?”

“Quite,” Mrs. Carr-Davison echoed, as she called to mind the fact that the Whittingtons lived at the very top of them, and that there was no lift.

Helen was the only one of the three younger girls who happened to be at home, and her surprise was wholly and quite evidently unmixed with pleasure when the door opened, and Mrs. Carr-Davison, looking bigger and more important than ever, was ushered in. The fire was nearly out, the room was almost in darkness, and Helen, with her feet on the fender and her hands clasped behind her head, was lying back in the big arm-chair. Her usual cold, reserved manner became a shade colder and more reserved when she recognized the visitor, and after she had risen and said “How do you do?” and invited her to sit in the arm-chair, an invitation which was gladly accepted, a short silence fell. Mrs. Carr-Davison was so much out of breath that she was absolutely incapable of saying a word; and Cecil, after she had switched on the electric light, left the room to get tea ready.

That was a duty which, on this occasion at least, Helen would willingly have undertaken; but Cecil, who felt that she had already done her share of answering questions, thought it only fair that Helen should now take her turn.

“What a terrible number of stairs!” was Mrs. Carr-Davison’s first remark as she puffed and panted for breath. “They would try my heart dreadfully if I had to come up them very often.”

Helen said nothing, but felt devoutly grateful to the Marchpoints for having chosen the top story.

“This is a very pretty little room,” Mrs. Carr-Davison pursued. She thought Helen very shy and gauche, and was desirous of putting her at her ease. On the other hand, Helen thought that Mrs. Carr-Davison wanted to patronize them, and the idea made her more angry than ever. “A very pretty little room. Are these your own things, or are you renting the flat furnished?”

“They are our own things,” Helen replied stiffly.

With a pair of long-handled eye-glasses on her nose Mrs. Carr-Davison looked about her with a slow, scrutinizing glance.

“And that china over there, is that yours too?”

“Yes.”

“Now, where did you get it? I flatter myself that I am a judge of china, and if I am not mistaken that is genuine old Chelsea. Where did you get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“It belonged to your aunt, perhaps?”

“No, it belonged to my father.”

“You should take care of it, or, better still, sell it. In my opinion it is most valuable, and should fetch a good price.”

Helen looked blankly indifferent to her opinion and made no comment upon it, and Mrs. Carr-Davison, telling herself that this sister was even more difficult to get on with than the other, was about to resume her scrutiny of the room, when a latch-key rattled noisily in the outer door and Barbara and Nance let themselves in.

They were both laughing, and Barbara was evidently teasing Nance about something, for in the midst of her laughter Nance could be heard protesting that Barbara was talking nonsense.

“What do you think, Cecil?” Barbara called out in her clear, gay voice as they caught sight of their sister, tea-pot in hand, in the kitchen. “Nance is as proud as Punch about what, do you think?”

“I can’t tell,” Cecil said, looking affectionately at them both, and, in her relief at seeing Barbara in such good spirits, quite forgetting that there was a visitor in the sitting-room and that the door was ajar.

“She is delighted because there is such a swagger carriage and pair outside our block of mansions, and she says that it will give quite a high tone to all the flats on the stairs. She is just dying of curiosity to know which floor it has come to visit, and I believe that if I hadn’t pulled her on she would have stopped at each landing to see if she could catch the aristocratic accents of its owner. But glory has its drawbacks, and she says she should not be surprised if the rents of all the flats were not raised in consequence.”

“What nonsense you do talk, Barbara!” Nance retorted; “but I must say I was surprised to see such a nice carriage here. Oh, Cecil, wouldn’t it be lovely if it turned out to belong to someone we knew, and if they would come sometimes and take us for drives in the park?”

“There you go, Nance, as usual, with your ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’. Don’t dream, but come and make some toast; I am as hungry as a hunter.” And flinging her books down upon the table, Barbara caught up a toasting-fork, and humming “if ifs and ands were pots and pans, no tinker need come for our cans”, marched into the sitting-room, before Cecil, to whom recollection had returned, could warn her that there was a visitor there.

“Why, it is Mrs. Carr-Davison!” she exclaimed in surprise; and then, realizing that she must have overheard what they were saying, she broke into another merry laugh, and turning to Nance, who was looking very shy and uncomfortable, she said, “You see the visitor was for us after all. What a good thing the Marchpoints are too far away to raise the rent of the flat!”

“You are Barbara, and this is Nance, I suppose,” Mrs. Carr-Davison said, shaking hands with them both in turn. Then she looked graciously at Nance. “And so you were wishing that the visitor might be for you. Well, you see, in this case your wish has come true, or at least part of it. The rest shall come true another day, for some fine afternoon I shall come and take you for a drive with me in the park. How would you like that?”

She glanced round on the four girls with a beaming smile, fully conscious that she was being very kind to them. On Helen’s face, at least, there was no answering smile, and she hoped that Nance would hasten to decline the offer. But Nance hastened to do nothing of the kind. On the contrary, she hastened to accept it.

“Oh, thank you so much!” she said with a shy gratitude that pleased Mrs. Carr-Davison greatly, and caused her to think that Nance was far the nicest of them all. “It would be lovely to drive in the park. It is what I have often longed to do. It is so kind of you to ask me.”

Then the tea came in, and because Mrs. Carr-Davison was so much occupied in talking to Nance, the fact that one of the girls had brought it in escaped her notice. The tea was delicious, the bread-and-butter most daintily cut, and Mrs. Carr-Davison did full justice to both. The slight headache, which she said shopping at the stores always gave her, passed away, and as she felt more rested and refreshed her amiability increased. She took no pains to disguise the fact that Nance was the one of the four girls that she liked the best. It was to her that she addressed most of her conversation during tea, and Nance answered most of her questions with a frankness that must, after the determined reserve displayed by the other two, have been most grateful to her. As her offer of a drive had been accepted with such delight, she made mention of various theatres and “at homes” to which she would take Nance, and watched the girl’s heightening colour with a pleasant sense of her own kindness. But Helen sat by with disapprobation strongly stamped upon her face, and Cecil, divided between her desire that Nance should enjoy herself, and her fear of the expenditure which these outings would entail upon the family purse, was silent also.

It was not long before Mrs. Carr-Davison, questioning Nance about her daily occupations, elicited the fact that she went to and from the academy alone, and she was horror-struck.

“Do you, her eldest sister, permit it?” she cried to Cecil.

“How is she to prevent it?” Barbara asked, interposing quickly, and speaking in somewhat combative accents. She, in common with Cecil and Helen, did not greatly care for Mrs. Carr-Davison, but she was, nevertheless, taking a mischievous pleasure in her visit. It was amusing to watch the effect of some of her patronizing remarks on them, and to note the stiff politeness with which the former answered some of her most searching questions, and the equally stiff way in which Helen pointedly ignored them. But the censure which the visitor’s voice conveyed could not be allowed to pass unnoticed.

“But surely,” Mrs. Carr-Davison continued, in a scandalized tone, “she ought not to go alone. You ought to send a servant with her.”

Nance turned suddenly crimson. She was afraid that the fact that they had no servant would now come out.

“The others go alone too,” she said, hoping to divert the conversation; “and Barbara is nearly two years younger than I am.”

“It is not a question of age,” Mrs. Carr-Davison said severely. “A school-girl can do things that a young lady must not. And I hope, Cecil, that in this you will allow me to advise you, and that in future Nance will be accompanied by a servant.”

“Which of the servants shall we send with her?” Barbara said musingly. “The housemaid is rather a flighty girl, I am afraid, and the parlour-maid is very much occupied in the morning. There remain the cook and the kitchen-maid, but—”

“Don’t be silly, Barbara,” Cecil said hastily. Then she turned to Mrs. Carr-Davison. “I am afraid,” she said, “that Nance will continue to be obliged to go about alone, for we keep no servant at all.”

“You keep no servants!”

“You keep no servants!” Mrs. Carr-Davison ejaculated, in a tone of the utmost stupefaction. “How do you manage, then?”

“As well as we can,” Cecil said, feeling sorry that she had been obliged to make the avowal. Not that she was ashamed of the fact; she was sorry because she foresaw that it opened up an endless vista of questions.

“Do you mean to say that you cannot afford to keep any?” Mrs. Carr-Davison asked in a tone which showed Cecil that she had been right in supposing that the matter would not be allowed to rest until it had been thoroughly sifted, and she was preparing herself for a long series of questions when, in the most unexpected manner possible, Helen came to the rescue. Better, she thought, let Mrs. Carr-Davison have the whole truth at once than allow it to be dragged from them bit by bit, and if it disgusted their visitor with them, she, for one, would not be at all sorry.

“No, we cannot afford to keep a servant,” she said, “so we do every bit of the work ourselves; make our beds, get our meals, sweep, and wash up. We have only just enough money to keep ourselves until our training is finished, and then we shall be entirely dependent upon what we earn. And so much the kindest thing you can do is to leave us alone, and not turn Nancy’s head by taking her for drives in the park, and to theatres, and ‘at homes’. They will only distract her attention from her work.”

For fully half a minute Mrs. Carr-Davison said nothing. Then she rose precipitately and set down her cup.

“I am sure,” she said, “that I should be the last to wish to interfere with Nance’s work, and, as I dare say that I am interrupting your studies now, I will say good-bye. I shall not, you may be confident, disturb you again.”

“Please don’t say that,” Cecil said in distress. Though she would have been pleased if Mrs. Carr-Davison had stayed away altogether, she could not allow her to think that she had been unwelcome. And she was grieved to see how Nance’s face, which a few minutes ago had been so bright and eager, had clouded over with disappointment as the prospect of the few little treats in store for her vanished. “For though Helen is right in saying that we have to work for our living, or shall have to do so some day, yet we don’t work from morning till night, and Nance has more spare time than any of us. A drive would be a great treat for her.”

To say that Mrs. Carr-Davison was frightened at the bald statement of their affairs which Helen had shot at her was no exaggeration, and it was because she was frightened that she had spoken as though she were offended. For she thought she foresaw a time, and not a very far distant time either, when their slender resources would be exhausted, and they would be left alone in London without a penny, perhaps, too, in debt. Then would she not feel herself responsible for them? They seemed to have no friends, to know nobody in the whole world but the Vickers, and what they had been about to allow four young girls to set up housekeeping alone in London she did not, she told herself irritably, know. Would it not be far wiser to wash her hands of them once and for all than to allow herself to become fond of Nance, and to find one day that the whole family were on her hands? She was a selfish woman, and just now her selfishness tore her in two ways. She had taken a strong fancy to Nance, whose gentle manner and pretty face had won her favour. She appreciated, too, the evident gratitude with which Nance had received her overtures. It would be a pleasure to take her about and show her kindness. She was a girl, too, who would do her credit, a not unimportant item. That was one side of the picture. But, on the other hand, there was the unpleasant possibility which Helen’s words had called up. How if she were to find herself saddled with the whole family? She hesitated, and while she did so a sigh, a very slight one, escaped Nance. But slight as it was, it decided Mrs. Carr-Davison. The child should not be baulked of a few pleasures because her sisters chose to be disagreeable.

“If you are sure that I shall not be hindering your studies,” she said then, for of the true motives which swayed her she was hardly herself conscious, “I will come and fetch you on Saturday about three o’clock, and we will go for a drive.”

“Oh, thank you!” Nance exclaimed, her whole face lighting up; “that will do splendidly, for Saturday is a half-holiday.”

Then Mrs. Carr-Davison prepared to take her departure; and it was Nance who helped her on with her heavy velvet mantle, found her muff and her gloves, and who was the only one of the four girls who received a parting kiss.

“You mark my words, Nance,” Barbara said, when the door had finally closed upon their visitor, “Bess’s mother-in-law will end by adopting you; and, cradled in the lap of luxury, you will drive by with your nose in the air, while your poor relations tramp it on foot.”

Nance laughed, and then, catching her round the waist, whirled her round the table until they were both out of breath.

“Oh, Cecil,” she said, “you were a brick to put in a good word for me! As for you, Helen, what possessed you to draw such a frightful picture of our domestic affairs? I wonder Mrs. Carr-Davison wasn’t scared away by it.”

“She very nearly was,” Helen said grimly, “and it would have been a good thing if she had been quite. How do you suppose you are going to work, Nance, if you take to gadding about enjoying yourself all day long?”

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” said Nance gaily. “I believe, Helen, you are actually jealous because it was I and not you who was asked.”

But that charge was not really worthy of a reply, and while the other two laughed, Helen pushed the tea-tray aside, and, bringing her portfolio to the table, began to untie its strings.

“I wonder you weren’t too proud to accept anything from her!” she said.

“You don’t think I was wrong to accept the invitation, do you, Cecil?” Nance asked rather wistfully. “And if she asks me for other things on Saturday, I may go, mayn’t I?”

“Yes, dear. You have been very good, and worked very hard all this time, and I don’t see any harm in your having a little pleasure, as long, you know, Nance, as it does not make you discontented with your own life.”

“As if it would!” Nance said, opening her eyes very wide at that. “Why, I don’t know anybody who is happier than I am.”

Helen paused in the act of selecting a pencil, and, glancing from Nance to Cecil, raised her eyebrows significantly. It was the first she had heard of Nance’s exceeding content with her lot.

“Oh, won’t it be lovely to roll along in that victoria!” she said. “By the way, I do hope she won’t fetch me in a shut-up one. That wouldn’t be half as nice. But oh, Cecil,” pausing in sudden consternation, “what shall I wear? I am really afraid that I shall have to get a new pair of gloves, for the only pair I have are very shabby, and it wouldn’t look well if I had to hide my hands under the rug, would it?”

“I can plainly see,” said Barbara, as she marched off with the tea-tray, “that from now until Saturday we shall be able to discuss nothing but this wonderful drive and what Nance is going to wear. If I were you, Nance, I should go and try on a few hats now, and study the effect.”

“It isn’t my hats that are troubling me,” said Nance. “As far as they go, Cecil could trim me up a new one by Saturday with the greatest ease, but, unfortunately, she can’t make gloves.”

Nevertheless she took Barbara’s advice seriously, and, going into her bedroom, proceeded to try on her different hats. She had quite an array of them, and the one that suited her best was undoubtedly the one that Cecil had prevented her from wearing on her first appearance at the academy. The feathers were very good, and though the chip was rather rusty, a little brushing might set that to rights; and when the knot of gray-blue ribbon had been taken out and some chiffon or tulle substituted, there would be no fault to find with the hat.

While Nance was passing her hats under review, and Barbara was washing up in the kitchen, Cecil and Helen were engaged in a somewhat serious conversation in the sitting-room. For as soon as the two younger girls had left the room Helen had laid down her pencil, and, breaking in upon Cecil’s rather anxious reflections as to whether she could spare Nance half-a-crown for a pair of gloves, announced that she wanted two guineas.

“Two guineas!” Cecil repeated. “What do you want it for?”

“Not to frivol away, you may be sure,” Helen replied. “I heard to-day of a designing class that is held three evenings a week over the Bridge somewhere, and I want to join it.”

“But surely,” Cecil objected, “you are doing as much work as you can already. You will find it dreadfully tiring to go out in the evenings as well.”

“I should soon get used to that,” Helen replied rather impatiently. The question of fatigue was not worth consideration.

“And then,” Cecil continued, “if it is a night-class you won’t find it very pleasant to go alone, will you?”

“Really, Cecil, I wonder you don’t say next that Mrs. Carr-Davison would object,” Helen replied. “But I am not going alone. A girl, whose people will not allow her to go alone, has asked me if she may come and call for me; so that will be all right. Any more objections?”

“Only one,” Cecil said hesitatingly. “The money, you know, Helen.”

Helen frowned. “Two guineas is absurdly little for all the teaching I shall get. Three evenings a week for twelve weeks. You can join any time you like, and so this two guineas will take me on to the middle of next term. You really must let me have the money, Cecil. Surely we are not so desperately hard up that we cannot afford it. And if it comes to that, you know I have a right to ask for it, for my fees come to less than either Nance’s or Barbara’s, don’t they?”

“They do,” Cecil admitted. But a little pucker of displeasure appeared for a moment between her eyebrows. Neither Nance nor Barbara would have made a remark of that sort.

“Well, then, that is settled,” Helen said, “for it stands to reason that if a certain sum can be afforded for them the same ought to be paid for me. I shall begin to-morrow night.”

“What are you going to begin to-morrow night?” Barbara said, entering the room at that moment with her books and drawing up a chair to the table. She shook her head wisely when Helen, who was in a good humour at having carried her point with less opposition than she had expected, condescended to explain.

“Don’t you do any such thing, my dear Helen,” she said. “It is a fatal mistake to overwork, you only end by a general muddle. Take my advice and stick to your art school, and don’t try to get on too fast. I speak from experience.”

Then, as both Helen and Cecil looked at her in surprise, she gave them a short account of all that had befallen her that day, and of the determination to which she had been brought not to do more than a stated number of hours’ work in the day. She kept nothing back, not even the letter or the report, but gave them to both of her sisters to read.

“Pretty bad, aren’t they?” she said, with a slight grimace; “so bad that I don’t think that I should have shown them to you, Helen, at all events, if I had not wanted my sad fate to be a warning to you.”

“You are very kind,” Helen said, “but I think I know what I am about. I have no intention of being as foolish as you have been. You evidently neglected your school-work in order to attempt work that was miles beyond you. Now, I happen to know that of the two, my work at the art school is by far the more important. I am learning to draw there. But then as I know that I shall never be an artist in the true sense of the word, I want to be put into the way of becoming what I want to be, an illustrator of books and a designer of wall-papers, and things like that. This school will teach me that.”

When Helen spoke about her intentions her sisters always listened respectfully. There was an air of earnestness and settled purpose about her which invariably convinced them that she knew what she was talking about, and would make no mistakes.

The rest of the evening passed in the usual way. Helen drew things out of her head, Cecil trimmed hats, Barbara learnt her lessons, and Nance, who strolled into the room half an hour later with ruffled hair and a conscious look in her eyes, got out her harmony books, dreamed many dreams, and did a little harmony.

In spite of the fact that the month was November, and the place London, the following Saturday was a beautiful day, and Nance came home from the academy in high spirits. For the eagerly-anticipated afternoon had arrived, and at three o’clock Mrs. Carr-Davison was to fetch her for a drive. She and Cecil were to have dinner alone together, for Helen was spending her holiday sketching in St. Paul’s, and Barbara was playing hockey. Afterwards Cecil was to do her hair, and help her to dress; and then she had promised to go into the park, and, indulging in the luxury of a penny chair, keep a look-out for Nance, bow to her as she drove past, and tell her afterwards exactly how she looked. As Nance ran with a light step up the many flights of stairs, she fully expected that Cecil would have arrived before her, and that dinner would be nearly ready. But the first thing she saw on entering the sitting-room was a note addressed to her in Cecil’s handwriting, and, tearing it open with a sense of coming disappointment, she read the few hastily-scribbled lines.

Nance’s face fell considerably as she read these lines. It would not be half so much fun getting ready alone; and then, too, there would be no one to tell her how she looked. It really was abominably selfish of Madame Marcelline to keep poor Cecil there on a Saturday afternoon. But as grumbling would not bring Cecil back any sooner, she took off her things and began to get her dinner ready. First of all, however, she opened her music-case, and taking out a big bunch of violets put them in a glass of water. She had paid twopence for them, and she felt glad that Helen was not at home to lecture her upon her extravagance. It did not take her long to prepare and eat her dinner, and then, leaving the kitchen table littered with plates and dishes, she went into her bedroom and began the serious work of dressing. If she had been going to a drawing-room or to her first ball she could not have bestowed more pains upon her appearance. She did her hair in the latest fashion, took especial pains with her fringe, and then put on the black serge coat and skirt, which was her best and also her everyday attire. When she had got thus far in her preparations, she stopped and surveyed herself with a very discontented expression.

“A coat and skirt is such a painfully ordinary get-up!” she murmured. “Everybody and anybody wears a coat and skirt. How I wish I had a fur-lined cape and a smart blouse. This is so awfully shabby!”

She gazed at herself from every point of view, and the longer she looked the more discontented she became. The cuffs of the coat were becoming threadbare, the skirt did not hang properly, and anybody could tell that it was not lined with silk. What an appallingly poor figure she would cut in that luxurious carriage beside Mrs. Carr-Davison, in her velvet and rich furs! Oh, why had she accepted the invitation? But it was too late to think of that now, and she sought comfort in her hat. Cecil had retrimmed it entirely the preceding evening, and even Helen had glanced up from her eternal pen-and-ink work and said that she looked very nice in it. But that had been under the kindly gleam of the shaded electric light. Now in the cold daylight it seemed to her critical eyes to look nothing short of horrible. The straw, in spite of the care with which it had been brushed and touched up with a little pot of black dye bought for the purpose, looked brown and rusty, and the feathers, well, the feathers were certainly good ones, but they stood in sad need of re-curling. She had thought so at the time, but Cecil had said that they would do very well. And chiffon would have looked ever so much better than black net. Cecil had agreed with her there, but had added that chiffon was too expensive a material for them to indulge in.

As she pushed in the long pins, Nance wondered how she could ever have looked forward to the drive. She was positively dreading it now, and told herself that if Mrs. Carr-Davison were to send a message saying that she could not come it would be hailed with delight. A sable collar with a bow of lace dangling from it completed her costume, and when she had fastened her bunch of violets into the strong jaws of the little animal, she was ready. A glance at the clock told her that it was too early yet to put on her gloves, and so to while away the half-hour that must elapse before the carriage could possibly come for her, she sat down at the piano and began to sing snatches of songs. But after ten minutes had passed in that manner she became too excited to sit still, and, jumping up, she roamed restlessly from one room to another. Her own room she had left in a dreadfully disorderly condition, and fear of Helen’s just wrath caused her to perform a little hasty tidying. The kitchen, too, looked anything but neat, but it was too late to do any washing up; besides, she knew that Cecil would make allowance for her, and, would put things straight without a murmur when she returned.

She had the grace, however, to feel rather ashamed of herself, and it was not until she had resolved, in case she was back first, to do the washing-up herself, that her self-respect was restored. Then, still in the same restless way, she wandered into Cecil’s bedroom, and seeing something lying on her bed covered up with tissue-paper, she removed the paper, and stood lost in admiration before a hat that lay underneath.

She thought it was quite the smartest hat she had ever seen. The straw was a pale heliotrope, and the trimming, which was also of heliotrope, was in two shades of chiffon, while a bow of darkest purple velvet was set under the brim at the back. Bunches of lifelike violets made of velvet and silk were scattered over the whole. Nance’s admiration was tinged with a very distinct feeling of envy. Now, this was a hat worth wearing! She took it up gingerly, and holding it on a level with her own hat surveyed them both in the glass. How dowdy her big black hat, unrelieved by any touch of colour, looked! How heavy and sombre! And how pretty the heliotrope looked against her hair! Heliotrope, without doubt, was her colour.

At that moment the church clock in the square chimed the three-quarters. She still had a quarter of an hour, then. It would pass quicker, she thought, if she were to amuse herself by trying on that hat. She would not hurt it, and she was curious to find out if it would suit her as well as she thought it would. To take off her own hat, with its big nodding plumes, was the work of a moment only; to put on the other did not take her longer, and then, running to the glass, she surveyed her reflection with pride and pleasure. The hat was not only pretty, it was in the latest fashion, and it suited her admirably. And, gorgeous though it undoubtedly was, it did not make the rest of her costume appear shabby. On the contrary, it relieved the sombre black of her despised coat and skirt, and threw into prominence the pretty fair tint of her hair.

“Oh, dear!” she sighed, as she took up the hand-glass and swung herself slowly round on her heel. “What a different person this makes me look! It somehow relieves my whole get-up. What a pity I can’t wear it!”

She sighed again, and then the thought suddenly flashed into her mind that she would not be doing anybody any harm if she did wear the hat. It was a fine, still afternoon, no damage could possibly be done to it. The pins could be inserted in such a way that they would not make the very smallest holes in the straw. Just to prove to herself that that was the case, Nance fastened the hat on properly, and was more than ever pleased with the result. It was curious that a mere hat should work such a change in her appearance. In her own eyes she now looked as smart and fashionable as she had before looked dowdy and countrified. She wondered why Cecil had not shown her this hat, for, of course, it was one that she had trimmed herself. As a rule she tried most of her hats on Nance, who, she said, made a very good model. Once she had placed a small toque on Nance’s head, who, forgetting that it was there, had sat down to the piano and practised for an hour or more with it perched lightly upon her hair. And Cecil had laughed at her absent-mindedness. So why should she not wear this one this afternoon? If it had been no harm to wear that toque for an hour, it could surely be no harm to wear this hat for two. Besides, if, though that was not in the least likely, it should by any chance lose a little of its freshness, a few touches of Cecil’s skilful fingers could easily put it to rights again, and make it as good as ever.

So, with a conscience that was perfectly at rest, Nance tilted the hat to its most becoming angle, and then began to put on her gloves. Just as she was buttoning the last button the bell rang, and she opened the door and found Mrs. Carr-Davison’s smart footman outside. He touched his hat respectfully and followed her downstairs.

“You see, my dear Nance,” Mrs. Carr-Davison said complacently, as Nance took her place beside her and they drove away, “I do not forget my promise.” She spoke complacently, as though she was gratified to find what a good memory she had. “How nice you look, my dear! That is a very pretty hat.”

Nance’s face glowed with pleasure. What a lucky chance it was that had taken her into Cecil’s room almost at the last moment! She leant back against the soft, springy cushions and prepared to enjoy herself.

And she did enjoy herself. The swift, smooth motion through the crisp, November air was in itself a pleasure, and when to that was added the delight of watching the occupants of the other smart carriages who were taking an airing in the park, her cup of happiness was full.

Mrs. Carr-Davison was very kind; and even though Nance’s answers to some of her remarks were very vague, she forgave her, and smiled to see how the girl was enjoying herself.

“It must be lovely to be rich,” Nance said once, turning to her companion with wistful eyes, “and drive here every day! If this carriage were mine, I should never, never do anything else but drive here all day long.”

Mrs. Carr-Davison laughed outright. “You would soon tire of the amusement at that rate,” she said.

“But do you ever get tired of it, then?” Nance asked in astonishment.

“Well, you see, I am not in London all the year round. I spend at least three months at Isleworth. My son Bertram hates the place, and the management of it is still practically in my hands. And then I go abroad every year.”

“What a lovely life yours must be!” Nance said wistfully.

But to that Mrs. Carr-Davison made no reply. If the truth were known, she did not consider herself a particularly happy woman. The mention of her son Bertram’s name had been alone sufficient to bring a cloud to her face, and some minutes passed before she spoke again. She deserved more credit than at first sight appeared for having remembered her promise to Nance, for she had been very much worried by a letter which the morning’s post had brought her. It had been written by her son, and announced his immediate departure for Brazil. There was no reason why he should go to Brazil; in fact, as his mother sometimes told him irritably, there was no especial reason in anything he did. She wanted him to marry a rich wife, though he had plenty of money of his own, and to go into Parliament. But he preferred an idle, irresponsible existence, had no ambition whatever, and merely wished to get through life with as little trouble to himself as possible. So in two days’ time he was off to Brazil, and he might be away a few months, or, on the other hand, years might elapse before his return. And in the meanwhile Mrs. Carr-Davison told herself she might just as well have no sons at all. But Nance, little guessing the thoughts to which her innocent remark had given rise, gazed about her, and with a thrill of pride noticed that there was not a smarter hat than her own in the park.

It was ridiculous, of course, to suppose that, handsome though her hat was, it should attract any particular attention; otherwise Nance would have been led to believe that a lady, who was driving alone in a big landau, had been very much struck with it. When they met her for the first time she glanced at Mrs. Carr-Davison, bowed slightly, and was turning away her head, when, for the brief moment during which the two carriages were abreast, her eyes suddenly became riveted either upon Nance or upon her hat—the latter could not tell which.

“Who was that lady?” Nance asked when they had passed on.

“What lady?” Mrs. Carr-Davison asked, rousing herself from her fit of abstraction.

“The tall, dark lady who passed us a few seconds ago. She was in an open carriage, with dark-brown horses with light harness. She bowed to you and then stared at me.”

“Bowed to me,” Mrs. Carr-Davison repeated in shocked accents, “and I never returned it? This will never do. I wonder how many other people I have unintentionally cut!”

Nance was rather amused at the energy with which she spoke; but from that moment she sat upright, returned the bows of her friends and acquaintances, told Nance who they were, and pointed out any notabilities whom they met. Presently in the distance Nance caught a glimpse of the carriage with the dark-brown horses and light harness coming towards them again, and she drew Mrs. Carr-Davison’s attention to it.

“Here comes the dark lady again,” she said. “Do look and tell me who she is.”

Mrs. Carr-Davison looked and bowed, but this time it was her bow that was not returned, for the lady who was sitting alone in the carriage looked past her to Nance, and, as long as she could do so without turning her head, fixed her eyes on the heliotrope hat. The intentness of her gaze did not escape Mrs. Carr-Davison’s observation.

“My dear Nance,” she said, “you may feel very flattered. Lady Knelworth was very much struck with your hat.”

Nance blushed and looked pleased.

“Was that Lady Knelworth?” she said. “I seem to have heard her name before.”

“No doubt; she is the great milliner. Her shop in Regent Street is the smartest and the most ruinous in town. Her prices are perfectly monstrous. Eh, what did you say?”

“Nothing,” Nance replied, suppressing by an immense effort all outward signs of the overwhelming consternation with which Mrs. Carr-Davison’s words had filled her.

Madame Marcelline—Lady Knelworth—had seen and recognized her hat! No wonder she had been struck with it! Probably it was one that she herself had designed and trimmed, and of course therefore she would know it among a hundred others. Oh, why had Cecil left it in such a prominent position on her bed? Why had she not warned her not to wear it? Oh, what an idiot she had been! Why had it not occurred to her that Madame Marcelline might be driving in the park?

In vain Nance asked herself these and many other questions of a like nature. She could find satisfactory answers to none of them. Her pleasure was spoilt, and though Mrs. Carr-Davison was relating to her as much of Lady Knelworth’s history as common report had told her, she did not hear one word. What Lady Knelworth had been and was did not interest her in the least. It was the thought of what she would do and say that occupied her mind. She hoped from the bottom of her heart that they would not meet her again. If they did, Nance felt she must either sink through the floor of the carriage with shame, or else dive under the fur rug. And oh, supposing Lady Knelworth should stop them and ask her point-blank where she got her hat!

Suppose she should denounce her as a thief! Suppose she should insist upon the hat being given up there and then! Never in all her life had Nance passed such a miserable quarter of an hour, and bitterly did she then repent the vanity which had led her into such an uncomfortable predicament. Could that gay, stylish erection which, light though it was, seemed now to press upon her brows like a leaden weight, have been exchanged for the shabbiest and most disreputable garden hat that had ever hung up in the hall at Greenfields, she would have welcomed the metamorphosis with joy. But nothing of the sort happened. The heliotrope hat retained its smartness, the bows stood erect, and Mrs. Carr-Davison, glancing at it as she brought Lady Knelworth’s history up to date, remarked that it was no wonder that it had attracted the attention of the aristocratic milliner, for no hat out of her own establishment could have looked better.

“I wonder,” she said then, “if you would be very disappointed if we did not take another turn. I am feeling rather tired, and should be glad to go home.”

“Oh no, no!” Nance cried eagerly, “I should not be a bit disappointed. I think we have been here quite long enough.”

“You are a good girl,” Mrs. Carr-Davison said, as she gave the order for home. “I will take you as far as Victoria Station and drop you there. I am going out to dinner, or else I would take you back with me for tea. But I must lie down directly I get in or I shall not be fit for anything this evening. Another day we will finish off our drive by having tea in Bond Street.”

Nance tried to express her gratitude in suitable terms, but what with her relief at leaving the park and her terror of meeting Madame Marcelline on the way home, she had not a very clear idea of what she was saying.

Not until she was out of the carriage and walking along the back streets to Brown Square did she feel safe, and even then she could not escape from her thoughts, and she wondered what Cecil would say when she heard of what had happened. Once the temptation not to tell her anything about it passed through her mind. If she should be in first, she could hastily restore the hat to its place under the tissue-paper and keep her own counsel. And then, if Madame Marcelline should have forgotten the incident by Monday, all would be well, and she would take the lesson to heart and never, never again wear things that did not belong to her.

With a sigh, however, she acknowledged to herself that there was very little hope of her getting off so easily. To begin with, she could not be so mean as to keep Cecil in ignorance of what she had done. Indeed, confession would be a relief, and even though Cecil scolded her severely she would take it meekly, for she knew she richly deserved to be blamed. Curiously enough, the thought of what Madame Marcelline would say to Cecil did not enter her head. There was no one in when she got back, and her very first act after admitting herself was to hurry to Cecil’s room, and, without even so much as looking at herself in the glass, to take off her hat and put it where she had found it. And how heartily she wished that she had never taken it away from there she alone knew.

Half an hour later Cecil came in, and Nance, who in her contrite state of mind had been only too glad to find some disagreeable work to do, and who had spent the intervening time in putting the kitchen to rights, rushed out into the passage directly she heard the rattle of the latch-key, and prepared to confess her misdeed.

But before she could utter one word Cecil, who was looking very troubled, said in a reproachful tone:

“Oh, Nance, how could you, could you do such a thing as to wear that hat?”

“Then you know!” Nance cried. “Did Madame Marcelline tell you?”

“I was in the park and saw everything. Oh, Nance, what possessed you to do such a downright dishonest thing?”

“My wretched vanity, I suppose,” Nance said penitently. “But it has been a lesson to me; I will never, never do such a thing again.”

“Indeed, I don’t suppose you will get the chance,” Cecil said, walking past her into her bedroom and speaking in a short, vexed tone.

As she had thought likely, Nance hardly realized the exceedingly serious consequences that her conduct would probably entail. By a curious chance Cecil had been standing near the railing exactly opposite the spot where the two carriages had passed each other, and hardly had she with a thrill of incredulous dismay recognized the hat which Nance was wearing, than she caught the prolonged stare of puzzled recognition which Madame Marcelline was also directing towards it.

Now, if Nance had tried, she could hardly have selected a hat which it was more important that she should not wear.

It had been intended for the head of no less a person than that of a Royal Duchess, and had been made according to her own directions. The velvet violets had come from Paris, the delicately-shaded straw had been especially manufactured, and the whole had been entrusted to Cecil in order that she might make an exact copy of it for the wife of a Chicago millionaire.

But when Cecil, in a voice that was calm almost to despair, explained this to Nance, she did not appear even then to take in the seriousness of the situation.

“I didn’t know that milliners ever made two hats alike,” she observed.

“What does it matter if they make ten or twenty alike?” Cecil said with a feeling akin to exasperation; “that is not the point just now. The point is that you have worn a hat that was intended for a duchess, and that I shall probably lose my situation.”

“Oh no, not really, you don’t think that!” Nance said, collapsing on to Barbara’s bed and staring in a frightened way at Cecil. “Why should you? At the worst you will only have to make another hat, and you can easily do that. Besides, if it comes to that, I have not done the old hat the least bit of harm. It is as good as ever it was; just look at it, Cecil.”

“I dare say it may be,” Cecil replied, “but that is not the point. The point is that the hat has been worn, and is therefore no longer perfectly new. It is such a striking-looking affair that a dozen people at least must have observed it, and this duchess would certainly hear that Madame Marcelline had palmed off on her a hat whose duplicate had already been seen about town.”

“Then, what do you think will happen?” Nance said in a tone which was now as full of a fitting consternation as Cecil could desire.

“I shall be dismissed with or without notice, probably without, and have to pay for the hat,” was Cecil’s gloomy reply.

“Oh, do you think it will be as bad as that?” Nance cried out. “Surely not, Cecil! Madame Marcelline won’t get anyone who is as clever as you are in a hurry, nor anyone who is as content with low wages.”

“Oh yes, she will!” Cecil answered wearily. “I have been long enough in London to know that there are a great many more girls anxious to find places than there are places to be found. My place would be easily filled to-morrow by someone who would be willing to accept half my pay.”

“You could find another place,” Nance said; “you got that one so easily.”

“The mention of Miss Marchpoint’s name got it for me,” Cecil said. “Lady Knelworth likes to stand well with her and her brother, I have been told. For, should anything happen to their little boy, Mr. Marchpoint would inherit the title and the property. No, there is no use in disguising the fact that I should have hard work to find another place like it.”

“And it is I who have lost it for you!” Nance cried out, looking very woebegone. “Oh, how I wish that I had never gone for that horrible, horrible drive, or seen that detestably hideous hat!”

“I don’t suppose you enjoyed the drive much,” Cecil said. “You must have had a dreadfully guilty conscience all the time.”

“Well, not quite all the time,” Nance confessed; “in fact, I did not begin to get uncomfortable until I was found out. But then I was miserable.”

“I do wonder how you could have brought yourself to do such a thing,” Cecil exclaimed. “It seems to me a positively dishonest thing to do. Even though Madame Marcelline had not seen you, I should have felt it my duty to have told her what you had done.”

“I didn’t think it would be any harm,” Nance was beginning in self-defence, “and I don’t see it now. Yes, I do, though,” she added suddenly. “Right down at the bottom of my heart I knew I was doing a mean, dishonourable thing. But my hat seemed so dowdy, and that one looked so lovely, that I really could not help myself. I don’t think it pretty now,” she said, darting a look of positive hatred at it, “it is a perfectly hideous thing. Oh, Cecil, I am sorry! I will never, never do such a thing again!”

“I don’t think you will get the opportunity,” Cecil said ruefully. “Madame Marcelline is perfectly certain to dismiss me on Monday, and, to tell you the truth, the money that she gives me comes in most usefully.”

“I don’t see why you should be earning money if the rest of us are not,” Nance said; “it is not one bit fair on you. Don’t you do it, Cecil; we shall get along all right somehow. We must only be a little bit more economical, that is all. One thing I am determined about, and that is, that I won’t accept any more invitations from Mrs. Carr-Davison. Even this drive cost something, you know. Half-a-crown for a pair of gloves, sixpence for that little bottle of dye, a shilling for tulle, and twopence for a bunch of violets. That makes four-and-twopence altogether. It was rather too much, Cecil, wasn’t it?”

“For people who are trying to live on a pound a week it was,” Cecil answered candidly. “But if that were all that that drive would cost us I should not mind, but the exact cost of it I shall not know until Monday morning.”

“Must you tell the others about it?” Nance asked apprehensively. “I should hate Helen to know. She would say that my vanity had interfered with her prospects.”

For the first time since she had seen that hat perched at its most becoming angle on Nance’s head, Cecil smiled. Comical though it seemed, that was exactly what Helen would say.

“No,” she said, after a moment’s consideration, “there is no need to tell them anything about it to-day, at all events. We will keep our own counsel until Monday.”

A little later Barbara and Helen came home, and both were very well pleased with the respective ways in which they had spent their afternoons, and the former at all events was eager to tell of her doings.

“We were playing the second eleven of a school at Dulwich,” she said, as they gathered round the tea-table, “and we won. Four goals to two, and I shot two of ours. Wasn’t that splendid? And oh, Cecil, Catherine—that is the captain, you know—says that I must have the club colours for the next match. It is one of the rules that we must wear them when we are playing in matches. I rather spoilt the look of the eleven in these things, and she was rather cross about it. I must have a bright-red shirt, a white silk tie, and a red cricket-cap sort of thing with a monogram worked in white. And then, Cecil, I shall want a hockey-stick and a pair of shin-guards. I expect the whole thing, tie and shirt and all, will come to about fifteen or sixteen shillings. That isn’t too much, is it?”

“I will tell you on Monday,” Cecil replied. “I should be very, very sorry to be obliged to refuse you the money, Barbara, but I can’t tell you till then exactly how we stand.”

“Monday will do very well,” Barbara said carelessly, not observing how Nance’s cheeks suddenly crimsoned, “for we couldn’t buy the shirt or the hockey-stick to-day anyhow.”

Sunday was always a pleasant day to the four girls. To begin with, they had breakfast a full hour later, and instead of swallowing it hastily, as they were obliged to do on week-days, it was their custom to linger over it and discuss what they should do during the day. As a rule, they attended the morning service at the Abbey, and after dinner two or three, or sometimes all of them, would go for a walk together. If it was fine they would go as far as Hampstead Heath, or penetrate into out-of-the-way places in the city, or else go into one of the parks or along the embankments. If it was wet they either stayed at home and read over the fire, or made their way to the British Museum or to the National Gallery. Then in the evening they went again to the Abbey, and so to bed, feeling rested and ready to begin work again on the morrow. But neither Cecil nor Nance enjoyed the Sunday that followed that memorable drive. The former felt ill at ease and extremely anxious as to the result of the interview that certainly awaited her with Madame Marcelline on the morrow, and Nance, though she did not realize as well as Cecil on what a thread their fortunes hung, divined the anxiety that possessed her sister, and was made uncomfortable by it.

It was with a mind fully prepared to learn the worst that Cecil walked into the white-and-gold decorated shop at eleven o’clock the next morning. A messenger had called about nine for the box, and Cecil, with a feeling that she was doing so for the last time, had packed up the two hats, the model and its copy, at which she had worked hard until late on Saturday evening, and again early that morning.

Miss Pinney was in the shop arranging a few hats on the stands when Cecil entered, and her good-morning, which was given in a low, hurried tone that was almost a whisper, and accompanied by a pitying glance, told Cecil that Madame Marcelline was there before her, and that the tale of the hat had already been told to Miss Pinney.

“Good-morning, Miss Pinney!” Cecil replied in a clear, distinct voice. Knowing that Madame Marcelline was seated within the alcove, she wished her to know in her turn that her assistant had arrived.

There was a rustle of silk behind the yellow curtains, followed by the sharp closing of a book, and Madame Marcelline’s voice said:

“Is that you, Miss Whittington? If so, will you kindly come here?”

And Cecil, followed by another commiserating glance from Miss Pinney, complied with the request.

Perhaps she should have waited to be questioned, but, convinced as she was that Madame Marcelline had sent for her for no other purpose than to speak about the hat, she opened the subject herself, and began at once to express the great regret she felt that her sister should have taken such a liberty with her employer’s property.

“Then you knew that I knew!” Madame Marcelline exclaimed. She had listened to Cecil’s hurried words with an expression of surprise on her face.

“I was in the park and saw you drive past,” Cecil answered.

“And so, knowing that I was aware of the circumstance, you were of the opinion that concealment or denial were useless, and therefore you have made a virtue of necessity and been quite frank about the matter.”

Cecil’s face flushed slightly. “I should have told you in any case,” she said, looking straight at Madame Marcelline as she spoke.

But to that assertion she made no answer, and Cecil could not tell whether she believed it or not.

Certainly such a frank acknowledgment was the last thing Madame Marcelline had expected. She had even thought it probable that Cecil would attempt denial, especially as the hat, and this was a fact of which Madame Marcelline had assured herself, showed no signs whatever of having been worn.

“I am really at a loss for words in which to express my exceeding displeasure,” Madame Marcelline continued, speaking, however, with no lack of fluency and in a very angry tone. “It was an act of unheard-of presumption and impertinence on your sister’s part. How often, may I ask, has this occurred before? Do you and your sisters make a regular practice of wearing every one of the hats and bonnets entrusted to your care?”

“This is the only time that it has happened,” Cecil said with another flush, for Madame Marcelline’s tone was even more disagreeable than her words. “My sister is very young,” she added, “and I think she hardly realized the wrong she was doing.”

“She seemed to be quite old enough to know the difference between what belongs to her and what does not,” Madame Marcelline retorted with asperity. “She wore it, then, without your consent?”

“Yes,” said Cecil. She was reluctant to clear herself at Nance’s expense, but to take Nance’s blame on her own shoulders would not do Nance any good, and would do her a great deal of harm. “I was out when she started for the park, and knew nothing of it until I saw her drive past. It was done on the impulse of the moment,” she added. “She tried it on before the glass first of all, saw how well it suited her, and then could not resist wearing it.”

“It does not matter to me whether it was done on the impulse of the moment or not,” Madame Marcelline interrupted impatiently; “it was done, and that is sufficient. My time and labour have been completely thrown away. I cannot possibly sell it as it is, and it was a design that was especially suited to the duchess. By the way, how do you come to know Mrs. Carr-Davison?”

“She is the mother-in-law of one of my sisters,” Cecil answered, feeling considerably surprised at the abruptness of the question.

“Indeed!” Madame Marcelline said, surprised in her turn. “Does she know that you work for me?”

“I don’t know, I have not told her so.”

“Tell her, then, and bring her here to buy a bonnet,” said Madame Marcelline, who never lost a chance of securing a new customer.

Cecil’s heart gave a joyful leap. She was not, then, to be dismissed! But neither was she to be let off altogether scot-free.

“I intend this to be a lesson to you,” Madame Marcelline resumed in a severe tone. “The model being now quite useless to me, must be bought by you, and at sale price. That is five guineas!”

Cecil bent her head. That unlucky drive was indeed to cost them dear. Five guineas meant five weeks’ salary and more. But, after all, that was infinitely better than a summary dismissal. She would present the hat to Nance, who would, doubtless, succeed in overcoming the dislike she now felt for it. But she was going too fast. The design of the hat, the model as it were, and the hat itself, were two distinct things. She had merely bought the design; the actual hat, represented by the straw and the trimming, remained in Madame Marcelline’s possession. This she gathered from Madame Marcelline’s next words.

“I shall have to think out a fresh design,” she said, “for I certainly could not reconcile it with my conscience to sell it to the duchess as it is.”

With a wave of her hand she dismissed Cecil and fell into serious thought, the outcome of which was that two violets exchanged places, and the ends of a bow of ribbon were shortened, after which the model which Cecil had bought was considered no longer to exist. And in due course the model, which this time included the hat, was despatched to the duchess, who expressed herself much pleased with it. And in due course, also, the second hat—the copy which Cecil had made, and which had been ordered by the wife of a Chicago millionaire—accompanied its owner to her native city, where, in happy ignorance of the vital differences that really existed between them, she was wont to boast that her hat was an exact image of one worn by a Royal Duchess.

“You have been let off a great deal more easily than I dared hope you would be,” Miss Pinney said, when Madame Marcelline, after having issued various directions, had driven away. “She fully intended at first to dismiss you from her employment. She has been here since ten o’clock this morning, and I think if you had not confessed so openly you would have been sent away.”

“I don’t think that had much to do with it,” Cecil answered. “She believes that I merely made a virtue of necessity, and confessed because I could not help myself.”

Miss Pinney shook her head, and then, seeing that Cecil looked very much depressed at the thought of Madame Marcelline’s want of confidence in her, she added: “Lady Knelworth knows well enough when people are speaking the truth, and if she had not known that you were speaking the truth she would not have retained you in her employment. Indeed, she could not have done so, for unless she could repose thorough confidence in both of us, she would be in a constant state of uneasiness.”

These timely words restored Cecil’s self-respect, which had been somewhat rudely shaken by Madame Marcelline’s manner. But, as a matter of fact, the latter set a higher value upon Cecil’s services than their owner believed possible. Not only was Cecil a lady, which both for her own sake and for Miss Pinney’s was no unimportant detail, but her fingers were as skilful as those of a trained milliner, her taste was unerring, and she was satisfied with a modest salary. The only qualification which in Madame Marcelline’s estimation she lacked, was a certain daring originality, without which it was difficult to hit the public fancy. However, as Madame Marcelline herself supplied that, she was not on the whole ill pleased that her assistant should be without it.

“Which of your sisters was it that brought this trouble upon you?” Miss Pinney asked presently, when she and Cecil were seated in the alcove making butterflies out of a piece of costly lace. Cecil often talked to Miss Pinney about her sisters, and Miss Pinney took a real interest in hearing about them; and though she gave no confidence in return, she and Cecil had become great friends, and the latter often felt sorry for the little prim, reserved old maid, who, as far as Cecil could make out, had no relations in the whole world, and no friend except Lady Knelworth, who was more patron than friend.

“It was Nance, the musical one,” Cecil answered. “I don’t think it would have entered into the heads of either of the other two to think of doing such a thing.”

“You are fortunate in having so many sisters,” Miss Pinney said rather absently, and a slight sigh, which, according to a curious habit she had, she turned into a short, dry cough, escaped her. “You would be very lonely without them.”

“I should, indeed,” Cecil cried warmly. “Oh, I don’t think I could live by myself, it would be too dreadful! Did you ever have a sister, Miss Pinney?” she added.

The question escaped her almost before she knew what she was saying, and when it was too late she would have given a great deal to recall it. Miss Pinney, however, replied to it quite calmly.

“Yes, I had a sister once; but that,” she added, “was long ago. I have no sister now.”

Then, while Cecil was still regretting her impulsively-put question, Miss Pinney let the lace butterfly drop on to her lap, and, covering her face with her thin needle-pricked fingers, cried silently.

“Oh,” Cecil cried, springing to her feet in great distress, “what have I said! Oh, Miss Pinney, forgive me! I never intended to hurt you.”

“And, my dear, you have not,” Miss Pinney said; but nevertheless she continued to cry, and Cecil, filled with unavailing self-reproach, brought her a glass of water and persuaded her to drink a little of it. The water did Miss Pinney good, and helped her to regain her self-control. She dried her eyes and sat up, looking very much ashamed of herself. She even tried to resume her work, but a great tear which rolled down her cheek and fell between the wings of the butterfly, caused her to lay it aside in alarm lest the delicate lace should be spoiled by the salt drops.

“That is better,” Cecil said, pushing the butterfly still farther away. “You must not attempt to work again so soon. I am going to make you some tea. There is nothing like it when one feels thoroughly upset.”

“Tea at twelve o’clock in the morning!” Miss Pinney said tremulously. “Oh, my dear, I could not think of such a thing!”

“But I could,” Cecil said, busying herself with the spirit-stove. “Washerwomen drink tea all day long, you know, and we will be just a couple of old washerwomen for a little while. When Nance has a headache I always give her tea, and Barbara likes it too. Helen is the only one of us that refuses it with scorn, except at regular times. She says it ruins the digestion.”

Cecil chattered away, not caring much what she said as long as she diverted Miss Pinney’s thoughts and gave her time to compose herself; and the device succeeded, for when, eight or ten minutes later, she came forward with a pretty little tray, on which tea was set out for two, Miss Pinney looked almost her ordinary self again—almost, but not quite. There was a flush on her cheek, and a wistful far-away look in her eyes which spoke of suppressed excitement, caused by the unexpected bringing to light of thoughts that had long lain hidden; and when she had drunk her first cup of tea, and Cecil, in spite of a faintly-uttered protest, was filling it again, she said suddenly:

“My dear, I should like to tell you about my sister.”

Cecil was so startled that she very nearly dropped the tea-pot. All this time she had been striving to lead Miss Pinney’s thoughts away from what she now knew to be a painful topic, and it was therefore somewhat of an unpleasant shock to discover with what small success her efforts had been attended.

But, knowing that it would be a relief to Miss Pinney to break for once through her habitual reserve, she set down the tea-pot, and with a nod of sympathy prepared to listen.

“I had a sister once,” Miss Pinney said, “and she was quite as dear to me as your sisters are to you. She and I and my mother were left very badly off after my father’s death. He was a country doctor, and though his practice was a large one it lay chiefly among a poor class of patients, and brought him in very little money. After his death it ought, I know now, to have been sold, but at that time we were very ignorant of business matters. No one came forward to buy it, and his patients went, some to one doctor some to another, and the practice became gradually merged in theirs and lost.

“We moved away to another town and a cheaper house, and my sister and I eked out a scanty living by teaching. We might have been happy in spite of our poverty had it not been for my mother’s ill-health and my sister’s discontent. Emily was a very handsome girl, fond of society and pleasure; and though we had always lived quietly, still our former life had been gay and prosperous compared to what it became after my father’s death. Emily hated teaching, and she hated, too, the parents of the children whom she taught. They were mostly small trades-people, and her pride rebelled at having anything to do with them. She often threatened to leave home and seek a situation in a private family. We stayed at Rickfield for very nearly two years, and during all that time we very rarely exchanged a word with people who were in our own rank of life. The clergyman’s wife called once or twice, it is true, but she was a busy woman, with a large family of boys and girls, and she had not very much time for paying calls. But it was at her house that Emily met Mr. Parkes, the man who six months later became her husband. He was a rich manufacturer, more than three times her age. Emily was at that time not twenty, and Mr. Parkes was nearly seventy. He was a good man; I don’t believe there ever was a better; and people said that the sums he gave away in charity were enormous. No one, I firmly believe, ever went to him with a tale of distress without receiving help. But though he was such a good and generous man he had a strange effect on Emily’s character. From being extravagant and careless about money she became excessively close, and I believe that she often remonstrated with Mr. Parkes for giving away such large sums in charity.”

At this point Miss Pinney paused for so long that Cecil, who was greatly interested with the glimpse into the past life of her hitherto reticent companion, feared that she was to hear no more.

“It must have been nice for you when your sister became so rich,” she said presently; “for of course after that you would not have to teach any more, and your mother would get many little comforts that you must have had to do without.”

Miss Pinney roused herself and shook her head. “Emily’s marriage made no difference at all in our mode of life,” she said. “I continued to teach as before, and we continued to live on my small earnings. Emily went to live in one of the big suburbs of Liverpool, and for two years we saw nothing of her. It is so long ago now, nearly thirty years ago, that I can speak of it all without any bitterness, but at the time I resented Emily’s conduct so much, that unless my mother spoke of her her name never passed my lips. I knew she was living not only in comfort but in luxury, and though for myself I wanted nothing either from her or from her husband, I thought it should have been not only a duty but a pleasure to her to contribute something towards the support of our mother. We struggled on alone for nearly two years, and at the end of that time, after a winter of unusual severity, mother became dangerously ill. A doctor in the town was very kind, and attended her for nothing, but the medicines and the different kinds of nourishing foods that he ordered were very expensive.

“I lost both the situations I was then in, for of course I could not leave my mother alone, and my employers made my leaving without notice an excuse for not paying me my quarter’s salary; so I was obliged to write to Emily for money. I did not like doing it, but there was no help for it. I told her that mother was very ill, and that at the time of writing I had literally not a penny in the house. I expected a letter and a cheque by return of post, but instead of either, she and her husband came over in person immediately on receipt of my letter. He went to a hotel in the town and Emily occupied her old room, and they stayed until the end. It was so strange to me to see Emily in her grand dresses and her fine rings—she wore, I remember, more rings on two fingers than I could have believed it possible that anyone could wear on ten—back in our poor little, shabby, mean house; and she seemed to have drifted so far away from us since her marriage, that sometimes, when I looked across the bed to where she was sitting on the other side, I could not believe that she really was my sister. From the first there had been no hope that mother would recover, she was too weak to stand any illness. She was unconscious before Emily came, and she died without recognizing her. Emily felt that dreadfully, I could see, and I have often wondered since what her thoughts were as she watched beside her during those two days. After the funeral was over, Mr. Parkes told me that I must come and make my home with them; and I would have accepted the offer, at any rate for a time, but his next words made me resolve that no consideration whatever should cause me to spend a day in a house that called my sister Emily mistress. I can remember them so well even after all these years.

“ ‘And of course,’ he went on, ‘Emily will continue to give you, say half the allowance that she has been giving your mother. That will be fifty pounds, and so you will not feel dependent upon me.’

“For fully half a minute I said nothing, while the full meaning which his words held dawned upon me. Then I glanced at Emily, who was sitting on the sofa beside her husband, and she went from white to red and then white again; and all the while she kept twisting her rings round upon her fingers. I can see those rings now, and the way in which the big emeralds and diamonds flashed and sparkled in the firelight. I remember I wondered if they had been bought with the money that she was supposed to have given to us. Her face took a defiant, frightened expression, and I knew she thought that I was going to tell Mr. Parkes that he was making a mistake, and that we had received no money from her. But I had no intention of making mischief between them; and so, when at last I did speak, it was only to thank him for his kindness, and to say that I preferred to be independent. That was not altogether true, for the girls of that day were not like the girls of to-day. The thought of my utter loneliness frightened me dreadfully. My brother-in-law did not press me to change my mind. I think he was glad to know that he was to continue to have his young wife all to himself without the constant presence of a third person in the house, for he adored Emily. So our paths in life separated again, and from that day to this I have never seen my sister. Shortly afterwards, through the kindness of the doctor who had attended my mother, I got an introduction to a lady who was going to Australia with her children. I went with her as companion and governess, and was away from England for ten years. She would have liked me to have stayed with her altogether, but the climate never suited me, and when both her daughters were grown up and married I returned to England and sought another situation. Since then, until a year ago, I have been a governess in various private families. My life has been a hard one and monotonous; yet teaching is a ladylike occupation, more so, I fear, than trimming hats in a shop. But Lady Knelworth gives me twice the salary that I ever got as a governess, and the work is not nearly so hard; so, perhaps, all things considered, I did well to accept her offer. I knew her as a girl, she was the eldest daughter of a rich retired cotton manufacturer, and as children we used to play together. She and Emily used to quarrel dreadfully, I remember.”

Miss Pinney’s sentences had become disjointed; it seemed that she had forgotten the presence of a listener, and was merely thinking aloud.

A short silence followed, which Cecil did not like to break; but after sitting lost in thought for a few minutes, Miss Pinney broke it herself. Turning to Cecil with a smile that was half-nervous, half-apologetic, she begged her to excuse her for having talked at such length about her own concerns.

“It is strange,” she said, “that I should have been induced to tell you all this. You now know more about me than anyone else in the world knows. Even to Lady Knelworth I have never spoken of the extraordinary change that came over Emily and altered her whole character.”

“And have you never seen or heard of your sister since that day?” Cecil asked. What sort of sister could this Mrs. Parkes be, to let Miss Pinney work for a living while she rolled in riches?

“No, I never saw her again; but I heard of her shortly after I came back from Australia, through people who had known us both as girls. Her passion for money amounted by that time to almost a mania, and though she could not restrain her husband from giving away enormous sums in charity, she reduced the household expenditure to such an extent that the servants were continually giving notice. She would have liked, too, to put down the carriages and horses, but that he would not allow. But this was only hearsay, and perhaps there was no truth in it. However, I believed it at the time, and as it seemed to me that any affection she might once have entertained for me was long since dead, I made no effort to seek her out. I could not bear her to think that I wanted anything from her.”

“Is Mr. Parkes still alive, then?” Cecil asked.

“Oh no! he died fifteen years ago; I saw his death in the paper. A great part of his fortune was left to various charities. That must have been a great blow to Emily, but still many thousands of pounds were left to her. She probably married again.”

After that Miss Pinney frequently spoke to Cecil about herself, for the reserve of years once broken down, it seemed to afford her pleasure to fill in to such a sympathetic listener this first brief outline of her life. And Cecil often wondered where her sister was, and how she had spent the years that had elapsed since her husband’s death. Had she married again, and if so, was it for her money that she had been married? The chances were, at any rate, strongly against her being a happy woman. Her grasping disposition would make her suspect that everyone who showed her kindness wanted something from her, so she was probably friendless and lonely. On the other hand, she might now be sunk in the depths of poverty, for her exceeding love of money might have induced her to embark in risky speculations in the hope of doubling her thousands, and Cecil knew only too well what in nine cases out of ten happened to persons who were tempted in that way.

But she preferred to think that Emily was still rich, and still Mrs. Parkes, and that one day the sisters so long separated would come across one another again and would be reconciled, and that Miss Pinney, after a long life spent in working for other people, would be able to retire to some pretty house in the country and spend the rest of her days in ease and idleness.

Although Nance had begged Cecil to keep the story of the hat a secret from the other two, and although Cecil had promised to do so, Nance’s indignation at what she termed Madame Marcelline’s meanness was so great that she could not resist telling them the whole story; and though Helen received both the account of Nance’s vanity and its results with much lofty disdain, Barbara laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks, and the tale of the ghostly hat became a family joke.

But it was a joke that had its serious side. Cecil’s earnings went a long way towards their modest weekly expenses, and now that her salary was stopped for five weeks, she had of course no resource but to draw out more of their money; and though she adhered strictly to the determination she had formed not to hamper the minds of her sisters with worrying domestic details, she became herself very painfully aware of the fact that they were living beyond their means. And yet there seemed no one item in which they were unduly extravagant. They lived as plainly as ever they could—so plainly that Nance often grumbled at the simple fare, and left her porridge, or her rice-pudding, or her breakfast of Quaker oats, untouched.

It was hard to go to and fro on bitter, foggy November mornings, and dark November afternoons, and know that she was not earning a penny by her work; but Cecil never grumbled even to herself, and except when she drove in a hansom at Madame Marcelline’s expense she went on foot.

For though a penny here or twopence there in bus fares seemed scarcely worth saving, yet these pennies and twopences had a way of growing, almost imperceptibly as it were, into sixpences and shillings. And so in thick, country-made boots, which looked, she knew, horribly out of place in Madame Marcelline’s white-and-gold shop, she braved the mud and the slush and tramped to and fro.

The weeks wore away and the end of the Christmas term drew near, bringing with it the prospect of the first social dissipation which three out of the four girls had enjoyed since they came to town. This was an invitation issued by the School of Music which Nance attended to a performance of “Dorothy”, which was to take place on the evening of the 19th. As the eventful day approached, Nance was on the tiptoe of excitement and expectation. Rehearsals seemed to take up every spare moment of her time, and when she came home in the evening she was generally so tired out that she was fit for nothing but bed. More than once Cecil warned her to take better care of herself, and above all to wrap up when she left the heated room in which the rehearsals took place; but though Nance promised to be prudent she was not, and the consequence was that when it wanted only four days to the date of the performance she caught a severe cold. It was only in her head at first, and assuring Cecil that it was nothing, she went out as usual, and came back that evening with a throat so hoarse that she could scarcely speak. The next morning it was no better, but she nursed it over the fire until tea-time, and then, taking advantage of Cecil’s absence, she went through a thick fog to the rehearsal. But she was then so hoarse that she could not sing a note, and the whole company was thrown into confusion by her inability to do her part. It was obvious to everyone who heard the few notes she sang that her voice would not be right for the 19th, and to her great disappointment and chagrin she was obliged to relinquish her part to her understudy. It was a bitter disappointment after three months of hard study, and Nance cried when she got home and told Cecil of what had happened. Helen and Barbara, however, showed her scant sympathy; and the former, who, having caught Nance’s cold, was inclined to be especially severe upon her unfortunate sister, told her that she could have expected nothing else when she had been mad enough to venture out with such a bad throat.

By the 19th, however, Nance’s voice began to come back to her, and it was sufficiently strong to allow of her taking part in the chorus; but that was, after all, but a sorry consolation. Of course, to her sisters the performance had now lost its chief interest, and Cecil and Barbara would not have gone—Helen’s cold was now at its height, and she was obliged to remain at home—had not Nance begged them to do so.

The tickets that had been sent to them were in the last row of the seats reserved for visitors, and immediately in front of those in which the students sat, and it so happened that Cecil and Barbara could not help overhearing part of a discussion of which Nance formed the subject. Cecil had often wondered what opinion Nance’s fellow-students held about her voice, and now she was to hear.

“Yes,” a girl with a tousled head of hair, and startlingly æsthetic green-coloured garments was saying, “the part had to be given almost at the last moment to Miss Wakeley.”

“Is she as good?” her companion, a pale, quietly-dressed girl, asked.

“H’m! much of a muchness, I should say. But Maud Wakeley can act when she forgets to be shy, while the Whittington girl can’t act for nuts. She is as stiff as a poker, and her voice is awfully untrained. It was a piece of jobbery giving her the part at all. There were scores of girls who could have done it miles better than she could.”

“How did Miss Whittington manage to get it, then?” the other asked curiously.

“Just because she happens to be a pupil of Mr. Landor’s, my dear, that’s why.”

“Oh, is she a pupil of his? I did not know that. Then surely she must have something of a voice. He has the pick of you singing people, hasn’t he?”

“H’m!” said the other with a thin, disagreeable laugh. “He doesn’t choose them for their voices, at any rate. They say he has all the prettiest girls in the academy. He doesn’t care what his pupils’ voices are like as long as they have got pretty faces. But hush! the tenor is going to sing his best song.” The two girls settled themselves back on their seats, and their half-whispered conversation ceased. Cecil and Barbara exchanged looks that were half-indignant, half-amused; and the latter, after casting a hasty glance at the æsthetically-dressed young woman, remarked to Cecil in an undertone that if it was true that Mr. Landor did choose his pupils for their looks, she was not likely to be among them.

But half the pleasure of the evening was gone for Cecil. Though the words had no doubt been prompted by a certain amount of envy and jealousy, she felt that there was a degree of truth in them. She had always been afraid that Nance was not the genius that she thought she was, and now she was more than ever convinced of it.

“Of course,” she said hurriedly to Barbara, under cover of the next chorus song, “you won’t say a word of this to Nance.”

“As if I should dream of such a thing!” Barbara said indignantly. “But I should very much like to tell that lanky girl behind what I think of her.”

Christmas, though it brought a month’s holidays to the three younger girls, brought only five days for Cecil.

More than that, however, she had not expected, and, indeed, if a month’s holidays had meant another four weeks without any pay, she would have been very loth to accept them.

But what she had not expected was a very big bill that came on Christmas-eve, and which struck so much dismay into her heart that she was really quite unable to keep it to herself. It was a bill for electric light, and the alarming total was five pounds eight shillings and sixpence.

Until that bill stared her in the face she had not dreamt but that the electric light was, like the water, included in the rent, and they had used as much as they had wanted of both.

“Five pounds, eight shillings, and sixpence!” she said with a little gasp; “it is dreadful!”

They were all in the kitchen unpacking a big hamper that had come that afternoon, and which was Mrs. Vickers’ Christmas present. It contained a fat turkey, a pie, a plum-pudding tied up in a cloth all ready for boiling, a homemade cake, apples, some jelly and some jam, chocolates, raisins, almonds, and oranges.

“Five pounds, eight shillings, and sixpence!” Helen said, taking the slip of blue paper from her sister’s hand. “It is sheer robbery, or else a mistake. Didn’t Miss Marchpoint tell you that the electric light was included in the rent?”

Cecil shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “I know she said the water was, but I never thought of asking about the electric light.”

“Five pounds for just one quarter!” Helen went on; “why, that makes just twenty pounds a year!”

“More!” Barbara said, as she thoughtfully munched a chocolate. “You are forgetting the eight-and-sixpences.”

“There must be some mistake,” Helen repeated. “I tell you what I will do. I will run down to the porter and ask him if this bill is really meant for us, or if it is for the landlord.”

And Helen rose from her knees, and, brushing the straw from her dress, she ran downstairs. In less than ten minutes she returned, and her face was very serious as she told Cecil that, unfortunately for them, there was no mistake.

“We have to pay for what we use,” she said; “and Burridge says we must have used a lot, for no one on the stairs has as big a bill as this. Each burner comes to about three-farthings an hour.”

“Only three-farthings an hour!” Barbara cried; “why, then, it must have been added up all wrong! Three-farthings could never mount up to all that!”

But Helen took a pencil from her pocket and worked out a sum on the back of the label hanging from the lid of the hamper.

“We have five burners,” she said, “one in each room and one in the passage. Say, on an average, we have used each one for three hours a day; that would make fifteen three-farthings, which is elevenpence a day. We have been here nearly four months, that makes one hundred and twenty days. One hundred and twenty days at elevenpence a day comes to one thousand three hundred and twenty pence. One thousand three hundred and twenty pence is one hundred and ten shillings. One hundred and ten shillings is five pounds ten shillings. Well, then, if anything, they have undercharged us, or else our average has been less.”

“We have been frightfully extravagant,” Cecil said soberly.

“It strikes me,” Helen said, biting the end of her pencil, and waving away the chocolate which Barbara offered her as a substitute, “that we are not by any manner of means living on our income; are we, Cecil?”

“Well, no, since you ask me, we are not,” Cecil admitted. “I had not intended to bother you with money matters until after Christmas, but what do you say if we discuss the subject now and get it over? I will bring out my account-book and tell you exactly how we stand.”

So, first, in their newly-roused zeal for economy, switching off the light in the kitchen, they adjourned to the sitting-room, and, gathering round the table, listened, Nance with barely-concealed yawns, Barbara with a mind somewhat distracted by chocolates, but Helen with undivided attention, to Cecil, as she explained as clearly and as shortly as she could exactly how they stood.

“We allowed ourselves a hundred pounds,” she said. “Well, fifty of that goes in rent, another forty-five in tuition fees. Our weekly expenses have averaged twenty-five shillings, that makes another sixty-five pounds a year; so that we have been living at the rate of one hundred and sixty pounds a year.”

“Then, at this rate our money won’t last more than two and a half years!” Helen cried. “We are exceeding the sum we allowed ourselves by exactly sixty pounds.”

“By ten,” Cecil answered; “for I make fifty, you know, and of course that goes towards general expenses.”

“But that’s not fair to you,” Helen said quickly, after a short pause. “Do you mean to say that you have spent every penny you have earned at Madame Marcelline’s in that way?”

“Why, naturally,” Cecil replied; “what else did you think that I had done with it? Given myself secret treats?” she added, laughing.

“No, but I thought that you were saving it for yourself,” Helen said.

It was what she would have done if she had been in Cecil’s place, and the matter-of-fact way in which her sister announced that she contributed the money towards the general fund struck Helen with amazement and a little sense of shame.

“I don’t see why you should do it,” she said; “there is no reason at all why you should support us.”

“Why, Helen, surely you are not too proud to accept my humble help?” Cecil said, surprised in her turn. “In fact, I don’t see very well how you are to do without it, for money vanishes here in a perfectly extraordinary way, and we shall only just be able to hold out for four years. By that time I hope you will all be able to run alone. But there must be no more bills like this one, or things will come to a dreadful tight pinch at the last.”

“And there must be no more ghosts of hats to be paid for,” Barbara said, with a laughing glance at Nance.

Allusions to that unfortunate hat were frequent, and had hitherto been taken by Nance in very good part. But to-night she flushed up to the roots of her hair, and with a crossness that was very rare with her begged Barbara to find a new joke.

“That is such a dreadfully stale one,” she said, “I am sick and tired of hearing it. You wouldn’t like to have the same thing brought up against you time after time.”

“I am awfully sorry, Nance,” Barbara said with quick penitence; “I never guessed you minded. The ghost shall be laid to rest from this moment,” she added gravely. “And now, having decided that our affairs are in a very bad way indeed, shall we adjourn to the kitchen and finish admiring all the delicacies of the season that have been sent to us?”

Nance’s momentary fit of ill-temper had not escaped Cecil’s notice. These curious little bursts of irritation had become by no means uncommon with her during the past few weeks, and though they were gone almost as soon as they came, Cecil would have liked to know what gave rise to them. Sometimes she had grave fears that Mrs. Carr-Davison’s society, and the glimpses into another world which that lady gave her, were doing Nance no good. And yet, if they made her discontented with her lot, they had not made her idle, for Cecil had observed that after an evening spent at the theatre, or at some crowded fashionable “at home”, Nance applied herself to her work with more determination than she showed at any other time.

Perhaps, then, the anxious elder sister thought, Nance was committing the same mistake into which Barbara had fallen, and was, ridiculous though it seemed to suppose any such thing of Nance, working too hard. If so, the four weeks’ rest which was now before her would do her good. But, as a matter of fact, these little gusts of ill-humour were brought about neither by overwork nor by the unwonted dissipations which Mrs. Carr-Davison’s acquaintanceship afforded her.

The truth was that she had begun to miss the extravagant praise which Madame Salvicini had been used to shower upon her. Without it she was becoming unable to dream the daydreams in which she had hitherto passed so many of her waking hours, and which were such a solace to her. Her master was chary of his praise, and neither to him nor to any of her fellow-students had she ever breathed a word of the secret ambitions with which she was filled. She longed to hear the great future which lay before her described again in the glowing words to which she had so often listened with bated breath and shining eyes, to hear herself spoken of as the coming prima donna.

A few days after Christmas her wish was granted. Mr. Vickers came up to town for a day, and before going off to the city on the business which had brought him, he paid an early morning call on the Whittingtons. After he had been shown all over the flat, he told them that Mrs. Vickers had charged him with an invitation to one of the girls to come down on a visit to her for a few days.

It was, of course, quite out of the question that Cecil should be the one to accept this invitation; her brief holiday was already over, and as, for reasons connected with their work, neither Helen nor Barbara wished to leave London, it was Nance who accompanied kind old Mr. Vickers down to Willingsgate that afternoon. She had accepted the invitation with an alacrity that surprised all her sisters, for she and Mrs. Vickers had never been very great friends, and it did not enter into their heads to suspect that it was Madame Salvicini that Nance wished to see. But Cecil was glad for her to go; she thought that the change into the wholesome air of the country might do Nance good, and perhaps cure her of those little fits of irritability to which of late she had given way.

And her hopes were realized, for at the end of four or five days Nance returned in radiant spirits; she had seen Madame Salvicini twice, and had received enough praise to carry her on comfortably for some time to come. She had sung to her the few songs that she had been given since she joined the academy, but to those Madame Salvicini had barely listened.

She had got out the pile of dusty old opera scores through which Nance had gone so many times with her before, and together they had sung Madame Salvicini’s parts.

And on each occasion Nance had left the gloomy room with her ears full of the most extravagant praises to which a girl had ever listened.

And now she had returned to town fully determined not to waste any more time masquerading as an obscure student. She would accept an engagement to sing somewhere, and then all England would resound with her name. She would have liked to have made her first appearance in an opera, say, for instance, as Azucena in “Il Trovatore”, but unfortunately the Opera House was closed until next season. She would, therefore, have to be content with a Ballad Concert at St. James’s. She might accept an engagement for a series. That would not be bad to start with, even though she got no more than fifty pounds a song. She had not the least idea what singers did get, with the exception of Madame Patti, who, she had heard, received as much as a thousand pounds. Well, she did not expect that yet. If she got no more than thirty pounds she would have no reason to grumble, especially when she reflected that Cecil, who worked so hard, made very little more than that in a whole year. It would be sheer waste of time and money, too, not to start on her triumphant career as soon as possible.

The first step to be taken was to present herself with her letter of introduction to Signor Rannini, and the very day after her return from Willingsgate Nance set off by herself to see him. He was a well-known man, and though Madame Salvicini had not known his address, Nance had long ago found it out by the simple method of consulting a London Directory. She had not told any of the others where she was going, for she wished to surprise them on her return, and with a courage that astonished herself she walked up to the door and rang the bell.

It was answered after some delay by a sleepy-looking servant, who told her that Signor Rannini was in Italy, and that he would not return until the end of the month.

Nance’s feeling of disappointment was, curiously enough, mingled with one of relief, for no sooner had she rung the bell than her natural shyness asserted itself, and had the servant said that Signor Rannini was at home and willing to see her, she really believed that she would have turned and fled. As it was, however, she thanked the servant for her information, and saying that there was no message that she wished to leave, took her departure.

She was not altogether sorry that the momentous interview should be postponed for a few weeks. It was then the 10th of January, she would not go again until quite the end of the month, and then she would take Cecil with her. It would be pleasanter, after all, to go with her than to venture into Signor Rannini’s presence alone, for should he prove a very formidable person, or should a fit of sudden shyness come over her, Cecil could make the preliminary explanations.

So as soon as she was alone with Cecil she took her into her confidence, and told her of the resolve she had formed, to present her letter to Signor Rannini without further delay.

Though Cecil could not have told why her heart sank as she looked at Nance’s bright, confident face, and listened to the stream of compliments, the exclamations of delight, the prophecies of fame with which Madame Salvicini had filled her eager ears, and which Nance repeated with a fluency that suggested that she had them by heart.

“No more drudgery and hat-trimming for you, Cecil, darling!” Nance cried when she had finished. “I shall make enough money for all of us, and neither Helen nor Barbara need do another stroke of work as long as they live. We will all have a splendid time!”

During the ensuing fortnight Nance’s good spirits did not desert her, and though Mrs. Carr-Davison had apparently forgotten her existence, for it was over three weeks since they had seen anything of her, and though Helen and Barbara seemed always immersed in work whenever she wanted either of them to come out with her, she did not find time hang heavy on her hands. When she was not wandering from room to room, singing snatches of songs under her breath, or making experiments in cookery, she sat by the hour together in the big arm-chair with an unheeded novel in her lap—dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.

“I should think you would be very glad when the academy opens again,” Barbara said one evening, as she threw down her pen, closed her books with a bang and a yawn, and crossed to the fire, before which Nance was curled up in her usual attitude, a toasting-fork in her hand, upon the prongs of which a piece of what had once been bread was impaled. “Oh, Nance, what an abominable smell! What are you doing?”

“Making toast,” Nance said, waking up from her dreams. “Oh,” as her eyes travelled along the fork and encountered a black cinder, “it has got burnt somehow! Cut me another slice, will you, Barbara, as you are up?”

“Miss Lazybones,” Barbara said briskly, taking the toasting-fork out of her hand. “Retire into the depths of your arm-chair, it is all you are fit for nowadays, and watch in what a very different style I make toast.”

“Nance relinquished the toasting-fork without any demur.”

Nance relinquished the toasting-fork without any demur, settled herself more comfortably still, and thought with a smile of the wild surprise that both Helen and Barbara would feel when they learnt in what an extremely mistaken estimation they had held her.

Only fit to lie back in an arm-chair, was she, and watch others working? Well, they would see if that was all she could do! To-morrow she was going to Signor Rannini. Cecil had promised to come with her, and she would have great news for them in the evening.

“You haven’t yet answered my remark,” Barbara said, breaking in upon her reflections. “Will you or won’t you be glad when the academy opens again?”

“I shall be glad to begin work again—yes,” Nance answered evasively, with an inward smile.

“You have had a thoroughly lazy time,” Barbara went on. “But I believe an idle life would suit you, Nance; you can be happier just doing nothing except just amusing yourself than anyone I know.”

“I believe I can,” Nance said frankly. “You are never contented unless you are poring over books; and as for Helen, her pen goes scratch, scratch, scrape, scrape, from morning to night. You’ll ruin your eyesight, Helen,” she added, half-turning round and glancing towards the window near which Helen was seated bending over her drawing-board.

Helen murmured something under her breath. Nance could not catch what it was, but it had an impatient sound, and clearly meant that she did not wish to be disturbed.

So they left her alone, and while Nance lounged in the arm-chair, Barbara, perched on the edge of the fender, made toast and gave Nance little gossiping details of her day at school. The North High had re-opened that morning.

“It’s going to be ever so much nicer this term than it was last,” Barbara said, turning her toast. “Everything seems to come so much more easily to me, and Miss Seeley is a brick. What do you think she said to me this morning? I had meant to keep it till Cecil came in, but I think I will tell you now. She has promised, if I get on as well this term as I did the latter half of last, to give me private lessons next term, so as to coach me up for the exam at the end of the summer term. You know, or rather you don’t, for I did not know it myself until to-day, that the girl who passes best out of the fourth into the fifth gets a whole year’s fees paid. So that if I can only pass out at the head of my form, Cecil won’t have to pay a single penny for me next year. Nance, you don’t show the emotion that is expected of you. Don’t you think that is splendid?”

“Splendid!” Nance said, while a tiny smile curled the corners of her mouth.

“Then what are you smiling at?” Barbara demanded. “Do you think that I sha’n’t get it?”

“No, indeed,” Nance protested. “I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort. I was—” But there she stopped short, the time had not yet come to speak of her plans.

“You have become very mysterious of late,” Barbara said. “You always seem just about to say something, and then you don’t. Now I have a very good mind not to allow you to stir from that chair until you have told me your secret. Only wait until I have finished this last piece of toast, and then I will spring upon you and tickle you until you are glad to confess.”

Barbara was always as good as her word, and Nance was just meditating flight when Helen’s voice came from the other corner of the room.

“If you like you two can come and see what I have been so busy about all day.”

Such an invitation was a command. And Barbara scrambled up from the floor, Nance left her arm-chair, and together they went to the table where, after having first turned on the electric light, Helen showed them the black-and-white drawing at which Nance had said her pen had been scratching away for the greater part of the day.

It was a pen-and-ink drawing of ten hares, who were seated in two rows of five on either side of a nibbled cabbage stalk, underneath which “The End” was written.

“Oh, what ducks of bunnies!” Nance said enthusiastically. “And how beautifully you have drawn them!”

“They are hares, not rabbits,” Helen remarked dryly. “I should have thought you might have known that from their faces.”

“Oh!” said Nance laughing, “I didn’t know that there was any difference between hares and rabbits. I am sorry I spoke. Is it meant for a picture or to illustrate a tale?”

This was really rather hard upon the artist, and to show her that both the spectators who had been admitted to the private view were not devoid of proper intelligence, Barbara took it upon herself to explain that the drawing was evidently intended to be the tail-piece to some story.

“Show us something else,” she said, anxious to see all she could while Helen was in this unusually communicative mood.

So Helen untied the strings of her portfolio, and spread out various slips of paper before their admiring, uncritical gaze.

It was evident that she delighted in very fine work, for nearly all the drawings were done in a minute way, which at a first glance hardly suggested the immense amount of time and labour that had been bestowed upon them. They required to be looked into for that to be seen. They were nearly all in the same style as the first piece she had shown them. The gem of the collection, however, was, in Helen’s eyes at least, a set of Gothic ornamental letters, intertwined with flowers and leaves, so finely done that they called forth warm praise from both her sisters.

After the snub that had been administered to Nance, Barbara was rather chary of advancing any criticisms, but as she pored over the pieces of cartridge-paper—Helen was very particular about the paper she used—she could not help thinking that it was a work of some difficulty to distinguish the letters. However, they could always be correctly guessed after a moment or two, and though the flowers were minute, they were drawn with such correctness that it was impossible to mistake them.

Up the sloping sides of “A” grew two tall arum lilies. “B” was decorated with buttercups, “C” with Canterbury bells, and so on through the alphabet.

“I call that awfully nice,” Barbara said. “A floral alphabet seems a very pretty idea.”

“What are you going to do with all these drawings?” Nance asked. “Send them to some magazine, I suppose.”

“I am going round with them myself to-morrow morning,” Helen replied. “It is the one day I have left before the school re-opens, and I mean to make a tour of the different art publishers.”

“Do you really?” Barbara exclaimed. “Oh, what fun! But I wish you had thought of making your tour a few days earlier, and then I could have gone with you. Aren’t you rather afraid of going alone?”

“And without any letters of introduction,” Nance added. “You are brave, Helen. Do you think they will see you?”

“Of course! Why shouldn’t they?” Helen replied, with all the easy confidence of ignorance. “Publishers always want to buy drawings, I want to sell; where is the need of an introduction? And if one won’t take my things I can go on to another. It will be very strange if out of all the publishers that there are in London I don’t find one who will accept my drawings.”

It was, Nance thought, a curious coincidence that both she and Helen should be about to put their fortunes to the test on the self-same day, and she wondered what the morrow held in store for Helen. Well, if she fared only half as well as she, Nance, was likely to do, Helen would have no reason to complain of her lot.

“What are you going to wear?” she asked, as, the drawings having been put away and the light switched off,—all four girls were very careful now about the electric light, so careful that, as Barbara said, what they saved in the light itself they would have to spend in renewing the buttons,—they all went over to the fireplace, where Barbara immediately resumed her toast-making.

“Wear!” repeated Helen in a puzzled voice. “Why, what should I wear but my ordinary clothes—my serge coat and skirt and straw hat?”

“That’s neither one thing nor the other,” Nance said thoughtfully. “Shouldn’t you be either very shabby or very smart? For instance, if you were very shabby, the publishers or the editors, or whatever you call them, will say, ‘Poor thing, she looks so awfully poor it would be a kindness to take some of her things’; and then they will give you a nice cheque for your floral alphabet or for your bunnies. On the other hand, if you make yourself look very smart, they might think, ‘Dear me now, this young lady looks very prosperous and well off. She must be a rising young artist. I will take whatever she offers me, and offer her whatever she likes.’ But if you look neither particularly prosperous nor particularly poor they will have nothing whatever to go by.”

“They would have the drawings, you know,” Helen said, looking rather amused. “And I think I will let them speak for me, and not count on my personal appearance.”

“I think you are wrong,” Nance said earnestly. “I do indeed.”

She, at all events, had no intention of neglecting her personal appearance; and the next morning, after both Barbara and Helen had set off, the one for school and the other for Paternoster Row, Nance hurried into her bedroom and began to get ready.

“It is as well that no especially fascinating hat of Madame Marcelline’s is here, Cecil,” she said, laughing, “for there is no saying that I might not have been tempted to wear it again. Surely on such an occasion as this I might be excused if I did. I tell you what, Cecil,” she added, “I shouldn’t wonder if I became a customer, and a paying one, of Madame Marcelline’s before very long. I shall be certain to want some smart hats for singing at matinées, you know, and it would be rather fun to order them there. Wouldn’t she be astonished?”

“I think we ought to be starting,” was all that Cecil said. She had had a difficult part to play during the past fortnight, and it was a great relief to her to know that it was coming to an end that morning.

She dared not, neither could she with any honesty, encourage Nance in her extravagant hopes, and yet a hint of any doubts of her success was enough to plunge her into the depths of despair. So she had thought it best to keep her own opinions in the background, and, while listening with patience to Nance’s wildest flights of fancy, to be careful neither to fan her hopes nor to throw cold water upon them.

They went by bus to Piccadilly Circus, and then walked up Regent Street, and, taking a turning out of Oxford Street, made their way past terraces and through squares until they came to the street where Signor Rannini lived.

“His number is 45,” Nance said, and glancing at the doors as they passed them they walked down the street in silence. Nance was rather pale, and her eyes were shining with suppressed excitement. And in spite of herself she felt rather nervous.

Arrived at the door, they rang and waited.

“In a few minutes now,” Nance said in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper, “I shall have taken my first step. When I come out again I sha’n’t be quite what I am now, shall I?”

But before Cecil could answer, the door opened, and a maid-servant, not the one whom Cecil had seen before, but a pretty, neat-looking girl, answered the bell.

“Is Signor Rannini at home?” Nance asked, preparing to take Madame Salvicini’s letter from her pocket. Without it there might be some difficulty in gaining admittance.

But there was no difficulty at all.

“Oh yes, miss! Signor Rannini is at home,” the girl answered, opening the door wider. “Will you come in?”

Darting a triumphant glance at Cecil, Nance led the way. Was it possible that Signor Rannini expected them? Madame Salvicini must have written. No doubt he had been wondering that they had not come before.

Half-way up the stairs the girl paused and threw open the door of a small room.

“If you will wait here, miss,” she said, “I will take your name to the Signor.”

“Miss Whittington,” Nance said in very distinct tones.

“Oughtn’t you to have sent in your letter?” Cecil said when they were alone. “He won’t know who we are.”

“I believe he knows already,” Nance said confidently; “and he will say—”

“No use your coming to me! Your top notes are cracked! Ha! ha! Now then, all together—one, two, three! Pretty Polly!”

Cecil started, and Nance fairly jumped out of the chair in which she was seated. For a moment she believed that it was Signor Rannini himself who had addressed her in that very disconcerting fashion. But it was merely his parrot, who, in a cage partly hidden behind the back of a tall arm-chair, had escaped their notice.

“Horrible! horrible! Out of tune!” he shrieked, seemingly unaware that his own voice was not above reproach. “Pass the bread-and-butter!”

Cecil wheeled the arm-chair aside, and the parrot, a big African gray, put his head on one side and watched her out of the corners of his eyes.

“Come and look at him, Nance,” she said, with the hope of taking her sister’s mind off the coming interview. She was moving restlessly about and becoming visibly more nervous every moment.

“Nance, Nance!” the bird said huskily, picking up the sound of her name at once.

“Do you hear that, Nance?” Cecil said. “He has got your name already. He is a clever parrot.”

“Clever Polly, pretty Polly!” said the parrot. “One, two, three!”

“I wonder when he is going to send for us,” Nance was beginning, when the door opened, and the servant, with a frightened expression on her face, entered hurriedly.

“Have you an appointment, miss?” she said; “for unless you have, my master will not see you.”

“The Signor is busy!” shrieked the parrot. Then a dog barked loudly in the street below. He imitated him, and the noise in the room became deafening.

“No, I have not an appointment,” Nance said, as soon as she could make her voice heard; “but I have a letter of introduction to him.”

“I wish you had given it me at first, then, miss,” the maid said rather crossly as she took it. “Signor Rannini does not like to be disturbed for nothing.”

“Signor Rannini evidently possesses a temper,” Cecil said when they were left alone again. It was not, perhaps, an altogether consoling remark for Nance to hear, but she did not seem to be alarmed.

“That letter will make it all right,” she said.

It certainly procured them an immediate interview, for hardly were the words out of her mouth before the servant returned.

“Will you kindly come this way?” she said. “The Signor will see you at once.”

So at last the eventful moment had really arrived, and with a heart that beat high with excitement Nance followed her across the landing and into the opposite room.

An old man with long, snow-white hair and a thin, dark face stood near the door, with Madame Salvicini’s open letter in his hand. The other he extended to Nance, and with visible signs of agitation in his face led her into the room.

“Rita Salvicini,” he said, looking still, not at Nance or Cecil, but at the letter in his hand, “and after all these years she writes to me. I thought her long, long since dead, and yet she is alive. It is wonderful! Where does she live, and when did you last see her?”

Nance told him.

“And well, did you say well? She went out of her mind when she lost her voice, and they shut her up. Ah, poor Rita, it was terribly sad! What a voice was lost to the world! Ah, that night in Paris and in Milan! What a magnificent future we thought lay before her! The greatest, grandest contralto the world has ever seen, and it went, it went, and her mind gave way. She threatened to commit suicide when the doctors told her that never again would she sing a note. How this letter brings it all back! It is like a voice from the dead.”

He dropped Nance’s hand, which he had been holding while he uttered these disjointed sentences, and began to pace the long room to and fro. It was plain that he had forgotten their presence, and neither of them liked to remind him of it. Cecil had seated herself near one of the low windows that reached nearly to the ground, but Nance remained standing where he had left her.

Four, five minutes passed, and then a tiny clock on the mantel-piece struck eleven, and the silvery chimes brought his mind out of the past to the present.

“For twenty years I have thought of her as one dead to the world,” he said, “and now she writes, and I must read. What is it that she can have to say?”

He read the letter through without comment of any sort, and then glanced at Nance. His glance was shrewd and searching, but what his thoughts were Cecil, who was watching him attentively, could not tell. His face was like a mask. He had become quite calm, and his voice when he spoke again had a quick, imperative accent.

“She sends you to me to try your voice. And she writes—do you know what it is that she says?” he asked abruptly.

Nance shook her head.

“Let me hear you sing,” he said. “You have brought some music? Yes, I see you have. Ah!” as Nance took “Il Trovatore” from her case, “you have done this with her. Leonora, of course?”

“Yes,” Nance said; “Madame Salvicini says I am magnificent in it. She says that my success will be as great as hers was, that I shall make a name in a day, that I shall be famous throughout the length and breadth of Europe.”

Signor Rannini glanced at her again, and Cecil saw his shoulders go up in a slight but unmistakable shrug.

“She told me,” Nance continued, not noticing the gesture, “to come to you, and let you hear me sing, and that then you would get me engagements. She said that I ought to go in for operatic singing, and that next season I ought to be singing at Covent Garden Opera.”

“Poor thing, poor thing!” Signor Rannini said in pitying accents; but whether he referred to Nance or to Madame Salvicini he did not say.

Without another word he seated himself at the grand-piano that stood in a corner of the room, and, opening the book at one of Leonora’s songs, motioned to Nance to sing.

She sang as she always sang, nicely and correctly, and he played the accompaniment through to the end, glancing up at her face from time to time as she stood beside him. When it was finished he wheeled round and looked at her for a moment in complete silence.

She waited complacently, Cecil with a growing uneasiness, for him to speak. When at length he opened his lips, it was neither to praise nor to blame. He merely asked a question.

“Did you ever sing that to the Salvicini?” he said.

“Often and often,” Nance said; “she loved to hear it.”

“And she listened right through to the end?”

“She used to sing with me, but under her breath; and sometimes she would get up and walk about the room, quite forgetting that I was there.”

“Ah!” Signor Rannini said suddenly, as if a light had come to his mind, “I understand. That,” he resumed after a pause—Cecil distrusted those pauses, for during them he appeared to do too much thinking of a nature unfavourable to Nance; “that was her great song, the one by means of which she first made her name. Since Pasta and Rubini left the stage nothing more beautifully rendered, nothing more dramatically given, than her singing of that song had ever been heard. Milan went wild over her.” He paused again. “And you—you sang it her, and she listened. What sublime, stupenduous courage and—and ignorance is yours!”

“What?” cried Nance, startled.

“I repeat,” he cried, rising from his chair and rubbing up his long white hair with both his hands, until it literally stood on end; “I know not whether to laugh or to be amazed.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Nance said. Indeed, he spoke so rapidly, and with such a very foreign accent, that she hardly heard what he said. “Please tell me what you think of my voice. Shall I also be as great as Madame Salvicini?”

“No,” he said after a moment, and almost as though he were talking to himself, “she does not joke, she asks it seriously.”

“Joke,” Nance said, “I should think not! Why should I joke? I am very serious, I want your advice as to how I should start. Should I wait to come out in opera, or shall I accept engagements at St. James’s Ballad Concerts, so as not to be wasting time?”

“My dear young lady,” he said, staring helplessly at her, “my dear young lady.”

He walked away from her and up to Cecil, who, with a face that had grown grave and sorrowful, was still sitting in the low window-seat. They exchanged glances.

“She believes implicitly in what Madame Salvicini has told her?” he asked in a rapid undertone that could not be heard at the other end of the room.

Cecil nodded; she could not speak, her worst fears were realized. A bitter awakening awaited Nance.

Then Signor Rannini walked back to her and took her hand in a grave, fatherly way. Nance, with her flushed face and shining eyes, was looking beautiful. He admired her, and that being the case he was perhaps more sorry for her than he would have been had she been plain.

“Now I will tell you,” he began, “and I will take it for granted that you want the truth.”

Nance nodded. “The truth by all means.”

“You have a voice,” he said,—Nance nodded again, that she already knew; when, oh when would he come to the point?—“that with training, a great deal of careful training,”—Nance’s eyes opened slightly, Madame Salvicini had led her to believe otherwise,—“will make a very pretty voice, a very pretty drawing-room voice. This,” he tapped the letter lightly with his forefinger, “is mere moonshine. Get it out of your head, my dear. You will never be a public singer, not even a third-rate public singer; and as for being an artist, a great artist, why—” He broke off and was about to give a short laugh when he caught sight of the expression on Nance’s face. “Ah!” he said, “I forget, you have believed her. I have been too sudden, I have given you pain. I am sorry, but the truth is the kindest thing in the end.”

Nance did not answer, she was absolutely incapable of speech; her airy castle had received a blow which shattered it to its foundations, and while it fell in ruins about her, she stood as one stunned. The words “a pretty little voice, a pretty little drawing-room voice”, rang in her ears.

“It is too bad of Madame Salvicini,” he said, vexed at the sight of the pain he had inflicted, and finding relief at abusing the absent cause of it. “She had no right to encourage such a preposterous notion. You have not the beginnings of an operatic singer in you. You have not the slightest dramatic ability; that I saw at once. It is better to tell you the truth.”

Then Nance found her voice. Surely, surely there must be some mistake; Madame Salvicini could not be wrong. Her name was once far greater in the musical world than Signor Rannini’s was or ever would be, and yet, and yet, he had spoken so calmly that his words carried conviction.

“She said I should make a famous singer,” she said in a bewildered, mechanical sort of way; “she said my voice was a grand, unequalled one, she said that I had passion and power, she said—”

“A great deal of nonsense.” Signor Rannini interrupted not unkindly, but in the tone of a man who has very little more time to spare. “She has lived out of the world for so long—she never comes to London—that she has forgotten what Art is and what it demands. I tell you that there are in London, at the college of which I am professor, dozens, nay, scores of girls who sing better, act better, than you. And yet they will never make names for themselves. And why? Because, though they are good they are but mediocre, while you, you are less than mediocre. You do not believe me; then go to someone else, ask them to hear you sing, and listen to what they will say. I am grieved to have to speak so plainly, but what can I do? Blame Madame Salvicini? no, do not blame her, for I now perceive that what I heard is unhappily true. Her mind received a shock when she lost her voice from which she has never recovered. This,” indicating her letter again, “is a clear proof of it.”

Nance had borne a great deal within the past three minutes, but that was the last straw. Because Madame Salvicini had thought well of her voice, Madame Salvicini was mad. The idea was really rather humorous, and, because in a dim way Nance perceived this, a smile appeared for a moment on her pale face. Signor Rannini misinterpreted the smile.

“You laugh at me,” he cried, “you do not believe me, then—”

But Nance felt that she could bear no more.

“I do believe you,” she said, and her very lips were white with the effort she was making to keep back her tears. Her one wish at the moment was to get out of the room and out of the house at once. But what Helen sometimes sneeringly called “her pretty manners” did not desert her even at that bitter moment. “I am afraid I have taken up a great deal of your time. I have to thank you for the trouble you have taken to—to explain things to me.”

“I am delighted to have been of service to you,” he said, inexpressibly relieved to find that there was to be no scene. “No, no, I do not quite mean that, for the service has not been of a very agreeable kind, has it? But you will live to thank me, my dear young lady, for not deluding you with false hopes.”

That might be so, but her prevailing sensation at that moment was not one of thankfulness. Her one idea now was to say good-bye before that horrible choking in her throat should turn into sobs. And Cecil, knowing well what was in her mind, came to her rescue. She it was who promised to convey sundry messages to Madame Salvicini, and who, without appearing to do so, contrived to cut short the polite flow of words in which he expressed his regret that the opinion he had been obliged to give was not a more favourable one.

“You can sing to your friends, you know,” he said; “they will not be critical, they will like it. And indeed your voice, so far as it goes, is sweet and true. Ah, that poor Salvicini! I see it all, her mind is deranged. When you sang she heard not you at all, it was the echo of her own magnificent voice that filled her ears. Her life indeed was a tragedy.”

Well, in that respect at least her life was to resemble Madame Salvicini’s, Nance thought, and no sooner was the hall-door closed behind them, and they were walking down the street, than the tears, heroically repressed until that moment, streamed from her eyes. And Cecil did not attempt to check them, she merely drew Nance’s hand within her arm and stroked it gently.

“Never mind, dear, never mind, Nance,” she said at last, when the end of the street was reached and Nance’s tears showed no signs of abating. It was, she was painfully aware, a feeble form of consolation to offer, but at the moment she could think of nothing else to say, and she repeated it over and over again in soothing accents.

“How can I help minding?” Nance said presently through her tears. “Oh, Cecil, after all my great hopes, to be told that I have only a pretty little voice, a nice little drawing-room voice, and that I shall never, never be great or famous!”

Sobs checked her utterance, and Cecil turned their steps towards a side street. Presently she took out her watch and looked at it.

“Nance, dear,” she said then, “I hate to remind you of it, but it is twenty minutes to twelve, I must be at the shop by twelve. We have just time to walk to the end of this street and back before we must turn into Oxford Street. Do try to stop crying. It won’t do any good, you know, and you are making your eyes dreadfully red.”

“What does that matter, what does anything matter?” Nance said, mopping her face with her already damp handkerchief. Then, “Is my nose red too, Cecil?” she asked.

“Well, it is, just a little,” Cecil answered.

“I wish I had put on a veil,” Nance said with more anxiety than was altogether consistent with her former despairing observation.

“I will give you mine,” Cecil said. “There,” when she had fastened it round Nance’s hat, “if you don’t cry any more no one will notice anything.”

Gradually some semblance of composure returned to Nance, and though every now and then she caught her breath in a quick, stifled sob, her tears ceased, and by the time they had walked to the end of the quiet thoroughfare she was ready to face Oxford Street.

Once Cecil, grieved and almost alarmed at her expression of stunned, dazed despair, attempted to offer some words of consolation, but Nance begged her to say nothing to her just yet.

“I can’t bear it,” she said, “I really can’t. Don’t talk to me. It won’t even bear thinking about.”

So in silence they threaded their way down Oxford Street, and paused a few yards from Madame Marcelline’s shop.

“Let me put you into a hansom,” Cecil then said suddenly, “I don’t like to think of your walking home.”

But Nance shook her head and shivered; and though the morning was raw and disagreeable it was not with the cold that she shivered, it was the idea of returning to the flat to sit there alone with her thoughts that appalled her. There was no reason why she should take a cab, she reflected drearily; she had time enough and to spare upon her hands. So, telling Cecil that she would prefer to walk, she nodded, forced a smile, and walked on.

For a moment Cecil felt tempted to rush into Madame Marcelline and beg leave of absence for the day, but as she knew that the request would be denied, there being a great deal of work on hand, she watched Nance until she was lost to sight, and then went soberly in to her duties. After all, it was some comfort to think that Helen would be at home by dinner-time, and that Nance would not therefore be quite alone all day.

Meanwhile Nance went by way of Pall Mall into St. James’s Park, and, turning into one of the least-frequented paths, walked up and down until she was tired. Then she seated herself on a bench, and though the cold was intense she was not conscious of feeling it. For more than an hour she sat motionless, her head bent, her eyes fixed on the ground. It was not an inviting morning for strolling in the park, but the few passers-by who went briskly along wondered what the thoughts with which she was to all appearance so intently occupied could be.

Nance, as unconscious of the momentary interest her attitude inspired as of the cold and the flight of time, sat on, glad to be alone with her miserable thoughts.

How unhappy she was! What ages ago it seemed since she had set out, gay and confident, that morning! What an incredible difference there was between that time and this! Then, she had thought, a noble career lay in front of her—a life full of a long succession of triumphs, delight, and excitement. Now—but as yet she hardly realized what a vast change that interview had brought about. She could only think that the door that led to fame and fortune was for ever closed to her.

Had Madame Salvicini felt more miserable than she felt? She doubted it. In all the world there could not be a more unhappy girl than she was that morning. She had surely sunk to the very lowest depths of despair, and she had no desire ever to rise from them. She would not be surprised if, like Henry the Eighth—was it Henry the Eighth? at any rate, it did not very much matter—she never smiled again.

What a horrible man Signor Rannini was! He had laughed, yes, actually laughed, at her pretensions. She supposed she had made herself very ridiculous in his eyes. Well, that did not matter very much either. Nothing could ever matter any more.

Just as she had arrived, for the fourth or fifth time at least that morning, at that conclusion, a heavy drop of rain fell, and, finding its way over the collar of her coat, trickled down her neck. She roused herself with a start and looked round. While she had been wrapped in her gloomy thoughts thick gray clouds had been gathering over the sky, and she saw that if she wanted to escape a thorough wetting she must get under shelter as soon as possible.

Her head ached badly, and, feeling disinclined to walk any distance, she made her way to the gates by which she had entered, and looked for a Charing Cross omnibus.

Every one that passed, however, was crowded inside, and after hesitating for a little while she retraced her steps to Piccadilly. The rain was now coming down steadily, and was becoming heavier every moment. She had no umbrella, and was wearing her best hat, and though at any other time these two facts combined would have been a source of the very gravest concern, they did not now trouble her in the least.

Apparently every person in the Circus wanted to get a Westminster bus, for no sooner did one draw up than a crowd jostled and pushed round the step, and, foreseeing that when she succeeded in getting a seat in one she would be packed so tightly that to get at her pocket would be a difficult matter, she prepared to take out her purse beforehand. A search in her pockets, however, revealed the unpleasant fact that she was without it, and then she remembered that it had been lying on her dressing-table as she was putting on her things, and that she had intended to take it up at the last moment.

There was nothing for it, then, but to walk, and congratulating herself that she had at least discovered her penniless condition before getting into an omnibus and not afterwards, she started. It was a matter of surprise to her to find how completely indifferent she was to the ruin of her best hat. Never before had she been out in such heavy, pelting rain. It came down with such force that each drop splashed up nearly half a foot high from the pavement, and wet her boots through and through, while passing cabs and omnibuses covered her skirts with mud.

Somehow it did not occur to her that she might have taken a cab and told the driver to wait while she fetched him his fare, and so she walked all the way, becoming more draggled, more dejected, and more weary with every step she took. However, the longest walk comes to an end at last, and, dripping little pools of water from her soaking skirts, she slowly climbed the stone stairs until she reached their landing.

Then, with fingers so stiff and cold that for a moment they refused to do her bidding, she fumbled with the latch-key and entered.

Silence reigned within, and, thinking that neither Helen nor Barbara would be back at that hour, she went into the kitchen, intending to warm her frozen hands before attempting to take off her things.

But the fire was out, and hoping that the one in the sitting-room might be alight, she made her way there. To her surprise, Helen, enveloped in shawls, was seated at the table with an open book before her. A great rush of thankfulness came over Nance as she caught sight of Helen. It would be a relief after that long interval of silence to pour out her troubles even to an ear so little sympathetic as Helen’s. She would sit down by the fire, thaw her fingers, and tell Helen how miserable she was.

“Oh, Helen,” she began at once, in a voice that trembled piteously, “I am so unhappy, and—and so wet!”

“Good gracious, Nance,” Helen said, raising her head with a start, “I never heard you come in! You seem dreadfully wet. Go and change.”

“I must get a little warm first,” Nance said, “my fingers are numb. I couldn’t even untie my boot-laces yet.”

“The fire is out,” Helen said; “it was out when I came in, and I have been far too busy to light it. Congratulate me, Nance. I have sold a drawing, and got a commission.”

“And I,” said Nance, in a dull, dazed way, “have found out that I have been making a mistake all along. Signor Rannini says that I shall never, never sing.”

“Signor Rannini! Is that your master?” Helen said. “Oh no!” as Nance made a gesture of dissent; “I remember, he is the man that Madame Salvicini said you were to go and see. And so he says that you will never be a great singer? Well, you know, I could have told you that myself, only you would not have believed me.”

Nance wanted sympathy more badly than she had ever wanted it before in the whole course of her life, and though she was well aware that Helen was not the right person to come to for it, still she thought that the announcement that her dearest hopes had been dashed to the ground would have elicited more compassion than a sort of “I told you so” remark.

To do her justice, Helen was too much absorbed in her own concerns to notice how unhappy Nance looked, nor did she quite understand what a tremendous influence this unfavourable verdict of Signor Rannini’s would have upon her life.

And, meanwhile, she was impatient to get back to her book, on the open page of which she still kept a finger.

“Hadn’t you better go and change, Nance?” she said. “You are literally soaking wet, and you will spoil the carpet if you stand there much longer.” Then, unable to keep her eyes any longer off the page, she removed her finger and began to read.

For a second or two Nance stood looking at her, moved by a strong impulse to rush forward, and, flinging her arms round Helen’s neck, to try again and get the sympathy of which she stood so sorely in need. Oh, if it had only been Cecil or Barbara! They would not have met the news that her whole life was spoiled with the remark that she was spoiling the carpet! With a swelling heart she turned away, and, leaving Helen to her studies, went into her bedroom. The water was squelching in her sodden boots, it really was time that she took them off. But her head throbbed, painfully, it hurt her to stoop, and the boot-laces would not come untied. Tears filled her eyes, overflowed, and blinded her sight. She looked round for a pair of scissors or a knife to cut those obstinate knots, but could find neither. Little streams of water trickled from her wreck of a hat. She took it off, made a final effort to unpick the knots of her boot-laces with the pins, but failed again. Oh, if only Helen would come to her assistance! Her fingers were so cold that she could not even undo the buttons of her coat. Then suddenly she burst out crying, and flinging herself down, all wet as she was, upon her bed, cried herself into a deep, sound sleep.

While Nance slept and Helen read, the rain continued to fall, and the ceaseless patter on the roof and against the window-panes were the only sounds that broke the silence in No. 10 St. Christopher’s Mansions that afternoon. About five o’clock Cecil returned, and her first thought and her first question on entering the sitting-room, and perceiving that Helen was its sole occupant, were of Nance.

“Where is she?” she exclaimed. “Oh, Helen, I am so glad to find you here! I was afraid that as it turned out such a wet day you would not come back, but would spend the day at the National Gallery. Has she,” lowering her voice, “been very miserable all day, or do you think that she is getting over it at all?”

“Getting over what?” Helen asked. “What has Nance to get over? Oh, of course, I remember, something that Signor Rannini said to her! No, I don’t know where she is. She was so dreadfully wet that I advised her to go and change at once, and I haven’t seen her since then. That was about two. Why,” glancing at the clock, “it is never five already! How the afternoon has flown! You never asked me how I got on. Allow me, please, to show you my very first earnings.” And Helen shook two sovereigns and two shillings from her purse into her palm, and held out her hand with an air of pride. “And not only that, but Jameson the art publisher has told me that if I care to submit drawings for Grimm’s Tales, he will take them into his consideration. He is bringing out an illustrated edition. Just fancy, Cecil, if I got the commission! Wouldn’t it be splendid? He—”

“You shall tell me the rest afterwards,” said Cecil, into whose face a look of anxiety had come. “I congratulate you with all my heart, Helen dear, but I must see after Nance now.”

And regardless of Helen’s offended expression she hastily quitted the room, and, going into Nance’s bedroom, saw her stretched in her wet things upon her bed.

The cry of horror and dismay which Cecil gave brought Helen across the passage, and her look of consternation when she saw the figure on the bed matched Cecil’s.

“She must have been lying here ever since two o’clock!” she exclaimed. “What a silly, idiotic thing to do! I should never have thought that even she would have done quite such a stupid thing as this. Wake up, Nance!”

“Don’t scold her now,” Cecil said sharply. Her indignation against Helen was so strong that she could scarcely trust herself to speak to her.

At that moment Nance, roused by their voices, opened her eyes and gazed at them in a dazed way.

“What is the matter?” she said, only half-awake. “Oh, I remember! I could not untie my boot-laces, and so I lay down. Have I been asleep long? Oh, I am cold!”

“I should think you were,” said Cecil, who was already on her knees beside the bed taking off Nance’s boots. “You have been lying in your wet clothes for nearly three hours. I am going to put you to bed at once.”

“To bed!” Nance echoed. “Why, I haven’t had any dinner; but I am not hungry, though. My head aches rather. Oh yes,” putting her hand to her forehead, “it does ache badly!”

She gave another shiver, and Cecil, glancing up at her as she cut the knot of the second bootlace, felt terribly uneasy. Nance was by no means strong, and the consequences of such an act of imprudence as this might be serious.

“Go and light a fire, Helen,” she said, “and put on a kettle. Nance must have a hot-water bottle at her feet. They are like ice.”

In less than five minutes Cecil had Nance tucked up in Helen’s bed; her own was so damp that the counterpane, the blankets, and even the sheets would have to be dried before they were fit for use; and as soon as the water boiled she literally surrounded her with hot-water bottles.

But still Nance continued to shiver, and though she did not complain, Cecil saw that her head was giving her great pain. A cup of tea as hot as she could swallow it, however, brought a little relief, and after she had taken it she dropped off to sleep.

Helen had done everything she was told to do quickly, and had rendered every assistance in her power, but in spite of that Cecil’s anger against her had not abated in the least.

But as reproaches were useless now, she made none, and Helen remained in total ignorance that any blame could possibly be attached to her, until Nance unconsciously opened her eyes.

It had been arranged that she and Cecil should exchange beds that night, and about ten o’clock, as they were each making the few necessary preparations for the exchange, Nance, who was awake, began to apologize for all the trouble she was giving.

“It was perfectly idiotic of me to have lain down in my wet things,” she said, “I know that quite well. I only meant to lie down for a minute or two, but I fell asleep before I knew what was happening. You can’t think what a miserable time I went through after I left you, Cecil, and then, when I got here, I was so glad to see Helen. I did so want her to be nice and say consoling things to me.” Here Nance gave a little laugh at her own folly, and neither she nor Cecil perceived that Helen, who was wearing bedroom slippers, had just noiselessly entered the room. “Fancy expecting soothing remarks from Helen; it just shows what a silly state I was in, doesn’t it? And then to cry because she was too much taken up with her own affairs to have any time to spare for mine! But, Cecil, supposing that you were telling a person that you had just heard that you could never have what you wanted most, and all that person said was that you were spoiling the carpet, wouldn’t you feel unhappy? So, though I know I have been dreadfully foolish, please don’t be cross with me.”

“I am not cross with you, dear,” Cecil said, “but I am with Helen. It was her duty to have looked after you this afternoon, and to have seen that you changed your things and got something to eat. If anyone had told me that she would have allowed you to lie here alone all through the afternoon, knowing, too, that you were in trouble, I simply would not have believed them.”

“It was not Helen’s fault,” Nance said, “not one bit. If it had been you, or Babs, it would have been different. But Helen never does let anything interfere with her work. If she had known that I was lying here in my wet things she would have come and roused me up, but she just forgot all about me.”

“That’s just it,” Helen said, coming suddenly forward with a pale set face and knitted brows. “I forgot all about you.” She paused, and looked from one of her sisters to the other. “I have heard everything that you have been saying,” she continued abruptly; “and listeners, you know, never do hear any good of themselves, do they? Cecil is right, and you are wrong, Nance. It was my duty to have looked after you. I am sorry that I did not do so.”

“Please don’t,” Nance began, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “Really I ought not to have—”

“Don’t say again that you ought not to have expected sympathy from me,” Helen said, interrupting her; “that is harder to bear than if you scolded me. Good-night! Be sure you call me if you want anything in the night, Cecil,” she added as she left the room.

The next morning, after having passed a feverish, restless night, during which neither she nor Cecil had slept much, Nance awoke with a heavy cold; and despite all Cecil’s efforts, this cold settled on Nance’s chest and turned into a bad cough. Then Cecil, knowing how delicate Nance’s chest was, called in the services of Dr. Framley, a hard-working general practitioner who was well known and greatly esteemed in the district. He sounded her lungs, looked grave, and gave her strict orders not to stir out of doors until he gave her permission.

But Nance had no wish at all to go out, and as soon as she was allowed to leave her bed she got into a way of sitting crouched over the fire in the sitting-room, too listless and dispirited to work or to read, or even to talk; and her cough, a short, dry, hacking cough, seemed to become worse instead of better.

All her sisters had done their share of nursing her, but by far the greater part had been undertaken by Helen; and though the Art School had re-opened the day after Nance had paid her ill-starred visit to Signor Rannini, she had not yet attended it. It was only right, she said, that she should be there to stay with Nance, who could not, in her present condition, be left alone all day in the flat; and Cecil agreed with her, especially as she knew that it would be a simple impossibility for her to get a prolonged leave of absence from the shop.

So Helen was constituted chief nurse, and if it was a sacrifice for her to give up her beloved work, she was careful not to let the fact appear, but devoted herself to Nance in a way that a short time back Cecil would not have believed possible.

But during the past few days a great change had taken place in Helen. She could not forget that she was very greatly to blame in the matter of Nance’s illness, and the burden of self-reproach that she carried about with her was very heavy. Nance, however, blamed no one but herself for all the trouble and distress that she had brought upon her sisters.

“It was simply an idiotic thing for me to have done,” she said one evening about a fortnight later, when she and Helen were sitting together alone in the firelight; “and the worst of it is, that I am not the only sufferer. All the medicine and beef-tea and stuff that I am made to take must be costing no end, and here I sit doing nothing, when I ought to be out working for my living like you others. I don’t believe it would hurt me at all to go out and look for a situation of some sort. My cough is ever so much better, and I ought not to be pampered any longer.”

But at that point Nance sank back and gave way to a violent fit of coughing, and Helen was in the act of rising to give her some medicine, when the outer door was heard to open, and the next moment Cecil, followed by Mrs. Carr-Davison, entered the room.

“My dear Nance,” the latter exclaimed immediately, in a voice of real concern, “what a dreadful cough!” She came forward as she spoke, unwinding a long silk muffler that was carefully wrapped about her throat. “I have only just heard from Cecil how very ill you have been. I have been laid up myself with a very bad attack of bronchitis, and, to tell you the truth, I was a little hurt that you did not come and see me.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Nance said, returning her kiss affectionately. “Helen and I were only talking about you the other day, and I said that you must have gone off to the Riviera or somewhere. I would have gone and seen you if I had known that you were ill—that is to say,” she added with a little laugh, “if I could have escaped the vigilance of the dragons that guard me.”

“Dragons are very nice things sometimes,” Mrs. Carr-Davison said, noting with a little sigh the affectionate glance at her sisters with which Nance accompanied her words. “If I had had one to look after me, I should not have gone out in a thick fog, and so laid myself up. But I am off to Switzerland in two days’ time, and I expect the air of St. Moritz to do wonders for me. Listen! is not someone knocking at your door?”

“It is the doctor, I expect,” Cecil said, rising. “I met him this morning, and asked him to come in this evening. He told me that he had a prescription to give Nance, which, if she would take it, would make her completely well again.”

“It’s sure to be something unusually nasty,” Nance said with a slight grimace. “All his prescriptions are.”

“On the contrary, Miss Nance,” the doctor said, entering the room in time to overhear his ungrateful patient’s remark,—he bowed slightly to Mrs. Carr-Davison, and, sitting down by Nance, laid his fingers on her pulse,—“it is something very nice. I am going to order you out of these nasty fogs to the pure, clear atmosphere of Switzerland. I want you, in fact, to go to St. Moritz.”

“To St. Moritz!” Nance exclaimed. “How funny! Mrs. Carr-Davison has just told us that she is going there. But it’s rather different for me,” she added in an amused tone. “You might just as well order me to the moon!”

“To St. Moritz!” Cecil exclaimed. “Oh, Dr. Framley, is Nance as ill as all that?”

“Come, come, my dear young lady,” he replied a little testily, “there is no need for you to look so upset. Your sister is very delicate, but so far there is no serious mischief. But I think it right to tell you that this cough has undoubtedly affected one of her lungs, and that the sooner she gets out of the impure atmosphere of London the better.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Mrs. Carr-Davison, who had been listening attentively, and into whose face the light of a sudden purpose had sprung; “and if these girls will trust their sister to me, she shall start with me for St. Moritz the day after to-morrow.”

“But—the—the money!” Cecil faltered, with a sudden feeling of helplessness quite new to her. The doctor’s ominous words seemed for the time being to have deprived her of all power of connected thought.

“I will pay!” Helen exclaimed. “Nance shall have my share of the money, and I will find some work like Cecil has found to do, and give up drawing at present and support myself. It is only right that I should be the one to do this for Nance.”

“I shouldn’t dream of taking your money,” Nance said quickly; “so don’t think it, Helen. Now, be nice, Dr. Framley,” she added, turning coaxingly to him, “and tell them that I shall be all right again when the spring comes.”

“Now, my dears, if you have quite done talking nonsense, perhaps you will allow me to finish what I had to say,” Mrs. Carr-Davison said. “Nance is coming with me as my daughter, and I shall be only too glad to have her. I should indeed be a selfish old woman if I were to go off myself in search of health and leave her behind. Now, I will not hear another word on the subject from any one of you.”

But in spite of that declaration Mrs. Carr-Davison found that she had to listen to a great many more words before she carried her point.

Not that the girls were not all most grateful to her, but what with Cecil protesting that they ought not to accept such generosity at her hands, and Helen declaring that she would renounce her training in order that she might herself pay for Nance, and Nance assuring everybody between her fits of coughing that she was quite well, and that the mere idea of her being ordered abroad was all nonsense, there was really a great deal of discussion to be gone through.

In the midst of it all Dr. Framley rose and held out his hand to Mrs. Carr-Davison. “If you will permit me to say so,” he said, “I am very much obliged to you. All my patients are not so fortunate in having kind friends who offer to carry out my prescriptions for me. Do not listen to what these headstrong, proud young ladies say, but take Miss Nance with you. The sooner she is out of this climate the better, and by the spring she will be as well as ever again. Now, Miss Whittington,” he added to Cecil, who had followed him out into the passage, “I repeat to you that there is no cause whatever for alarm at present. Her right lung is very slightly affected, but we are taking it in time, and a few months at St. Moritz will completely cure her. You say you cannot afford to send her yourself. Well, do not let pride stand in the way of your accepting that good lady’s offer. I shall come in again this evening just to be assured that it is all arranged.”

And it was all arranged, and that in less than two minutes after the doctor had taken his departure.

“How can we ever thank you properly, Mrs. Carr-Davison?” Cecil said. “Helen, say something, for I really can’t.”

Neither could Helen. But Mrs. Carr-Davison seemed to understand, and she beamed round upon them all in a way that meant that their affairs would now quickly come right, as she had taken them under her protection. “After all,” she thought, “this is only what I foresaw from the beginning; and I am glad that it is no worse, and that it is only one, and the one that I like best, that I have to take with me.”

Aloud she said: “As I have already told you, there is no need for you to thank me. Nance is not the only gainer by the arrangement. I like Nance, and shall be honestly glad of her company; and though I know you are all surprised beyond measure at my having offered to take her”—here Helen and Cecil experienced guilty twinges—“it was not mere impulsiveness on my part. I could not, indeed I could not, reconcile it to my conscience to go off and cure myself and leave her behind to get worse.”

“You are a brick, Mrs. Carr-Davison!” Barbara exclaimed. “A regular trump, a fairy godmother!”

Mrs. Carr-Davison began by looking horrified at Barbara’s slang, but ended by looking gratified with the sentiments they expressed. She could not help feeling that she was doing a generous thing, and that Godfrey would be pleased when he heard of it.

Nance had as yet said nothing, and nobody had seemed to expect that she should say anything. Her affairs were all being settled for her, and while her sisters expressed their thanks, and Mrs. Carr-Davison replied complacently, she looked dreamily round the cosy little sitting-room. It seemed cosy now, seen in the light of the leaping fire, with her sisters round her and the tea-table drawn close beside her. It had not, however, struck her as being so pleasant during the many weary hours that she had lain there of late, too tired to read, too dispirited even to dream away the time. But that she had already forgotten. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. She felt that she could not bear to leave her sisters, to go away from them at such short notice, and for the first time in her life.

But then came another thought. Was it not her duty to get well as soon as possible? She had no right to become a burden to them. So she bravely winked back her tears, and when at last an opportunity was accorded to her, she thanked Mrs. Carr-Davison for her kindness in the gentle, graceful manner which had first won that lady’s liking.

Perhaps Mrs. Carr-Davison had noticed the wistful glance which Nance had cast round the familiar room; at any rate she seemed to divine the thoughts which Nance had left unspoken, for she launched forth into a glowing description of the delights that awaited Nance at St. Moritz.

The sun shone all day long out of a cloudlessly blue sky. The scenery, which consisted principally of dazzlingly white snow mountains, was magnificent. Nance strove to look interested, and resolutely kept her eyes from wandering round the snug little sitting-room and out on to the dingy wet roofs opposite. In her heart she was thinking that no scenery, however grand, could compensate her for the loss of that.

“Then, as for amusements,” Mrs. Carr-Davison pursued, “they are to be had in plenty: sleighing, tobogganing, skating”—Nance was fond of skating, and her face insensibly brightened—“theatricals, dancing”—Nance’s eyes suddenly began to shine, she loved dancing. “In short,” Mrs. Carr-Davison concluded, “St. Moritz has the name of being a most enjoyable place.”

If one-half of that description should prove correct there could be no doubt but that Nance would enjoy herself; and when she reflected that she would, in addition, be getting health and strength to enable her to work on her return, she felt that she would be a most ungrateful girl if she were to regret going. And yet, to leave her sisters would be a terrible wrench. But after all it would only be for two or three months at most, and then she would be home again and on the look-out for employment as a type-writer or a post-office young woman. At this point Mrs. Carr-Davison’s voice suddenly broke in upon her reflections.

“Now I am sure you have talked enough,” she said, seemingly unaware of the fact that Nance had hardly been allowed to say a word. “And I know that I have. There is only one thing more I wish to mention, and that is your wardrobe. What clothes have you?”

“Oh, I think she has enough!” Cecil said quickly, feeling that they had already accepted more than they ought from Mrs. Carr-Davison. “We will look over her things to-night and see if she wants anything else.”

“She is sure to want a great many more things,” Mrs. Carr-Davison rejoined. “Now, Cecil, don’t be foolish. If Nance is to be my daughter for the next three months, I may surely claim the privilege of dressing her. Barbara called me a fairy godmother just now. Who ever heard of a fairy godmother worthy of her name who did not present her goddaughter with fairy clothes? So you really must let me have my way in this.”

After that Cecil had no more to say. If it was true that they had accepted as much from their sister’s mother-in-law as they ought, it was also true that they had accepted too much to refuse a little more.

And then it could not be denied that Nance’s wardrobe did need replenishing. Clothes that were sufficient for a workaday girl living in a flat in London would look sadly out of place on even a temporarily adopted daughter of Mrs. Carr-Davison’s.

“You must come out shopping with me to-morrow, whether the doctor likes it or whether he doesn’t,” Mrs. Carr-Davison said. “I shall call for you about ten o’clock, and we will go straight to the Army and Navy and get everything that you may require.”

And in this too Mrs. Carr-Davison had her way, and on the morrow Nance became the owner of more smart frocks and many other things, both pretty and useful, than she had ever before possessed in her life.

And on the day after that, for the first time in her life she was parted from her sisters.

It had been arranged that only Helen and Cecil should accompany her to the station, and that Barbara was to go to school as usual; and though as her youngest sister gave her a farewell hug she joked and laughed and uttered any nonsense that came into her head, both pairs of eyes were very wet when at last Barbara unwound her arms and darted out of the room.

A thick black fog hung over London that morning, and consequently, although they had allowed themselves plenty of time, they arrived at Charing Cross only a quarter of an hour before the train started. They found Mrs. Carr-Davison roaming up and down the platform in a perfect fever of anxiety lest Nance should be late, and directly she caught sight of the three girls she hurried towards them, and pouncing upon Nance drew her towards the first-class carriage in which seats had been reserved for them both.

However, the lateness of their arrival, if it had fidgeted Mrs. Carr-Davison, had at least one good result. It shortened the last painful moments of farewell to such an extent, that by the time Nance’s luggage had been registered and her ticket stamped the moment had really come for the last good-byes.

“Take care of yourself, and be sure and write as often as you can,” were Cecil’s not very original parting words.

“I will, oh, I will!” Nance cried; “and be sure you give my love to Barbara.”

Then the bell rang, the guard blew his whistle, and before any of them realized that the last moment had not only come but gone as well, the train began to move slowly out of the station, and while Helen and Cecil waved on the platform, and Nance waved from the window, she was carried out of their sight.

“And if it had not been for my wicked selfishness she need never have gone,” Helen said, when she and Cecil had walked the length of the platform in silence. “I can never forgive myself, never!”

Cecil was so startled by the fierce energy with which Helen spoke, that the uncomfortable choking feeling in her throat which had hitherto prevented her from speaking disappeared as if by magic, and she looked at Helen in dismay. Helen was so reticent where her own feelings were concerned that Cecil never guessed from what constant remorse she suffered, and now she had not even time to comfort her properly. As soon as they got outside the station they must separate; she must go to Regent Street, while Helen must wind her way back alone to the now empty flat. Then a sudden thought struck her. She could at least give Helen advice, which, if followed, would serve to distract her thoughts.

“Go and work, Helen,” she said. “Go back to the School of Art to-day, and work hard.”

“I will,” Helen said. “I had not meant to go back till to-morrow, but I may just as well begin to-day. And after all, I should do Nance no good now by moping alone in the flat.”

And with a parting nod to each other the two sisters went their several ways. Work there was in plenty for all three girls during the weeks that followed. Helen had more than a fortnight’s arrears to make up, and she set herself in her usual grim, determined fashion to make them up.

Helen pays a visit to the Publishers.

But though she had missed a fortnight’s work at the School of Art she had by no means been idle all that time. While she had been sitting with Nance she had been very busy doing a few specimen illustrations for the book of fairy tales which Messrs. Jameson were going to bring out. She had brought all the skill and care of which she was capable to bear upon them; and then one day, with a very ugly dwarf and a very pretty fairy packed in her portfolio, had paid another visit to the publishers.

But the art editor had shaken his head over her attempts.

“They are good,” he had said, “but not nearly good enough for us. Now, if you will allow me, I will give you a piece of advice. You told me when you came here the other day that you were a student at a school of art in Westminster. Well, stick to your studio work, and don’t be tempted by the hope of earning a few stray guineas to waste your time in trying to sell things yet. These show a certain amount of originality, and a very great idea of what I may call the pretty pretty style of thing. But if you hope to go further you must study hard for some years. Then come and see me again, and I may have work to give you.”

Those encouraging words went a very long way towards compensating Helen for the very natural disappointment she felt at having her drawings refused, and she wisely resolved to act upon the advice that had been given her.

Barbara’s example of hard, steady work had been followed by the rest of the form, and the fourth was in a fair way of losing its name of being the idlest form in the school, and she had to work hard to keep the now greatly coveted top place.

And Cecil worked harder than both, for it was about this time that, in addition to her own work, she began to do the greater part of Miss Pinney’s. Since Christmas Miss Pinney had been far from well; the long, foggy winter was trying her severely, and Cecil noticed that a fog of unusual thickness was nearly certain to give her a terrible headache. That was bad enough, but after a while Cecil discovered that her headaches arose from the fact that her eyes were becoming weak. The fogs not only irritated them, but caused her to strain them unduly, and by continuing to use them when they pained her she was doing them serious injury. As soon as Cecil found that out she did all that lay in her power to persuade Miss Pinney to take a few days’ rest, but without success. Then Cecil threatened, only half-seriously, to tell Madame Marcelline that she needed a holiday, but the threat threw the poor lady into such distress that Cecil was glad to relieve her mind by promising not to do anything of the sort.

And what she did instead was to work hard early and late to save Miss Pinney in every way she could.

But in spite of the distraction which their work gave them they missed Nance very much, and it was a long time before they could reconcile themselves to her absence. Cecil’s mind, too, was haunted by a vision of Nance as they had last seen her, as with streaming eyes she leant out of carriage and waved a frantic farewell.

Supposing she was still as unhappy as she had been at that moment. Perhaps Mrs. Carr-Davison had already wearied of her, and was making her feel that she was a dependent upon her kindness. Nance’s first letters did nothing to dispel this fear. There was no mention of Mrs. Carr-Davison’s unkindness, it was true, but they were blotted, tear-stained epistles, breathing home-sickness in every line.

Cecil read them with an aching heart, and felt sad for hours afterwards. And yet at the same time she could not but be glad that Nance was out of London. For, commencing from the day of her departure, a period of unusually bad weather even for that time of the year had set in.

For weeks and weeks they never saw the sun; rain fell persistently, the cold was piercing, and fogs were frequent.

Gradually the tone of Nance’s letters began to alter, until one day, about a fortnight after she had left, they received a letter which told them that they need no longer fear that she was unhappy.

She said that she was having a perfectly lovely time, and that she was enjoying herself more than she had ever enjoyed herself in all her life before.

Mrs. Carr-Davison is as kind as possible, she wrote, and takes great care of me. The doctor says that I shall be as well as anything by the spring, but that I must not dream of coming back to England until the end of May. Of course that is all nonsense, for I must come home and set to work at something or other. But I am afraid that I like idling best, and always shall. But oh! it does seem mean that I should be enjoying myself here, while you, poor things, are slaving away in dingy, grimy old London. And the sun is so hot that you need a parasol. Fancy parasols in February! We have such lovely rooms facing south, with balconies, but I don’t sit on them much, for I like to be out all day long skating and tobogganing. I know Barbara would like that. Tell her that they play that dreadful game hockey, that she is so fond of, on the ice. Some of the people here are so nice, and we have such gay times in the evenings! Everyone says, though, that the gayest time is over, and that nearly all the men have gone; but there are plenty left to dance with still. There is going to be a big ball to-morrow night, and I am going to wear my white satin. You can’t think how smart I look in it. Oh, dear, how I wish you were all here! Mrs. Carr-Davison says that she won’t hear of my disobeying the doctor and going back to England one day before he tells me that I may, and that in any case it would never do for me to come straight home from here. She talks of stopping at Montreux on the way. Oh, I am a lucky, lucky girl! but don’t think that I am getting spoilt or lazy, for I am not. I mean to work terrifically hard when I do come home.

Cecil heaved a sigh of relief as she finished reading this aloud. It would be obviously absurd to pity Nance any longer.

“What a dissipated person she is becoming!” Barbara said gaily. “You mark my words, Cecil, as I said long ago, Mrs. Carr-Davison will end by adopting that frivolous sister of ours, and she will be turned from a working bee into a gay butterfly.”

The other two girls laughed a little. Tea had just been cleared away, and they had been gathered round the table absorbed in their various occupations, when the postman’s knock had sent Barbara flying from the room, to return with Nance’s letter.

“Do you know,” Helen said thoughtfully, “that I should not be a bit surprised if what Barbara says should prove true, that Mrs. Carr-Davison should adopt, or at any rate want to adopt, Nance altogether. And I think that it would be a very good thing.”

“Do you really mean that?” Cecil exclaimed. “I should have thought that you would have been the very last person in the world to have said such a thing.”

“So I should once,” Helen said in the same thoughtful tone; “and though I would not give up my own independence for all the Mrs. Carr-Davisons in the world, it is different for Nance, somehow. When she was ill I got to think more about her than I had ever thought before, and I believe now that she was never meant to work as we are. It was all very well when she believed that she would some day be rich and famous, but now that she has no chance of being either she would soon become miserable.”

“Well, Mrs. Carr-Davison has not offered to do anything of the sort yet,” Cecil said. It might be selfish of her, but she felt that she really could not dwell with satisfaction upon the thought that Nance might never come back to them. “And there is something else I wanted to speak to you about this evening, Helen. Would you two mind very much if I sold the china tea-set? I was passing Christie and Manson’s the other day, and, partly out of curiosity, and partly because a sudden shower had come on, I went in and watched a sale. It was rather amusing, and some china candlesticks, made in the same design as our tea-set, fetched ten pounds a pair. They were described in the catalogue as Chelsea. And really, Helen, I believe that our set is Chelsea too.”

“And you want to sell them?” Helen cried in dismay. “Oh, Cecil, you Goth, I love them so!”

“I never could see that they were very pretty,” Cecil said; “those little china flowers are fearfully unnatural. But I believe they are valuable, all the same.”

“Yes, that is what Mrs. Carr-Davison said. I think she called them Chelsea, too, and she advised me to sell them. I was so angry that I hardly answered her.”

“Then you do not want them sold?” Cecil said with a disappointed look; “you would rather we kept them.”

“Much rather,” Helen said decidedly; “but beggars, you know, can’t be choosers. If you think it right that they should be sold, by all means sell them. Are the accounts running ahead again?”

“They are, and to the tune of ten or twelve pounds,” Cecil said, with a worried pucker between her eyebrows. “Nance’s illness is responsible for it.”

Helen winced, and when it was too late Cecil wished her last remark unsaid. Any allusion to the consequences which Nance’s illness had brought about was sure to cause a fresh pang of remorse to shoot through Helen; but as she rarely made any allusion to her feelings, and very much disliked anyone else to do so, Cecil thought it wiser to make no attempt to qualify her words.

Besides, it was unfortunately the case that Nance’s illness had cost them a great deal of money. Dr. Framley’s bill was, it is true, so much less than they had expected that Cecil feared that Nance’s frank declaration of their poverty was to be held accountable for that. But, on the other hand, the chemist’s bill was a big one, and the different nourishing things which they had been obliged to get for her had also run away with a good deal of money.

So that, in one way and another, that fit of despair which had led Nance to fling herself, clad in her dripping wet things upon her bed, had made a difference of ten or twelve pounds in Cecil’s carefully-kept accounts. And if by selling the tea-set she could make up half of this alarming deficiency, she might be able to save the remaining half out of the housekeeping money. So it was decided that the china should be sold, and, as if afraid that Helen might withdraw her reluctant consent, Cecil went to Christie’s the very next day. The quaint-looking tea-set disappeared from the sideboard, and in due course she received an intimation to the effect that the tea-set of old Chelsea would be put up to auction on the following Wednesday, and might be viewed on the two preceding days.

Partly owing to the fact that it was Lent, and partly because of the continued bad weather, business at Madame Marcelline’s was by no means as brisk as usual, and on the eventful Wednesday Cecil had no difficulty in obtaining a couple of hours’ leave of absence.

“I hope, my dear,” Miss Pinney said, as Cecil was putting on her gloves, “that your china will fetch a good price. I know nothing of such things myself, but one hears nowadays of fabulous sums being paid for china, and yours may bring you in a small fortune.”

“Oh, it won’t do that!” Cecil said, laughing. “In fact, I am quaking lest it should not be sold at all, and I do so want some money.”

Miss Pinney heaved a short, quick sigh. She too needed money, and she knew that she was even poorer than Cecil. For she had neither health nor youth in her favour, and during the past few days she had no longer been able to disguise from herself the dreadful truth that her eyesight was rapidly failing her. Long before she had owned even to herself that to thread a needle was becoming a task of increasing difficulty, needles threaded with just the right shade of silk or cotton that she required were at hand, and if they were doing any particular piece of work together, Cecil had, as a matter of course, and without making any remark, taken the part which required the closest application. But this state of things could not continue for ever. Sooner or later she must tell Madame Marcelline. She would be obliged to resign her situation, and what was to become of her then she did not know. She had calculated upon being able to work for another ten years, at the end of which time she would have saved enough money to buy a comfortable annuity; but if she retired now, a life of genteel pauperism was all she had to expect.

The sale began at one o’clock, but as the Chelsea tea-set was set down in the catalogue as Lot 140, and as the auctioneer was only in the 20’s when Cecil arrived, she saw that she would have to wait some time before the fate of her property was decided. She noted with satisfaction that the room was well filled, and she thought that if only half the people present made a bid for Lot 140, it ought to fetch quite what she hoped it would.

The auctioneer’s desk stood at the head of two long baize-covered tables which ran down the middle of the room. Between these tables there was a narrow space, up and down which the auctioneer’s assistants patrolled, handing the lots that were next to be put up to anyone who wished to inspect them. When she first entered, Cecil had been impatient for the time to come when her own lot would be put up, but she soon grew interested in what was going on at the moment, and seating herself a little way back from the foot of the tables, in an arm-chair upholstered in once-gorgeous yellow damask satin which belonged to a suite of furniture presently to be sold, she watched the bidding.

The collection that occupied the first part of the catalogue was one that had been made by a late minister to Persia, and consisted for the most part of Persian pottery and porcelain. The prices that the different articles fetched varied, in what was to Cecil’s uninitiated mind a most incomprehensible way. One lot, described in the catalogue as a small jar with a landscape in blue in the Chinese taste, was knocked down for nineteen pounds, while another, to all appearance its facsimile, realized only two pounds ten shillings. A pair of complete tiles went for twenty-five pounds, while a fragment of another was bought for over fifty.

To the left of the auctioneer’s desk stood a group of men, chiefly Jews, and it was they who, with silent, almost imperceptible nods, were doing most of the bidding. And Cecil noticed that when any one of this group joined in the bidding the prices ran high, but that when, with a slight shake of the head, they declined to bestow as much as a cursory glance on any article, it was nearly certain to be knocked down for a comparatively small sum.

The auctioneer was a quiet, impassive man. He scarcely spoke, except to repeat the bids, but his eyes seemed to be everywhere at once, and he never made a mistake or overlooked a nod.

There was very little excitement among the bidders. One young Jew in particular, a pale-faced youth with black eyes and hair, did his bidding with an air of supreme indifference as to the result. He was evidently an authority among his brethren, for once, when a fat, black-bearded man excitedly joined in the bidding for a bowl that was being handed round, the young Jew touched him on the arm, and taking the bowl from the assistant tapped it lightly with his pencil, and whispered a remark which stopped the other from giving another bid. And the bowl fetched only a small sum.

At last the Persian collection came to an end, and the auctioneer began at once upon one of old Nankin. None of the Jews took part in this, and as soon as the last item of the Persian collection had been knocked down to one of their number they broke into twos and threes, and strolled round the room talking among themselves.

Two of them, the black-bearded man and the pale-faced youth, paused behind Cecil’s chair.

She overheard the former say: “She’s not here yet.”

“No,” rejoined the younger of the two, “but she’ll come later on. She never missed a bit of Chelsea yet.”

“Then there’s no chance for you, Moss.”

“Oh, isn’t there? You wait and see. If the old lady is not in one of her maddest moods, I’ll get it all right. I’ve settled the figure to which I’ll go, and I won’t budge a five-pound note beyond it.”

“What is your figure?”

Cecil could not catch the reply, but Moss must either have whispered it or conveyed it by signs, for his companion uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“All that!” he said. “Phew, Moss! And you won’t mind if you’re left?”

“No; the lot is worth it to me, though I don’t say that it would be to you, or to many others of that crowd who were standing in with us just now.”

“Oh, you may make your mind easy as far as I am concerned! I have no intention of bidding against you. You have too level a head, and too long a purse.”

“Hullo, Moss!” exclaimed a third man, joining them. “Waiting for the old Chelsea, I suppose. Think the old lady will be here to-day?”

“Probably.”

“How will the bidding be?”

“Brisk, I dare say.”

“Nathan means to bid. He was talking about it just now. He wants to get the lot split up.”

“It’ll have to go together,” Moss said sharply, dropping the indifferent tone he had assumed in speaking to the third man.

Then the three moved away together, and Cecil, following them with her eyes, saw them go round to the long table behind the auctioneer’s desk, on which stood the lots yet to be disposed of. Their conversation had filled her with excitement, and while she listened to it she had hastily searched the catalogue, and found to her satisfaction that Lot 140 was the only old Chelsea that was to be sold that afternoon. Then it must, of course, be their china tea-set that these men were discussing. In that case she need no longer fear that it would receive no bids; the young Jew for one was evidently prepared to bid up to a certain price. What that price was she could not guess, but from the exclamation of the older man it was probably a large one—thirty, perhaps even forty pounds.

In the meantime the room was gradually filling, and the auctioneer was making his way steadily through the catalogue. His little ivory hammer had just struck the desk and disposed of Lot 120, when there was a slight stir behind her, and, turning her head, Cecil saw a little shabbily-dressed old lady making her way to the top of the long narrow table that stood at the right of the auctioneer’s desk. Curiously enough, the face and figure of this new arrival seemed strangely familiar to Cecil, but where she had seen her before she could not remember.

The two Jews, who had returned to their former place on the left of the desk, glanced at her and then at each other, and Cecil, noting the glances, jumped to the conclusion that, little though her garments justified the belief, the little old lady opposite them was the one of whom they had been speaking—the rival bidder for Lot 140.

As Lot 139 was being sold one of the assistants appeared from behind the desk carrying the baize-lined tray, two or three inches deep, on which the smaller articles were handed round for inspection. On it now stood the Chelsea tea-set, and at the sight of it a slight buzz of excitement arose, and people standing at the back of Cecil’s chair leaned forward to get a closer look at it.

“Silence, please!” said the auctioneer; “Lot 139 is not yet disposed of. Here we have a cylindrical vase, painted with ladies, children, and a crane. Ten shillings has been offered for it. It is worth a great deal more than that.” Moss jerked his chin upwards. “Eleven shillings has been offered,” said the auctioneer, and he looked in the direction from which the first bid had come.

But the man who made it, a gentleman with the appearance of a country squire, who, with his wife, a good-humoured, well-dressed woman, was sitting close to Cecil, had his eyes fixed upon the tea-set, and it was not until the hammer came down with a sharp tap upon the desk that he realized that an advance had been made upon his bid, and that Lot 139 was sold.

“For eleven shillings!” Cecil heard him mutter to his wife with an annoyed expression on his face. “That Jew fellow has bested me. I was prepared to go to five pounds for it.”

“Now,” said the auctioneer, “we come to Lot 140. It consists of an old Chelsea tea-set, and is a perfectly unique set. There is no reserve upon it. Will somebody please name a starting price?”

A man standing just beneath the desk looked up and put a question in a low voice.

“I think not, Mr. Nathan,” returned the auctioneer. “I had no instructions to sell them separately, and I do not see any reason for doing so unless I have no bid at all for the complete set as it stands.”

“Then I’ll offer twenty pounds,” returned the man quickly.

“Twenty pounds is offered,” said the auctioneer, looking round. A sudden silence had fallen over the room. Every face was turned towards the auctioneer. A thrill of excitement ran through Cecil. She had noticed that when people ceased to stroll about, and talked together in low tones, it was a sign that the bidding was going to run high.

Moss gave his chin a slight upward jerk.

“And five,” said the auctioneer. His keen glance roved over the room and rested on the shabbily-dressed old lady on his right, but she made no sign.

The man who looked like a country squire, but who was in reality a well-known china collector, nodded.

“Thirty,” said the auctioneer; “thirty is offered.”

“A hundred pounds,” said the old lady, and as she spoke, Cecil was again conscious that she had not only seen this old lady before, but had spoken with her.

But the thought merely passed through her mind and was gone instantly.

It was what the old lady bid, not who she was, that occupied her mind. A hundred pounds! Could she be in earnest?

The auctioneer’s face was as impassive as ever. Apparently he saw nothing extraordinary in the sum she had named. He glanced at Moss.

“And five,” he said then. “A hundred and five, and five. A hundred and twenty, and five.” He glanced about the room, picking up bids, and in less than three minutes the china tea-set stood at a hundred and seventy-five pounds.

“Two hundred pounds,” said the old lady.

The Jew’s chin gave another jerk.

To an unpractised eye the jerk was similar to the ones he had given before, but the auctioneer read it differently.

“Three hundred pounds,” he said.

“And five,” said the old lady, before the words were well out of his mouth.

“Three hundred and five pounds,” said the auctioneer.

There was a pause. One or two men shook their heads. The man who had made the first bid thrust his hands into his pockets, and, shouldering his way through the crowd, disappeared.

The auctioneer raised his hammer. Moss nodded, a five-pound nod, and the hammer was lowered.

“Three hundred and ten pounds are offered for the Chelsea tea-set.”

“Three hundred and twenty,” said the old lady.

“And five,” said the auctioneer, after a glance at Moss.

“Three hundred and fifty,” she said quickly, and she eyed her sole remaining competitor with a look of triumph. His advances were so small, that she hoped he was approaching his limit.

He allowed the hammer to be raised again before he made a sign.

“Any advance upon three hundred and fifty?” he asked.

“Four hundred and fifty pounds,” he said immediately afterwards. He had interpreted aright another sign from the Jew.

“Four hundred and sixty,” said the old lady.

“And five,” said the auctioneer. “Four hundred and sixty-five pounds are offered for Lot 140, an old Chelsea tea-set.”

Cecil sat back on her gorgeous chair with a little gasp.

Were these people all mad? she wondered. There was a gleam in the old lady’s eye which surely denoted eccentricity, but the young Jew was essentially commonplace. He had a shrewd and perfectly sane appearance.

She found herself wishing that he might become the possessor of the china. If he did, she would have no scruple in taking the money; whereas, if the old lady was the purchaser, she would never cease to feel that they had cheated her outrageously.

“Four hundred and sixty-five pounds are offered for Lot 140,” said the auctioneer in his impassive tone; “any further advance?”

“Four hundred and seventy,” said the old lady; and she stripped off a pair of shabby, black cotton gloves and flung them down on the table. Her fingers were sparkling with magnificent rings. It was as if a challenge had been thrown to her opponent.

“And five,” said the auctioneer. The Jew was not to be shaken off.

“Four hundred and eighty,” she said, in a voice that was beginning to tremble.

“And five.”

“Four hundred and ninety.”

“And five.”

“Five hundred,” she cried shrilly. It was her last bid.

“And five,” was the monotonous retort. “Five hundred and five pounds are offered for Lot 140. Any further advance?” He raised the ivory hammer, glanced round sharply, then brought it down with a smart tap upon his desk. Lot 140 was the property of the young Jew dealer.

“Now we come to Lot 141,” said the auctioneer. “It consists of—” But at that point Cecil rose and prepared to leave the room. She longed to go straight home with her wonderful news, but she knew that she must first of all return to Regent Street, and learn if there was any more work to be done that day. It seemed, however, as though many other people were desirous of leaving at the same time, and among them the burly-looking man and his wife who had been seated near her. For a few minutes the press was so great that Cecil was unable to move, and was obliged to come to a stand-still just in front of the couple.

“Yes,” the man was saying, “you are right. It seems a tremendously long price. Moss had set his mind upon having it, I could see that, and though he probably did not intend to go beyond a certain sum, he is such a tricky bidder that she never guessed as much. Look, there she goes now; like a good many more of us, she only looked in to see how Lot 140 went.”

“I beg your pardon,” Cecil said, turning round, “but would you tell me the name of the lady that you are talking about? I mean the one who was bidding just now. I should like to know,” she added, thinking that he looked rather surprised at being addressed by a total stranger, “because the Chelsea set belonged to me.”

But she had another reason. The face of the old lady haunted her. And surely she had either seen or heard of those magnificent diamond and emerald rings before.

“Indeed!” the man said, glancing at her with interest. “Lot 140 was your property! Then, young lady, I may congratulate you on the price it fetched.”

“Thank you,” Cecil said. “I have not yet got over my surprise. At the most I expected ten or twelve pounds for them.”

“A good thing for you that you did not attempt to sell them privately,” he returned. “What a chance dealers and collectors lost when you brought it here! May I ask if you have any more like it? I should be happy to inspect it.”

“I am sorry to say I have not,” she said, smiling at the eagerness with which he spoke.

“And if the young lady had, John,” his wife interposed with a laugh, “she would not be likely now to ask you to take it at your own price.”

“I suppose not,” he returned with a sigh. “But you were asking who that old lady is. She is a very well-known person here; attends every sale, and buys a great deal of old china, especially English. Her name is Parker, I think.”

“Parker!” Cecil repeated thoughtfully, “Parker!” It did not help her in the least, and yet she was sure that she had seen her before.

The little old lady, by avoiding the crush immediately in front of the doorway, had succeeded in getting close to the side of it, and when Cecil’s eyes, with a puzzled gaze of recognition in them, fell upon her again, she was fumbling in her purse and extracting with slow care a couple of pence. Then in a sudden flash Cecil remembered where and when she had seen her before. Those shabby brown-black cotton gloves, with the fingers peeping through at the tips and the diamonds shining through at the bottom, could not be mistaken. They belonged to the little old lady whom she and Miss Marchpoint had rescued from the abusive landlady and put into a Bayswater bus.

Was she, Cecil wondered, foiled in her attempt to spend five hundred pounds on china, going home to count candle-ends and lumps of sugar?

Then, satisfied at having been able to call to mind where she had seen her before, Cecil was about to dismiss all further thought of her from her mind, when the man to whom she had spoken suddenly addressed her again.

“No, no,” he said; “I remember now. The name is not Parker, but Parkes—Mrs. Emily Parkes—that’s it.”

Cecil turned right round and looked at him in blank astonishment.

“Are you quite sure?” she said then in a queer, excited voice.

“Perfectly,” the man answered. “I can’t think how I came to make a mistake at first. I ought to know it very well, many’s the time she’s outbid me.”

But Cecil hardly waited to hear the end of his sentence. A glance had shown her that the old lady had disappeared, and bidding her informant a hasty good-afternoon, she dived through an opening in the doorway and hurried as fast as the crowd would permit down the wide staircase. On no account must she lose sight of Mrs. Emily Parkes until she had found out where she lived. It did not occur to her that she might have ascertained her address at the office, or that, failing to catch sight of her that afternoon, she could persistently attend sales until she met her again.

Those considerations had not time to occur to her. All she could think of was, that she had stumbled in the strangest and most unexpected manner possible upon Miss Pinney’s sister, and that if she lost sight of her now, such an opportunity of bringing the two sisters together might never come again.

So Cecil hurried down the staircase, and, slipping past people with a dexterity that annoyed them, and made them, quite unjustly, feel inclined to accuse her of pushing, she at last reached the street.

It was rapidly growing dark, and though the pavement was crowded with people who had just come out of the auction-room, the little shabbily-dressed figure of Mrs. Emily Parkes was nowhere discernible.

For a moment Cecil stood irresolutely on the edge of the pavement trying to make up her mind which way she should go. Her chance of finding Mrs. Parkes was small enough already, but she knew that if she went in the wrong direction to start with it would be lost altogether.

With many misgivings she was about to turn to her left, when a backward glance over her shoulder revealed to her the little shabbily-dressed figure of which she was in pursuit hurrying away in the opposite direction on the other side of the road.

In a second Cecil was across the road and close behind her. Come what might she was resolved not again to lose sight of her until she had found out where she lived. At first Mrs. Parkes walked so fast that Cecil had difficulty in keeping up with her, but after a while her pace slackened, and it was obvious that she was getting tired. She walked on, however, until she reached Trafalgar Square, and there, on one of the seats facing the entrance to the National Gallery, she sank down with an audible exclamation of relief. Cecil, who had not expected to be brought up so abruptly, and who was following so close behind her that she arrived at one end of the seat precisely as Mrs. Parkes sat down at the other, paused in momentary uncertainty whether to address her now or not.

The matter was decided for her.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Parkes said, speaking in the soft, tremulous tones which Cecil remembered perfectly, “but there is no occasion for you to hesitate about sitting down. The seat is free. There is no charge at all. Had it been otherwise I should not have sat down.”

And this was the lady who had been offering hundreds of pounds for a few cups and saucers! With a mingled feeling of pity and bewilderment Cecil approached a step nearer and seated herself.

“If you know where to look for them,” Mrs. Parkes continued in the same soft, musing voice, “there are a great many things in London that you can enjoy without paying for them. Some people are so heedlessly extravagant that they never consider that. I assure you, my dear, that I have seen people sit down on penny chairs in the park when there are free seats to be had immediately next to them. Perhaps you have noticed that yourself.”

Cecil replied that she had, and racked her brains for a fitting way to begin upon what she had to say.

“Then there are others, oh, a great many, who descend from an omnibus before they arrive at the stage to which they have paid.”

Then Cecil began to understand, and the indignation which she had felt towards Mrs. Emily Parkes slowly died away, and a great pity took its place. She was evidently eccentric to the verge of insanity, and was, of course, not to be held altogether accountable for her actions.

“But perhaps,” she found herself saying mechanically in answer to Mrs. Parkes’ last remark, “they have reached their destination, and so if they did not get out they would only have to walk back again.”

“Better do that than waste their fare. I hope that you agree with me.”

“I certainly agree with you that it is a great pity to waste money,” Cecil said evasively. Then, foreseeing that this subject was unlikely to lead naturally to the one that filled her thoughts, she allowed it to drop, and turning so that the light of the lamp opposite fell full upon her face she said, “I have met you before, Mrs. Parkes, do you not remember me? We were driving down a street near Gower Street, and a woman—a landlady—was being very rude to you. We took you into our hansom, and put you into a Bayswater bus. Do you remember?”

“Certainly. Now that you mention it I recall the incident perfectly. In fact I have often thought of it since. That woman’s impudence so flustered me that I got into the bus at the wrong corner, and had to pay threepence, whereas if I had walked another thirty yards it would only have been a twopenny fare.”

Cecil’s heart sank. Would anything she might say have power to touch the miserly heart of this poor old woman?

“May I tell you a story?” she said.

“A story!” Mrs. Parkes said thoughtfully. “Isn’t it a little late, and isn’t this corner rather cold and draughty for story-telling?”

“But we can sit here as long as we like,” Cecil said eagerly; “and, you know, it is costing us nothing. And my story will only take a few minutes.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Parkes said, nodding her head. “I like stories. For years and years I never read one, for I don’t approve of book-buying. What is the good of a book when it is once read? And I never subscribe to a library, for to pay for the mere loan of a book is absurd. But since the Free Libraries were started I have read a good deal. Your story, my dear.”

“It is about two girls,” Cecil said. Then, because she knew that Mrs. Parkes’ attention would be a difficult thing to hold, she dared waste no time in preliminaries, but began at once to tell the story of Miss Pinney’s life as it had been told to her. She told it at first baldly, without comment of any kind, but as she proceeded, and felt rather than saw that Mrs. Parkes’ eyes were riveted upon her face, she took courage and spoke more eloquently of the hard life that the sister who had not married had led, and how, now no longer young, no longer strong, but almost as poor as she had been years and years ago, she was threatened with blindness and utter poverty. And somewhere in London this other sister was living also alone, but with money enough to enable her to gratify every whim.

“And you say that she does not know or care what becomes of her sister?” Mrs. Parkes questioned.

“She does not know, but I do not know, I cannot believe, that she does not care,” Cecil said. “If those two sisters were to meet again, I believe they would love each other very dearly.”

There was a short silence.

“Why have you told me this story?” Mrs. Parkes said then, uneasily. “Who are you? You remind me of something that I wish to forget.”

“I have told it to you because it is your story,” Cecil said bravely. “Because Miss Pinney is the sister who has worked so hard all her life, and you are the other sister—the rich one.”

Mrs. Parkes uttered a strange little cry, and laid her hand in an agitated manner upon Cecil’s knee.

“My sister Matilda!” she said breathlessly; “do you know what you are saying? You are not Matilda; no, no, it is not possible! You are not like her, and she would be older than I am now.” She passed her hand in a bewildered fashion across her forehead. “I don’t understand,” she said falteringly. “What have you to do with me? Matilda cast me off years and years ago. I can see her eyes now, fierce and contemptuous. They burnt themselves into my brain.”

Her head in its shabby old bonnet drooped until her face was hidden.

“She would not cast you off now,” Cecil said, moving a little nearer, and speaking with infinite gentleness, “she longs to be reconciled. And you, you can make the rest of her life so easy for her. She has worked so hard, and she ought not to work any longer. But if you will come with me now, she will tell you this far better than I can.”

Mrs. Parkes shrank back upon the seat, and waved Cecil’s outstretched hand away.

“No, no,” she said, “she will never forgive me, I do not want to see her.”

“She is not angry with you,” Cecil said, and felt herself quite justified in saying so, for who could be angry with this poor, frail old woman, certainly not the sister who had once loved her so well. “She has not sought you out, for she is poor while you are rich, and she would not seem to want anything from you. Will you come? She is ill and very nearly friendless.”

She held out her hand again, and this time Mrs. Parkes did not refuse to take it. With a strange, bewildered look on her face she rose.

“Yes, I will go and see Matilda,” she said; “it all happened so long ago that I don’t think she can be angry with me still. And you say she is poor and hungry.” Cecil gave a little start, she certainly had not intended to convey the impression that Miss Pinney was actually destitute. “I have plenty of money, I am a very rich woman.” Then with a quick change of manner as Cecil hailed a passing hansom, “Oh, my dear, my dear, what extravagance! An omnibus would have done just as well.”

But Cecil thought differently, she had no intention of allowing the grass to grow beneath her feet, and she was instinctively aware that unless she could put her plan into execution at once the whole matter would fade from Mrs. Parkes’ mind, and she would again forget her sister’s existence as completely as she seemed to have forgotten it during the past thirty years.

During the short drive Mrs. Parkes sat very quiet and still, with a perplexed, troubled look upon her face. Glancing at her once or twice, Cecil could not help wondering whether her thoughts were dwelling upon the coming interview or upon the cab fare.

That, however, Cecil intended to defray herself. If she whisked people against their will into cabs, the least she could do was to do it at her own expense. Besides, she could afford it. Had not their original capital been more than doubled that afternoon? What would Helen and Barbara say when they heard that? She would have a great deal of news to tell them when she got home.

The cab stopped before Madame Marcelline’s door, and with a rush Cecil’s thoughts came back to Miss Pinney.

“Perhaps you had better stay here while I go in and prepare her to see you,” she said hurriedly. “She might not know you at first, and—and I think it would be better.”

Mrs. Parkes nodded placidly, and an anxious look sprang into her eyes.

“Don’t keep the man waiting long,” she said; “remember, he will expect to be paid even though he is standing still.”

Miss Pinney was standing close under a cluster of electric lights with her back towards the door, trying to thread a needle.

She turned as Cecil came in, and the latter uttered a little exclamation of distress when she saw how pale and drawn her face was, and what tired lines there were under her eyes.

“Don’t do that, Miss Pinney,” she said, coming forward quickly; “there is no need for you ever to do a stitch of work again as long as you live.”

“What do you mean, my dear?” Miss Pinney said, forcing a smile to her face. “Have you realized a fortune by your china, and do you intend to keep me in idleness for the future?”

“The china did fetch a large sum,” Cecil replied, “and an elderly lady and a young Jew did most of the bidding. I want to tell you about the lady. She was shabbily dressed, but she had lovely rings on her fingers, diamonds and rubies and emeralds. She must be very fond of emeralds. The Jew finally got the china. I thought I had seen the old lady before, and I asked what her name was. A man told me it was Parker.”

She paused for breath. Miss Pinney’s eyes were fixed in a startled manner upon her face.

“But afterwards, he corrected himself and said it was not quite Parker, but something like it.”

Miss Pinney’s face grew a shade paler, and a look sprang into her eyes which told Cecil that she knew already what the old lady’s right name would prove to be. But without speaking she motioned to Cecil to continue.

“He said her name was Parkes—Mrs. Emily Parkes, and so I thought, no, I knew, that it was your sister. I followed her and spoke to her. I told her that I knew you. Oh, Miss Pinney, she is here, outside, waiting for you to go to her! She is very lonely, and—and, forgive me for saying such a thing about your sister, but she is rather eccentric, and she needs someone to take care of her.”

Still Miss Pinney did not speak, her face was hard and stern.

“She is very lonely,” Cecil said softly, “and she needs someone to take care of her dreadfully.”

Miss Pinney’s face softened, and a yearning look came into her eyes.

Cecil fetched her hat and jacket and helped her to put them on. Then she opened the shop door, and, followed by Miss Pinney, who walked as if she were in a dream, she crossed the pavement.

Mrs. Parkes bent forward eagerly out of the hansom.

“Is that you, Matilda?” she said. “Oh, come quickly! We must not waste any more time, we have wasted too much already!”

“We have indeed, Emily,” Miss Pinney said, taking her outstretched hand, and only Cecil knew that one was thinking of minutes, the other of years, “and you are coming home with me now?”

“No,” said Mrs. Parkes with gentle decision. “You had better come with me, I live within the two miles’ radius, and I know that you are hungry. I have not much. There is a ham, I think, and you shall have half of everything I have.”

A pained, startled look shot across Miss Pinney’s face.

“My poor, poor sister!” she murmured.

She stepped into the hansom. Mrs. Parkes drove her umbrella through the trap-door, gave the driver some directions, and the next moment they were driving at a smart pace up Regent Street, leaving Cecil standing on the pavement half-pleased, half-frightened at the result of her handiwork.

“I wonder what will come of it!” she said to herself. “What a fearfully responsible thing it is to interfere with other people’s lives! I do hope it will turn out well.”

Then she went into the shop, methodically set everything to rights, locked up, and went home.

Barbara and Helen were in the sitting-room hard at work, as they always were at that time. They both looked up, however, as she entered, and Barbara shut her books with a bang and greeted her with a torrent of exclamations and questions.

“Do you know that you are ever so late?” she cried. “We waited tea for you for ages, we thought you would be sure to be home early so as to let us know the result of the sale. We are dying to hear about it. Where on earth have you been all this time? I believe the china either fetched an awful lot of money and you have been on the spree with it, or else it never sold at all and you have been hawking it about the streets in despair.”

“It did sell,” Cecil said, sinking down on the nearest chair and glancing at the fender. “Is that a cup of tea for me down there, Barbara? I should love to have it if it is.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Barbara said, jumping up quickly. “Here you are, I am afraid it’s not very hot.”

But such as it was Cecil drank it gratefully. She was very tired. The close air of the crowded auction-room, the long period of waiting, the intense excitement she had felt while Lot 140 was being sold, the discovery of the identity of one of the bidders, and all she had gone through since, were beginning to tell upon her now.

The tea, however, caused her flagging energies to revive, and when she had drunk it all and eaten the piece of bread-and-butter that Helen brought her, she announced that she was ready to tell them all about it.

“First of all,” she said, “you must guess how much it fetched. I will give you one guess each.”

“I believe it fetched a good deal,” Barbara cried excitedly, “I can see you are looking awfully pleased. Twenty-five pounds is my guess.”

Cecil shook her head and turned to Helen.

“I shouldn’t have been a bit surprised if it had fetched twenty-five pounds,” Helen said, “for though I don’t know much about china I believe it was good. Twenty pounds, then.”

“Wrong, both of you,” Cecil said, preparing to enjoy their surprise. “What should you say to fifty pounds?”

“Fifty! Oh no!” Barbara cried; “you are joking, it didn’t fetch fifty.”

“You are right, it didn’t. What should you say to a hundred pounds, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred five hundred pounds? Listen, girls,—Lot 140 was knocked down for five hundred and five pounds!”

“Honest Injun?” cried Barbara.

“Honest Injun,” Cecil answered.

“Then the person who bought it was stark, staring mad, and ought to have been clapped into the nearest lunatic asylum,” Barbara cried.

“The person who bought it was a young and shrewd dealer, and he knew very well what he was about,” Cecil said.

“Five hundred pounds!” Helen said with a long-drawn sigh. “Oh, Cecil, what doesn’t that mean to us?”

“Yes, what doesn’t it?” Cecil said gravely.

“It means no more work to-night,” Barbara said, sweeping her books and Helen’s papers aside, “and it means—I know it is indigestible, but we can afford to buy as much medicine as we want—it means toasted cheese for supper.”

“My dear, you deceived us both,” Miss Pinney said; but though the words were reproachful, there was no reproach either in her voice or manner. “You led Emily to believe that I was positively starving, and you gave me to understand that she was in urgent need of someone to take care of her. You brought us together under pretences that were distinctly false.”

Cecil laughed. She and Miss Pinney were sitting together in what was, perhaps, the most queerly-furnished room that either of them had ever seen. It was a large room, with two windows set so high in the wall that it was impossible to see out of them. They were clean but curtainless. A costly Turkey carpet, as soft as velvet, covered the middle of the floor, but unpolished boards of the roughest description lay between it and the walls. A deal table and two cane-seated chairs stood just underneath the windows, while fifteen enormous square boxes, painted a dark-brown, clamped with iron and secured by bars and padlocks, were ranged round the walls. This room communicated with another, furnished with scarcely less simplicity as a bedroom, and containing an even greater number of the same dark-brown boxes.

These two rooms were situated on the top floor of a large city warehouse, and the roar of the busiest streets in London penetrated even through the closed windows.

A week had elapsed since the eventful Wednesday at the auction-rooms, and until to-day Cecil had not seen Miss Pinney since she had been whirled up Regent Street in her sister’s hansom. Either her health, which had been giving way for some time, would in any case have broken down at that point, or the emotion consequent upon the unexpected meeting had been too much for her; but at any rate, no sooner had they arrived at their destination, and while her sister was paying the cabman, Miss Pinney was seized with faintness, and was carried in an almost unconscious condition to her sister’s rooms, where she lay for four days prostrated by a kind of nervous illness.

She had not come to the shop next morning, but during the course of the day a curious, ill-spelt note reached Madame Marcelline informing her that Miss Pinney had been taken ill, and was now lying at her sister’s rooms. But as the address of those rooms was not given, neither Madame Marcelline nor Cecil could go to see her or communicate in any way with her.

Cecil told her employer of the share she had had in bringing the two sisters together, and Madame Marcelline was unfeignedly glad to hear that her faithful subordinate was likely to have her declining days so well provided for. She questioned and cross-questioned Cecil again and again about Mrs. Emily Parkes, and listened eagerly to everything that Cecil could tell her concerning that lady. Then she began to consider in what way this unexpected event would affect her interests.

“Of course she won’t come back to me again,” she said, “I cannot expect that; so I must look out for someone else to take her place, unless—” She paused, eyed Cecil thoughtfully, but said no more at the time.

Mrs. Parkes had nursed her to the best of her ability. But as sometimes for several hours together she forgot the very existence of her patient, she did not make an ideal sick-nurse; and Miss Pinney would have fared badly had it not been for the kindness of Mrs. Markham, the caretaker’s wife, a motherly, capable person, who took the sick lady under her care, wrote at her dictation to Madame Marcelline, and supplemented Mrs. Parkes’ well-meant but spasmodic attempts at nursing, until between them they got Miss Pinney out of bed. And as soon as she was able to sit up, Miss Pinney, guessing from the silence that had followed her dictated note that something had been amiss with it, wrote herself to both Madame Marcelline and Cecil, saying where she could be found. She had already had a visit from the former, but this was the first occasion on which the latter, whose time was now more fully occupied than ever, had been able to go and see her friend.

“Yes,” resumed Miss Pinney, “you brought us together under false pretences, but,” and her voice took a more serious, deeper tone, “it is beyond your power, or the power of anybody else, to separate us again. My poor sister has, indeed, led a very lonely, solitary life, and she is beginning to feel my presence a great comfort to her.”

“I am sure she must do that, my dear Miss Pinney,” Cecil said warmly; “and it is good to see you sitting here for once in your life doing absolutely nothing. The rest will do your eyes such a lot of good!”

Miss Pinney sighed, but she would not distress Cecil by telling her that she feared that there was more the matter with her eyes than a few days’ rest would set right.

“Isn’t this a queer part of London for a single old lady to live in?” she said presently. “Mrs. Markham tells me that for years past my sister has rented this room for her collections. Those boxes,” pointing to the cases that stood in grim array round the walls, “are full to the brim of china and all sorts of bric-à-brac; and to one of them, no doubt, your china tea-set would have been consigned. Emily has been in the habit of spending the greater part of each day here, but she never thought of living here altogether until one day last September, when she arrived laden with bags and parcels.”

“That must have been the day on which I first met her,” Cecil said quickly.

“Yes, I think it was. She told Mrs. Markham that she had been much worried by an impertinent landlady, and that she intended to pass several hours in peace among her treasures before going to others that she had engaged. The next morning about seven o’clock, when she, Mrs. Markham, came up to sweep the stairs, she was much surprised to see this door open and my sister asleep among her boxes. She had fallen asleep the previous evening, and had slept right through the night. Emily said she had not passed such a comfortable night for a long time, and wished that she could live there altogether. And so an arrangement was made by which she became the tenant of these two rooms, Mrs. Markham undertaking to keep them tidy and to bring her up three meals a day. There is a lift from the basement, so there was no difficulty about that. This carpet she got at a sale, and a few necessary articles of furniture were all that she could be induced to buy; but she says that she has not been so comfortable anywhere else as here since she came to London, I don’t know how many years ago.”

“I wish you had something more comfortable to sit upon, though,” Cecil said, looking round; “a hard, high chair will make your back ache dreadfully after a time. Don’t you think it would be as well if you went into the other room and lay down?”

“Oh, my dear,” Miss Pinney said, straightening herself a little wearily, “I am so tired of the other room! It is even less cheerful than this, for the windows are frosted and set still higher up in the walls.”

“Then if Mahomet will not go to the mountain, the mountain shall come to Mahomet,” Cecil said, jumping up. “That is to say, if you will not go to bed, the bed shall come to you.”

And, running into the next room before Miss Pinney could stop her, she pulled the mattress off the bed, and, dragging it into the next room, laid it across two of the boxes that stood underneath the window and close to the fireplace. Then she brought pillows, spread a sheet over all, and made Miss Pinney lie down on the improvised couch.

“We got clever at this sort of arrangement when Nance was ill,” she said. “Now, with this rug over your feet to keep them warm, you will be nice and snug. Is this better than the chair?”

“Oh, my dear, yes, ever so much!” Miss Pinney returned, “but I believe I shall go to sleep.”

“The best thing you could do. It is a horrid day outside, wet, with a bitter north wind blowing hard. I am afraid I must go now. Madame Marcelline only gave me two hours’ leave, and by the time I get back they will be up. But I don’t at all like leaving you all alone here.”

“It is rather lonely,” Miss Pinney confessed, “and perhaps if I were quite well and strong I should find it a little dull. But at present it is such a luxury to lie still and do nothing, that the hours pass quickly. And then I have my thoughts to occupy me, and I think a good deal of you, Cecil. I shall never forget that you were the means of bringing us together.”

“Chance did more than I did,” Cecil said, looking rather shy.

“Chance may have had something to do with it, but not much. Had you not taken such an interest in me, my story must have faded from your mind long ago, and then my sister’s name would have had no meaning for you. And when I think that at such an exciting moment in your own affairs you were able to detach your mind from them and bring it to bear upon my concerns, I never can be sufficiently grateful to you.”

“I have been longing to find your sister ever since I heard about her,” Cecil said. “So there was nothing very wonderful in my being able to remember her name. And now I really must go, but I do so wish that I was not leaving you so utterly alone.”

“My sister will be in presently. She has been out since breakfast-time. I never ask her where she goes or what she does, for she might not like it, but she goes out a great deal. She cannot bear to stay long indoors.”

“I don’t wonder at that,” Cecil said, glancing round at the room, in which, with the exception of the carpet, there was not one pretty thing to be seen. “This would be a capital place to study in, for there is nothing to take one’s mind off one’s work, but for a person who is recovering from an illness it is not a very cheerful place.”

“Come again, dear,” Miss Pinney said, as Cecil bent down and kissed her, “and bring your sisters here to tea on Sunday. I should like to introduce them to my sister.”

“They would love to come,” Cecil returned. “Barbara especially would be delighted with this queer place. We will come early and spend a long afternoon with you.”

Miss Pinney’s face brightened at the prospect, then she settled herself comfortably back on the pillows, and, closing her eyes, declared she felt sleepy and quite ready for a nap.

But Cecil more than half-suspected that the sudden sleepiness was assumed so that she should not distress herself with the notion that Miss Pinney felt lonely. However, at the foot of the staircase she met Mrs. Parkes, who, in a dripping wet macintosh, and carrying an umbrella that had seen better days, had just entered the wide, dark doorway from the street.

“How do you do, Miss Whittington?” she said, holding out her hand, quite, as Cecil said afterwards when relating the incident to Helen and Barbara, “like an ordinary person”. “I am very glad you have been sitting with my sister. Do you think she is comfortable with me? Has she everything she wants?”

To Cecil, scarcely recovered from the surprise she had felt when Mrs. Parkes accosted her in an everyday fashion, this question came as a second shock. For a vision of Miss Pinney as she had seen her when she first entered, sitting bolt upright upon one of the two hard, high chairs that composed the principal furniture of the sitting-room, flashed across her mind. She had looked anything but comfortable then. Yet it seemed so ungracious, so presumptuous of her to point out the deficiencies of the rooms, that she hesitated. Besides, Miss Pinney might not be pleased if she interfered.

These doubts passed rapidly through her mind, and then she would have given an evasive answer, had she not encountered the gaze of Mrs. Parkes’ dark, bird-like eyes fixed anxiously upon her face, and with such an evident desire in them to hear the truth, that Cecil could not keep it from her.

“You will not be offended if I really say what I think?” she said.

“Then you think that she is not happy with me?” Mrs. Parkes cried instantly, answering her question with another, and her face fell woefully. “Yet I would do anything, anything to make her happy.”

“Oh, but she is happy already!” Cecil said. “I didn’t mean that at all. But,” she added, conscious that her words would sound rather absurd coming upon Mrs. Parkes’ almost passionate declaration, “she would be more comfortable if she had an arm-chair to sit in.”

Mrs. Parkes drew an audible breath of relief.

“An arm-chair!” she repeated. “Yes, of course. Is there anything else she would like? Tell me. She is so fond of you,” she added a trifle wistfully, “that you will know better than I do what would be likely to please her.”

Then Cecil had a sudden inspiration.

“Shall we go together to some shop this afternoon,” she said, “and choose some things to make her comfortable? And in the meanwhile we could both be thinking of what she would like.”

“Yes, yes, that would be a capital plan,” Mrs. Parkes said eagerly; “but let us go now at once. If we walk to the end of the road we can get an omnibus to Tottenham Court Road for threepence.”

“I am afraid I must go straight back to work now,” Cecil said; “my time is not my own. But I could meet you at Oak and Elm’s at half-past four this afternoon.”

So it was arranged, and, punctually at the hour she had mentioned, Cecil, who was at the rendezvous first, saw Mrs. Parkes hurrying along the pavement with a brisk alert air.

“My dear,” she said in a tone of pleased excitement as they went into the shop together, “I have found out so many things that she would like, and yet she never suspected what was in my mind.”

She was as delighted as a child who is planning a treat for a favourite playmate, and Cecil, who had also given some thought to the matter, found that every suggestion she intended to make was anticipated.

Fortunately the assistant who was told off to take them round to the various departments was a patient young man, otherwise his temper would have been sorely tried, for Mrs. Parkes personally tested nearly every chair in the shop before she finally decided upon two deep, roomy, saddleback chairs.

“If I buy one I must buy two,” she said, “otherwise Matilda would never consent to sit in it.”

Then she bought a Chesterfield lounge, the softest and springiest that she could find, two downy silk-covered cushions, an afternoon tea-table, a copper kettle on a brass tripod (Mrs. Markham, who had been taken into private consultation, had suggested that at least it would enable them to have tea at any time that they wished), a standard lamp (the unshaded, flaring gas-jet hurt Miss Pinney’s eyes), a pretty afternoon tea-set, a couple of footstools, and a Persian hearth-rug.

“Can you think of anything else, my dear?” she said then.

“No, indeed,” Cecil answered, “you have thought of everything that the sitting-room wants. But perhaps the bedroom—” She paused.

“Of course, I had forgotten!” Mrs. Parkes exclaimed! and turning to the polite, patient assistant she asked to be shown some bedroom suites.

“Bedroom suites are upstairs, madam,” he said, and conducting them to the lift he took them to an upper story, and showed them bedroom suites ranging in price from ten guineas to a hundred.

For a miser, Mrs. Parkes spent money in a way that was startling. Nothing but the best satisfied her, and, ignoring the pretty-painted suites, she chose one of solid walnut. She paid for the things by cheque, stipulated that they should be sent home the next day, and then, having spent nearly a hundred pounds, she walked to the end of the street to save a penny.

The following Sunday was a fine, mild day, and the three girls walked the whole way from Westminster into the city. Both Miss Pinney and Mrs. Parkes were delighted to see them, and Cecil was astonished to see what a change had been wrought in the two bare rooms. The arm-chairs stood cosily on either side of the fireplace, the luxurious lounge was drawn across the corner of the room, a table with a big palm stood in another, boxes and papers were strewn about, and when the tea-table was set out, the lamp with its pretty silk-shade lighted, and the curtains drawn, it would have been hard to find a cosier room.

Cecil, by Mrs. Parkes’ request, made tea, and when they had drunk it and done full justice to the hot muffins that stood in a magnificent silver dish in the fender, she offered to show them some of her treasures.

“Oh, I have been longing to see what is inside those great big boxes!” Barbara exclaimed; and so as soon as the tea-things were cleared away Mrs. Parkes produced a tin box in which all her keys were kept, and unlocking it by means of another that hung on her watch-chain, she opened two or three of the cases. They were all lined with green baize and fitted with various trays and compartments, which were so exactly suited to the different things they contained that it was evident that the boxes had been purposely made for them.

Barbara would have liked to have been allowed to rummage in the boxes of her own free-will; but Mrs. Parkes looked so uneasy when she laid so much as a finger upon anything that she refrained from touching them, and contented herself with admiring them from a distance.

But it was to Helen that Mrs. Parkes chiefly addressed herself. In her she recognized, or thought she recognized, a fellow enthusiast, and while Barbara and Cecil and Miss Pinney chatted in low tones over the fire, Mrs. Parkes took out a heavy leather-bound book, and illustrating her teaching from the contents of the different cases, gave Helen a lesson on china. Presently, in a pause in the conversation, Cecil noticed a pair of spectacles lying on the table, and turning quickly to Miss Pinney she said that she hoped she was not straining her eyes by trying to read with them.

“My dear,” Miss Pinney said, “I am almost ashamed to tell you, but yesterday I went to an oculist, a very well-known man, and he told me there was nothing whatever wrong with my eyes, but I must use spectacles, and that I ought to have been using them for some time past. And he sent me to an optician, who fitted me with these, and now I can see to read and to write, yes, and to thread needles, as well as ever I have done during the past twenty years.”

“That is good news, dear Miss Pinney!” Cecil exclaimed. “But why should you be ashamed?”

“I am ashamed, because I have given up work before there was any need for me to do so, and am now living upon my sister. But she cried so bitterly when I suggested that I should return to Madame Marcelline that I was obliged to promise that I would never again talk of leaving her. And indeed she does need someone to look after her. She will buy expensive and often useless things, and hardly consider the cost. She writes cheques for them; and then it is my belief that she hardly realizes that she is actually spending money. But when it comes to spending ready money for little daily necessaries, such as tea and candles and so forth, she does it with the greatest reluctance.

“Now the other day Mrs. Markham toasted us some muffins, and though she brought them up in the lift they got cool on the way, and she happened to say that we ought to have a muffin-dish. Would you believe it, my dear, but Emily went out there and then and bought the one we used to-day. It is solid silver, and must have cost a great deal. And yet, strange to say, she is more reluctant to spend threepence on the muffins to fill it than she was to spend six times as many pounds on the dish.”

Cecil nodded. “I noticed that the other day when we went shopping together,” she said; “the way she chose things without even enquiring the price was positively reckless. So you know, Miss Pinney,” she added gaily, “far from being a miser, I call your sister a regular spendthrift.”

“And I am glad of it,” Miss Pinney returned with emphasis. “She is very, very rich, and there is no reason at all why she should not spend every penny of her income and get more comfort out of it than she has done hitherto.”

“Hear, hear!” put in Barbara, clapping her hands, but gently, so as not to disturb the lesson on china. “Talking of riches, I suppose you know that we are quite wealthy people now, Miss Pinney? Not only did Cecil more than double our capital for us by her clever stroke about that tea-set, but she has been offered an enormous increase of salary.”

“Yes, that is true,” Cecil said, as Miss Pinney turned eagerly towards her. “Madame Marcelline has offered me a rise from one pound to three pounds a week. For that I do my work and yours. That is to say, I continue to trim hats and bonnets according to directions, and in addition I keep the shop. My hours of attendance there will be long and regular. I must be there by ten, and I cannot leave before five.”

“Three pounds a week, and at your age!” Miss Pinney exclaimed. “Why, Cecil, this is indeed good fortune. Of course you accepted at once?”

“Yes,” Cecil said gravely, “I accepted at once.”

“Three pounds a week,” Miss Pinney said again. “That is one hundred and fifty-six pounds a year. It is a great deal for a girl of your age to be earning, and I congratulate you with all my heart.”

“Yes,” Cecil said, rather absently, “I suppose I am very lucky.”

Lucky she might be, but the truth was that she was not altogether satisfied with her lot. She had no wish to remain a milliner, and nothing more than a milliner, all her life. And yet for the present, at any rate, she dared not throw away such a chance.

It was quite late when at last the three girls rose to go, and even then Mrs. Parkes was very unwilling to part with her new disciple. Rather to Cecil’s amusement, she perceived that Helen had quite supplanted her in Mrs. Parkes’ affections. It was Helen to whom she looked when she pressed them all to come again soon, and it was Helen who responded that she would be very glad to come.

“And next time,” Mrs. Parkes said, “I will take you through my old Nankin porcelain. I have in my possession a very rare catalogue, illustrated by a well-known artist,—but, dear me, I forget his name; not that it matters,—which describes the best-known specimens extant. And, my dear,”—here her eyes gleamed in the way that only an ardent collector’s eyes can gleam,—“I have got them nearly all.”

“How proud you ought to feel, Cecil, that you brought those two together!” Barbara said thoughtfully as they walked homewards through the silent, quiet, city streets. “I should feel so proud if I were you that I should never stop thinking about it.”

“And what you meant, Cecil,” added Helen, with a touch of indignation in her voice, “by saying that she was not in her right mind I cannot imagine. You should hear her talking about her collections. She is every bit as sane as you or I.”

“I dare say,” Cecil said. “It is only on one or two points that she is peculiar, and no doubt when she has lived with dear, gentle Miss Pinney for a little while those peculiarities will pass away.”

The weeks slipped quickly by, and spring came. But April and May came and went without bringing Nance back to England. A summer in the high Alps, the doctors said, was necessary to a complete cure, so she and Mrs. Carr-Davison went to Zermatt, and to Mürren, and to many other delightful places; and though Nance often wrote to them of the serious way in which she intended to set to work when she did come back, of the secretaryships and the clerkships that she meant to apply for, her sisters knew quite well that her intentions would never be put to the proof.

Neither were they, for in June an event happened which indirectly affected the lives of the four Whittingtons, and would, had they been willing, have affected them still more than it did. Bertram Carr-Davison died of fever in Brazil, and his brother Geoffrey became heir to all his property.

The news reached Mrs. Carr-Davison while she was still abroad, and it brought her back to England immediately. There was no time even for Nance to write home and prepare her sisters for her coming, and so one warm evening, when the others returned from their walk, it was to find her sitting on a pile of luggage outside the door, calmly awaiting their arrival.

In spite of the fact that she had been travelling for thirty hours, she was in radiant health and spirits, and when they had dragged her inside, and as soon as the first rapturous greetings were over, she sobered down somewhat, and told them in hushed tones of the loss which Mrs. Carr-Davison had sustained.

“And of course,” she added, “Godfrey and Bess will come home at once. He will send in his papers, and they will live in England altogether. Won’t it be lovely to have them back again?”

The four girls sat up very late that night, and notwithstanding the volumes of letters that had been written on both sides, they had so much to tell Nance, and she to tell them, that it was a wonder that they ever went to bed at all.

They had so much to say about what had happened since they last met that it was some time before Nance’s future plans came under discussion, and then it was that Nance, with a laugh and a blush, confessed that earning her own living was not included in them.

“Bess and Godfrey will want me to live with them,” she said. “I know that, for Bess has said several times that if only she was at home and well off she would never let me be a clerk or a type-writer, but that she should insist upon my living with them. And what is more, she would like to adopt you three as well, only you are all so horribly independent.”

“Poor Bess!” Cecil said, laughing, “and poor Godfrey! What a big grown-up family you would present them with! No, no, we three are very content as we are, but we will let her have you. There is no doubt that you were never intended to be a Saturday’s child and work hard for your living.”

“I wasn’t,” Nance said frankly. “I am almost ashamed to own it to three such industrious, superior persons, but I will tell you as a great, great secret, that I would rather have my living earned for me than earn it myself.”

Not so very long ago such an avowal would have caused Helen’s lip to curl scornfully, but with the tolerance for other people’s opinions that had come to her since she had discovered that her own were not faultless, she joined in the laughter with which Cecil and Barbara greeted Nance’s candour.

“It is curious,” she continued meditatively, “that I should be the one to fall out of the race for fame and fortune first. Do you remember that afternoon when we decided to turn our backs on Greenfields for ever? It was I who meant to do the most wonderful things. I flew so high that it is no wonder that my wings broke down, and that I came down to the ground with a rush.”

Cecil glanced at her a little anxiously. Was it possible that Nance mourned in secret over the downfall of her ambitious hopes? But Nance, meeting the glance, smiled reassuringly and shook her head.

“I only feel ashamed now,” she said, “when I think of the extravagant dreams I used to dream.”

“At any rate your dreams were not all selfish ones,” Helen said. “You wanted us to share your riches and your idleness. But I remember only too well that I never cared in the least how any of you got on so long as I could employ every spare moment in getting on myself. I remember I even wanted to take my hundred pounds and go off by myself. And a sorry time I should have had of it, too, if I had.”

“In those days I also was young and foolish,” Barbara remarked. “I remember I thought that since the world began there was never such a talented person as myself; but, alas! I have lived to find out that that was a slight mistake on my part.”

“And I thought—” Cecil was in her turn beginning, when a general outcry cut her words short, and Helen only spoke for them all when she declared her conviction that whatever Cecil had thought it was something unselfish, and had nothing whatever to do with her own welfare.

“And now,” Barbara said with a very big yawn, “having settled that we are all ever so much wiser than we used to be, I put it to the meeting that we break it up and adjourn to our respective beds.”

Nance was perfectly right when she said that Bess would want to adopt them all; but as three out of the four girls refused to be adopted, Mrs. Godfrey Carr-Davison was obliged to content herself with adopting the only one of her sisters who was willing, as she had herself expressed it, to fall out of the race for fame and fortune. So when Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Carr-Davison returned from Burmah, Nance made her home with them at Isleworth, and as the pretty sister-in-law of the local magnate she led a life which was a great deal more in accordance with her tastes than that of either a clerk or a type-writer would have been.

But the other three remained at No. 10 St. Christopher’s Mansions, and steadily pursued the paths which they had marked out for themselves.

Barbara’s first success was gained when she passed top of the list out of the fourth form into the fifth, thereby saving a whole year’s fees. After that she seemed to carry everything before her, and Miss Seeley, who, ever since that short five minutes’ conversation they had had together in the playground, had taken a great interest in her, came to look upon her as one of her most promising pupils, and had no doubt that she would some day gain the valuable leaving scholarship which the North High offered, and that her subsequent career at college would be a brilliant one.

Helen too is doing well. Long before she left the Art School she began to earn money by doing pen-and-ink sketches for some of the best magazines; and her modest ambition of one day earning two hundred pounds a year, of which she once spoke to her sisters, is likely to be a great deal more than realized. And as for Cecil, as she had no ambition beyond seeing her sisters realize theirs, she too had ample reason to be satisfied with the way in which their somewhat hazardous experiment of living upon their capital was turning out. She will not always remain a milliner, for Madame Marcelline is rapidly paying off the mortgages on her estate, and intends soon to close the shop. What Cecil will do then she does not yet know. Perhaps when Barbara is at Newnham and Helen in Paris, finishing her London training by a course of study there, Cecil will yield to Miss Pinney’s oft-repeated entreaties and make her home with her. For Mrs. Parkes died a year after the sisters were reconciled, and her fortune, which was very large, was left unreservedly to Miss Pinney, who intends to leave it in her turn to Cecil.

But for the present, at any rate, Cecil’s place is with her sisters at No. 10 St. Christopher’s Mansions.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

Illustrations have been relocated due to using a non-page layout.

[The end of The Four Miss Whittingtons, by Geraldine Mockler]