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Ruth Devine closed the garden gate with a bang and strode across the sands. Beyond the white drift-heaps, with their flat blue-grey blades of grass, lay half a mile of firm sand, stretching to the distant tide-line. Ruth walked as resolutely towards the tide as if her intention had been to plunge in and swim across to Snowdon.

To her left lay the forests of masts and derricks which were the docks, with an occasional yellow funnel where a mail-steamer was lying. As Ruth walked steadily out towards the river, the twin towers of the Liver Building at the pier-head came into view, dim in the smoke-haze. To her right the sands stretched away interminably, it seemed. Here there were green-topped sand-hills, with big houses apparently perched on the edge. Behind her as she walked were the coloured houses of the little town, white and cream and grey, with some washed in blue or pink, which to her eyes had such a foreign look.

It was February, and the wind sweeping down the sands was bitterly keen. Ruth, newly landed from South Africa, pulled up her collar and hugged her fur coat tightly to her. ‘I’ll make up my mind before I go back, if I freeze for it!’ she said. ‘I can’t, and I won’t, go on like this! It’s now or never; and I’m inclined to think it’s never!’

She was twenty-five, with fair wavy hair under a fur hat, hair that had always been bobbed and, Ruth was determined, always would be. Her home was at the Cape, but she had cousins in England, and she had visited them when she was nineteen. Another visit had been planned for her twenty-first birthday, but in the end she had gone to Australia instead, so it was six years since she had seen Mary and Biddy.

Her first intention, to go straight to stay with Mary when she landed, had been changed by an urgent invitation from friends she had made on the voyage, who had begged her to go home with them for a few days first. Ruth had wired to Mary, postponing her arrival till after the week-end, and had travelled north with Mrs Fisher and Gracie; and she had been regretting it ever since.

For besides Gracie there was Gerald; and Gerald had shown signs of something more than ordinary friendship, while they were still on the boat. It was only because she had understood that Gerald had to go to London for a week, immediately on landing, that Ruth had agreed to spend a few days with Gracie. This morning a letter had come, saying he would be home on Friday; and Gracie’s laugh, as she read out the postscript, had told Ruth that the family knew what he was coming for.

‘Gerald says: “Tell Ruth I’ll take her to Southport on Saturday afternoon.” We’ll all go! But we won’t stick to you all the time, Ruthie. Don’t worry!’

Ruth’s worry was not on that score. She escaped from Grace, who loathed the sands frankly and thought them dreary and cold. Ruth loved the sense of space and freedom and the bracing wind, and demanded her right as a visitor to enjoy them while she had the chance.

‘You’ve had them all your life. I’m not bored with them yet. I want to walk and walk, till I drop,’ she said, and ran across the lawn and out by the garden gate, to Gracie’s disgust.

‘I’ve shaken her off at last! Now I must make up my mind,’ and Ruth skirted a damp patch warily, having no desire for an adventure with quicksands.

She stood on a hard ribbed bank, far out by the edge of the estuary, with no one within half a mile but some noisy sea-gulls. The sand at her feet was all marked with the little triple signs of their claws.

‘Gerald’s going to say something serious,’ Ruth said soberly. ‘I kept him at bay on the boat, and I thought I’d escape before he came home, and be safely under Mary’s wing. Gracie has let me down! I’d never have come here if I hadn’t thought he was to be in town. They all want . . .’—she pursed her lips and frowned at the Isle of Man steamer which was passing—‘and I don’t. I’m sure I don’t want Gerald for always! If I did, I shouldn’t be in any doubt. I’m so very doubtful that I can’t really want him. And yet—there is something I’d like about it!’

She turned her back on the Gladstone Dock and struggled along in the teeth of the wind. But that made steady thinking impossible, so she turned from the gale and stood with skirt and scarf and hair blowing wildly about her.

‘I’d like to have a home of my own. Now that father and mother are gone I feel like a rolling stone. And Mary’s letters, telling how all those jolly girls have married and settled down, with crowds of kids round them, have made me hungry to do the same. But not with Gerald Fisher! No, that’s the point! Not with Gerald!’

For a long moment she debated the idea. ‘I was tempted when I saw what was coming. But he’s not the right man. I’d better go away at once; I must vanish before he comes. Gracie won’t like it, but I can’t marry her brother just to please her. And I don’t see the use of letting him ask me, when I know I’m going to say “no.” I don’t want to go to Southport and be proposed to! I’d better go and tell them; there’s no time to lose. He’s coming to-morrow. I’ll wire to Mary that I’ll come to her at once.’

She turned to go back over the long stretch of sands, walking more slowly than she had come.

‘Shall I pretend I’ve had a wire from Mary? I could tell her to wire, asking me to come in a hurry! Then Gracie couldn’t be hurt. A telegram from Mary, saying: “Please come quickly. We need you here.” That would make it all right. But it wouldn’t be straight, and the Fishers have been jolly to me. No, I won’t do it. It wouldn’t be fair to them,’ Ruth decided. ‘It would be a lie, and I can’t treat them like that. I’ll be honest, even if it’s uncomfortable. If Gracie insists on a reason I shall say I don’t want to go to Southport! She’ll know what I mean.’

She paused to watch the sea-gulls. ‘It would be silly, as well as cheating Mrs Fisher. I don’t believe that sort of thing ever pays. For if they thought I’d been sent for, Gerald would come after me, if he really cares. It wouldn’t be definite. I’ll have no mistake about it. I’ll go up to town early to-morrow, and go on to the Abbey in the afternoon. And I’ll wire to Mary before I tell Grace.’

She almost ran across the long flats, and ploughed her way through the soft sand to the road that led to the main street and the post-office. Then, her message sent to Mary, she went more slowly back to the house, dreading the next few hours.

‘I’d like to disappear at once. It’s queer how certain I feel about it! You’d almost think there was somebody else I wanted to set up house with, by the way I feel about doing it with Gerald Fisher!’

And then Ruth stopped short where she stood, gazing at the windows of the bus-office with eyes that saw no time-tables, but the deck of a South African liner, and a family whose name had not been Fisher, a friend who had not been called Gracie, and a brother who had certainly not been called Gerald. Sudden colour rushed into her face; she shook herself and hurried on.

‘Idiot! Oh, idiot! But there were other people on that boat! Is that why I feel so sure, when it comes to the point—why I don’t want Gerald even to ask me? Is that why I want a home of my own? And he never said a word—though I think perhaps . . . ! That settles it as regards Gerald, anyway. Gerald!’ There was scorn in her voice as she spoke half-aloud. ‘Well, thank goodness, nobody knows!’

She walked on more slowly. ‘Freda asked me to look them up in Paris, if I went on the Continent. They were going to be there for two months, before going back to New York. I can’t go, of course. I—if there was anything, he’d have to come to me; I couldn’t run after him to Paris! But I could write to Freda, and tell her where I am. Well, there’s no Gerald Fisher in my tea-cup, that’s certain!’

Ruth had always been a definite little person. She walked into the house and stood in the hall, with no sign of her very real nervousness. ‘Gracie, ahoy! Where are you, Grace? I say, don’t be upset, but I’ve been thinking, and I want to go off to-morrow morning. Do you mind?’

Grace came out of her bedroom and gazed down at her over the banister-rail. ‘Ruth Devine, what do you mean? Of course, we won’t let you go like that! What’s happened to you?’

‘I want to get to my ain folk. I want to go to my cousins. You can chuck me out this afternoon, if you’re too cross with me. I’ve wired to Mary that I’m coming.’

Gracie sat on the top step and stared at her. ‘It’s very sudden! What has made you change your mind? You were going to stay till next Wednesday, at the very least; and we hoped it would be longer.’

‘It’s sweet of you, and I apologise for changing my mind. But I haven’t seen Mary for six years, and I suddenly felt I must. I ought to have gone straight to her,’ Ruth said sturdily.

‘I say, Mum, come and hear the rot this girl’s talking! Something’s gone to her head, out on those awful sands. I said she was mad to go away down there alone.’

Ruth sat on the bottom step and clasped her knees with her arms. ‘Mrs Fisher, don’t think too badly of me!’ she called out. ‘I do want to see my own people; it came over me suddenly.’

Her hostess came from the dining-room and looked at them. ‘You absurd girls! Must you sit there to talk?—What is the matter, Ruthie? Can’t the cousins wait a few days longer?’

‘It’s so long since I saw them,’ Ruth pleaded.

‘She doesn’t like being with us,’ said Grace, her eyes searching Ruth’s face keenly.

‘I do! You’re very kind. But I feel I ought to go.’

‘Is there anything else, my dear?’ Mrs Fisher eyed her closely also. ‘Did you have any letter that altered your plans?’

Ruth sturdily put aside this easy way of escape. ‘No, it’s not that. But I’m restless. I want to go to my people.’

‘Perhaps you will come back to us later?’ Mrs Fisher said kindly.

‘Did I have a letter that altered your plans?’ Gracie’s question shot out and saved Ruth from needing to answer. ‘Are you going because Gerald’s coming home?’

‘Gracie, my dear——!’ her mother began.

‘Yes, I know. Awfully tactless of me! But look at Ruthie’s face! It seems to have been a good shot on my part.’

Ruth had flushed at the direct question; but she spoke up bravely, ‘Well, since you’ve asked me straight out, I’m not keen on going to Southport.’

‘Oh but, Ruth——’

‘I know,’ Ruth agreed. ‘But I don’t want to go.’

‘Gerald will be disappointed, my dear.’

‘Disappointed! He’ll be in a ghastly state! He’ll be awfully cut up! He’ll come after you, Ruth.’

Ruth’s chin went up. ‘If he comes after me, I’ll attend to him. But I can’t wait here for him to come when my mind’s made up. You hinted that he meant something serious——’

‘I know he does,’ Grace interrupted. ‘He’s desperately keen. He’s coming back from town on purpose.’

‘Then you’d better let him know that I’ve had to go,’ Ruth retorted.

‘Will you stay with mother and me, if I do?’

Ruth looked thoughtful. ‘No, Gracie, old dear, I really do want to be with my folks.’

‘Are you quite sure, Ruth?’ Mrs Fisher asked wistfully. ‘Gerald is really very much in earnest, and Gracie and I had set our hearts on it too. We look on you as belonging to us already.’

Ruth sprang up from her lowly seat and kissed her. ‘That’s sweet of you. But I feel quite sure. I don’t want to pretend.’

‘Perhaps, later on,’ Mrs Fisher said again.

‘Oh well, perhaps later on!’ Ruth agreed vaguely. ‘But I’d like to go off to-morrow morning. You’ll try to forgive me, won’t you?’

‘I thought your cousin was a sort of secretary person?’ Gracie urged. ‘How can you go and stay with her? Doesn’t she live with Lady Somebody? And isn’t the other cousin in France?’

‘Biddy has a good post in France,’ Ruth agreed, sitting down on the stair again. She loosened her coat and threw off her fur cap, shaking out her wavy yellow locks. ‘Mary is secretary to Lady Marchwood and lives with her at Abinger Hall. She’s also an authoress and publishes jolly good books for girls. I’m frightfully proud of Mary. She’s heaps older than I am, of course.’

‘But how can you go and stay with her in Lady Marchwood’s house?’

‘Mary has her own rooms; she can have visitors. But she’s much more than a secretary to Joy—that’s Lady Marchwood. She’s a friend as well; very much one of the family. I know them all; I stayed there when I was at home last time, six years ago. I’ve been invited to stay with them as long as I’m in England.’

‘By your cousin, or by Lady Marchwood?’

‘By both,’ Ruth said promptly. ‘I knew Lady Marchwood before she was married, when she was just Joy. Now she has twin girls, and she’s lost her husband, and it has all happened since I saw them last. There are other friends too. I’m aching to see them all again—and the new twins, and the other kiddies. I’m getting more homesick for the Abbey every minute.’

‘The Abbey?’

‘A lovely old ruin, in the grounds of Lady Marchwood’s house. I lived in it, when I stayed there last time.’

‘It sounds rather jolly,’ Grace said enviously. ‘It will be much nicer than our awful sands.’

‘I love your sands! I’m really frightfully sorry to go away from them.’

‘But you don’t love us!’ Gracie mourned.

‘Oh, I love you all right!’ Ruth’s eyes danced.

‘But not the whole family! Oh well, I suppose you can’t help it. Perhaps when you’ve gone away you’ll think more kindly of us and want to come back!’

‘I’ll always think kindly of you and your mother. But I’m afraid that won’t make me feel I can come back,’ Ruth said definitely.

‘Couldn’t you like Gerald a little bit, Ruthie? We’d love to have you in the family,’ Gracie coaxed.

Ruth shook her head and said nothing. She sat straightening the feather in her hat and did not look up.

‘Ruthie, is there anybody else?’ Grace demanded. ‘Is there anybody at this Abbey place? Has Lady Marchwood any brothers or sons, or anything?’

Ruth sprang up with a laugh. ‘The sons would be rather young; she can’t be thirty yet. No, old girl, there’s nobody at all at the Abbey—only girls and kids. Come and help me pack, and tell me about trains!’

‘Only girls and kids! It sounds dull.’

Ruth laughed again. ‘I don’t know the kiddies, for they’ve all been born since I was there. But considering whose kids they are, they’re not likely to be dull. And the girls aren’t dull either! I’m longing to be at home with them all!’ and she carried Gracie off to her room to help her to pack.

Ruth settled down in a corner seat with a sigh of relief. She had waved good-bye to Gracie. Mary would meet her at Euston, and soon she would be among the friends at the Abbey and could forget Gerald and his troublesome attentions.

A telegram had come during the afternoon: ‘Will meet you London. Wire time and place.’ She had replied joyfully, with fervent thanks for the thoughtfulness which had realised that after six years a first plunge into London might be bewildering, and she was looking forward eagerly to being met and taken care of.

‘I’d have rolled into a taxi, of course. But it will be jolly to have Mary’s company and to hear about everybody. How I do want to see them all again—and all the babies! To think of Joy with twins, and Joan with two, and Jen with three! She hadn’t even met her man when I knew her.’

Ruth went off into a dream. There was so much to think about! Biddy in France, in a responsible position as private secretary to the head of her firm; Mary with six fat books to her credit; Jen’s new home and her little family. And the younger girls, Rosamund and Maidlin, who had been Biddy’s companions: Rosamund had left the Abbey and was running a craft-shop somewhere in the country; Maidlin—what about her?

‘She won’t be coming into her Italian fortune till she’s twenty-five,’ Ruth mused. ‘That must be three years yet. I suppose she helps Joy with the twins. And there’s Maidie’s singing; she was going to have a lovely voice. There won’t be anything exciting about Maidlin; she always was a mouse! I wonder if Biddy still means to be her secretary when she has to manage her own money affairs?’

The journey did not seem long. Before Ruth had realised it they were passing Willesden and Hampstead; then the train drew up, and she sprang out eagerly to look for Mary.

A slim dark-eyed girl, in a fur coat over a dark red dress, and a red cap covering hair worn in big coils over her ears, pushed through the crowd and seized her arm. ‘Ruth! Don’t you remember me? It’s lovely to see you again! Where’s your luggage? You always have heaps of boxes!’

‘Maidlin!’ Ruth gasped. ‘Maidlin grown up! I believe I was expecting you to look fifteen still. Oh, but how nice of you to come!’

Maidlin laughed. ‘Six years make a difference when you were fifteen at the beginning of them. But you’re just the same. Show us your trunks, Ruth. Frost will put them in the car.’

Ruth pointed out her box and another suit-case. ‘That’s all I have here. Hasn’t my steamer-trunk arrived? I sent it to you from Southampton.’

‘Yes, it’s waiting in your room. Come to the car; Frost will see to those.’

‘Are you going to take me all the way by road? No taxi to Paddington and train to Wycombe? Oh, how topping! That is good of Joy. But where’s Mary, Maidie?’

‘They don’t call me Maidie now,’ Maidlin’s black eyes laughed at her. ‘Ros said it was too childish. I’m Maid.’

‘Maid! Gracious, how funny! How is Ros? I’m pining to see her shop.’

‘You’ll have to wait. It’s a long story. She’s abroad, with her new relations; her step-mother’s sisters. The little one was to have stayed with us, while the others went to Malta to fetch Mrs Kane home. There’s a tiny baby, and she needed help. But at the last minute a letter came from her, with a cheque to help with their expenses; so Elspeth went with the other two, and we feel we’ve been cheated out of her visit. But we don’t mind so much as we’re to have you instead.’

‘Then won’t I see Rosamund’s shop? Oh, what a blow!’

‘They’ll soon be home. We all want to see the baby. Ros says she’s going to adopt him.’ Maidlin opened the door of the car. ‘Jump in!’

‘Didn’t Mary come too?’ Ruth asked, for the car was empty.

Maidlin sat down beside her and slammed the door. ‘I hope it won’t be too much of a blow. You won’t see Mary till Monday. She’s in Yorkshire.’

‘Oh? But how good of Joy to have me, if Mary’s away! I’m jolly glad she didn’t ask me to wait for a few days!’ Ruth exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done. I’ve fled for shelter to you dear people; there was somebody I had to escape from, at a moment’s notice. I’ll tell you the story later. Did Mary go away because you weren’t expecting me till next week? Does Joy mind my turning up sooner than she’d expected?’

‘Not in the least. It’s quite all right. But we thought Mary would be home before you came. We’re sorry for your sake, for you’ll be disappointed, but if you can put up with just Joy and me and the twinnies for the week-end——’

‘I’ll love it! It’s jolly decent of you to have me!’ Ruth exclaimed. ‘Where has Mary gone?’

‘Jen had to go to The Grange, her old house in Yorkshire, to see about some alterations that are being done. The agent wanted her to see the work before it was finished. She loves the place, so she packed all the children into the car, borrowed Mary for a few days to help, and went off yesterday, before your telegram came. She’ll stay a week or two, but Mary will come home on Monday, to see you. Jen needed her help on the journey; the boys are pickles, always jumping about, though R. J. isn’t much trouble yet.’

‘R. J.?’ Ruth queried, her eyes dancing. ‘Really, Maidie, you must explain that!’

‘Rosemary Jane—the baby. She’s only nine months old—a perfect pet. But she’s much too small to be called Rosemary Jane.’

Ruth laughed. ‘Now I understand R. J.! I hope I shall see her. Is she fair, like Jen?’

‘No, she’s a gipsy. The boys are fair, but R. J. has dark brown hair and lovely dark eyes. Mary will come home on Monday, Ruth; she must, even if you weren’t here, for I have to go to Italy next week, and Joy’s going with me for a few days’ holiday. She always takes me and stays for a few days, and then leaves me with the friends I’ve made in Florence. She likes the travelling, and it’s a change for her. We leave Mary-Dorothy in charge of the house and the twins. This year she’ll have you for company; we’re so glad about that. Usually there’s Jen next door, but as she’s away Mary might be lonely, but for you.’

‘You have to spend some time in Italy each year, I suppose? I’m sorry you’re going just as I arrive.’

‘Oh, but you’ll stay in England for months, as you haven’t been here for six years! I shan’t be away very long. Joy thinks I ought to go; I’m not really keen, but I feel she’s right. I’d much rather be at home with her and the twinnies. You and Mary will have them and the Hall all to yourselves for a while, when we go.’

‘We’ll be very careful of both the Hall and the twinnies,’ Ruth promised. ‘It’s nice of Joy to trust us.’

‘Joy will trust anything to Mary, even Elizabeth and Margaret,’ said Maidlin, as the car rolled out into the traffic.

‘Tell me about them! They must be more than all the world to Joy.’

‘They’re all she has,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘She’s keen on Jen’s boys and R. J., and on Jansy and John Raymond—Joan’s children, you know. But the twins are a part of herself.’

‘Of course. Jansy—is that Janetta, the baby Joan wheeled in the pram on the terrace, when Rosamund was May Queen?’

‘That’s right. But her name wasn’t Janetta, in spite of Jen; Jen always called her Janetta at first. She’s Janice, or Jansy for short. She’s seven now, and going to school.’

Ruth sighed in mock dismay. ‘Seven, and going to school! It seems only the other day she was in a pram. And there’s a boy now, too?’

‘John. He’s nearly four.’

‘Tell me everything, Maidie; I beg your pardon! I mean Madalena!’ and Ruth settled down in her corner and prepared to listen. ‘Bring me up to date! Letters aren’t any use; one doesn’t realise. I expected to find you still in plaits and Jansy still in her pram, in spite of all the letters. On the other hand, I’m prepared to find the twins quite big girls, though Joy wasn’t even married when I saw her last. I can believe in the new people all right; but I expect those I knew to have stood still. Tell me about yourself, and Rosamund’s shop, and Mary. If you talk hard you may be through by the time we reach the Abbey!’

‘Oh! Did you have lunch on the train?’ Maidlin turned to Ruth as the car sped past the gates of the Manor, Jen’s house next door to the Hall.

Ruth gave a shout of laughter. ‘Madalena! It’s half-past three. I was just thinking longingly of tea. Do you suppose I’d have waited till now to tell you if I hadn’t had lunch?’

Maidlin coloured in confusion. ‘Joy said I was to be sure to ask you, the very first thing. I forgot all about it. I’m awfully sorry!’

Ruth laughed again. ‘I had a very good lunch on the train, and I didn’t tip the soup into my lap or spill the coffee.’

‘Joy will have tea ready. I am sorry I forgot! It was just like me,’ Maidlin groaned.

‘Nothing seems changed here, anyway,’ Ruth exclaimed, as they drove up the long avenue of ancient beeches to the house. ‘Joy hasn’t cut down any of her trees. And there are the snowdrops! Her first invitation to me, years ago, said that the snowdrops were out in the park, millions of them!’

‘Nothing’s altered about the house; only the people in it,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘See, there’s a twin come out to look for you. They’ve been talking about Aunty Ruth and her big ship for days. It’s Elizabeth. I wonder what has happened to Margaret? She generally leads the way!’

The windows of the Hall were lit up, though it was not yet dark outside; the door stood wide, and a welcoming shaft of light streamed out.

On the top step stood a small girl of nearly five, with a mass of dark red curls and big brown eyes, wearing a short yellow frock smocked in green, little white socks, and green shoes. She waited, just a trifle shy, while Maidlin and Ruth jumped from the car. Then she dashed down the steps to hurl herself on Maidlin.

‘Aunty Maid! Oh, Aunty Maid! Twin’s hurted her knee. She tummled down ve stairs. Muvver’s putting somefin’ on to make it well!’

Then, encouraged by Maidlin’s arm around her, she looked up at Ruth sturdily. ‘Muvver says, please do come in, and ’scuse her just one moment, ’cos she must tie up Twin’s knee. And we’se vewy glad to see you, Aunty Ruth!’

‘That’s a beautiful welcome!’ Ruth exclaimed. ‘May I have a kiss, Elizabeth?’

‘Twin wants to see Aunty Ruth too.’ Elizabeth held up her face to be kissed.

‘Elizabeth is Miss Marchwood,’ Maidlin said. ‘She knows she must take Mother’s place, if Mother can’t be here. Margaret can’t understand why she isn’t Miss Marchwood too!’

She’s Miss Margaret,’ explained Elizabeth. ‘Come in, Aunty Ruth, please!’ She pushed the inner door, but it was too heavy for her. Maidlin pushed also, and Elizabeth darted in with a cry of joy. ‘Twin, is it better? Did Muvver make it well? I fetched Aunty Ruth in, Margaret. She’s here!’

A second yellow sprite sat enthroned on an ancient oak settle, one fat leg thrust out stiffly on a cushion, a neat bandage round the knee. She had the same mop of red curls, the same deep brown eyes. Ruth saw Joy and Joan before her as she looked at the pair.

‘Is your knee very bad, Margaret?’ she asked.

Margaret’s words tumbled out in a spate; she had none of her sister’s touch of shyness. ‘Muvver putted butter on me, like’s if I was a bit of toast, Twin!’ she cried triumphantly to Elizabeth, who gazed awestruck at the bandage. ‘I felled down ve stairs, Aunty Maid, and it hurted, and I didn’t cry one bit, but Twin cried a lot, and Muvver came running and she putted butter on ve place, and it’s better now. But she said, give it a rest on a cushion and I were a good Brownie not to cry.—Me and Twin is Brownies, Aunty Ruth. Did you know? Brownies don’t cry, do they?’

‘I fought you was bwoked to bits. Vat made me cry,’ Elizabeth said in self-defence. ‘I wouldn’t have, if it had been me, ’cos I’d have known I wasn’t bwoked. You looked dweadful tummling down ve stairs, Twin.’

‘Only play-Brownies for a few years yet,’ said Maidlin. ‘They’re going to be real Brownies as soon as Brown Owl will have them. In the meantime we don’t cry over broken knees, do we, Twinnies?’

‘Muvver’s washing her hands, ’cos ve butter was messy,’ Margaret explained. ‘Was your big ship nice, Aunty Ruth?’

‘A lovely big ship. There’s a picture of it in my bag. I’ll show it to you after tea,’ Ruth promised.

‘Andy an’ Tony an’ Baby won’t see it!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Vey’s gone away wiv Aunty Jen and Aunty Mary.’

‘The world is full of aunties,’ Maidlin said. ‘There never were any girls so well supplied with aunties as ours. When the Hamlet Club comes here to dance, the twins have dozens of aunties!’

‘Dozens an’ dozens of aunties,’ Elizabeth echoed. Then her duties as hostess recurred to her mind. She pulled forward a chair. ‘Aunty Ruth, do please sit down! People mustn’t go standin’ up in our house!’

‘Aunty Ruth, sit here!’ Margaret patted the settle at her side. ‘Twin, you ought to tell Muvver she’s come.’

Elizabeth obediently started towards the stairs. Then with a subdued shriek of joy, she dashed up the steps to her mother, who was standing looking down at the group. ‘Muvver, she’s come! An’ I said, “Please come in!” an’ she comed in, and I said, “Please sit down!” An’ Twin said, “Sit here!” an’ she didn’t sit anywhere!’

‘An’ vere’s a picture of her big ship in her bag and she’s goin’ to show us after tea. She’s a nice aunty, she is!’ Margaret sang jubilantly from her settle.

Joy, in a green frock, with flaming bronze hair and the deep brown eyes of her daughters, came running down the oak staircase, her face alight with welcome. ‘Ruth, my dear, how nice to see you again, after all these years! You haven’t changed a hair. It is jolly to have you back! Do you mind very much about Mary being away?’

‘Not a scrap!’ Ruth retorted. ‘I’ve had such a lovely welcome from Miss Marchwood and “Twin,” that I couldn’t feel anything but very much at home. Joy—I don’t have to call you Lady Marchwood, do I?’

‘I’ll throw you out, if you do!’ Lady Marchwood threatened. ‘Don’t be absurd, Miss Devine!’

‘Well, then—Joy, what lovely kiddies! Miss Marchwood is a perfect hostess!’

‘A host in herself. Good girl, Elizabeth! I’m sorry Margaret chose the moment of your arrival to have an accident,’ Joy apologised. ‘But it isn’t serious.’

‘Muvver putted butter on me,’ Margaret sang.

‘The butter has made a real impression. Margaret says she feels like a slice of toast,’ said Ruth.

‘Muvver got a pwetty fwock.’ Elizabeth was gloating over the green draperies with joyful eyes.

Joy looked, not at the visitor, but at Maidlin, who was gazing at her also. ‘All right, Maid?’

‘Lovely! Joy, I am so glad. And Ruth will be glad you’ve done it in her honour.’

Ruth looked from one to the other. Elizabeth fingered the green silk. ‘Pwetty, Mummy!’ she said again.

‘Wipping!’ Margaret said unexpectedly.

‘Margaret!’ Joy exclaimed. ‘I’ve told you not to say that. At least not till you can say your Rs.’

‘R-r-ripping.’ Elizabeth looked up with dancing brown eyes.

‘Tropping,’ Margaret tried very hard.

Ruth gave a shout of laughter. ‘Well done, Twin!’

Joy laughed in spite of herself. ‘I suppose your approval is my reward, Twinnies. I’ve certainly done it for your sake, so it’s a good thing you’re pleased!’

She turned to Ruth. ‘I haven’t worn colours since Andrew died’—her voice was steady and brave—‘I said I never would again. But I wasn’t counting on these two. They didn’t like my greys and whites and blacks. They glory in colours for themselves, and they love Jen’s blues and Joan’s greens and browns. One day they asked why I hadn’t any pretty dresses, like all the aunties have. That made me think, and Jen said she believed I was being not quite fair to them in letting them see me always in dark or neutral clothes. I was cheating them out of something, she said. That’s the one thing I can’t bear to do, so I felt that sooner or later I’d have to come back to colours again. I ordered this frock, and then when it came I hadn’t the courage to wear it. It felt so odd, after almost five years! The last time I wore a coloured frock was when I went to watch Maid crowned at school as the May Queen.’ Her lips pinched at thought of that time.

‘So you put it on for me?’ Ruth asked gently. ‘Joy, how beautiful of you! What a lovely welcome! I’ll always remember.’

‘I thought having you here might give me courage,’ Joy confessed. ‘If I’m used to colours before Jen and Mary come home, it will be easier.’

Elizabeth, leaning over her twin on the settle, held a fold of her mother’s gown and compared the colour with the smocking on her own frock.

Margaret stuck out a tiny green shoe. ‘All of us ve same! Isn’t it jolly nice?’ she crowed.

Joy’s eyes met Ruth’s. ‘It’s been worth while. Jen was right, as usual. Elizabeth will have to be a painter, I think. Colour means so much to her.’

‘You couldn’t have let them grow up seeing you only in black and grey,’ Ruth agreed. ‘And green is your colour, and theirs, of course.’

‘Andrew would want them to have everything,’ Joy said quietly. ‘I mustn’t be the one to fail. Now what about tea? Shall we have it here?—Maid, take Ruth up to her room and I’ll ring for tea.—Twinnies, are you going to stay and help? Elizabeth can hand bread and butter, even if Margaret has to sit still.’

‘Better now!’ and Margaret hopped to her feet. ‘Twin an’ me’ll hand ve plates.—Take your hat off, Aunty Ruth!’

Ruth laughed and followed Maidlin up the staircase. ‘It’s dithering when each one refers to her sister as “Twin”! They’re so much alike that I shall never know them apart,’ she said. ‘If one would call the other Margaret, you might guess she was Elizabeth. But “Twin” is no help at all.’

‘They aren’t really alike,’ Maidlin said, opening a bedroom door. ‘When you’ve been here a day or two you’ll wonder that you ever thought so. “Twin” is quite a new idea; it’s the result of John Raymond and Tony Marchwood. The three families all met for Jansy’s birthday at Christmas, and John found the names of the twins too much trouble to say, so he addressed them both as “Twin”; and Tony, who was having difficulty too, adopted it. John is three and a half, and Tony three. The twinnies were delighted and have called one another “Twin” ever since. I’ll expect they’ll soon forget again; but, of course, it is the great fact in their lives. “Mother and Twin” fill the world for each of them.’

‘It’s sporting of Joy to put aside her own feelings and wear colours for their sake!’ Ruth exclaimed, as she hung up her fur coat.

‘Joy will do anything for them. It’s good for her too; I’m very glad she’s taken the plunge,’ Maidlin said gravely. ‘I didn’t know she really meant to do it for you.’

‘She must have looked perfect in black, though.’

‘Oh, lovely! And in white or grey. But it wasn’t good for her. Joan and Jen have both been worried about her. They’ll be so pleased.’

‘Tea’s all yeady, Aunty Maid.’ Elizabeth appeared in the doorway.

‘Then we mustn’t stay talking here. Come and help me to find my slippers, Twin,’ and Maidlin led the small hostess away. ‘Come down as soon as you’re ready, Ruth. You know your way!’

Ruth changed her travelling-suit for a pretty brown frock and combed out her wavy yellow locks, and then went out to the wide gallery and stood looking down into the entrance hall. A big fire was burning on one of the great hearths, and settles and a round table were drawn up before it. The hall was in twilight, except for the light of the flames.

Joy, in her green dress, was bending to speak to the twins, smoothing Margaret’s tumbled bronze curls and yellow frock and buttoning Elizabeth’s green slipper. Maidlin, in a straight little dress of lemon-yellow, was putting milk into the cups on the table. Beside Joy and her children, all so much alike in colouring, she had a very foreign look, with her coiled black hair and clear skin and big black eyes.

‘Aunty Ruth! I do see Aunty Ruth!’ Margaret’s voice pealed out.

Joy looked up and saw her guest leaning over the railing above them. ‘Come along, Ruth! Aren’t you dying for tea?’

‘Where’s ve picture of your big ship?’ cried Elizabeth. ‘Show me an’ Twin, Aunty!’

‘Aunty hasn’t opened her bag yet, Twinnies,’ Maidlin remonstrated.

‘Oh yes, she has!’ and Ruth came running down and handed a post-card to Elizabeth. ‘There’s the big ship I came across the sea in, Twinnies. My cabin—I mean my bedroom—was here.’

The two red heads bent close to hers as the twins scrutinised the picture closely. Ruth looked up at Joy and laughed. ‘I can’t grow used to the changes! It seems only the other day that I was here, and we were living in the Abbey and crowning Rosamund, and you were all so thrilled because Joan had a baby! You weren’t even engaged. And here’s Maidlin a grown-up lady, and these two big girls seem quite at home, as if they had every right to be here! I feel as if I’d wakened up after a sleep of a hundred years. I was standing up there thinking about it all!’

‘You’ll feel the same when Jenny-Wren comes home and you see her house full of children,’ Joy said. ‘Her boys are fine sturdy kiddies, and the baby is a darling.’

‘Andrew an’ Tony an’ Baby, gone away to G’ange,’ said Elizabeth, looking up from the picture.

‘They’re always going to The Grange, aren’t they, Elizabeth?’ Maidlin brought Ruth’s cup. ‘Now, girlies, one bring a plate and one the scones, very carefully! Don’t tip the scones into Aunty’s lap!’

‘We’ll be a picession, like when Aunty Jen pipes a tune!’ and Margaret seized the scones.

‘That sounds like old times!’ Ruth exclaimed. ‘Does Jenny-Wren still pipe tunes?’

‘Oh, at times! You should see the boys and our girls dancing to her pipe! I can’t say anyone would recognise the movements, but it’s certainly more like morris jigs than country dancing,’ said Joy. ‘Now, Twins, here comes Nelly! That means your tea’s ready. Run along! You shall come back presently, and Mother will play to you.’

Joy sat at her piano and played for an hour, to the delight of the twins and Ruth. She played merry music, and the children danced like fairies all about the hall. She played nursery-rhyme tunes, and they stood beside her and sang a duet. She played her own songs for Maidlin to sing, and the twins curled up on footstools and listened, and begged for more.

Ruth sat in the corner of a big settle by the fire, watching, applauding continually, and thinking. The strangeness of it all came over her again—the changes in the household since she had known it before. Then there had been little Mrs Shirley to be cared for; Joy and Jen almost as irresponsible as school-girls; Ros and Maidie just children; Joan with her first baby; and only the suggestion of the future in the figure of Sir Andrew Marchwood in the background. All the events she had heard of had seemed shadowy and unreal—Joy’s sudden marriage and trip to Kenya; her husband’s death and the coming of the twins; Jen’s wedding to Andrew’s brother, which had made her also Lady Marchwood—but all seemed suddenly possible and true when Ruth saw Elizabeth and Margaret Marchwood holding up their yellow frocks and dancing on the polished floor in little green shoes.

Joy sent them off to bed at last, promising to come and tuck them up presently. She closed the piano and came to sit with Ruth and Maidlin by the hearth in the firelight.

‘Lovely children, “Traveller’s Joy”!’ Ruth whispered.

‘Every day I’m thankful for them. Think if I’d been left alone!’

‘Oh, Joy, yes! They must have changed the world for you.’

‘Now tell us something about yourself, Ruth. Didn’t you like the friends you met on the boat? Why did you run away from them so suddenly?’

Ruth flushed, but spoke out bravely, telling of Gerald and her realisation of his intentions and of her own shrinking from the idea.

Joy’s hand reached out to her in sympathy. ‘My dear, I’m so glad you came to us. It was very difficult for you. But you did the wisest thing. You couldn’t marry him if you felt the slightest doubt.’

‘I was full of doubts. But Gracie and her mother were bricks. It wasn’t easy to tell them.’

‘We’re delighted to have you here. Mary will be home on Monday. The house feels queer and empty without Mary-Dorothy! Maid and I will try to keep you amused till she comes.’

‘The twinnies will do that,’ Maidlin remarked.

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to go out and leave you to-morrow.’ Joy’s face clouded. ‘I don’t want to go, but I don’t see how I can get out of it. Our cottage-hospital in the village has a new wing added, and Jen had promised to go to the opening to-morrow. She’s Lady of the Manor, you know, and she’s expected at every function in the neighbourhood. In this case she refused to do the opening ceremony, because she’s done it so often for people about here, so they’ve asked someone from town; but Jen promised to be present. It’s rather a great occasion for the hospital, and they like to collect as many people for the platform as they can.’

‘And Jenny-Wren looks well on a platform,’ Maidlin said seriously.

‘I’m sure she does,’ Ruth agreed. ‘And did she ask you to go in her place?’

‘She did. It was the last thing she said. I didn’t promise, but I feel I ought to go. I’d a thousand times rather stay at home with you and Maid and the children!’

Maidlin looked up. ‘Joy, couldn’t I do it for you?’

Joy looked at her in amusement. ‘You, dear kid? It’s awfully good of you to suggest it, but it’s hardly in your line, I think, baby.’

‘It’s not in your line, either,’ Maidlin said sturdily. ‘You hate doing public things and sitting on platforms. There wouldn’t be any speech to make. I’d just apologise to the Chairman for Jen and say she was away from home; and I’d sit there during the speeches, and then I’d go round the wards with the crowd and speak to the children and give them flowers. I wouldn’t like it, but I could do it, Joy, and I’d like to help you. I know you’d rather stay at home.’

‘Heaps rather. You’re a dear to offer. But I couldn’t stay at home and send a kid like you.’

‘I’m not such a frightful kid!’ Maidlin urged.

‘You’re a good kind child,’ Joy said, looking at her with amused eyes. ‘But it wouldn’t do, Maid. I can’t shove my unpleasant jobs on to you, dear infant.’

Maidlin looked at her, as if about to speak again, but changed her mind and sat gazing into the fire.

Ruth glanced from her to Joy. ‘Let her do it, Joy! She’d like to save you bother.’

‘Oh, my dear, I couldn’t think of it! Maid’s young for her age.—Just an infant still, aren’t you, Madalena?—She isn’t going to grow up until she must. No, I’ll go and do my duty, and you two shall take care of the twinnies. I’ll be envying you all the time. I’d better go to them; they’ll be waiting for me.’

Joy rose, and laid her hand on Maidlin’s shoulder in passing. ‘Thank you so much for the kind thought, Maid. I do appreciate it. But I’d feel bad if I shirked and left the job to you.’

She went upstairs, and Maidlin sat brooding over the fire, her chin in her hands.

Ruth glanced at her and wondered if she dared say what was in her mind. But before she could decide Maidlin rose. ‘I ought to practise; I had to leave it this morning because of going to meet you. I can put in an hour before dinner. Wouldn’t you like to unpack, Ruth?’

‘Yes, and I must write to Gracie and Mrs Fisher,’ and Ruth knew that Maidlin had understood and that her sympathy was not to be spoken.

‘I’m very fond of Joy,’ she said to herself as she bent over her steamer-trunk. ‘But I do think she’s making a mistake about Maidlin. I should have let the kid do the job. She is a kid, but she wants to help and she’d have been awfully bucked to feel she’d done it. There was nothing in it she couldn’t have done quite well. Joy’s keeping her still a little girl, and I rather think Maid wants to grow up. She looked awfully crushed when Joy refused. Joy won’t understand, of course; unless she’s changed a great deal she won’t sympathise, or even see that Maidie’s craving to grow up. She never did see things. It’s hard on Madalena. She ought to go away from Joy for a while, and be on her own.’

The matter was not referred to again during the evening. But it seemed to Ruth that she could detect a touch of wistfulness in Maidlin, which she had not noticed until the incident of the hospital visit opened her eyes. ‘Maid’s disappointed,’ she said to herself, as Maidlin went to the piano to sing, at Joy’s request.

‘I want to hear about your Camp Fire, Maid. May I see the wonderful gown Mary told me about?’ she asked.

‘Fetch it for her, Maid,’ said Joy. ‘Maid’s a jolly Guardian, Ruth. The girls like her and she enjoys doing it.’

Maidlin spread out the khaki gown, with its brown fringe and leather collar and coloured symbols. ‘These signs stand for my girls. I’ll tell you their names.’

‘Put it on for Ruth,’ Joy suggested. ‘Pull your hair down and let her see you as Nawadaha, the Sweet Singer, and the Guardian of Camp Waditaka, the Camp of Adventurous People.’

‘Not to-night.’ Maidlin coloured. ‘Ruth shall see it on me some other time. I don’t feel adventurous to-night.’

‘Joy won’t let you have adventures, will she?’ Ruth suggested, following Maidlin up to her room when she went to put the gown away.

‘Oh, Joy was right, of course. It was a silly idea of mine,’ Maidlin said quickly. ‘It wouldn’t have seemed at all the same to the hospital people if I had gone.’

‘That wouldn’t have mattered, as you weren’t asked to do the actual opening. You had only to represent Jen, and anyone could do that. Joy ought to have let you go.’

‘No, I don’t feel that. She was right, and I was silly.’ Maidlin’s tone was final. ‘Good-night, Ruth!’

‘I could shake Maid at times,’ Ruth said to herself, as she closed her bedroom door. ‘Why doesn’t she assert herself? Why is Joy always right? I think she’s very often wrong! I know she used to be!’

She was wakened in the morning by the chatter of baby voices and the running of feet on the gallery outside. ‘Miss Marchwood and Twin seem very well this morning!’ Coming out from her room ready for breakfast, she leant over the balustrade and called to the party below.

Joy turned at the door of a sunny room. ‘I hope they didn’t wake you. We’re early people in the morning. Come to breakfast, Ruth!—Elizabeth-Twin, go and tell Aunty Maid to be quick.’

‘Margaret-Twin jus’ comin’.’ And Margaret came rushing across the hall.

‘They look ready for anything,’ Ruth said, laughing, as she joined Joy, for the twins wore brown knickerbockers and yellow jerseys, and except for their curls might have been small boys.

‘I call them Billy and Tom, in their garden-suits,’ said Joy. ‘But we’ll have pinnies on for breakfast, Margaret. There’s work to be done in the garden to-day. Perhaps Aunty Ruth would like to help?’

‘I’ll love to help!’ Ruth agreed.

When breakfast was over the twins pulled off their holland overalls and brought shoes and gaiters, clamouring for help with buttons. A basket was thrust into Ruth’s hand, and a twin on each side led her out on to the terrace and across the lawn, Maidlin following.

‘Goin’ to pick snowdrops, Aunty Ruth!’

‘For girls what haven’t any flowers,’ Elizabeth explained. ‘Pick long stalks, Twin! Don’t f’get.’

‘An’ on’y buddy flowers,’ Margaret added.

‘For Muvver to take to little girls in bed.’

‘And little boys!’ Margaret shouted, dancing along over the wet grass.

‘We’ll make them up in bunches when we’ve picked enough,’ Maidlin said. ‘And on Monday we’ll pick a lot more and pack a big box to send to town, Twinnies.’

‘Does Joy still send flowers to the East End of London?’ Ruth asked, with interest. ‘How awfully jolly of her to have kept it up!’

‘We don’t send regularly, I’m afraid. But whenever anything is at its best—the snowdrops now, and then the daffodils and the bluebells, and later on roses—Joy asks me or Mary to send a box. People do appreciate them so much.’

‘I’m sure they do. I’ll love to help.’ And Ruth and the twins picked hard.

Elizabeth, kept an elder-sisterly eye on Margaret, and remonstrated continually with ‘Twin’ if stalks were not long enough or flowers too fully open. Margaret worked with much zeal but no great perseverance, and kept wandering away—‘To look at somefin’, Twin,’ she would say plaintively, when a stern shout from Elizabeth brought her back.

‘That’s enough, Twinnies,’ Maidlin said at last.

‘All ve baskets full! Come an’ see ve sandpit, Aunty Ruth!’ Margaret shouted, and danced on ahead; while Elizabeth, more sedate, took Ruth’s hand and led her to the shrubbery.

‘I see more reason than ever for the brown knickers,’ Ruth said to Maidlin, as they stood on the bank and looked down at a mass of legs and arms and caps and curls, as the twins rolled gleefully in the sand.

‘Nothing else is a scrap of good for this, and they play here all the time,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘They needed at least two washing frocks a day. So Joy put them into knickers, and they loved them from the first. But very strictly only for the garden! We’ll drive Joy down to the hospital after lunch, and the twins will wear their green frocks and their white coats and hoods and will look pictures. I told Joy she ought to take them with her. Think how delighted everyone would be! But she says she can’t quite imagine Margaret during the Chairman’s speech.’

‘I can just see Elizabeth, though! She’d sit and gaze at him with brown eyes like big pennies and never make a sound.’

Maidlin laughed. ‘You see the difference, then? Can you tell them apart now?’

‘My dear kid, they aren’t a scrap alike,’ Ruth said solemnly.

Maidlin turned on her, sudden colour in her cheeks. ‘Please don’t! I’m so tired of it. I put up with it from Joy, but if you begin too—must you? Am I really such a baby?’

‘Maid, I do apologise! I’m awfully sorry!’ Ruth exclaimed. ‘I could kick myself. I was only copying Joy; I didn’t think. No, you’re not; it was utterly silly of me. I’m so sorry, Maid.’

‘They all do it.’ Maidlin’s tone had a note of suppressed feeling. ‘Not Mary; but Joy, and Ros, and sometimes even Jenny-Wren. They all call me, “Dear kid,” or “Dear infant,” or “Babe.” I’m fed up.’

‘But don’t they just mean to show you how fond of you they are?’ Ruth tried to comfort her. ‘Isn’t it just a sort of pet name, Maid?’

‘Of course. But there must be something behind it,’ Maidlin said stormily. ‘I must be childish, or they wouldn’t use those names for me.’

‘I don’t see that,’ Ruth argued. ‘You’ve been the youngest in the house for so long, until the twins came, that they’re in the habit of looking on you as——’ she paused.

‘As the baby. Go on! I was the youngest for three years. But we’ve had these two for nearly five years. They still call me “Dear Babe.” Joy really thinks I am; and so does Ros. They think I can never do things. I suppose they’re right; I never have done things, and I’m lazy and I don’t want to begin,’ Maidlin admitted, a quiver in her voice. ‘I’m always afraid when I have to do anything on my own. But I can do things, when I have to.’

‘Of course you can,’ Ruth comforted her. ‘I’m certain of it. I spoke without thinking, Maid. Whether the others mean anything or not, I certainly didn’t. I apologise again, and I won’t forget any more.’

‘I’m tired of being called “Baby.” Here’s Joy come for the flowers. Don’t say anything, Ruth,’ and Maidlin ran down into the pit to fetch the sandy twins.

‘Oh!’ Joy, sitting by the fire in the early evening, looked up from a letter she was reading.

‘Oh! Oh, what a pity!’ Maidlin looked up from a letter, too.

‘What’s the matter with you both?’ asked Ruth.

‘The same thing, I expect,’ Joy groaned. ‘Well, Maid?’

‘Jansy again. My letter’s from Joan. Oh, what a nuisance! What’s yours, Joy?’

‘Mine’s from Mary-Dorothy,’ Joy said gloomily. ‘You won’t see Mary on Monday, Ruth. Jansy Raymond has put them all into quarantine. Mary can’t come back here.’ She glanced at the twins, sprawling on the floor with a jig-saw puzzle between them.

‘Whatever has happened? Is Jansy with them in Yorkshire? Is she ill?’

‘She’s begun with mumps. The first signs showed on Wednesday; Joan waited to be sure, before writing. She wrote to Jen as soon as she knew for certain what it was, and Jen asked Mary to tell me at once.’

‘Jen and the boys, and the baby and Mary, all spent Tuesday with Joan. It was John’s birthday,’ Maidlin explained, seeing Ruth’s puzzled look. ‘Joan asked all the children of the family to go over to Rayleigh for the day, for a party for John. We didn’t take the twinnies; Joy thought it was too far for them, so none of us went but Mary.’

‘I’m thankful none of us went!’ Joy said fervently.

‘I was wondering why Janice’s mumps should put Mary into quarantine,’ Ruth admitted.

‘Jen won’t feel safe about the boys and R. J. for three weeks, Joan says.’ Maidlin glanced at her letter again. ‘She’s glad Mary-Dorothy’s with them, and she hopes we can spare her to stay and help Jen.’

‘Of course she must stay with Jen. Besides, she might have it herself; it isn’t impossible. She went to Rayleigh, too.’ Joy looked intensely worried. ‘I’m sure they’d all kiss Jansy. That child is a worry to us! We can’t have Mary or anyone else with mumps in this house.’ She glanced at the twins again.

‘I don’t think Mary would take it. And I’m sure you can’t carry mumps,’ Ruth suggested. ‘She could come back, if you really need her, Joy. But Jen will want her help.’

‘We won’t run any risks.’ Joy’s nervousness was obvious. ‘Mary must stay with Jen till the quarantine time is over. If the boys should be ill she’d be needed. Oh, bother Jansy Raymond!’

‘Jansy’s a worry to Joan too,’ Maidlin said. ‘She began going to school last summer, Ruth, and she had measles almost at once. And of course she gave it to John.’

‘They look like spending their childhood in quarantine,’ Joy groaned.

‘Is Jansy delicate?’ Ruth asked.

‘Delicate? She’s the picture of health. She won’t be ill, even with mumps. But the quarantine and the infection are the same.’

‘Joan says she isn’t ill,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘She’s so well that she doesn’t have anything badly, Ruth. But she takes everything she can, all the same.’

Joy glanced at her children again, and then sat gazing into the fire. ‘School is a frightful worry,’ she said at last. ‘One wants them to have the fun of it. We all enjoyed school; I’d hate to bring up the twins with governesses. They must have the best, and that means school, and Brownies, and Guides, and country-dancing—everything one does in a crowd. Margaret, especially, will love it; and Elizabeth must have it all too. But Joan’s experience with Jansy isn’t encouraging.’

‘Kiddies mostly have measles and mumps. But they aren’t any the worse,’ Ruth tried to reassure her.

‘I don’t like the thought of my two having anything. And I will not have Jansy to live here! Joan and Jen and I have always said that our girls must go to Miss Macey’s, in Wycombe—our old school.’

‘To be May Queens, all of them,’ said Maidlin. ‘The Club’s already making plans for having twin Queens. But Jansy’s turn will come first. Elizabeth and Margaret are to be her Maids of Honour. They’ll make a lovely procession of three, all exactly alike.’

‘Is Janice like the twins?’ Ruth asked. ‘Or does she take after Joan?’

‘She’s the image of Joan,’ Joy explained. ‘And that means she’s exactly like the twinnies, for Joan and I were always just alike.’

‘Then I don’t wonder the School wants them to make a procession! But how can Jansy go to school in Wycombe? Doesn’t she live in Sussex? Is Joan going to move?’

‘Jen and I have always said Jansy would have to live with one of us, and go home for week-ends. But I’m beginning to think I shan’t want Jansy.’

‘Oh, but she won’t go on like this all her life!’ Ruth cried, laughing. ‘Poor Jansy!’

‘She’ll have had everything there is to have long before it’s time for her to go to Wycombe,’ Maidlin remarked. ‘I expect Jenny-Wren will risk it, if you won’t, Joy.’

‘She’ll begin again, and have them all twice over,’ Joy groaned. ‘If I were Miss Macey I wouldn’t want her in the school.’

Ruth laughed. ‘But doesn’t she catch these things at school? Perhaps Miss Macey is more careful.’

‘It was a case of diphtheria that first brought Jen here and made us chums for life,’ Joy acknowledged. She took up Mary’s letter to finish reading it. Then with a quick exclamation, she laid it down again, ‘Maid, I’d forgotten your trip to Italy next week. I was thinking only of the children. Whatever shall we do? I can’t possibly leave home, if Mary isn’t here.’

Maidlin looked up in dismay. ‘I’d forgotten too. Oh, Joy! Couldn’t I put it off?’

Joy knit her brows. ‘How can you? There’s that dinner in the following week—your friend Bianca’s coming of age; you simply must be there.’

‘They wouldn’t care, if I couldn’t manage it. I hate those long formal dinners,’ Maidlin urged.

‘They’re counting on having you there. You ought to go. But I can’t take you. I wonder if I could find anybody in town to travel with you, as I did once for Rosamund and Mary?’

‘I’d hate that! Oh, Joy, don’t do that!’ Maidlin cried. ‘I couldn’t go with a strange person! Couldn’t Ruth take care of the twins? You meant to leave them with Mary!’

‘Oh, please!’ Ruth begged. ‘I couldn’t do that, Maid. I’d take care of the house with pleasure, but not of those precious children. I wouldn’t sleep a wink!’

‘It wouldn’t be fair. It would be too big a responsibility,’ Joy frowned in distress. ‘Oh, bother Jansy Raymond!’

They all sat silent, puzzling over the problem.

Maidlin looked up, a touch of shyness in her face. Joy’s rebuff of the night before had hurt her deeply, and she hesitated to provoke another. ‘Joy, couldn’t I go alone? I know all about the journey; I’ve done it so often with you.’

Joy gave a quick shake of her head. ‘Maid, I couldn’t bear to think of you crossing the Channel alone. My dear infant, you’ve no idea how lonely you’d feel.’

Maidlin coloured and steadily refused to look at Ruth. ‘I’d have no difficulty,’ she urged. ‘I can speak French and Italian now, and I’ve been so often. If I had booked seats I couldn’t go wrong, Joy.’

‘I couldn’t allow it, Maid. I couldn’t sleep if I knew you were wandering about France on your own. It’s awfully plucky of you to suggest it, dear kid, but you’d go all to pieces when you found yourself alone.’

‘I wouldn’t.’ Maidlin’s lips were quivering, and she spoke unsteadily. ‘Joy, I wouldn’t. I’m not such a baby as you think. I could do it alone, Joy.’

‘I couldn’t let you go alone, Maid. That’s the end of it.’ Joy’s tone was final. ‘But I don’t know what we’re going to do about it.’

‘Joy, I was going to Paris later on, to visit some friends I met on the way home,’ Ruth spoke slowly, a touch of colour rising in her face. ‘I didn’t mean to go yet, but they have asked me. They’re Americans, and they’re spending a couple of months in Paris before going back to New York. Suppose I went now, and travelled with Maid as far as Paris, and saw her into the Italian express? Her friends would meet her at the other end. She’d be all right then, wouldn’t she?’

‘Saved!’ cried Joy. ‘The situation is saved! Ruth, the family thanks you! I couldn’t let the kid go alone, could I?’

‘Oh, thank you, Ruth! That would be gorgeous! Though I don’t really want to go at all!’ Maidlin exclaimed.

‘As a matter of fact, I think you could,’ Ruth replied to Joy’s question. ‘If Maid has taken the journey several times already and can speak French, I’m sure she could do it perfectly well. But I do see that it would be much pleasanter for her to have company, and for you to know that there was somebody with her.’

‘Oh, rather! Maid never seems grown-up to me. I couldn’t let her take that journey all alone. It’s more than kind of you, Ruth. Don’t you mind setting off again so soon?’

‘I shall mind leaving the twins,’ Ruth said.

‘Oh, but you’ll come back, when you’ve visited your friends! By that time we shall know about Mary. If there are no more cases of mumps, they’ll all come home in a month, and you’ll come back and Mary will be here.’

‘Then I’ll write to the Normans to-morrow,’ Ruth agreed.

‘I don’t want to go,’ Maidlin said again. ‘I hate leaving home, Ruth.’

‘Oh, don’t be a babe, Maidie!’ Joy exclaimed. ‘You know you have to go.’

‘Think how jolly coming home again will be!’ Ruth urged, to comfort Maidlin.

Maidlin had risen at Joy’s words, and was kneeling beside Elizabeth on the floor, helping her with the puzzle.

‘Here’s the horse’s tail, Elizabeth. Now where’s his hind foot?’

‘Twin’s took it.—Give it to me, Twin! Must make ve whole horsy,’ Elizabeth pleaded.

‘S’an’t!’ said Margaret, and lay on the horse’s foot.

Elizabeth hurled herself upon her, and pieces of the puzzle slid in all directions on the polished floor. She gave a wail at sight of her work all undone, and hammered her sister’s back furiously with both fists. ‘Twin’s a pig! A howwid little pig! Bwoked my horse all to bits, Twin did!’

‘Di’n’t,’ Margaret cried indignantly. ‘You did it. You kicked ve horse an’ it bwoked.’

‘It’s evidently time for bed,’ Joy said sternly, rising and coming to the fray. ‘Call Nelly, Maid.—Elizabeth, stop hitting Margaret at once!—Margaret, if you kick I’ll tie your legs together.—No more crying, Twinnies! If you want to fight you’ll have to go to the nursery. We can’t have you here unless you can behave like big girls.’

‘My horse—all bwoked—an’ it was nea’ly all done,’ Elizabeth sobbed.

‘S’ouldn’t have jumped on it,’ Margaret retorted, but her lips were quivering. ‘I aren’t a pig, Twin. You said it.’

‘Wanted my horsy’s foot. You putted it under your tummy,’ Elizabeth wailed.

‘It were my horse too. I did want to do one bit. You did it all.’

Elizabeth raised a tear-stained face from her mother’s shoulder and stared at her twin. ‘Did I? Was I piggy? Takin’ more’n my share?’

‘Yes, you was,’ Margaret said sturdily.

‘Then I’m sowwy. I fought it was my horse we was makin’.’

‘Nofing’s yours. It’s all half mine.’

‘I f’got.’ Elizabeth did not attempt to argue the point. Margaret’s position was evidently the accepted condition of twinship. ‘I’m sowwy I did bang you, Twin. We’ll make anuvver horsy ’tween us.’

‘Here’s his foot,’ Margaret cried.

‘Make horse here.’ Elizabeth scrambled to the ground and began to gather up the pieces of the puzzle. ‘Not goin’ to nursery, Mum. We’s big girls now.’

Joy laughed and gave in. ‘We’d like to see you being big girls. Show us how good and quiet you can be. Sit together on the floor and make the horse in front of both of you. He was upside down for poor Margaret-Twin before.’

‘Poo’ Margaret-Twin,’ Elizabeth echoed, and squatted beside her sister. ‘Us will do ve horse, Aunty Maid. You talk to Mummy.’

And Joy, with a laughing look at Ruth, told Nelly Bell to go away again and leave the twins for half an hour more.

‘I’m afraid you must be dreadfully bored.’ Maidlin looked up at Ruth, from the trunk she was packing.

‘Not a scrap! I’m thrilled; you have such pretty things! I love to see them,’ Ruth assured her, folding dainty undergarments as she spoke.

Joy spread evening-frocks and thin bright day-dresses on the bed and folded them. ‘It seems odd to pack all these cool things, at the beginning of March,’ she said. ‘But Maid may need them in Italy.’

‘Joy!’ Maidlin sat on her heels and looked up at them. ‘I’ve thought of something that I want badly.’

‘If I can give it to you, you shall have it, dear kid,’ Joy promised.

‘I want to meet Biddy half-way, and spend a night with her. We’ve often said I must do it sometime.’

Joy sat on the bed, an orange jumper-suit in her lap. ‘We have spoken of it. I suppose it wouldn’t be difficult. You haven’t left much time; but you could wire to Biddy.’

‘She’d come from Lyons and meet me somewhere. I’d break the journey, and she’d see me into the train the next day. It would be easy,’ Maidlin urged. ‘I’d love to see Biddy again.’

‘She’ll be coming for her holidays, as usual. You’ve seen her every spring,’ Joy said. ‘But if you want to see her digs in Lyons, I don’t see why you shouldn’t. It’s a chance, when you’ll be travelling alone.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘Then I’ll wire to Biddy to meet me on Thursday afternoon.’

‘And wire to the Signora that you won’t reach Turin till Friday evening, instead of Thursday,’ Joy reminded her.

‘I forgot that. Yes, I’ll have to let her know. It will be ripping to see Biddy again.’

‘I wish you’d spoken of it sooner!’ Ruth exclaimed. ‘For I want to see Biddy too. After all, Bridget is my cousin! She’s only your future private secretary. She’s done jolly well to keep this French job for six years. I’d love to see her in France, and not merely on holiday in England.’

‘She’s done more than keep the job; she’s made good, and moved up into a very good position,’ Joy said. ‘She went out as a junior English clerk; she’s now private secretary to the head of the firm. She has done splendidly. You ought to see her, Ruth. Couldn’t you put off the Paris friends for a few days, and go on with Maid to Lyons?’

‘It doesn’t seem polite, after inviting myself to stay with them,’ Ruth argued. ‘I’ll go to them, as I’ve arranged, and Maid and Biddy shall have their night and their talk alone, without me to butt in all the time.—But tell Biddy I’m in Paris, Maid, and say she may expect a wire at any time, saying I’m coming for a few days.’

The journey was unexpectedly made easy by Maidlin’s willingness for a night crossing. ‘I’m never ill,’ she explained. ‘I’ve crossed ever so often and never been ill yet. Ruth must be quite used to the sea, after coming from Cape Town——’

‘To say nothing of going to Australia and back four years ago,’ Ruth put in. ‘I don’t mind when or how I cross. Doesn’t it take about an hour and a half? Or what about flying? I’d rather like to try it.’

Maidlin flatly refused to fly, however. ‘I’d hate it. I don’t want a night in Paris by myself, and Ruth will go to her friends as soon as we reach Paris. And I don’t want a night journey through France all alone; and Biddy wouldn’t want to meet me at five or six in the morning. I must spend a night somewhere on the way, so I’d rather have it while I’m still with Ruth, if she doesn’t mind.’

‘I don’t care,’ Ruth said again. ‘We’ll sleep when we’re in the Paris train.’

As the last day at home drew near, Maidlin became silent and unhappy, and had nothing to say except to the twins. She played with them when she was not packing, but seemed to avoid Joy.

Ruth watched her with sympathy but with some amusement, and at last tackled her on the subject. ‘Maid, why do you feel so bad about Italy? Don’t you like the friends there?’

Maidlin gave her a startled look. ‘I like them well enough. What do you mean?’

‘You look so frightfully unhappy. You’re only going for a month; you’ll soon be back with Joy and the kiddies again. Joy’s quite worried about you. She says you’ve never been like this before.’

Maidlin gave a quick look round; they were standing on the bank above the pit, while the twins dug energetically and sent the sand flying in all directions. ‘It’s not about going away that I’m worried,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I want to say something to Joy before I go, and I can’t make up my mind to do it. I shall be wretched if I go without saying it. But I can’t—I know she’ll laugh at me.’

Ruth’s sympathy deepened and became real at once. ‘That’s hard lines, old girl. But you aren’t afraid of Joy, surely? Just say it straight out, whatever it is, and have it off your mind.’

‘She’ll laugh,’ Maidlin said again, her voice full of shrinking. ‘And I can’t bear it. She’s squashed me twice already. I can’t decide whether to risk it or not. But I can’t go on like this!’

‘But what if she does laugh, Maid?’ Ruth asked gently. ‘It wouldn’t kill you, if she laughed!’

‘I’d hate it. But she does laugh at people sometimes. She laughed at Rosamund, when Ros told her she wanted to keep a shop; and Ros was frightfully upset. But Ros can forget things; I can’t.’

Ruth looked at her curiously. ‘What is it you want to say to Joy? Is it something that matters so very much?’

‘It matters to me. And it matters to me what Joy says. We’ll take the twinnies in; it’s time,’ and Maidlin closed the subject. ‘Don’t say anything to Joy, Ruth; you wouldn’t, of course. But don’t try to help, please. You wouldn’t do any good.’

Greatly puzzled, Ruth said no more, but waited, and watched Maidlin anxiously all through the last day at home.

Rain was beating on the windows of the Hall. The twins were playing in their nursery; the packing was finished. The car was to be ready at five to take Maidlin and Ruth to town to catch the boat-train.

‘We’ll have a cosy afternoon by the fire,’ said Joy. ‘You poor things will remember it when you’re on the Channel boat at midnight. Perhaps it will warm you to think about it then.’

Ruth glanced at Maidlin, whose restlessness had been increasing during the day. It was now or never; this was surely the chance for which Maid had been waiting.

They sat together round the hearth, with the great entrance hall in half-darkness behind them, Joy in a big chair, Ruth in the corner of a high-backed settle. Maidlin, in the little yellow frock she was leaving at home, sat on a cushion between, on the hearth-rug.

She looked up at Joy, and Ruth knew she was going to speak. ‘Plucky kid, whatever it’s all about!’ she thought, and waited eagerly.

‘Joy, I’ve been thinking a lot lately. May I tell you about it, before we go away?’

Joy looked down at her in amusement. ‘Oh, please do, Maid! I wouldn’t like you to go away with anything on your mind!’

‘It is on my mind, very much,’ Maidlin said sturdily. Now that the decision was taken her voice was steadier and she seemed composed and even resolute.

‘Don’t laugh at her! Joy, don’t laugh! Even if it’s something silly, she’s in dead earnest. She’s desperate! Don’t hurt her, Joy!’ Ruth whispered in her heart, and wished she dared say it aloud.

‘Tell us then, Madalena,’ said Joy.

‘I want to go away from you all for a year,’ Maidlin began.

‘Great stars above!’ gasped Joy, and sat up. ‘Maidie, are you ill? Are you crazy?’

Ruth leaned forward, her face alight with interest.

‘I want to go into some sort of business, and earn my living, and see what it feels like; as Ros is doing.’

‘But you couldn’t, Maid! Whatever has put such a wild idea into your head?’ Joy was too bewildered to laugh. She stared at Maidlin in real anxiety.

‘No—I’m not going off my head.’ Maidlin coloured, reading her look aright. ‘I think I ought to do something useful.’

‘I thought you were having a mental breakdown, with the strain of going away!’ Joy exclaimed. ‘Maidie, what are you talking about?’

‘Maid, you’re a brick!’ cried Ruth. ‘I believe I understand. If I’m right, you are a sport and no mistake!—Joy, I should let her do it.’

‘I don’t even know what “it” is. What does she want to do?’ Joy asked, in real irritation. ‘Maid, say something sensible! Tell me what you mean.’

Maidlin spoke quickly. ‘Quite soon now, I shall come into my grandfather’s money. There’s going to be a lot of it. I’ll have to use it somehow, and I don’t know how. I’d like to help people, but I don’t know anything about how other people live. I’ve lived here with you for eight years—ever since I was old enough to think—and I’ve had everything I wanted. It’s been ripping, and I’ve been the happiest girl there ever was. But I haven’t been learning things. It’s been too easy, too soft, too—too——’

‘Too sheltered,’ Ruth suggested. ‘She’s right, Joy. She needs experience, if she’s to be able to handle that fortune in a year or two. She has no chance here; you’re all too good to her. She needs to go away, and rub up against other people, and find her own feet. She is inexperienced in real living! But I’m breathless with astonishment that she should have seen it for herself.’

‘I don’t see why you should be,’ Maidlin retorted. ‘I don’t talk as much as the others, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think.’

‘You evidently think more and say less! But that you should have the pluck to suggest making a plunge out of all this—that’s even more amazing, and perfectly ripping!’ Ruth cried. ‘Maid, you really are a sport! What did you think you’d do?’

Maidlin looked at Joy, who was frowning in angry bewilderment.

‘I’ve thought a lot since Ros went, and since she started her house and her shop,’ Maidlin went on steadily. ‘It seemed dreadful that she should go, but she’s so happy and it’s all so jolly, and she knows so much more than she did——’

‘So much more grown-up and capable, I expect,’ Ruth murmured. ‘I’m aching to see Ros and her shop!’

‘It seems to me that’s what I need,’ Maidlin finished. ‘I want to know how other people live, and what it feels like to work and earn. I want to start something, as Ros did.’

‘But you aren’t Rosamund!’ Joy cried.

Maidlin shrank. ‘I know,’ she said humbly. ‘I know I shouldn’t make a big success, as she did. I’m not expecting anything like that. But I believe if I had a job and worked at it for a year, and lived on what I earned, even if sometimes it was only just enough, I’d be more fit to manage the money when it’s really mine.’

‘Hear, hear!’ Ruth said gently. ‘Maid, you are wise; you really are!—Joy, couldn’t she try her wings? Couldn’t you, or Mary, find her a job and let her support herself for a while?’

‘I’d understand how people feel when they need to work,’ Maidlin pleaded.

‘She’d gain enormously in sympathy, as well as in experience,’ Ruth urged. ‘What chance has she had, living here with you and those fascinating babies, and Mary to do everything for her? Joy, you’ve been more than good to her; but you’ve been too good. She hasn’t had a chance to grow up. And then you all call her “Kid” and “Babe”! No wonder it gets on her nerves!’

‘She is just a kid. The whole idea’s absurd,’ Joy said wrathfully.

‘If she’s a kid, at twenty-two, it’s because you’ve kept her one!’ Ruth exclaimed, as Maidlin winced. ‘I seem to remember hearing in letters of Maid setting her teeth and going through with things, however much she disliked them. What about that time she had to receive a Princess, at school, when Ros had gone away and couldn’t back her up? What about Maid being May Queen for Rosamund’s sake?’

‘I was very proud of her,’ Joy agreed. ‘But those were just school events. This is different.’

‘But Maid was just a school-girl then. She’s different now, too. She is, Joy, or she couldn’t have thought of this plan.’

‘It’s an absurd idea!’ Joy exclaimed. ‘She hasn’t a notion what she’s talking about.’

‘She knows that. That’s why she is talking about it,’ Ruth retorted.

‘Oh, you’re absurd too! Why should she do such a mad thing, when she has her home and everything she wants?’

‘Not everything,’ Ruth said.

‘Can you imagine Maidie in business?’ Joy went on. ‘The very idea is ridiculous.—Did you think of being a shorthand-typist, Maid? Or a children’s nurse, or a cook? Or perhaps you think you could teach something?’

Maidlin bit her lips to steady them. ‘I haven’t planned it all. I wanted to talk it over with you. I hoped you’d help.’

‘Help! Not in any mad idea like this!’

‘I could be a children’s nurse, or I could teach music and country-dancing in a school.’

‘Of course you could,’ Ruth agreed. ‘Joy, aren’t you being a little unkind?’

‘I should say I’m being kind. It’s a crazy idea, and Maid will have to admit it. She isn’t fitted for that sort of life, and it’s quite unnecessary.—Now, Maidie, don’t keep on talking about it. It’s impossible. I’d never agree.’

‘I won’t go on talking about it,’ Maidlin said unsteadily. ‘I won’t worry you any more, Joy. But I did hope you’d understand.’

‘That’s a good kid!’ Joy really believed the subject was closed, and spoke in a tone of much relief. ‘When you think about it quietly, you’ll see how you’d have hated it, Maidie.’

Maidlin gave her a quick look, then gazed into the fire. Ruth saw she could bear no more, and plunged into the conversation, to change the subject entirely. ‘Do tell me more about Rosamund and her shop! I haven’t heard nearly all about it yet.’

Joy was only too glad to turn her thoughts from Maidlin’s foolishness. She talked eagerly of the Rose and Squirrel till it was time for tea; and Maidlin sat on her cushion and gazed gravely at the fire.

The twins came down to hand round plates and bread and butter, and to tell of the fort they had been building.

‘They’ve borrowed Andrew’s soldiers and Tony’s sailor-men, and with their own they have quite an army,’ Joy explained.

When tea was over, Ruth and Maidlin went up to change into travelling clothes, and Ruth spoke in a quick undertone as they reached the gallery. ‘How about it, Maid? We’ll talk in the train, shall we?’

‘Yes, please. And I shall talk to Biddy.’

‘Oh, good for you! Biddy’s the one to help.’

‘She’ll understand. So would Ros, but she’s away. Don’t say any more to worry Joy, Ruth; it’s just her way. It’s no use keeping on.’

‘I know,’ Ruth agreed. ‘We’ll say no more about it just now.’

They went down wearing warm travelling-suits and carrying their furs, and the twins danced about them in excitement.

‘Goin’ on ve sea, Aunty Maid! In a big ship all ve night,’ cried Margaret.

‘Twin an’ me’ll be in our beds, an’ poor Aunty Maid won’t have a bed at all,’ Elizabeth added.

‘To-morrow night Aunty Maid will go to bed with Aunt Biddy,’ said Ruth, glancing at Maidlin, who was looking round the hall in a strange way, almost as if she were saying good-bye to it for much more than a month.

‘What’s Aunt Biddy?’ The twins spoke together, leaning against Ruth and gazing up at her.

Elizabeth stroked her coat. ‘Like pussy!’

‘ ’Tisn’t like pussy. Pussy’s black,’ cried Margaret. ‘What’s Aunt Biddy, Aunty Ruth?’

‘Oh, Twinnies, have you forgotten?’ cried Joy, coming from the doorway. ‘The car’s here, Ruth.—Girlies, you loved Aunt Biddy very much last spring. You’ll remember her when you see her again.—Tell her we’re looking forward to seeing her soon, Maid. She must let us know as soon as the date of her holiday is fixed. I fancy she’s feeling ready for it. Her last few letters have sounded tired, Mary says.—I’ll help you into your coat, Ruth.’

‘I shan’t need it in the car. It’s for the night journey.’ Ruth knelt to kiss the twins.

‘Cheer up, Maid! It’s not for very long. You’ll soon be home again,’ Joy cried. ‘And then it will be off your mind for another year. Send me a card from Paris!’

‘It’s all ready addressed. I’ll post it when I’ve seen her off in the train to Aix,’ Ruth promised.

‘You’ll be well taken care of, dear kid.’ Joy took Maidlin into her arms. ‘My dear, how glad I am Ruth’s going with you! I just couldn’t have borne it if you’d been setting off alone. Cheer up, baby! It will soon be over!’

Maidlin clung to her for a moment. Then she turned quickly to hug the children, and then ran out to the car.

Ruth’s eyes met Joy’s. ‘I’ll be very careful of her, Joy. She’ll be as safe as if you were with her yourself.’

‘I know. I’m more than grateful.’

As the car gathered speed, Maidlin pushed past Ruth to lean out of the window, dashing the tears from her eyes.

Joy stood on the top step, in the glow from the firelight within, a twin on each side of her. Maidlin looked till they were out of sight; then she sank back in her corner and sat in silence.

During supper at Victoria, Maidlin talked of everything but the one thing Ruth wanted to hear—of the funny ways of the twins, of Rosamund and Jen, the boys and Rosemary Jane; of previous journeys, and of the friends in Italy; and of Joy, her kindness to everybody, her courage in building up a life which should give her children everything and never let them feel their need of a father.

But in the boat-train she sat silent again, staring out at the lights of town till these gave place to the darkness of the country. At last she sighed and turned to Ruth, who sat opposite to her across the table of the Pullman-coach. ‘We’ll have coffee now, shall we? Ruth, I feel I’ve said good-bye to them all for some time.’

‘For a month, Maid,’ Ruth suggested.

‘Oh no! I shan’t go back in a month. I shall talk to Biddy, and then I shall run away.’

‘Maidie!’ Ruth cried, and stared at her, half in dismay and half in amusement, but altogether in respect.

‘What else can I do? I can’t go on being Joy’s “Dear kid” and “Dear infant” for ever.’

‘No, she’ll have to realise you’re growing up. But I don’t see how I can let you run away, Maid. I promised Joy——’

‘That you’d see me safely into the train to-morrow morning. I’m going as far as Biddy’s. But I don’t think I’m going to Italy.’

While the waiter set the cups and coffee-pot before them, Ruth gazed at her companion with deepening amusement and dismay. When she had handed across the cup of coffee she spoke sternly. ‘Now, Maid, tell me a little more! Is this as sudden as it sounds, or has it been smouldering for some time?’

‘For months.’ Maidlin stirred her coffee and gazed out into the darkness. ‘Ever since it dawned on me that Joy and Rosamund never spoke to me without calling me “Infant” or “Babe” or “Kid.” I asked myself the reason, and the reason was that that is what I’m like.’

‘I’m not so sure that you are,’ Ruth said cautiously. ‘You seem to me too determined for an infant. Just now you’ve made up your mind to be a very naughty girl and you’ve made it up hard.’

‘Thoroughly naughty,’ Maidlin agreed, a smile quivering round her mouth. ‘Oh, Ruth, do help me! I’m desperate. And Joy’s so kind; I love her—I’ll never love anybody as I do Joy—but she just wraps me round with kindness. She’s like a feather-bed. I want to breathe.’

Ruth laughed out. ‘Maid! How can you? But I know just what you mean.’

‘You won’t tell her I said it, will you?’ Maidlin asked in alarm. ‘Don’t tell her anything, Ruth.’

‘It’s all to be in confidence,’ Ruth agreed. ‘You can say what you like, Maid. I won’t repeat anything to Joy.’

Maidlin gave a sigh of relief. ‘Ruth, what am I to do? I’ve thought so much lately that I feel ever so old, but Joy won’t see it. I tried to make her let me help her the other day. You were there; you heard what she said.’

‘ “Oh no, dear infant! I couldn’t think of it,” ’ Ruth quoted. ‘Maid, I sympathised with you, and I wanted to say so. You could have done the job quite well.’

‘Of course I could. And I could have travelled alone, if you hadn’t been here. But Joy would never have agreed.’

‘I sympathise with her in that, though you could have done it, of course.’ Ruth balanced her spoon on her cup and gazed at Maidlin thoughtfully. ‘Maid, I’m glad I’ve had this week at the Hall. I know what you’re feeling, and I see the reasons for it. I feel you’re justified in resenting Joy’s attitude——’

‘Not resenting!’ Maidlin exclaimed. ‘I feel Joy has every reason to think of me as she does. But it hurts me, and I want to alter it. And I can’t do that while I’m anywhere near Joy.’

Ruth agreed soberly. ‘You ought to have your chance. I’d like to help; I feel you’re right to want it. But must you run away, Maid? That’s rather drastic. I don’t see how I can agree to that.’

‘This is my chance,’ Maidlin said simply. ‘I feel it’s been given to me and I must take it. I’m going to talk to Biddy. I shall tell her what I want and ask her to find me a job. There are things I could do, in spite of Joy. I could be a waitress in a tea-shop, like Rosamund and her new aunts; they’ve told me all about it. Or I could be an accompanist in a concert-party.’

‘My dear girl, with your voice you’ll never need to look for a job,’ Ruth pointed out. ‘You’re a trained singer. Biddy will help you to find engagements. But Joy won’t like it.’

‘But that isn’t exactly the sort of thing I want.’ Maidlin flushed and spoke eagerly. ‘I want to live with working people and see what that sort of life is like. I could be a concert singer and still feel I was wrapped in cotton wool.’

‘You’ll have to conceal your voice, if you don’t mean to use it. Maid, I don’t like this,’ and Ruth looked troubled. ‘You can’t go off into the blue and look for a job. You’re too pretty and too young. You might get into the most awful trouble. I shall wire to Joy!’

‘That’s being nervy,’ Maidlin said composedly. ‘I shan’t get into any trouble, Ruth. I’m not an idiot. I shall stick to Biddy. Biddy knows all about things.’

‘I’m quite sure Biddy knows enough to take jolly good care of you! If you’ll promise to stick to Biddy and take her advice about everything, I’ll reconsider that telegram; but not otherwise,’ Ruth threatened.

‘I have promised, and I’ll promise again. I don’t want to do anything wild or frightening. Biddy has sense enough for both of us. I just want her to find me a job, in Lyons—near her, if possible—and I want to work and earn my living and see if I can do it. But Joy mustn’t know where I am.’

‘But that will be very hard on Joy,’ Ruth urged.

‘I thought perhaps you’d tell her you knew all about it, and I was quite safe, but that was all you could say.’

Ruth looked at her severely, but with dancing eyes. ‘I’m to aid and abet you in your wickedness, and then bear the brunt of Joy’s wrath! Thanks awfully, Maid! You are kind!’

‘Couldn’t you?’ Maidlin pleaded. ‘You wouldn’t go to Joy, of course. You’d write.’

‘It will need a jolly lot of thinking over. I’ll promise this and no more,’ Ruth said, after a thoughtful pause. ‘I’ll let you go to Biddy, if you’ll swear to me that you’ll stay with her till I come. I’ll come in a day or two and hear your plan. If I approve, I’ll think out what’s the best thing to do about Joy. But you must not do anything definite till I’ve heard about it. If you let me down, I’ll help Joy to find you. She’d soon do it, you know; you couldn’t lose yourself.’

‘I’ll promise that,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘The thing I’m keenest on is getting to Biddy and talking to her.’

‘You’ll have to send word to the people in Italy.’

‘I’ll wire: “Delayed en route. Will write shortly.” That will keep them quiet for a day or two.’

‘And I’ll tell the Normans that I’m on my way to see Biddy, and that when I’ve had a day or two with them I must go on to Lyons to see her, but that I’ll come back to them later on, if they’ll have me,’ Ruth said, privately resolving to tell Freda Norman the whole story and to insist on the absolute necessity of keeping an eye on Maidlin until she had come to some decision.

Maidlin pushed aside her cup and leaned an arm on the table, and spoke earnestly. ‘You know, Ruth, this money that’s coming to me is quite an accident. The law says I have to take it, but my grandfather didn’t mean me to have it. He hated the thought of me. But all the other grandchildren died, and the lawyers say the fortune has to be mine. I often feel I ought not to have it, but Joy says that’s silly and I must take it and try to use it properly. And there’s nobody else to have it.’

‘Then of course you must take it. You can do heaps of good with it.’

‘Yes, Joy’s taught me that, and I’ll always thank her for it. From the very first I’ve been shown that folks who had money had responsibility too, and they must use it to help other people.’

‘That’s like Joy,’ Ruth agreed. ‘You mustn’t run away from it, Maid.’

‘I don’t mean to, though I wish I could. But there’s something else, Ruth. It’s nonsense to talk as if it would be unreasonable for me to earn my living. Joy has brought me up and educated me, as my father would have wished; but there’s my mother’s side of me too. My mother was a housemaid in a house in London, and my aunt is the caretaker of the Abbey, and my relations have a farm in Cumberland. I was brought up on the farm till I was fourteen. Then I went to stay with Aunt Ann in the Abbey, and Joy heard about my father and that some day I’d be an heiress, and she adopted me. The whole world changed for me from that day. But on my mother’s side I belong to people who work, and work hard. I feel I’ve had too easy a time. I ought to work, as other folk do.’

Ruth gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘Maid, you have thought, to some purpose. It’s true; you must have that other side. We’ve all thought only of your Italian side—the money, and the music, and the temperament, that have come to you from your father. You must be very like him in looks, and I should think you are in character too.’

Maidlin flushed. ‘My father was a hero,’ she said. ‘I never really knew him, but Joy told me the story. He was killed, away in a wild part of China, because he stayed with his friends who couldn’t escape. He wouldn’t let them down.’

‘Oh, Maid, my dear, how splendid!’ Ruth cried. ‘And you are like him, Maid. You never let your friends down.’

‘But don’t you think I might be like my mother too? She was a farm-girl who wanted to get on, so she took a job away from home, and when her people came to London she came with them, though it was a very long way and she’d never been before. Don’t you think there might be bits of her in me?’ Maidlin pleaded. ‘She died when I was born, at home on the farm. I’d like to feel part of me came from her.’

‘I think there’s no doubt about it,’ Ruth assured her. ‘The English side of you hasn’t had enough attention. For the last eight years you’ve been developing your Italian nature. The English side is poking up and demanding its rights. I’ll make Joy see it! And I’ll help that Cumberland girl to come into her own, Maid, just as much as I’ll take care of the Italian singing girl who is an heiress.’

‘Thank you!’ Maidlin was flushed and her eyes were bright. ‘You do understand, Ruth!’

‘I think you’re right to want to stand on your own feet for a while, before taking over that fortune,’ Ruth said, after a pause. ‘But I’m not sure if that, by itself, is all you need, Maid.’

Maidlin looked at her, puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. I want to feel able to do things, and not to be such a baby. I feel they’re right when they call me “Babe.” Won’t it help me, if I go away from Joy, so that I must look after myself?’

‘It will help; yes, it ought to make you self-reliant. That would help a great deal. It’s tremendously plucky of you to be willing to face it. It’s like someone who is learning to swim throwing away the life-belt and striking out for herself. I do think you’re a brick, Maid! But I believe you need something more still. I can’t put it in words; I wish Mary was here, to tell me what I mean!’

‘What do you mean?’ Maidlin’s anxiety increased.

‘I mean,’ Ruth exclaimed, making a wild plunge after the thought that was claiming and yet eluding her, ‘that you live so much inside yourself that I believe your growing up will have to be done there. It will help enormously if you can come out of your shell and do practical business things; enormously! That’s what you’ve been feeling for yourself. But the real thing, for you, is to have a grown-up person inside you; to take things in a quieter, more grown-up way; not to be so easily hurt by little things, Maid, and not to get so worked-up over trifles. You need to get, somehow, a grown-up outlook, and you may find it in a business life or, it seems to me, you may not. It’s your self that matters. Probably it is for everybody; but I’m sure it is for you.’

‘But how?’ Maidlin asked blankly.

‘I don’t know. Try to be more grown-up in the way you look at things. Maid, I’m only three years older than you. I can’t help you as you need to be helped, in this.’

‘Three years! You seem more than that older than I am.’

‘Well, I’m not. I don’t know a great deal. But keep thinking about it, Maid. There’s a key somewhere which will unlock your grown-up self. You’ve started out to look for it, and it’s splendid of you. I’ll help you in every way I can. If I realise what your key is I’ll tell you.’

‘Please do,’ Maidlin said humbly; ‘for I haven’t an idea what it can be myself.’

Ruth gazed at her thoughtfully, never dreaming that Jen and Mary could have told her what Maidlin’s key was, and that it had already turned once or twice; that it had even been referred to in that last talk with Joy, but had been unrecognised.

‘You’re on a quest, Maid,’ she said at last; ‘like the knights of old. I hope you’ll come through.’

In the early morning, in the Paris train, Ruth leaned across to Maidlin. ‘Sleeping, Maid?’

‘No, very wide awake.’

‘That’s bad of you,’ Ruth began. ‘You’ll be desperately tired by night.’

Maidlin turned to her with wide-open eyes. ‘I’ve too much to think about. What about you? You haven’t been to sleep either.’

‘I tried, but I couldn’t. I can rest in the afternoon. But you’re going to travel all day.’

‘I can sleep in the next train, if I want to. I was thinking of Joy and the twinnies, asleep in their beds hours ago. Doesn’t it seem odd, when we’ve been on the sea for all that time, and through the Customs and everything?’

‘We’ve had no difficulty. You know your way about so well.’

‘I’ve been so often, with Joy. But you ought to sleep, Ruth. You haven’t anything on your mind.’

Sudden colour swept into Ruth’s face, and she said grimly, ‘That’s all you know about it, Maid di Ravarati.’

Maidlin stared at her in amazement. ‘Ruth! What is it?’

On an impulse born of the early morning hour, their sense of isolation, and the confidences of the night before, Ruth changed quickly to the opposite seat and sat close to Maidlin. ‘Maid, I couldn’t say anything to Joy. But have you ever known—no, of course, you haven’t—can you guess what it’s like to have met somebody very, very nice and to be wondering if perhaps some day he’ll say something rather important, and to be hurrying to meet him as fast as you can?’

Maidlin stared at her wide-eyed. Then she caught Ruth’s hands and crept closer to her. ‘Oh, Ruth! Ruthie, I am so glad! Who is he, Ruth?’

‘There’s nothing to be glad about yet,’ Ruth whispered ruefully. ‘But if he should ask me, I should jolly well say “yes,” Maidie.’

‘But he will; oh, of course he will! He couldn’t help it. You’ll tell me first of all, won’t you, Ruth?’

‘Sure. But there may never be any more to tell. Is it awful of me to have said anything, Maid? I’ve been aching to tell somebody!’

‘Who is he, Ruth? Is he in Paris?’

‘He’s Freda’s brother. I met them on the boat, coming from the Cape. I sometimes thought—we were all very friendly and I thought, perhaps—but there was no chance.’

‘Didn’t he say anything? Didn’t you give him a chance?’

‘I thought I did, but he didn’t take it. But I’ve thought since that perhaps he believed I was keen on Gerald Fisher. Gerald was always hanging round.’

‘Is that the man you ran away from last week?’

‘That’s the one. I think perhaps—he—thought that Gerald had made me care and that he was too late. But Freda said we must meet again soon. Perhaps he thought he must wait and see what happened about Gerald.’

‘He sounds soft. He should have butted in and asked you,’ said Maidlin. ‘Why should the Fisher creature have the first chance?’

‘He’s not soft!’ Ruth said indignantly. ‘They—he and his people—only joined the boat at Madeira, and by that time I was very friendly with Grace, and Gerald was being a nuisance. It wasn’t easy for someone else to butt in.’

‘He’d think he hadn’t a chance,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘And he’d wait till his sister invited you and he saw you again. But when he finds you aren’t engaged to Gerald Fisher—oh, Ruth, he’ll know what to do then!’

‘I don’t know,’ Ruth whispered. ‘I may have imagined it. He may not have cared. But you see why I was quite willing to come with you as far as Paris, don’t you?’

‘I should think you love Jansy Raymond for giving you such a good excuse.’

Ruth laughed. ‘I shall have to see Jansy some day. And you do see that it’s a little bit exciting for me, as well as for you, don’t you, Maid?’

‘I’m thrilled,’ Maidlin said. ‘Oh, Ruth, you’ll let me know the moment anything happens, won’t you? I don’t wonder you can’t sleep!’

Ruth laughed again. ‘When I come to see Biddy and to hear your plans, in a day or two, I’ll tell you how things seem to be going. If he’s gone away when he heard I was coming, I’ll know he saw enough of me on the boat.’

‘He won’t go away. You’ll be engaged before you come to Biddy and me.’

‘You’re very comforting, Maid. But I don’t expect anything to happen so quickly as all that.’

‘I do. He’ll be in a hurry, as soon as he sees you aren’t wearing a ring.’

‘I shall rush at Freda and say: “Oh, my dear, it is jolly to see you again! I went to stay with those Fisher people; do you remember them? But I couldn’t stand them for more than three days, although they were very kind. I’d had more than I wanted of them by that time, so I fled!” That’s what I shall say to Freda.’

‘She’ll know what happened, and she’ll tell him. Then it will be all right. I’m so glad, Ruth!’

‘You’ve cheered me up, anyway! But keep the congratulations till there’s something to talk about, Maid.’

‘You’ll forget all about Biddy and me.’

‘Oh no, I shan’t! You’re to wait with Bridget till I come. You’ve promised, Maid.’

‘Yes, but I shan’t wait for ever,’ Maidlin retorted. ‘If you have a love-affair and get engaged, I might have to wait for weeks. And what about Italy?’

‘I won’t forget,’ Ruth promised.

‘Are they going to meet us in Paris?’

‘No. I told Freda that as we’d arrive at such an unearthly hour I’d taxi you to the Gare de Lyon and we’d have coffee and rolls there, and I’d see you off in your train soon after eight. Then I’ll take another taxi to their hotel. That will still be very early for them.’

‘Yes. That’s better,’ Maidlin agreed, and lapsed into a dream again, a dream in which Ruth was the heroine of a romance.

The train drew in to the Gare St Lazare just before half-past five in the morning, and the girls tumbled sleepily out onto the platform.

Then Maidlin shrank back, with a gasp of amused dismay, as a fair-haired man, short, and quick in his movements, and with a slight American accent when he spoke, darted up to Ruth and shook her warmly by the hand.

‘Well now, isn’t it right good to see you again, Miss Devine? Guessed I could be of use, so I just hopped along to look after you. Freda’s sound asleep in her little cot, but she’ll be ready, all bright and smiling, by the time we’re ready for her. Give me your bags; I’ve a car waiting. Is this your friend who’s going on to Italy?’

Ruth, crimson and gasping, could not meet Maidlin’s dancing eyes. Only too well she knew that her look had betrayed her; that at the moment of meeting he had known, just as she had known for certain, as soon as she had seen his face. It suddenly seemed not so unlikely, after all, that she would be engaged before she saw Biddy.

‘Madalena di Ravarati—Mr Ralph Norman,’ she managed to stumble out the introduction.

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss—well, I guess it’s too much for me,’ and he looked at Maidlin with a broad smile. ‘Perhaps you’ll say it slowly for me later on. Here’s the car; you jump in, and I’ll hustle round and pick up your goods.’

‘It’s just awfully kind of you!’ Ruth had pulled herself together. ‘This is all the luggage we have. Maid’s things have mostly been sent in advance. Have you been up all night?’

‘Parts of it,’ he said, with a cheerful grin. ‘Not as much as you have, I guess. Well now, shall we go right through to the other station and have a meal there, all together, before Miss Italy’s train goes? And I reckon you’d both like a wash and brush-up, wouldn’t you? Is that about right?’

Ruth looked at him and went off into a peal of laughter. ‘It’s too bad! We’ve been travelling since five o’clock yesterday afternoon, and we must look fearful sights! Why didn’t you give us a chance to tidy ourselves before you met us?’

‘Knew I’d never find you at that Lyons terminus,’ he grinned at them cheerfully. ‘Besides, you both look dandy, ’s if you’d just got up.’

‘Maid doesn’t,’ Ruth retorted, ‘so it isn’t likely I do. Yes, we’re dying for a wash! We won’t speak to him till we’ve had it, will we, Maid?’

‘Say, Miss Maid, may I call you that? It’s a lot easier than what Miss Devine said before.’

Maidlin’s eyes were sparkling, and she looked far too cheerful to have been up all night. She looked from him to Ruth, and back again; and he knew she understood and that he had her sympathy. ‘We mustn’t be mean, Ruth. If he’s really got up at four o’clock, to come and help us, we’d better forget what we look like and just say, “Thank you very much.” You aren’t so very untidy, anyway.’

‘Now I call that a real sensible way to look at it! Was the Channel kind to you? It was a mighty cold night to be on the water.’

They reassured him, and Ruth plunged into details of the journey, and talked hard all the way to the Gare de Lyon, to save herself the embarrassment of meeting his eyes, which were all the time saying something else.

‘Now I’ll wait right here, with the bags and the coffee-pots,’ he promised, when the taxi had been dismissed. ‘You run along and have your wash and brush-up, though I still say you don’t need any fixing. But I guess you’ll feel better for it. I’ll inquire all about Miss Maid’s train; don’t you worry about a thing.’

‘We’re being thoroughly taken care of!’ Ruth gasped, breaking into laughter as soon as she found herself alone with Maidlin.

‘Oh, Ruth, he’s nice! I like him. It’s going to be all right!’ Maidlin hurled herself on Ruth as soon as they were out of sight.

‘Well, perhaps!’ Ruth admitted.

‘Of course, it’s all right! I am so glad he didn’t go to bed and leave you alone in Paris! Did you really expect him to do that, Ruth?’

‘I never expected to see him at that station! You could have knocked me down when he came barging up and took charge of us like that!’

‘He wants to get rid of me!’ Maidlin said wisely. ‘You’ll only have my protection for two hours more, Ruthie! I am so bucked to have seen him! How Biddy will love to hear about him!’

‘Oh, must you tell Bridget? Isn’t it rather soon, Maid?’ Ruth remonstrated.

‘I couldn’t possibly not tell Biddy!’ Maidlin retorted. ‘Buck up and wash, and comb your hair, Ruth! You are rather wild, although I said you weren’t too bad. Hurry up!—hustle, as he would say! I don’t want to waste time. I want to see as much of him as I can!’

‘I’m jolly glad I told you about him in the train!’ Ruth remarked. ‘You would have been staggered when he dashed at us on the platform!’

‘I should,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘I say, Ruth, I don’t wonder you wouldn’t let the other man propose.’

‘I’m not surprised myself,’ Ruth confessed. ‘I just couldn’t let him go on, you know, Maid. Gerald Fisher, indeed!’

‘You’d better hustle, or he’ll come after you,’ Maidlin warned her. ‘I don’t believe he’ll have patience to wait very long.’

Ruth laughed. ‘Let’s keep him waiting and see!’

‘Not I! If you won’t come out and talk to him, I shall go on my own. I want to see him again.’

‘I can’t allow that,’ Ruth conceded, and hurried on with her wash and brush-up.

‘Fancy Ruth being settled for life!’ Maidlin sighed, as she pulled down her long plaits and rolled the black hair over her ears again. ‘It’s been so sudden! I’m still rather stunned.’

‘I’m not disposed of yet, though you sound so sure of it!’ Ruth said indignantly.

‘Oh, but you’re going to be! Mr Ralph Norman will see to that. He won’t let you off now.’

‘I don’t think I want to be let off.’

‘I’m quite sure you don’t. Aren’t you glad you brought me as far as Paris?’

‘I’m not sorry,’ Ruth acknowledged, with a laugh.

‘I wonder how soon they’ll settle it all?’ and Maidlin lay back in her carriage in the Italian express, and thought of Ruth and her friendly jolly American. ‘It was a topping breakfast! I was far too hungry to be content with rolls and coffee. It was decent of him to realise we’d need a proper meal. But I don’t believe Ruth knew what she was eating! I wonder if he’ll get to business as soon as they’re alone? He’s glad to be rid of “Miss Italy,” I’m sure, although he was so nice to me. But, of course, I was dreadfully in the way!’

As the train rushed through the vineyards of central France she slept a little, tired out with the journey and the excitements of the early morning. But for the most part she sat and pondered, and now with pictures of the twins and Joy, and hopes for the help Biddy would give, there mingled thoughts of Ruth, and Maidlin laughed to herself as she remembered Ruth’s face when Ralph Norman first appeared.

Then, turning to the future, her thoughts grew sober again. Biddy would help; of course, Biddy would help. But would she understand? Or would she laugh?

‘I do loathe being laughed at! Is that one of the things Ruth wants me to grow out of? Is it childish? I’ve always hated it. And I care so much about this. If Biddy laughs at my ideas, it will hurt frightfully. . . . And she may laugh,’ Maidlin said slowly to herself. ‘I believe it isn’t the sort of thing she’ll understand. Biddy’s all for getting on. Perhaps she’ll think me daft. I’m the least little bit afraid of Biddy. I have been ever since her last holiday with us.’

She recalled Biddy’s visit of the previous March. Biddy had been so very much the business woman, so successful, so efficient. Maidlin had listened to her talk of the opportunities opening out before her, in her new appointment as secretary to old M. Verdier, the head of her firm—had wondered, and applauded, as Rosamund had done; but secretly she had felt very childish and inexperienced, and a little appalled at the thought of having such a business-like woman of the world as her secretary some day. Biddy had held to her original intention, that when Maid needed a secretary the post was to be hers, but had implied that her firm would be sorry to lose her.

‘You’ll be well looked after, Maid,’ Rosamund had said, laughing. ‘Biddums will organise you and run you as efficiently as she’s evidently running Verdier’s.’

‘Don’t call me by that baby name!’ Biddy had cried, in evident irritation. ‘Biddy’s bad enough; it sounds like a small child. But Biddums is only fit for a crying infant.’

‘Sorry! I meant well. It was my love for you that spoke,’ Ros had mocked. But thereafter she had always addressed Biddy as Bridget.

The train ran along the side of the beautiful green Lac Bourget. Maidlin had seen it often, and gazed at the wide stretch of water with eyes that saw an impatient efficient Biddy, probably striding up and down the platform at Aix, waiting for the Paris train. Biddy’s reply to her telegram had said merely: ‘Meet you Aix Thursday.’ Maidlin wondered for the first time if Biddy had had to ask time off, to reach Aix in the late afternoon; if it had been inconvenient; if M. Verdier had been annoyed or grudging, or if he had been nice about it.

The train drew in to the platform at Aix. She made her way along the corridor with her suit-case, climbed down the high steps, and stood looking for Biddy.

There was no sign of her. The big station was very busy. Maidlin waited placidly for Biddy to come and find her. The crowds were clearing off; presently she would see Biddy running up and down, looking for her.

A porter spoke to her, but she refused him. ‘I am expecting a friend. Many thanks.’

The crowds were gone. Only a few people were left. Biddy was not there.

‘She must be late. It isn’t like Biddy’; a shade of anxiety crept into Maidlin’s mind. ‘Suppose she didn’t come? But her telegram; if I hadn’t had that I’d be frightened. She said she’d be here.’

A young woman came towards her, a letter in her hand. ‘I am looking for Mademoiselle di Ravarati. Is this mademoiselle? She has the black hair and the eyes of mademoiselle.’

Maidlin looked at her with startled eyes. ‘That’s my name. What is it? Have you brought a message? Oh, couldn’t Biddy come?’

The girl handed her the letter. ‘Madame sends you this. I will take you to her.’

‘Madame?’ Maidlin spoke dully, terror clutching at her heart. ‘You don’t mean Mademoiselle Devine, do you?’ She tore open the letter. There was no mistaking Biddy’s neat writing.

‘Oh, Maid, come to me! Forgive me, but I can’t come to you. I’m ill. Come and help me, Maid! I thought I could bear it alone, but it’s too much for me. I must see somebody—and you’re so near. Come to me, Maidie dear! Annette Pernet will bring you. You can trust her; she’s all right. They’ve been frightfully good to me.—Your own Biddums.’

With wild fear in her eyes, Maidlin looked at Annette. All the stories she had read of girls being met by strange women and decoyed away and never heard of again crowded into her mind, and were instantly dismissed. The letter was from Biddy; the use of the old name proved that. She would trust Biddy’s word to the death.

‘Where is my friend?’ Maidlin asked, her voice sharp with fear. ‘Is she ill?’

The girl gave her a strange look. ‘But yes, mademoiselle. La petite—I will take you to madame.’

‘La petite? You don’t mean Biddy, do you? And who is madame?’ Maidlin’s bewildered mind began to wake from the shock. ‘Take me to Miss Devine quickly, please! Which is the train for Lyons?’

‘Madame Bidet,’ said Annette unhelpfully. ‘She is at Annecy, in our house, mademoiselle. There is a train soon. It is this way.’

‘Madame Bidet?—Biddy?—Oh, don’t tell me any more!’ Maidlin cried, growing so white that Annette looked anxious. ‘Let us go quickly! Which way?’

‘This way, through the subway,’ and Annette led her forward, carrying the suit-case.

Maidlin sank into a carriage in the Annecy train, her mind numb. There was only one thing to do—to go to Biddy and find out what had happened. A dim suspicion of the truth tortured her. ‘Madame Bidet’—was that Biddy? Had she told these people that was her name? But why? And why ‘Madame?’ Why was she ill? Why had she left Lyons?

Only one possible answer faced Maidlin’s terrified questioning. She thrust it away. She must know. But why had not Biddy told? Why had she kept this from Mary?

What was it Biddy had thought she could bear all alone? And it had been too much for her! For Biddy!

It was a short run to Annecy. Maidlin did not say a word to Annette Pernet all the way. She sat with clenched hands and tight lips, staring at nothing. Annette looked at her anxiously, but did not venture to speak.

‘I must help Biddy,’ the thought rang on and on in Maidlin’s mind. ‘I must go and help her. There’s nobody else. She’s been wanting us. Oh, Biddy, what has happened to you? There must be some way we can help! She must let me tell Mary. Mary will come, whatever it is. But I must help her at once. She mustn’t feel she’s alone.’

The efficient capable Biddy had vanished; the fear of being managed was gone. There was only Biddy who was ill and lonely and had ‘thought she could bear it alone, but it had been too much for her.’

‘I’ll do anything to help!’ Maidlin whispered fiercely, all her love for Biddy and Mary up in arms, her own plans as far forgotten as if they had never been.

The journey was an hour of agony for her. ‘If only I knew!’ her heart cried. ‘But I won’t ask that girl. Biddy shall tell me herself. Madame Bidet! Perhaps that’s someone else, who is nursing Biddy.’

She lapsed into a state of dumb bewilderment as the train crawled, or seemed to her to crawl, towards the mountains. ‘I must find Biddy! I must help! I’ll do anything!’ She had no other thought.

She woke from a dream to find herself in a taxi, sitting beside Annette Pernet and bumping through the streets of Annecy. Wide streets, narrow streets; a glimpse of a green canal between white walls, of old red roofs and green-shuttered windows; then a peep of the lake, with great snow-clad mountains beyond. Then the taxi was standing before what seemed to be a café, for there were little tables under a striped awning.

‘I will take you to madame without delay, mademoiselle,’ said Annette Pernet.

Maidlin nodded. Her heart was beating so fast that she could not speak.

She followed Annette in by a side entrance and up a narrow stair. A door was opened by a stout woman. Was this madame—Madame Bidet?

The motherly face lit up in relief. ‘Ah, ça! It is a friend come at last! La petite madame has been desolate and alone. She will rejoice to see you, mademoiselle.’

She held open the door, and Maidlin pushed past her. For one moment she leaned against the wall, shaking from head to foot.

By the window lay Biddy, in bed, her brown eyes wide and anxious. Her arms stretched out. ‘Maid! Oh, Maidie! Maidie!’

Then Maidlin was on her knees beside her, sobbing heart-brokenly. ‘Biddy! Oh, Biddy, why didn’t you tell us? We’d have come. Oh, Biddy, you’ve been all alone! Oh, Biddy, Biddy!’

‘Don’t hurt my baby,’ Biddy whispered, tears raining down her cheeks. She drew a tiny bundle from under Maidlin’s arms. ‘I’m married, Maid.’

Maidlin looked at her, brushing away her tears. ‘Biddy, dear, of course. I’ve guessed it for the last hour. But I couldn’t bear it. Why did you do it without telling us? Oh, Biddy, why?’

Biddy’s face quivered. ‘Maid, I will tell you. But it is all right—except that I kept it a secret from you all. Baby was born last week. When your wire came—it was sent on by post from Lyons—I felt I just had to see somebody. I could bear not to write, but I couldn’t bear to have you so close and not see you.’

‘But we’d have had to know sometime, Biddy. I can’t see how you’ve kept it quiet so long. Or why.’

‘I couldn’t tell you. I kept thinking things would be better. I was waiting till—till I could say——’ and then Biddy turned her face away and cried.

Maidlin laid her head down beside her and knelt, silent, but shaking all over.

Madame Pernet came from the doorway. ‘Mademoiselle, madame must not weep. She will have fever, and there will be grave danger. It is not wise.’

Maidlin steadied herself with a great effort, ‘Biddy, dear, you’re going to be taken care of now. It must have been awful to have nobody, but that can’t happen again. You’ve been enormously plucky. But I’m going to stand by you now.’

‘Maid, you angel!’ Biddy whispered, and choked. ‘I’ll try to be quiet and not cry. It’s bad for the kid.’

‘Let me see, Biddums! Is it a boy, or a little Biddy?’

Almost shyly, Biddy showed the little black head, wrapped in pink flannel. ‘She’s Marie Madelon, Maid.’

‘Biddy!’ Maidlin’s voice shook. ‘Is that for me and Mary? Oh, Biddy! What a tiny pet!’

‘You and Mary matter most,’ Biddy said unsteadily. ‘I was sorry about her at first; I thought she’d be a nuisance. And she will, of course. But when I saw her, Maid! And she cried, and she looked at me; her eyes are dark blue, but Madame Bernet thinks they’ll be brown later on. And she moves, and she knows what she wants—already, Maid! She’s a person, a new person, come to be company for me. She’ll be in the way, but she’s my own, and she’ll be worth it.’

Maidlin’s lips were trembling as she looked at this new Biddy, and the new little Marie Madelon.

Madame Pernet looked over her shoulder. ‘Is this Mademoiselle Madelon, who will be the godmother of la petite?’

‘I’m Madeline. But yes, I shall be her godmother,’ Maidlin agreed.

‘Come away, mademoiselle,’ madame begged. You have seen the little one, and your friend. Now they must sleep. Madame Bidet is fatigued. She must not be ill.’

Biddy’s eyes met Maidlin’s. ‘I’ll tell you the story later, Maid. It is all right, really, except that I didn’t tell you. I think you’ll see I couldn’t.’

‘I’ll write to Mary, Biddy.’

Biddy sat up in bed, her face flaming. Madame Pernet, aghast, hurried to her, begging her to lie down again.

‘Maid! If you do, I’ll throw myself and the kid out of this window! Maidie, promise! I shall die if you tell anybody. Maid, promise you won’t write! Promise, Maid!’

‘Promise, mademoiselle! She will die,’ Madame Pernet pleaded in terror.

‘Biddy, lie down and don’t go on like this, or I won’t promise anything!’ Maidlin cried, frightened also, but determined. ‘Lie down and listen to me, Biddy!’

Biddy lay back with a sob. ‘Promise, Maid! You’ll kill me if you write. And you don’t know yourself yet.’

Maidlin sat on the edge of the bed and spoke urgently. ‘If you’ll be quiet and go to sleep, I won’t tell anybody just now. All I want is to have you well. If I feel you’re getting on I won’t tell anyone till we’ve had a real talk. They’ll have to know, of course, but now that I’m here there’s no hurry. The hurry is to get you well. But if you go raving about windows, and dying, and put yourself in a fever, I shall wire that very minute. Now you know, and I shall stick to it. Keep quiet and get well, and I won’t give you away.’

‘Maid, I love you,’ Biddy whispered, her lips quivering. ‘I’ll leave it all to you. Only keep that promise. I want to be taken care of, Maidie.’

‘You poor dear, you’re tired out.’ Maidlin kissed her. ‘I’m here to take care of you, Biddy. It will be all right now.’

‘I’ll leave it to you, Maid,’ Biddy whispered again. ‘Oh, what a relief! I shall get well now. It’s been the worry that has kept me back. Give me Marie Madelon, madame. We’re going to sleep.’

Maidlin closed the door of Biddy’s room. She looked at Madame Pernet. ‘I think—you’ll have to give me something. I’ve been travelling all night—and this has been a shock. I didn’t know——’ She swayed, and found madame’s strong arm round her.

‘Mademoiselle! Ah, she is worn out! La pauvre petite!’—as madame realised suddenly what a very small person she held in her arms. ‘Annette!’ she called softly. ‘Come one moment! But gently! We must not alarm Madame Bidet.’

‘I’m all right. I am sorry, madame,’ Maidlin whispered. ‘It was but a moment. You understand—the journey was long, and when your daughter met me I was very much afraid. I shall be all right now, truly, madame. Have no fear for me.’

‘You must rest and eat, Mademoiselle Madeline. To-morrow there will be much to tell, and perhaps to do. But for to-night—no! To-night you must rest and sleep.’

Then Maidlin found herself sitting in a small room behind the café, while Annette prepared strong black coffee and set it before her.

‘A meal is ready,’ said Madame Pernet. ‘You have come from Paris? You must be famished.’

‘From London. I travelled all night. You must forgive me.’ Maidlin drank the coffee, and gasped, and choked. ‘Oh, Annette, what did you put in it?’

Annette laughed. ‘Just a very little something, mademoiselle. It will do you good; already there is colour in your cheeks. All is ready: dinner, and a room, and hot water. To-morrow mademoiselle will talk with us and with her friend.’

‘Yes, please, to-morrow. I’d like to talk to her first.’

‘Ah, ça! To be sure. But she needs rest, you understand, and also the little one. Here is soup; eat, mademoiselle! From London! Truly, you are starved. We must feed you well.’

Maidlin laughed unsteadily. ‘Oh, madame, you are very kind! I know you have been good to Biddy. We are very grateful. I will try to take care of her now.’

‘What is it you call her?’ Annette asked curiously. ‘You say Biddee? She is Madame Bidet, n’est-ce pas?’

Maidlin’s lips pinched. ‘I don’t understand. At home we call her Biddy. Her name is Bridget.’

‘Brigitte? Is she then Madame Biddee Bidet?’

Maidlin looked at them both. ‘How can I tell, till I have asked her, madame?’

‘It is true. I know nothing, you understand, but that she came here six months ago. She has lived with us, helping Annette in the café. Letters have come to her often, from Lyons, but none from London, mademoiselle.’

Maidlin’s mind worked quickly, under the influence of the soup and the little something in the coffee. ‘They came to Madame Bidet?’

‘Surely, Mademoiselle Madeline.’

‘There’s somebody in Lyons who knows all about it,’ Maidlin said to herself. ‘Those would be our letters, from England,’ she explained. ‘We have written to Lyons, thinking she was still there. She did not tell us——’ Her lips pinched again.

‘You did not know she was married?’ Annette’s curiosity was too much for her. ‘Nor about la petite?’

‘We knew nothing. I cannot tell you why she did not tell us. You will understand—I am distressed and puzzled. I must talk to her.’

‘C’est ça,’ madame nodded. ‘Annette, you must not ask.—Mademoiselle, you will tell us when you have talked to her. Now eat; and then you shall sleep.’

Maidlin agreed. She was worn out, and bruised and lonely in her heart. Oh, for somebody to speak to! Why had Biddy done this thing?

She followed Annette upstairs to a tiny room, very clean, with a window looking to the lake and mountains. Annette unstrapped her suit-case, and brought hot water to her room, and slipped a hot bottle into the bed. ‘It is cold at night. There is snow on Parmelan. That is Parmelan, the mountain out there. You will see him in the morning.’

‘Could I do anything for Biddy?’ Maidlin asked shyly. ‘You must have had a great deal to do for her. I am sure you have nursed her most kindly. Could not I help you now?’

Annette laughed. ‘To-morrow! We will do all for to-night. My mother is a good nurse, and she loves la petite Marie Madelon. She is a good bébé, and does not cry too much.’ She went noisily downstairs, and closed the door of the little sitting-room, and looked at her mother.

‘She will sleep?’ asked madame.

‘I doubt it. I think she will cry.’

‘Ah! She will not be much help to our little madame,’ Madame Pernet sighed. ‘She is not what I hoped. No, not much use, that!’

‘She’s as pretty as a flower,’ said Annette.

‘Pretty! Yes, she is pretty. She has wonderful eyes. But we need someone who is strong, who has a will, who will say to Madame Bidet: “This must be done”—“I shall do that”—and “You will now tell me all, everything.” This girl is too young; she is a baby herself. It is a great misfortune.’

‘One never knows. We will wait and see,’ Annette said hopefully. ‘I like Mademoiselle Madeline, and she is eager to help. She offered to help us now, to-night, when anyone can see she can hardly stand.’

‘She looks as if she had need of help herself,’ said madame. ‘She will be no use. Her eyes are wonderful, but they are frightened.’

‘Ma foi! My eyes would be frightened, if I were about nineteen, and in a strange place, and I had found my friend with a baby, when I had not known she had a husband!’

‘It is true,’ madame acknowledged. ‘And she is more than nineteen, though she does not look it. Our little madame told me her friend was but one year younger than herself.’

Annette whistled. ‘She does not look over twenty. Perhaps she will look older when she has slept and her eyes are less frightened.’

Left alone at last, Maidlin threw open the shutters and stood by the window, looking out at the lights of the pier and the big hotels, and the black mass of the mountains opposite. It was very dark but was a clear night, and a dim glow was showing from behind the mountains, where there was a dip between the hills. Maidlin remembered that last night there had been a full moon; she and Ruth had watched it rise from the train and had sailed in its light across the Channel. Last night! It seemed years ago.

Last night she had been hurrying to Biddy, to ask for help. The strangeness of it struck her for the first time. Till this moment she had forgotten that she had meant to ask Biddy for help. She had not thought of herself at all. Even now, the thought came as from a remote past, so completely had the busy organising Biddy faded before the vision of ‘Madame Bidet’ and little Marie Madelon.

‘That’s all done with. I’m here to help Biddy; and I’m thankful I am here,’ she said, half aloud: she did not dream she was turning the key which was to unlock the new life of her quest, the grown-up life she had come to seek.

The yellow glow streaming from behind the mountain grew stronger. A shining line appeared, and a huge yellow moon crept out into the dark triangle of sky between the hills. It hung there, and a blazing shaft of light lay across the water. The opposite shore under the mountains was in blackest shadow, but all the town and the villages and the lake were lit and clear.

From the next room came a little cry. Marie Madelon was hungry.

Maidlin caught her breath. ‘Oh, Biddy, Biddy, why did you do it? Why didn’t you tell us?’ She closed the shutters and dropped on her knees by the bed, and the overstrain and loneliness of the last few hours took their revenge.

Worn out, she rose at last and crept to bed, making no sound lest she should disturb Biddy and her baby. She could not bear much more, and as soon as she lay down she fell asleep.

It seemed as if she had slept for only half an hour when she was awakened by a tap on the door. The electric light was switched on, and Annette stood there, in her dressing-gown. ‘Mademoiselle Madeline, please come to Madame Bidet! She is calling for you, and my mother is alarmed.’

Maidlin flung her pink gown about her, and stumbled after Annette, shivering in the keen air. ‘What is the matter? Is she ill?’

‘I think she has been dreaming. But we cannot quiet her. She calls for you. I was grieved to wake you, but——’

‘Oh, I am glad you came!—Biddy dear, what is it?’

‘Oh, Maidie!’ Biddy’s hands reached out to her. ‘I woke up, and I thought I’d dreamt it. Are you really here, Maid?’

Maidlin took her hands and sat on the bed beside her. ‘Biddy, it’s all right. I’ll stay with you, dear. You only dreamt I wasn’t here, Biddy.’

Madame Pernet wrapped a rug round her as she sat. ‘You will take cold, my child.’

‘Oh, thank you, madame! You think of everything.’ Maidlin looked up gratefully, with a smile.

‘Ma foi!’ said madame to herself. ‘She is just a little girl, with those great eyes and those thick black braids on her shoulders! She will be no help to us—none!’

Maidlin pushed back the heavy plaits which made her look like a school-girl. ‘All right now, Biddy? You do believe I’m real, don’t you?’

‘Maid, what did you write to Mary?’ Biddy whispered. ‘I couldn’t sleep for thinking of Mary. Have you told her, Maidie?’

Maidlin squeezed her hands in an indignant grip. ‘Now, Bridget, you’re having nightmares. Wake up! Do you want me to pinch you? When did I ever break my word? Didn’t I promise I wouldn’t tell Mary anything till we’d had our talk?’

‘Yes, but—Maid, I wondered——’

‘And it’s the middle of the night,’ Maidlin scolded. ‘Don’t you know by this time that nobody can judge anything properly at two o’clock in the morning? If only you knew the things I’m terrified of at two o’clock! But I know that by the morning all the mountains will have turned back into ant-heaps. Biddy dear, don’t be an utter idiot! I’d shake you, if you hadn’t been ill. To be frightened by dreams, at your age!’ She looked up. ‘Madame, please switch off the light!—Now, Biddy, look at that moon!’

‘What about it? Same old moon!’ Biddy muttered.

‘Yes. Well, that’s the point. Same old moon, whether it’s shining on the Abbey, or the Channel, or on Annecy Lake. And I’m the same old Maid you’ve always known, and I never broke my word to you yet, nor told you a lie. Now did I, Biddy?’

‘No,’ Biddy whispered. ‘No, Maid, you never did.’

‘And I won’t begin now, any more than that same old moon will begin to go backwards. Now don’t be silly any more, Biddy. I’m going back to bed, and you’re going to keep the shutters open and look at the moon, and say to yourself: “Maid won’t go back on me.” Will you, Biddy?’

‘Yes. Sorry!’

‘That’s right,’ and Maidlin kissed her. ‘I want to go to sleep, Biddy, so that I can help you in the morning. But I can’t rest unless you’re asleep too. Let me kiss Marie Madelon, just once. Now go to sleep, and be good, Biddy!’

Outside in the passage, Maidlin looked at Madame Pernet. ‘Should I sit with her? I could slip on some clothes in a second, and I’ve had a good sleep. I’ll gladly sit up, if it would help her.’

‘No, I do not think so. It is more important that you too should sleep, my child. She will rest now, I have no doubt. You have helped her—you and the moon!’

‘I watched it rise before I went to bed. Will you call me again, if I can be of any use?’

‘Surely, mademoiselle. I sleep very lightly; if madame calls I shall hear, and I will come for you. You have quieted her, it is true. And you did the same before. Perhaps you will do her good,’ Madame conceded.

‘I hope so. I want to help her,’ and Maidlin crept back to bed.

She found a cup of scalding milk on her dressing-table, and blessed Annette for the kind thought. ‘They are bricks, both of them! We’ll have to make it up to them somehow,’ she thought, and rolled into bed feeling very warm, and fell asleep at once.

‘I cannot understand this English demoiselle,’ Madame Pernet whispered to Annette, as they went back to bed. ‘She looks such a baby, most of all this last time, with her hair hanging down. And the things she says are nothing—nothing! She only talked of the moon! But our little madame has fallen asleep, and I think she will sleep till the morning. She has helped, already she has helped, this Mademoiselle Madeline, who looks like a little child. How she has done it I do not know; but assuredly she has helped. Perhaps things will not be so bad, after all.’

‘It has been very difficult for her,’ Annette said. ‘If I had been in her place, and had heard such news when I was tired and hungry, I should have wept until the morning—oh, very much more than Mademoiselle Madeline has done. And I think I should have been sick.’

‘Bah!’ said her mother. ‘You would have been no use at all. Mademoiselle Madeline does not weep. She does things, and they help, though they seem strange to us. She is not such a child as she looks. We will see in the morning. There is hope that she will yet help our little Madame Bidet, my child.’

Maidlin woke to find Annette opening the shutters and the sunshine pouring into her room. On the table at her side stood a tray with coffee and rolls, honey and butter.

‘Annette, you angel!’ Maidlin lay and looked at her.

Annette laughed. ‘A strange sort of angel, mademoiselle.’

‘Your name isn’t Annette; it’s Angela. How is my friend this morning?’

‘She is sleeping, mademoiselle. She slept well when you left her with the moon. Then la petite awoke and had her meal, and now they are sleeping again. It is very good for them. They will both grow strong, if they eat and sleep.’

‘I’m glad.’ Maidlin sat up and pulled on her pink gown. ‘I’m rested too. I was too tired to think last night. And I could not understand it all; I was stunned, you know. Did I seem very stupid?’

Annette placed the tray on her knee. ‘Indeed, no, mademoiselle. I think you were very brave. It was terrible for you, and very frightening.’

‘I was frightened.’ Maidlin looked at her. ‘I couldn’t believe it. Even now I don’t quite believe you mean my Biddy when you speak of “madame”; I think you mean your mother.’

‘But la petite Marie Madelon?’ Annette suggested.

‘Oh, I don’t believe she’s real, of course! I’m in a hurry to see her again.’

Annette laughed. ‘She is a good bébé, and a great comfort to madame.’

‘Tell me how my friend came here, Annette!’ Maidlin pleaded. ‘I know nothing yet. We thought she was still in Lyons. How long has she been here?’

‘She came to us in September.’ Annette counted back the months. ‘Yes, in September it was. Six months ago.’

Maidlin pursed her lips. ‘She’s been writing letters to us from Lyons.’

‘She wrote often to Lyons. She has a friend there.’

‘And the friend sent the letters on to us,’ Maidlin said to herself, as she poured milk and coffee with hands that were not quite steady. ‘That’s what is going to hurt Mary-Dorothy and Jen most of all. And Joy will be furious. Biddy can marry Frenchmen and have French babies, if she chooses; she’s of age, and she must manage her own life. But to keep it from us, and to deceive us all for months—that’s where the trouble is going to come. Oh, why wasn’t Biddy brave enough to tell, even if things weren’t all right? She might have trusted us!’

Annette was watching her closely. ‘You are troubled that you did not know, mademoiselle?’

‘A great many people are going to be troubled about that.’ Maidlin looked at her. ‘They love Biddy. It will hurt them that she kept it all a secret.’

‘C’est ça!’ said Annette. ‘If it would hurt them they must not know. Why should they know? We will care for la petite Marie Madelon, and Madame Bidet will come to see her here, and the friends in England need not be distressed. Then all will be well.’

‘Oh, that’s impossible!’ Maidlin exclaimed. ‘They’ll have to know now. And it would have been easier if they had known before.’

‘Madame Bidet will not wish them to know.’

‘That can’t be helped. She’ll have to be sensible. They must know; I shall tell them.’

‘You will kill the little madame.’ Annette looked at her curiously.

Maidlin knit her brows. ‘Annette, that’s absurd. It’s impossible to keep this a secret for ever.’

‘Madame Bidet will wish to try.’

‘She cannot do it, now that I am here. It is a secret no longer.’

Annette gave her another curious look. ‘You will have difficulty. At least, wait till she is well,’ she pleaded.

‘Oh, of course! But her sister and her friends will have to know.’

Annette went down to the kitchen, looking so worried that her mother exclaimed, ‘Is all well? Is she awake?’

‘She is too much awake. We were mistaken in her last night,’ Annette groaned. ‘She is not a little child at all. Her mind is made up, and nothing I can say will move her.’

‘What is the trouble, then?’

‘She is going to tell Madame Bidet’s friends as soon as madame is well enough. She will wait till then, but no longer. There will be trouble.’

‘Eh bien!’ Madame Pernet sighed. ‘I think I am glad. I have been uneasy, but we could do nothing. If Mademoiselle Madeline knows what is right to do and is resolved to do it, it will be for the best. I am glad someone has come, to say what must be done.’

‘You said she would be no help to us.’

‘I spoke too soon, my child. If she has made up her mind already, I begin to think she will help us very much. And we have needed help—ma foi, yes!’

Maidlin’s mind was indeed made up. She thought over Annette’s suggestions while she slowly buttered her rolls and drank her coffee. At last she put the tray aside, with a sigh. ‘It may be difficult. But the only thing that will keep me from telling Mary will be danger to Biddy. I daren’t risk sending her temp up; the way she went on last night terrified me. But when she’s stronger we’ll need to argue the thing out. Nothing will make me agree to keep this a secret; I shall stick to that. I could never go home again; I couldn’t face Joy and Mary, knowing I had a secret from them.’

She went to the window, to see the hills from behind which the moon had risen. The mountains were snow-capped and beautiful; the lake lay at her feet, deepest green; she stood in the sunshine and drank in the beauty and the fresh mountain air. Then, at a little sound from the next room, she turned quickly and began to dress. Marie Madelon was awake and asking for a second breakfast.

Half an hour later Maidlin sat on the window-sill in the sunshine and looked at Biddy. ‘Now, Biddy dear,’ she began, ‘what are you going to tell me?’

Biddy’s lips quivered. ‘I suppose I shall have to do it. I don’t want to tell you, Maid.’

‘What’s your name, Biddy?’ Maidlin asked grimly.

Biddy looked at her and grew scarlet.

‘Biddy Bidet doesn’t sound likely. Why did you cheat these kind people?’

‘I didn’t mean to cheat them. I never meant to stay here so long. I’ve been feeling horribly mean, since they’ve been such bricks, Maid. You’ll help me out, won’t you?’ Biddy pleaded. ‘I haven’t known how to tell them. I’ve wanted to explain for weeks. I didn’t want anybody from Lyons to hear of me, and it’s not very far. I came here to look for a job, because I’d once had a week-end here and I liked the place. I meant to go into a shop or an office for a few months. But I had lunch in the café downstairs, and I liked Annette and Madame Pernet, and they were short-handed, and I thought of Ros and her tea-shop, and I asked if they could give me a job for a few weeks. They were awfully decent, and madame understood and wanted me to stay; so I stayed on and on, and she nursed me like an angel, and Annette’s been a brick. And I couldn’t bear to tell them I’d given them a wrong name. I chose Bidet because it’s so much like Biddy. It reminded me of you and Ros whenever I heard it. Elise Lacharne, in Lyons, sends on all my letters, and posts mine for me there. I couldn’t have her sending letters to—to—oh, I had to have another name!’ She turned and hid her face.

Maidlin came and sat on the bed beside her. ‘Why couldn’t Elise address your letters to your own name? Biddy, you must tell me! Who is he? And where is he?’

‘Claude Verdier,’ Biddy whispered. ‘I’m Biddy Verdier, not Bidet, Maid.’

‘Verdier!’ Maidlin said slowly. ‘Oh, Biddy! You were M. Verdier’s secretary. Who was he, Biddy?’

‘Monsieur’s nephew. He was in the office, and we were pals.’ Biddy’s whisper could hardly be heard.

‘And when you married him, M. Verdier was angry and you lost your job?’

‘Yes. M. Verdier had a son, Maid, and—and I found out too late that he’d wanted me too. He—Etienne Verdier—had been meaning to ask me, but he hadn’t said anything, and I didn’t know. He’s a fine man; I—I could have liked him, Maid.’

‘Who—the son?’ Maidlin knit her brows.

‘Yes. There was an awful row when they found I’d married Claude without telling anybody. Claude was a difficulty to them, to all the family; he’d been abroad, and he’d tried different things, and Monsieur, his uncle, had taken him into the business to see if he would stick to that. He was in the office, and I saw him often, and we were friendly, and then we were more than friends. He had a way that fascinated me. I was an idiot, I know; but I was carried off my feet, just for a few months, Maid. And I thought if I married him he’d settle down and work, and everyone would be pleased.’

‘And he didn’t?’ Maidlin whispered.

‘No. He . . . went away again. There was something else,’ Biddy said restlessly. ‘I’d better confess, though you won’t understand. Mary would; she knows I’ve always been like that.’

‘Like what, Biddy?’

‘Keen to get on at any price. Ready to do anything, even if it wasn’t what I really liked, if it seemed likely to help. I—I thought it would be a jolly good thing to marry into the firm. To be M. Verdier’s niece, you know, and be Madame Verdier. It seemed such a good move, such a chance. I jumped at it, Maid.’

‘Oh—Biddy!’ Maidlin said sadly. ‘It was that? It wasn’t that you liked Claude Verdier so much? Oh, Biddy, how could you be so silly? And wrong, Biddy—it was a wrong thing to do.’

‘At the time it seemed very sensible,’ Biddy whispered. ‘I did like him, Maid. But I believe the other—that he was one of the Verdiers—helped to make me blind to some things that should have warned me. And I never dreamt there would be such an awful row. I ran away and hid myself here.’

‘And he left you to stand the row alone?’

Biddy turned and hid her face. It was not easy to admit such an act on the part of the man she had thought, for a few weeks, she had loved. ‘He said he couldn’t stand up to them, and he’d go and start somewhere else, and I could come to him.’

‘But you won’t go, Biddy?’ Maidlin cried in terror. She had forgotten that a husband might have claims. ‘You won’t have any more to do with him, when he treated you like that?’

‘I had a letter, from South America,’ Biddy whispered. ‘It came just before the kid was born, ten days ago. That was what made me so bad; and why, when I had your wire, I felt I must see you, if you were as close to me as Aix. He said he wouldn’t be coming back to Europe, as he made a mess of things every time he came. And he said I’d better not join him, as he hadn’t any job in prospect. He said other things too: he was tired of it, just as I was; it was only a passing feeling with us both; but it was very thrilling while it lasted.’ She lay exhausted, with one arm thrown across her face.

Maidlin looked at the wedding-ring; at the bobbed brown hair, which had not been cut when Biddy had last come home. ‘Biddy!’ she said urgently; ‘tell me one or two things. Were you married when you came and stayed with us last March?’

Biddy looked at her. ‘Goodness me, no! I didn’t know he was going to suggest it. I knew him, of course, and we were pally. I was beginning to think what a good thing it would be for me if we went further and I changed my name to Verdier. But I couldn’t have come and stayed with you and not have told you, if I’d been married, Maid. There was nothing to tell at that time.’

‘Thank goodness for that! Joy would never have forgiven you. And you’re quite sure he didn’t cheat you, Biddy? I’ve heard so much about French marriages, and English girls finding out too late that they weren’t really married at all.’

‘I took good care of that,’ Biddy said grimly. ‘I’m not an infant, though I may have been silly, Maid, dear. I was properly married; I saw to that.’

‘Yes, you would,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘He wouldn’t find it easy to take you in.’

‘They—M. Verdier and M. Etienne—tried hard to upset it.’ Biddy’s voice broke. ‘They were furious that I had married Claude. I never imagined they would take it like that. But then I never dreamed that M. Etienne—’ she broke off.

Maidlin looked down at her. There was tragedy here, and the tragedy was not merely that Biddy and Claude had grown tired of their marriage and had parted. Biddy was probably well off to be rid of Claude, Maidlin thought; and she had Marie Madelon to comfort her. But, ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, Biddy would have preferred M. Etienne,’ Maidlin said to herself.

And, of course, M. Etienne was M. Verdier’s son, and no doubt his heir! And there was that fatal desire to succeed at any price which was the flaw in Biddy’s character.

Maidlin sighed, and laid her hand on Biddy’s smooth brown head and stroked the short hair gently. ‘And they don’t know where you are, Biddy? Hadn’t they your home address? Won’t they think you’re in England?’

‘They haven’t the address. I expect they think I went home.’ Biddy’s voice broke. ‘Elise Lacharne knows, but they don’t know Elise; she wasn’t in Verdier’s. She was a friend I made, and she knew the whole story. If Madame Roussel had still been in Lyons everything would have been different; she was the one who found me the job—do you remember? She’s the friend that Joy and the rest call Marguerite, who went to their old school when she was a girl, and was the May Queen before Joy.’

‘I know Marguerite, of course. I’ve seen her at coronations. But I never think of her as Madame Roussel,’ said Maidlin. ‘But she hasn’t been at any crownings for years now. She went to America, didn’t she? We’ve had another pink queen, as we knew she wouldn’t come back.’

‘M. Roussel was a partner in the firm when I came to France,’ Biddy said wearily. ‘It was Roussel and Verdier then. But they dissolved the partnership, and the Roussels went to America four years ago.’

Maidlin nodded. ‘If Marguerite had been there all this couldn’t have happened. And if it had happened, she’d have written to Joy. I shall have to write to Joy to-day, Biddy. What am I to say?’

Biddy turned to her as if she had been struck. ‘Maid! You promised!’

‘I didn’t promise for ever,’ Maidlin retorted. Biddy’s frightened face warned her to be careful, however.

‘I can’t bear it, Maid!’ Biddy whispered. ‘I can’t stand any more. I shall die if you send for Mary.’

‘I feel as if it may be Mary-Dorothy who will die,’ Maidlin remarked.

‘That’s why I can’t bear it,’ Biddy groaned.

‘I shall write to Joy, and say I found you not very well,’ Maidlin said. She had thought it out carefully during breakfast. ‘I shall write from this address; yes, I shall. I’m not going to begin that Lyons business; we’ve done with all that. I shall say I’ll write more fully in a few days, but that they needn’t worry, as you’re better and having a little change and rest in Annecy. I shall say I’m staying with you till you’re quite fit again, and that I’ve written to Italy to explain. Then I shall write to Italy, and to Ruth in Paris. That will give us time to make our plans.’

Biddy looked at her with wondering eyes. ‘I say, Maid, you’ve thought that out awfully well! I didn’t know you had it in you!’

Maidlin’s lips trembled suddenly. ‘Biddy, I have to look after you. I think, perhaps, when somebody else needs one very much, one finds the way to help. I came here thinking you were going to help me, but it seems to be my job to take care of you, till you can do it for yourself. I’ll do the best I can. Now you want me to tell madame and Annette your real name and explain why you told them it was Bidet, don’t you? That’s the first thing to do. They ought to know.’

Biddy quivered. ‘Ask them to forgive me, Maid! Say I’ve wanted to tell them badly, because they’ve been so kind. You’ll help me out of that muddle, anyway, won’t you?’

‘And all the other muddles too, I hope. But it will take time.’ Maidlin knelt and kissed her. ‘Oh, Biddy, dear, I wish you hadn’t hidden it! I wish you had come home!’

‘So do I, now. But at the time I couldn’t,’ Biddy whispered. ‘I thought he’d find a job, and things would be better. When I began to guess he didn’t mean to come back, I simply couldn’t tell Mary, Maid. I’d made such a mess of things!’

Maidlin could well believe that to explain had seemed too hard. The shock to Biddy’s pride had been very bitter, and with all her ambitions in ruins it must have been impossible to confess the truth. She kissed her again. ‘Dear, you’d better rest. I hope you haven’t talked too much. You were brave to tell me; I know it wasn’t easy. I’ll talk to madame, and she’ll come and tell you it’s all right. Shall I give you Marie Madelon?’

‘Yes, put her in here beside me,’ Biddy whispered. ‘I wanted her to have a French name, Maid. She is a Verdier, after all. Perhaps some day——!’

‘Perhaps,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘Oh yes, she’s a little French girl, Biddy. Her eyes are open; she’s staring at her new aunty.’ She stood holding the baby and looking at the wide dark eyes. ‘They’re very dark blue, like pansies, Biddy.’

‘They’ll go brown or black presently.’ Biddy held out her arms.

Maidlin laid Marie Madelon in them and went down to talk to madame.

‘So!’ Madame stood, her hands on her hips, and gazed at Maidlin, who sat by the kitchen table, her story told. ‘Now we begin to understand. La petite madame is one of the Verdiers. They have a big house here, farther up the lake, mademoiselle.’

‘Oh, poor Biddy! No wonder she couldn’t tell. You forgive her, madame?’

‘Yes, truly. It was hard for her. And he will not return to her?’

‘I hope not,’ Maidlin said with energy.

‘But he is her husband, Mademoiselle Madeline!’

‘She does not want him to come back. I do not think he will come. She says she hopes you will still call her Madame Bidet, because Biddy is her name.’

‘Ah, oui!’ Annette said, laughing. ‘Madame Biddy, we will call her now.’

‘She did not mean to deceive you. Since you have been so kind she has been very unhappy,’ Maidlin urged.

‘I will go and kiss her, and tell her all is well, la pauvre petite,’ said Madame Pernet. ‘But truly, I am glad you have come, Mademoiselle Madeline. I begin to think in time we shall see through all the puzzles. We have felt in the dark, and there was no one to help. You will make all clear in time.’

‘I’ll try. But it won’t all be as easy as this. You have been so very kind!’

‘I go to speak to Madame Biddy. Mademoiselle, will you rest again? Déjeuner is at twelve o’clock.’

‘I’ll go out for a walk, with your permission, madame. There is much to think about; and I must write letters to my friends. They expect me to arrive in Italy to-night; I must send a telegram.’

Maidlin went to fetch her hat and coat, and madame looked at Annette as she went towards Biddy’s room.

‘She will help us safely to the end of all these troubles. She is not a little girl, after all.’

‘Mon dieu, no! And she will not go to Italy to-day.’

‘She will not leave Madame Biddy,’ Madame Pernet said with conviction.

Maidlin found the post-office and sent her telegram to Italy. She bought stamps and post-cards and wrote brief messages to Joy and to Ruth, and after some hesitation sent one to Mary also.

‘Am staying here for a few days with Biddy. She hasn’t been very well and is having a little change. The rest is doing her good, and she’s much better, so please don’t worry. Will write again shortly.’

To Joy she added: ‘Have wired to Italy. Could you send me a little money? I’ve only what I brought for the journey, and I want to pay my share of our expenses here. We’ve nice rooms, looking over the lake, with delightfully kind people. I can’t leave Biddy till she’s quite fit again. Do you remember saying her last letters had sounded tired? She needed a rest, but she’s having a proper one, and she’s really better. So don’t worry about her.’

The cards posted, Maidlin wandered through the town, looking at the arcaded streets and the green canals between the houses, till she reached the lake again. There, in a little public garden by the water, she sat down to think.

The terror of the night before had gone, now that the first shock was over. It had been the mystery that had been frightening. Now she understood, and knew what she had to do.

‘But it ought to have been Rosamund who tumbled into such a mess! I don’t know that I can see things through properly,’ and the old bewildering sense of helplessness swept over her—the craving for someone to depend on. ‘Ros would have grasped the whole situation and seen how it must all work out; and she’d have known what to do to help. I can’t do that; I can’t see far ahead, and I can’t see the end. If only I had somebody to talk to!’

Her eyes were very hopeless, as she watched the morning steamer set out on its trip up the lake. ‘I’d like to sail away towards those mountains. They’re far higher than at this end of the lake. I wonder if the boat goes past the Verdiers’ country-house? Poor Biddy! If only there was somebody to tell me what to do! I don’t mind doing things; I’d love to work for Biddy and Marie Madelon. But I do hate having to decide. There’s nobody to ask; I can’t consult madame and Annette. They’re dears; but they’re frightfully worried. They’ve been bricks; but they want to know what’s to be done now. I can see how bothered they are; madame looks so relieved when I say I’ll do anything. There’s nobody but me. . . . It’s too awful! I’m the last person in the world to be able to help. . . . I suppose Ruth will come in a day or two. She’ll have to be told, and Biddy won’t like that. She’ll go off her head again if I say I’m going to tell Ruth. I was terrified last night!’

She looked gloomily at the snowy slopes of Parmelan and the peaks of Tournette and the Dents de Lanfon farther up the lake.

‘I was afraid Biddy would send her temp. up and be really ill. We can’t risk that; till she’s stronger she mustn’t be excited . . . I can’t see far ahead,’ Maidlin said slowly, facing the situation desperately, ‘but I can see one step. Perhaps the next will be clear by the time we’re ready for it. Biddy has to get well; that’s all that matters just now. Even keeping Joy and Mary in the dark for a week or two doesn’t matter, if telling them is going to hurt Biddy; and I believe it would. They’d say she must come first. I must stand by her till she’s fit to look after herself. That’s a thing I can do, anyway. I don’t feel quite so bad now!’

She walked along by the lake, looking down into the deep green water, and presently found another point clear in her mind.

‘But Mary’s going to know. I simply won’t consider any plan for keeping this all a secret. I can see that it could be done; Biddy could board Marie Madelon with the Pernets and come to see her whenever she goes with me to Italy. Mary will never come here; she’d never find out. I wonder if Biddy will propose it? That man isn’t likely to come back; if it wasn’t for the baby, Biddy might try to forget the whole thing, as if this last year hadn’t been. But Marie Madelon’s there and she can’t be ignored. I won’t agree to it,’ and Maidlin’s small hands gripped the railing as she stood. ‘I won’t! Mary and Joy and the rest are going to know, as soon as Biddy’s strong enough. We may have an awful fight about it. I don’t think I could bear to fight with Biddy! And I loathe scenes; they make me ill. But I’ll never agree to keeping this a secret.’

Her thoughts went back to her childhood, when Biddy and Rosamund had planned a harmless prank, during the Christmas folk-dancing at Chelsea, and she had stood out and insisted that Joy must know.

‘Even then I wouldn’t have a secret from Joy. Queer how things happen again, but in a more grown-up way! I shall tell Joy, even if Biddy never forgives me.’

She walked on slowly, pondering the possibilities. ‘Perhaps I shan’t have to decide. Ruth will come in a day or two; I don’t suppose my card will stop her, but being engaged might. She may be so busy with her American man that she’ll think there’s no hurry to come, if I’m staying with Biddy. Yes, I expect we’ll have a day or two to think things over, before Ruth comes. That will be good for Biddy; she’ll be stronger. And that’s the one thing that matters.’

With that decision clear in her mind, and the resolve for the future so firmly fixed that it could never be shaken, Maidlin went back to the café, burdened, indeed, and very lonely, and quite unable to see far ahead, but clinging to the one sure spot of the present: Biddy must be taken care of.

‘There’s one other thing,’ she said to herself, as she sat down to the meal Madame Pernet had prepared in her little room behind the café. ‘I’d better be specially jolly whenever I’m with Biddy. I’ll make her think it’s not all so serious, and then she’ll cheer up and get strong more quickly. I don’t feel jolly; I’d like to howl like a kid about Biddy and her baby. But she mustn’t know that. If I have to cry I mustn’t do it when I’m with her.’

Another resolve born of her morning’s thought made her look up when madame came in, bringing an omelette.

‘Madame, we have not yet spoken of terms. But, you understand, I will stay with you en pension, if you will have me. I could go to a hotel, but I would prefer to be near Biddy.’

Madame set down the plates and looked at her. Her worried face brightened. ‘Tiens, Mademoiselle Madeline, I am glad you spoke of it. You will stay with Madame Biddy?’

‘If you’ll let me, madame.’

‘It is what we have longed for, that somebody would come. When I saw you last night, I said, “Mon dieu! It is but a little girl, another child to be cared for.” But now—no, I think not! I begin to see you will help us very much. You will not go to the hotel, mademoiselle. Madame Biddy needs you here.’

‘I know. But have you room for me? Haven’t I taken Annette’s bed?’

‘Annette can sleep in my bed. See, now, we have room. I had a little girl, Odette; she died, just before Madame Biddy came to us. We needed her help in the café, so the little madame took her place, and her room. You will stay here, mademoiselle.’

‘Then you’ll charge me pension terms,’ Maidlin said, shy but business-like. ‘And if you need this room, you will give me my meals in the café. I must not disarrange you too much, madame.’

‘Oh, là là!’ madame said, laughing. ‘We will talk of all that later on. Do not let that omelette grow cold, Mademoiselle Madeline.’

‘I have a name.’ Maidlin gave her a shy smile. ‘I am not trying to hide it, madame; and letters will come to me soon. I am Madalena di Ravarati. My father came from Italy.’

‘Ah, ça! It is written in your face, my child, and in your black eyes and hair. But we may call you as we have done?’

‘Oh, please! And—madame!’ and the colour surged up into Maidlin’s face. ‘You will tell me what we owe you on Biddy’s behalf? You understand, her friends will be all gratitude for what you have done. I have not spoken to her about money, but she can’t have much. But we will pay what she owes you.’

‘There is not much,’ madame said heartily, but with relief in her face. ‘It has been a pleasure and an interest for us to have her with us through the winter.’

‘Yes, but there has been expense as well. You will be kind and tell me, madame?’

‘Perhaps. I will talk with Annette. Things are not too easy with us,’ madame admitted.

‘I shall not be happy unless you let me do what is right,’ said Maidlin. ‘Your omelettes are delicious, madame.’

‘Ah, then, eat and leave the business!’ And madame bustled away. She gave a satisfied nod to Annette, who was cleaning pans at the sink. ‘She will not go. She will stay and help. She will pay for her board. And we are to tell her what we have spent for la petite upstairs.’

‘Dieu merci!’ Annette set down a pan with a clatter. ‘That is good news, indeed! I begin to think all will go well!’

Maidlin’s relief at having spoken her mind was as great as theirs. She was humming a tune as she went into Biddy’s room.

Biddy gave a little gasp. ‘Oh, Maid! “Chelsea Reach”! It’s years since I heard an English tune!’

‘Oh, no, it isn’t.’ Maidlin sat on the window-sill. ‘You heard tunes last March, when you came home. We danced in the barn, and Jen piped for us, as she wasn’t allowed to dance.’

Biddy’s lips quivered. ‘It seems centuries ago—another life, Maid.’

‘Oh, rot! I’ve such reams to tell you, Biddy. Are you ready to hear all the news? Mary can’t descend on you suddenly, because she’s in quarantine. Jansy Raymond has mumps, and we shan’t know for a fortnight whether she’s given it to Jen and her boys and R. J. That’s why Ruth came with me as far as Paris, instead of Joy. But for Jansy, Joy and I would have gone straight to Italy, as we’ve done in other years.’

‘I’m glad Jansy has mumps,’ Biddy said unsteadily. ‘I couldn’t have borne it alone much longer.’

‘You’re the first person to be glad. Oh, Biddy, I think Ruth’s engaged!’

‘What!’ cried Biddy, and forgot her own troubles.

Maidlin plunged into the story of Ruth’s two suitors, of her flight from the one, and of her welcome by the other in Paris.

Biddy listened wide-eyed, and sighed enviously. ‘I hope he’s all right. Does she know enough about him? You need to be so sure, and she only met him on the boat.’

Maidlin looked out at the lake. ‘I think you can trust Ruth. She’s very sensible.’

‘And I’m—but I always thought I was so sensible and practical!’

‘I don’t feel anyone is quite sensible who tries to get on at any price,’ Maidlin said diffidently. ‘I suppose you know best, Biddy. But I do think the price you pay matters. I suppose I’m silly and old-fashioned.’

‘If you were Ros, you’d stand over me and say something scorching about the price I’ve paid,’ Biddy groaned. ‘How can you say I know best, Maid?’

‘I’m not Ros. I only wish I could be even a little like Ros for a day or two. How I wish we had her here, Biddy!’

Biddy looked at her. ‘I don’t,’ she said bluntly. ‘I’d rather have you. I’m too raw to be scorched by Ros just now. You’re gentle; you’ve been an angel; and yet I don’t believe you’re soft. You should hear how Annette Pernet talks about you!’

Maidlin flushed. ‘We won’t talk about ourselves. I’ll tell you more home news,’ and she told how Joy had put off her mourning and worn a green dress, to please the twins.

‘I can understand that now,’ and Biddy looked at Marie Madelon, asleep in a big wicker basket. ‘It’s queer how much more you understand when things have happened to you!’

‘Margaret-Twin’s great desire is for a salmon-pink frock,’ Maidlin said, laughing.

‘Horrors, Maid! Not with her hair!’

‘She doesn’t know that matters yet. I had a pink cotton that took her fancy enormously, and she teased for days to be allowed to have one. Rose-colour is another of her ambitions.’

‘Poor kid! She’ll set your teeth on edge some day!’

‘She’ll learn in time. If she doesn’t, she’ll be kept in order by Elizabeth. Miss Marchwood has colour-sense; she was born knowing what to wear,’ Maidlin explained. ‘She chooses golden-yellow and tells “Twin” it is “Nice and pretty,” and greens and browns and blues all delight her. I asked one day if she didn’t think my red frock was quite pretty, and the little monkey said, “No, not one bit, Aunty Maid.” Then as an afterthought she added, “Nice to look at, Aunty.” And Margaret-Twin was clamouring for one just like it for herself! You don’t know how hungry I am to see the dear kiddies again! I’d better not talk about them. I’m going to write a letter. You’ve talked enough. I’ll sit here to write it, shall I?’

‘What are you going to write?’ Biddy shot the question at her.

‘Now don’t be silly!’ Maidlin pleaded. ‘I promised, Biddy; you might trust me. It’s so bad for you to go on like that. I’m going to write to Italy to ask for my trunk. I’ve no clothes, Biddy. I expected to stay one night.’

‘Sorry!’ Biddy muttered. ‘I was an ass. But you don’t know how nervy I am.’

‘You don’t know how tired I am of wearing this old brown frock!’ Maidlin retorted.

Biddy looked at her as she sat writing on the window-sill, in the jumper-suit of amber colour in which she had travelled. Suddenly she exclaimed, ‘Then you aren’t going to Italy, Maid? You’ll stay? I’ve been hoping—but I was afraid to ask you—it’s too bad——’

‘I shouldn’t think of going away.’ Maidlin went on writing. ‘Don’t be silly, Biddy dear!’

Biddy gasped a little. ‘Maid, you’re a sport!’

Maidlin woke in the morning to find Madame Pernet opening her shutters. ‘Merci, madame!’ she said. ‘We have all slept well, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Not too well.’ There was a shadow on madame’s face as she brought the tray of rolls and coffee.

‘But why? Is there anything the matter?’

‘My poor Annette has one of her bad heads. It is only now and then, you understand. But when it comes she must lie still all day. It is difficult, truly. Madame Biddy helped me when it happened before, but now—well, it is at this time that I miss my little Odette, Mademoiselle Madeline.’

‘Oh, I am sorry! Poor Annette!’ Maidlin took the tray quickly. ‘Do not trouble about me, madame. Perhaps I can help you, at least with Biddy and the baby.’

‘That would be kind, mademoiselle,’ and madame hurried away. ‘I have much to do, you understand.’

Maidlin buttered her rolls and ate them very thoughtfully. Then putting away the tray she dressed at express speed, and ran downstairs. ‘Now, madame! Where is Annette’s big pinafore? For to-day I am Annette. We will work together. What shall I do?’

Madame Pernet threw up her hands in mingled dismay and relief. ‘But you cannot do Annette’s share, my child! And yet, how to do it all I do not know.’

‘Why can’t I? I want to help. Or is there anyone we could send for? Do you ever have help?’

‘Yes, truly, my neighbour sends in her girl, Louise, when I have need. But Madame Ducher is ill, and Louise is nursing her. I know nobody else whom I would care to have in the house.’

‘Then we won’t have anybody. We’ll do it all, you and I. It will be a joke.’ Maidlin took Annette’s blue overall from the hook behind the door. ‘Now I’m ready. See, madame! There are things you won’t care to trust to me, and things I could not know. But there must be plenty of work I could do very well. To start, I shall bring down my tray and wash all those cups in the sink. You will be thinking what I shall do next. Leave the café to me; I’ll sweep it out and dust it, and put flowers on the tables. I saw Annette do that yesterday.’

‘But you cannot wash cups and sweep and dust!’ madame cried.

‘But why not? Tell me, is Biddy awake? Shall I go in and speak to her?’

‘She is awake; she is giving la petite Marie her déjeuner. She will want to see you; I told her of Annette, and she said she must help me, as she did before. But when she tried to rise she was too weak, as I told her; ma foi, yes!’

‘She mustn’t try to get up. I’ll tell her there’s no need,’ and Maidlin, in the big blue overall, peeped into Biddy’s room.

‘Morning, Biddums! I haven’t time to gossip. I’m Annette Pernet, to-day.’

‘Oh, Maid, are you going to help?’ Biddy cried joyfully. ‘I hoped you would. But I didn’t say so to madame, for fear you wouldn’t like it.’

‘I’m going to wash up and then sweep the café. I shouldn’t wonder if I waited on customers later on. Madame can’t possibly do that as well as the cooking.’ Maidlin kissed her and touched Marie Madelon’s head softly. ‘You both had a good night, Biddy? I slept beautifully.’

‘You look like it, and you sound like it. Yes, I slept better, and she was very good.’

‘That’s jolly! I’ll run in now and then, but madame’s at her wits’ end, and she is such a dear. I must help.’

‘I know. I’d give anything to be able to lend a hand.’

‘You did it last time. Now it’s my turn,’ and Maidlin hurried away.

She worked with a will, humming dance-tunes as she washed and swept. Madame Pernet watched her while busy with her cooking, and at last said, ‘You are too kind, Mademoiselle Madeline. It does not trouble you?’

‘No, I like it, madame. It is a relief.’

‘A relief? From what, then?’

‘From thinking and worrying,’ Maidlin explained, as she fetched the vases of half-dead flowers from the café. ‘It’s a relief to have definite work to do that isn’t worrying. Sweeping and dusting is such a rest.’

‘You have been so troubled about Madame Biddy?’

‘Of course. But still more about her friends in England. We shall have to tell them, and I do not know how to do it.’ Maidlin’s face clouded. ‘We will not talk of it, if you please, madame. It will be very difficult. But it is not yet. For to-day we will sweep and dust, and forget the future.’

She resolutely put the problems away, finding real relief and refreshment in the active duties she had taken on herself. As she dusted she forgot the invalids upstairs, and Biddy smiled as she heard ‘As I walked out one May morning,’ and ‘The Keeper did a-shooting go,’ come drifting in at her window.

Madame raised her eyebrows. ‘She has a voice, the little demoiselle!—Those are merry songs, Mademoiselle Madeline!’

Maidlin paused in dismay. ‘I forgot Annette’s bad headache! Oh, I am sorry, madame! I sing without thinking. I know Biddy won’t mind, but I’m sorry if I have disturbed Annette.’

‘No, I am sure not. She will like it. Sing some more, mademoiselle. They were English songs, no doubt?’

‘Oh, very old songs. But I was not thinking.’

‘I pray you, sing again. Annette will enjoy the songs,’ madame insisted. ‘Do you sing in the opera, mademoiselle?’

‘Mon dieu, non!’ Maidlin began to laugh. ‘I sing to amuse myself and other people. That is all.’

‘Then, I pray you, amuse us while you are here.’

Maidlin laughed again, and took up a duster; and ‘I spent my money ’long o’ Sally Brown,’ and ‘O Shanadar, I love your daughter,’ came ringing through the café.

‘Mon dieu, what a voice it is!’ madame murmured. ‘She ought to sing in the opera, that is certain!’

‘You will not cook a large déjeuner, madame,’ Maidlin called, between the verses of ‘There was a man who had three sons.’ ‘We will make less work that way. A little soup, since that is always ready; and some fruit and cheese. We can live on that for one day.’

‘And one more small omelette,’ madame supplemented.

‘A small omelette!’ said Maidlin, when she saw it. ‘What, then, is a large one, madame? Indeed, you’ll kill me with kindness!’

‘If you work you must eat. And I must eat, and Madame Biddy. La petite Marie Madelon will be angry if her mother is weak and cannot care for her.’

‘It’s weird to think of Biddy as anybody’s mother!’ Maidlin said to herself, as she helped the omelette to disappear. The shadow fell on her face again. ‘Oh, if only there had been no secret, and we could all talk happily about it together! It’s just awful to think that nobody at home knows. To think I’m the only one of our crowd who does know! It’s the loneliest feeling I’ve ever imagined.’

There was, indeed, a great sense of desolation and helplessness at the back of her mind. She was holding it off with hard work, but her singing was less unconscious than usual, for while she sang of English woods and meadows and sailors she saw the Abbey and the Hall, Joy and the twins. That appalling sense of being cut off from them by her secret knowledge was less oppressive and terrifying, but it was there, behind everything else, like a shadow which would now and then overwhelm her.

There was not much time to think, however. The town was not busy, so there was no rush of patrons to the café; but there were regular customers, in from the country for the day on business, and these began to arrive for their usual meals.

Madame, hectic and flurried, tried to take their orders and to work in the kitchen as well. Maidlin watched for five minutes. Then she appeared, wearing Annette’s pretty frilled apron over her amber frock, and with an early daffodil stuck in her black hair instead of a cap.

‘Madame, I am Annette. Go you and cook.’

‘No, no, Mademoiselle Madeline! You cannot——’

‘I can very well,’ and Maidlin caught up a tray and went to wait on a girl who had come in from an office near by.

‘Bon jour, mademoiselle! The poor Annette is ill to-day. What shall I bring to mademoiselle?’

The girl gave her order and sent a message of sympathy to Annette. After that Maidlin was kept busy, carrying trays and running backwards and forwards with orders.

In one brief interval she found time to wonder at herself. ‘It isn’t like me at all. But I never stopped to think, and now that I’ve started it’s rather fun. Madame Pernet looked so bothered, and she has been such a brick to Biddy—and to me too!’ and she went to take an order from a commercial traveller, and then another from a party of tourists.

This last was too much for her untrained mind—untrained in this particular art of keeping many details clear and separate. She arrived in the kitchen with an agonised face. ‘That crowd in the corner—I’m all in a muddle with what they said. What shall I do, madame? I couldn’t remember it all!’

‘Mon dieu, what did they ask for, mademoiselle?’ madame groaned.

‘I shall have to ask them, that’s all,’ and Maidlin went back bravely, but with burning cheeks.

But though she did not know it, there was something very disarming in her shy smile of apology as she pleaded, ‘Forgive me, messieurs et mesdames, but I have forgotten your order. I pray you, say it again for me more slowly. I have not done this before to-day, you understand. Madame’s daughter is poorly and I am helping. I am just a friend, so you will forgive my stupidity?’

‘A friend in need, I’m sure,’ one of the ladies said smiling, in English. ‘Put that into French for the child, Tom. Isn’t she a pretty little thing?’

‘Topping kid!’ said a young man. ‘Ripping eyes!’

‘Oh, please!’ Maidlin gasped. ‘I am English! I am so sorry.’

At the roar of laughter from the party, madame came to the kitchen door, full of curiosity.

Maidlin, scarlet, turned to escape, but the lady laid a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t run away! You know we meant no harm. You don’t look English, you know.’

Maidlin stood her ground bravely, but with shy eyes lowered to the table. ‘Your order, please? Perhaps I’ll remember it in English!’

The lady repeated the order with the utmost gravity, frowning at her amused son and husband and a small girl who wanted to giggle. ‘If you forget any of it, come back and ask. We’ll quite understand. If you’ve had no practice, I’m sure it’s hard to remember.’

‘Thanks, awfully! But I won’t forget this time,’ and Maidlin escaped, with burning cheeks.

‘How Biddy will shriek!’ she said to herself.

The English party, busy with their lunch, discussed her in undertones and wondered who or what she could be.

‘Some visitor, doing it for a joke,’ said the son.

‘More likely out of kindness, for madame’s sake, if her usual help is ill,’ said his mother. ‘Now, Tom, what are you going to do about a tip? You can’t offer five francs to that girl!’

‘Put it under a plate and run,’ the son suggested.

‘Ask her,’ said the small girl.

‘Thank her nicely, of course,’ was the father’s verdict.

‘Give her double and say it’s for the friend she represents,’ the mother amended.

‘You can do it, then. I wouldn’t dare to give a tip to that girl. If I’m not much mistaken, those eyes that Jim was so rude about could shrivel one up—I say!’

Not only the English visitors had been watching Maidlin as she moved about among the tables. Brought up in all simplicity by Joy, in the natural atmosphere of the Abbey, she could not know how different she was from the rather lumpy Annette; how attractive were her slight figure and neat slim ankles and legs, the poise of her head and the way she moved. She had been a country-dancer since she was fourteen; there was that in her every movement which caught the eyes of the foreign men at the tables, though she was all unconscious of it.

A young Frenchman, who had watched her with hungry eyes, touched her hand and made a remark, as she set down his plate of soup.

Maidlin’s shocked start joggled the soup and it spilt on his hand. It was very hot, and he drew back with an ugly word. His companions broke into laughter, but Maidlin, with blazing eyes, was gone.

‘Don’t try it again with this one, Philippe,’ somebody jeered. ‘Next time she’ll pour it down your neck!’

The English lady had risen and caught Maidlin on her flight back to the kitchen. ‘Could we have our bill? My dear, ought you to be doing this?’ she asked gravely. ‘You’re too young and—I may say it, mayn’t I?—too pretty, for this sort of thing.’

Maidlin was shaking as she made out the bill. ‘It’s only for to-day, Annette will be all right to-morrow. I couldn’t let madame down, and she was in such a panic, trying to do it all. She’s been awfully decent to a friend of mine. I’ve come to take care of my friend now, and I’d do anything to repay madame. I had to stand by her.’

‘And who is taking care of you?’ the lady smiled down at her.

Maidlin answered with dignity. ‘I can take care of myself. You’re very kind, but I’m older than you think. I look a baby, I know, but I’m not one.’

‘I see that. What will you do if my husband leaves ten francs on our table?’

Maidlin flashed a laughing look up at her. ‘Give it to poor Annette. But it’s too much, you know.’

‘Then give it to Annette and say she has a very plucky little friend, my dear.’

‘Annette will say, “Plooky? Qu’est-ce que c’est cela?” Thanks awfully! I’ll give it to her with pleasure.’

‘I suppose you won’t tell us your name? We might meet again somewhere.’

‘You wouldn’t remember it,’ Maidlin told her gravely. ‘Nobody does. That part of me is Italian. I shall know you if we meet again, because you’ve been so kind.’

‘Italian! Ah, that explains your—your French!’

Maidlin laughed again, giving her an understanding look from the part of her which was also explained by her Italian parentage. ‘A big part of me is English. Thank you so much for being so kind! I’m sorry I muddled your order.’

‘Can you manage creatures like that one over there?’

Maidlin coloured, but nodded emphatically. ‘I shall carry soup all the time. If anyone teases me I shall jump as I did before. Nobody will want to go on if they find it means soup on their clothes.’

The English lady laughed. ‘And you’re sure it’s only for one day? Your mother wouldn’t like it, you know.’

Maidlin’s eyes gleamed. ‘She might not,’ she admitted, thoughts of her unknown mother, and of Joy, who had been her real mother, flashing through her mind. ‘But honestly, it’s only for to-day.’

‘Then good luck to you, and we think it’s very plucky of you to rise to the occasion and stand by madame so splendidly. We won’t forget Annette’s ten francs.’

Then Maidlin fled to wait on new customers, and had only time for a shy smiling nod as the English party passed out and went down to the pier.

‘Mademoiselle Madeline, I am going to help. Yes, I am better now.’ Annette appeared in the doorway, looking white and heavy-eyed. ‘I can do it for a time. You are an angel, but you must not be insulted in our house. Mother told me.’

‘It was nothing. But if you’re well enough just to be here it will help, Annette,’ Maidlin admitted. ‘They won’t tease, if you are in the room. They think I am a child and that they can take advantage. I’ll carry the trays and do the running about.’

‘I will take the orders,’ Annette agreed, to the disappointment of some lads who had come in and were staring at the new assistant.

Maidlin thankfully kept more in the background, but worked harder, carrying trays laden with glasses and plates, than she had ever done in her life before. She said nothing of her aching back and arms, but carried on bravely, but she was too tired to speak by the time the last patron had gone; and madame, calling that dinner was ready, saw the exhaustion in her weary eyes. ‘Mon dieu! We have killed the little one!’ she said, under her breath, really frightened, as Maidlin sat down and took a spoonful of soup without a word.

Maidlin’s hand shook from sheer weariness. Madame poured something into a glass and set it beside her. ‘Drink that, ma fille. Yes, drink it quickly!’ as Maidlin began to object that she did not like wine. ‘I will not go till you have drunk it all.’

Maidlin obeyed for the sake of peace. ‘Madame, what is the matter with you?’

‘Now eat your dinner, ma chérie. We will talk after.’

‘It’s nice to be “chérie.” What does Biddy think I’ve been doing all day?’ The wine had done Maidlin good and she was herself again. ‘I meant to run up and tell her, but there hasn’t been a minute to spare.’

‘Madame Biddy knows,’ said Annette. ‘I have told her. She tried to get out of bed, to come and stop you, mademoiselle. But I said she had better leave you to it, and that you were doing it as well as I could myself.’

‘Except when I forgot the English lady’s order!’ Maidlin said, laughing. ‘But she was a dear. Oh, madame, your soup is good! I was famished. I forgot I’d had no time for tea.’

‘Then we have not killed you, Mademoiselle Madeline? For one moment I was afraid for you.’

‘Killed me?’ Maidlin laughed again. ‘I’m only a little tired and very hungry.—Annette, mon ami, in that jar on the shelf you will find lots of francs. The English lady gave me ten, and said they were for you.’

‘Ciel! They are yours!’ Annette protested, emptying the jar.

‘Not at all. To-day I was Annette, and they are for Annette.’

‘Mademoiselle, it is too kind! It is not right!’

‘You can leave them in the jar, if you please,’ Maidlin retorted. ‘But for me, if I were Annette, I should buy a new hat. Now when dinner is finished we will wash all those plates.’

But madame and Annette were adamant. Annette was well enough to wash plates; mademoiselle would do nothing more to-night.

‘You will sit with Madame Biddy and hold the little Marie Madelon,’ said madame firmly.

‘Oh, Maid! You are a brick!’ Biddy cried, when Maidlin came to demand a share in her godchild. ‘Annette told me. Aren’t you dead?’

‘It was fun,’ Maidlin said stoutly. ‘And I had no time to think or worry. In that way it was a rest. I shall help them again, to-morrow.’

‘Joy wouldn’t like it, Maid.’

‘She’ll forgive me, when she understands. I had to stand by madame and see her through. It’s queer, Biddy,’ and Maidlin gazed at Biddy and nursed the baby gently. ‘To be waitress in a café is one of the things I’d thought I might do. I’ve helped Ros once or twice at her Rose and Squirrel Tea-house, and I thought it was rather fun.’

‘The things you’d thought you might do?’ Biddy repeated, puzzled.

‘You were going to help me,’ Maidlin explained. ‘There’s been no time to talk, and I’d forgotten all about it. But I was coming to ask you to find me a job.’

‘Stars! What has happened?’ Biddy cried. ‘Has your fortune gone up in smoke?’

‘The fortune’s all right. But I don’t feel ready to handle it;’ and Maidlin plunged into the story of her ambitions and of Joy’s refusal to consider her plans seriously.

Biddy lay and stared at her. ‘You are weird, Maid! Fancy going out to look for troubles! They’ll come fast enough; don’t you worry!’

‘I wasn’t looking for troubles. It was going to be fun to do real things. To-day’s been huge fun, though I’m just about dead—but don’t tell madame! She’d worry, and give me wine and things to buck me up. But I’ve enjoyed it,’ Maidlin insisted. ‘It’s the sort of thing I’ve been wanting to do. But Joy wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘I’m quite sure she wouldn’t! She’d think you were soft in the head. It may have been fun for one day, but you’d soon be fed up with it, Maid.’

‘Of course. But other people have to carry on when they’re fed up. That’s when it’s worth while doing it,’ Maidlin argued. ‘Perhaps I was silly; I know I often am. But I don’t think Ruth thought so. But isn’t it queer that I should have found my job, not through you at all and without looking for it, but just because I felt I must stand by madame because she’s been such a brick to you?’

‘It’s a weird way of looking at things,’ said Biddy. ‘It seems to me that if you wait, all the worries and experiences you want will come to you. This came to you; and—my word, Maid! You’ve risen to the occasion, haven’t you?’

Maidlin coloured. ‘I don’t know. I don’t see what else I could have done.’

‘I’m glad it was you who came, for my own sake.’ Biddy lay and gazed at her. ‘But for yours, it’s just awful, and I can’t bear to think of it. I’ve been thinking about you all day, while you’ve been slogging away down there. Maid, when I knew you were coming through France, I couldn’t bear not to send for you, but I didn’t think for one second you’d be any use. After I sent you the telegram I was ashamed of myself and desperately frightened, for I thought you’d go all to pieces when you found out how things were. I felt you were the last person on earth to tumble into a mess of this sort, and I thought you wouldn’t have an idea what to do. I was afraid you’d collapse on our hands.’

‘I don’t blame you.—Hush, pet! It’s all right. Don’t wake up yet. Godmother’s holding you.—I feel so grown-up with a godchild, Biddy!’

‘I love to see you with her. But I want to know how you do it, Maid.’

‘Oh, I’ve had lots of practice!’ Maidlin misunderstood her wilfully. ‘Elizabeth and Margaret, and Andrew and Tony, and R. J.—to say nothing of Jansy and John!’

‘I don’t mean that. How have you managed to keep calm, and not lose your head and go all to bits?’

Maidlin looked at her gravely. ‘But it would have upset you, if I’d gone all to bits, wouldn’t it?’

‘Horribly! I’d have collapsed too!’

‘Well, that wouldn’t have helped. And you needed to be helped. I can’t see anything more in it than that.’

Biddy lay staring at her. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said at last. ‘You’re like a different person.’

‘Don’t be silly. I only wish I was a little different!—I used to say I was two people,’ Maidlin added. ‘My father and my mother, you know. I talked to Ruth about it, and she said so too. Perhaps my mother’s side has been on top since I came here.’

‘I believe it’s more than that,’ said Biddy. ‘It seems to me you’re one person when Joy’s looking after you and quite a different one when you’re looking after somebody else.’

Maidlin considered the idea. ‘It’s very likely. I feel I’m doing things here, far more than at home. Perhaps that makes me seem different. But I’m not different inside, Biddy; I’m just as frightened as ever. Do you remember the time you and Ros drowned me in the lake?’

‘Rather! We were scared stiff. Have I drowned you again?’ Biddy asked, with a gleam of understanding. ‘You don’t show any sign of it, Maid!’

‘Ros drowned me, for a few weeks, last autumn,’ Maidlin said, gazing at her with eyes even bigger than usual, as she thought of that time, when without Rosamund’s firm hold she had indeed felt herself drowning in a sea of perplexities. ‘She didn’t mean to do it, and I didn’t tell you. But she did drown me for a while. I had to learn to swim for myself. It’s all right now; she was frightfully sorry when she understood. But I’d learned not to hold her hand all the time.’

Biddy was watching her curiously. ‘And you thought it all over and came out on top. How awfully like you, Maid! You wouldn’t let her drown you. What about me? Have I done the same thing to you? You can’t be holding my hand any longer,’ she said bitterly.

‘I came here meaning to hold your hand, though,’ Maidlin admitted, hushing Marie Madelon, who had given another little reminder that she was hungry.

‘And I let you down. But you haven’t drowned, Maid. That’s the amazing thing.’

‘I felt,’ Maidlin said slowly, ‘that we were both drowning together, and that one of us would have to swim. We aren’t ashore yet, Biddy; don’t forget that.—You’ll have to take this kid; she won’t wait any longer. We mustn’t talk more just now. I’ll go to bed and think about it!’

Maidlin went into Biddy’s room in the morning, looking grave. ‘A letter from Ruth in Paris, Biddy.’

‘I hope she isn’t coming here?’ There was fear in Biddy’s voice, and instant thought for herself. That Maidlin might be needing Ruth’s help and company did not occur to her.

‘She isn’t coming at present, if we can do without her.’ Maidlin sat on the sunny window-sill and gazed out at the mountains. ‘We’re on our own, Biddy.’

Biddy heard the desolate note in her voice and saw the droop of her shoulders. ‘Maid, I am a brute! But I don’t want Ruth, or anyone but you.’

‘But we can’t go on like this.’ Then Maidlin pulled herself together. ‘Biddy, dear, I won’t worry you for a few days. I promised, and I meant it. All you have to think about is getting strong again.’

‘But when I’m fit you’re going to be as determined as—as Parmelan over there?’

Maidlin looked at her. ‘I can’t bear it much longer. The thought of having a secret from Joy is making a gulf between us. I can’t write to her, because I daren’t say too much, and if I say too little she’ll be frightened and suspect things. I can’t live with a gulf between me and Joy.’

Biddy turned away restlessly. There were tears on her face. ‘I can’t bear it, Maidie.’

Maidlin ran to her. ‘Biddy, it’s all right; I’ll bear it. You mustn’t cry; it will make you ill. Biddy, I want to tell you what Ruth says. Will you listen?’

Biddy blinked and swallowed hard. ‘Tell me, Maid.’

‘The very day she arrived, her friend Freda and the mother were both taken ill with some sort of poisoning,’ Maidlin explained, glad to turn the current of Biddy’s thoughts. ‘They sent for a nurse, but Ruth doesn’t want to leave them for a day or two. They’re in a hotel, and the nice brother who met us isn’t much good as a nurse, of course. Ruth says she must stand by them till they’re better, if I’m quite sure you’re all right and if I can manage. She says, if I’ll assure her solemnly that I’m taking care of you and not doing anything mad, she’ll stay with her friends for a few days. Am I doing anything mad, Biddy?’

‘You’re being a brick,’ Biddy whispered. ‘I’ll write a note to Ruth myself and say so.’

‘That will make her feel better about us. She’s engaged to the jolly man, Biddy. She puts it in a postscript: “Of course, I’m engaged to Ralph”!’

‘Of course she is. We knew she would be.’

‘Biddy, I want to do something for Annette. She is so good to me! What would she like? Could I give her a present?’

‘Oh, give her a frock, when your trunk comes,’ said Biddy. ‘You’re sure to have dozens; you can spare one. An evening frock; then she can go to a dance. She loves dances.’

Maidlin laughed. ‘But my frocks wouldn’t fit Annette!’

‘No, that’s true. But she’ll make it fit. She can juggle like anything with frocks; she’s a born dressmaker. If you give her one, you’ll see.’

That evening Maidlin unpacked the trunk which had arrived during the afternoon, and Annette, by special invitation, came to help. She knelt by the trunk and exclaimed in rapture at the pretty things it held, and Biddy, in the next room, heard her little shrieks of joy, and laughed. ‘You’re giving Annette the time of her life, Maid,’ she called, in English.

‘I’ve given her a rose-pink silk dress,’ said Maidlin. ‘She’s nearly off her head with joy. She’s going to alter it—she saw how to do it in a moment; and she says she’ll look more beautiful than ever in her life before. But not as beautiful as I’d have looked in it, she thinks.’

‘She’s right there,’ Biddy agreed grimly.

Annette looked up from the piles of under-clothing which had excited Ruth’s envy. ‘But, mademoiselle, these are for a princess! Do you wear these? And yesterday you swept our café and washed our plates! Oh, là là! We did not understand.’

‘You’d better have this slip to go with the frock,’ Maidlin suggested. ‘It will make all the difference what you wear under it. And could you wear my stockings, Annette? Those pink ones belong to the dress. They won’t match any other frock I have.’

‘Ma foi! I too shall be a princess!’ and Annette ran to show her treasures to her mother.

Maidlin laughed. ‘I’m glad she’s pleased. Later on we must do more for them, because they’ve been so good to you and la petite, Biddy. But that can wait. Isn’t it fun to see Annette so excited?’

The next night brought a letter from Joy. Maidlin was nursing Marie Madelon when Annette brought it up. She thrust the child into Biddy’s arms and seized the letter, and hurried out of the room.

‘Can’t you read it here?’ Biddy complained.

But Maidlin closed her door without replying.

‘She’s going to be very difficult,’ Biddy groaned to Annette, who was taking the baby to lay her in the cradle. ‘The letter was from Lady Marchwood. Did you see Maid’s face? She’d gone quite white.’

‘I saw,’ Annette agreed. ‘She loves this English miladi who has brought her up?’

‘She adores her. And she’ll tell her everything. I shan’t be able to stop her.’

Annette stood looking down at her. ‘Ciel! You will not, Madame Biddy. La petite mademoiselle is not soft. What she says she means, and she will do it—yes, she will! And you must think for her. How could she keep a secret from miladi, if she loves her so much? She could not go home and deceive her, and say nothing! Some could, sans doute, but not Mademoiselle Madeline. It is not possible to her. Oh, she will tell her—ma foi, yes!’

Biddy’s lips quivered. ‘I shall never be able to go there again.’

‘As to that,’ Annette said bluntly, ‘it is more important that Mademoiselle Madeline should be able to go. It is her home, n’est-ce pas? You must not cut her off from her home.’

‘Maid wouldn’t have said that to me,’ Biddy thought gloomily, as Annette went downstairs, with emphatic meaning in every step. ‘I thought Annette and madame would back me up, but she’s bowled them both over. They’d lick her boots.’

‘Maid, you’ve been crying!’ Biddy exclaimed, when Maidlin returned, bringing Joy’s letter.

‘I haven’t. Well, not much! But I feel awful, Biddy, and I can’t pretend I don’t.’ Maidlin sat on the end of the bed, her eyes downcast, her fingers playing with the letter.

‘Why? What’s up? What does Joy say? Has she guessed?’ Biddy cried in alarm.

‘She hasn’t guessed anything. How could she? It’s the kindest letter, sending money and saying we can have as much more as we need. She’s frightfully sorry to hear you’re so run down, and she hopes you’re having a thorough rest, and I’m to stay with you as long as you need me. She suggests that perhaps you could have your holiday at once, though it’s a month earlier than last year, and then you could go home and be properly looked after. She says that, Biddy.’

Biddy had winced. She threw her arm across her face. ‘It’s awfully decent of Joy. There’s no reason her house should be “home” to me. After all, Mary’s only her secretary.’

‘Mary isn’t only her secretary,’ Maidlin retorted. ‘Mary’s one of the family, and you belong to Mary. That’s enough for Joy. She says that if there’s anything you need, you’re to have it, and you’re to remember she has the right to look after you, because of all Mary-Dorothy’s done for her. I’m to see that you have everything.’

Biddy’s lips quivered. ‘Maid, how can we ever tell them? It’s not their anger I’m afraid of. If Joy’s furious, as I’ve thought she would be, I can stay here. It’s because it will hurt her so, after all her kindness, to feel I’ve kept such a secret for so long. And won’t it kill Mary?’

Maidlin dropped the letter and fell on her knees beside the bed, her arms stretched out to Biddy. ‘Biddy, that’s the trouble! That’s what frightens me. How can we tell them? Oh, Biddy, Biddy, why did you get yourself into this awful mess?’

‘I’ve dragged you into it too,’ Biddy whispered. ‘Why? Oh, because I was a coward! Maid, it’s no use; we can’t tell them. You must see that. You’ll have to admit it.’

Maidlin looked at her. ‘Not tell them? Oh, don’t be an idiot, Biddy dear!’

‘I couldn’t tell them. I haven’t the courage.’

Maidlin looked at her again. ‘No,’ she whispered.

Biddy shrank. ‘Maid, I’m still a coward.’

‘One of us will have to do it,’ Maidlin said drearily.

Biddy caught her hand. ‘Maid, we could funk it. Madame would keep the kid here, and I could come to see her. I could say I must see the friends who nursed me while I was ill. Nobody would ever guess. It could all be hidden. Oh, Maid, it would be so much easier! Won’t you think it over?’

‘No!’ Maidlin cried. ‘I’ll never do that!’ She sprang up. ‘I’m going out for a walk—chiefly to escape from you, Biddy dear. Don’t go on thinking you can persuade me. It would be cheating Joy, and I’ll never do it.’

‘Joy would know, the first time Maid looked at her—or didn’t look at her,’ Biddy groaned, when she was left alone. ‘I can’t see the end of this mess! I was an awful ass not to tell them at the very beginning. And it was idiotic to let Maid come here. If she hadn’t come I could have hushed up the whole thing. She’s been a comfort to me, when I was sick with loneliness; but I’m going to pay for it now. Who could have thought Maid would be so difficult? I thought I could have twisted her any way I liked!’

Maidlin, walking by the lake in the dark, in the little public gardens, was fighting a hard battle. A fierce temptation had attacked her. It would be so easy, and the relief would be unspeakable.

‘Shall I write and tell Joy? Biddy wouldn’t know. Joy couldn’t come just now; and I don’t think Mary would leave Jen to struggle with all the children, if they should be ill. I could write the whole story to Joy; it would be off my mind, and I’d not feel I was cheating her. That letter has made me feel ghastly; I’m not being straight with her, and it’s the first time. It’s awfully hard to know what to do!’

She leaned on the railing and gazed at the lights of the town shimmering in the water.

‘Biddy’s forcing me to hide things from Joy. But I care more about Joy than Biddy; why don’t I deceive Biddy, and be straight with Joy?’

She frowned. ‘Because I’m here with Biddy. I couldn’t look at her and say I hadn’t told Joy. If I tried, Biddy would see through me. She’d be upset; she’d try to get up and go away, if she thought Joy or Mary might come. Madame says she mustn’t be worried or excited; she said it again this morning. I’ll have to wait a little longer. It’s one of those times when one can’t tell the whole truth; Biddy’s safety comes first. I haven’t told Joy a lie, but I’ve given her a wrong impression, and I’ll have to keep it up, just for a week or two. Joy and Mary would say so, if they knew. But if only—oh, if only I could write the whole story to them! How different I’d feel if they knew! I can’t let Biddy down, and I promised. But sometimes it seems a heavier load than I can carry all alone.’

She had never felt quite so much alone before. Unconsciously she had been thinking that Ruth would come—that they could not stop her, and that Biddy would have to put up with it. But Ruth was not coming, for some days at least. There was nobody to come.

‘Unless I send for help,’ Maidlin said to herself. ‘They’d manage it somehow, if I sent for them. Ruth would come. Mary would come, even if she had to go back to Jen in a hurry. . . . I feel cut off from them all, just because there’s a secret between us. It’s as I said to Biddy—it makes a division; that’s why I feel so much alone.’

She straightened her small figure, as she looked at the hotel lights up on the hills. ‘I must put up with it, for everybody’s sake. And if I must, surely I can? Surely there’s help somewhere. There is no other way out. It’s necessary for Biddy; but I think it’s important for the others too. For it would be ghastly for Mary to hear suddenly, through a letter. Think of Mary-Dorothy reading that letter!—“Dear Mary, Biddy has been married for a year, and has a little baby.”—I couldn’t give Mary, or any of them, a shock like that. If I can make Biddy go home, we can break it gently—somehow; I don’t know how, but there will be a way. And Biddy will be there, and they’ll see Marie Madelon. They could no more refuse to forgive Biddy than I could. But if I wrote, Joy would wire to Mary and give her an awful shock; and she’d write and say Biddy had better stay in France, as she never wanted to see her again. She wouldn’t mean it, and Jen would make her calm down; but she’d say it, and the mischief would be done. For everybody’s sake, it mustn’t be told in a letter. And if I go home and leave Biddy, she’ll disappear, and we’ll have an awful bother to find her again. No, I must carry on. The one thing that matters is to stand by her till she’s well enough to go home with me. And then I must somehow make her willing to go.’

Her lips pinched. ‘It will be difficult. But if it’s the only thing to be done I must do it. It must be possible, if there’s no other way. If I’m doing the only possible thing, I can’t believe there isn’t help somewhere. If there’s no help, then there’s no sense in the world and no reason for trying to do the right thing. I haven’t come up against it before, but Mary and Jen and Ros all say there is sense in the world, and there is help, if we do our best . . . I shall go ahead somehow, and stand by Biddy. I believe it’s right, and I believe we shall come through.’

And with a queer little sense of comfort she walked back to the café, feeling not quite so much alone, after all. ‘For,’ she said slowly, standing by the window in her own room, ‘if there’s sense and reason in the world, that means God. And God wants Biddy taken care of, and Marie Madelon given her proper chance, and not tucked away in a corner and kept secret from everybody; and I’m sure He doesn’t want Mary to have a shock that would hurt her, or Joy to be cruel to Biddy. If I carry on, and do the best for them all, surely I’m working with Him? Then I can’t be quite lonely. Perhaps He knows how much alone I felt. Perhaps these ideas came from Him, to buck me up when I needed it. But that would make Him real, and close to me. I never understood that was possible before. It would mean He knew I felt lonely, and He cared, and He wanted to help me—just me. I knew He helped the world, but I thought I was too little to matter.’

She sat for a long time on the window-sill, very slowly grasping that overwhelming thought. But, once fully grasped, it would never leave her, and working in her slowly it would change her life.

‘How silly I was!’ she said at last. ‘Nobody’s ever alone, if they’re working with God. And if they think of what He wants for other people they do work with Him. It may be difficult to know what to do sometimes, but it isn’t difficult for me just now. The only difficulty was to do it. That won’t be so hard now. I have to stand by Biddy; I have to stick to it that Joy and Mary must know; and I have to break it to them gently. And I shan’t be left alone to do it.’

She felt happier than she had done since that awful moment when Annette had met her at Aix, speaking of ‘Madame,’ and Maidlin’s heart had stood still.

Biddy saw the new look in her face as they kissed for good-night. ‘Maid, what has happened to you? You look different, somehow.’

Maidlin stood holding Marie Madelon and looking down at her. ‘I’ve been thinking of going home, and of showing this small person to Mary-Dorothy.’

‘Maid, I can’t do it!’

‘Oh, you’ll have to do it, Biddy dear. So you may as well make up your mind to it.’ Maidlin put the baby into the cradle very gently. ‘Good-night, old girl! Sleep well and don’t worry. I’ll see you through.’

She went to her own room, leaving Biddy gasping.

Maidlin’s life had indeed been changed by those few moments of deeper thought than she had ever known before. But the matter was not ended so easily for her. Being Maidlin, she must think and worry, wondering if she was doing right, if there had been any other way, certain at bottom of the truth that had come to her and clinging to it, but torturing herself with doubts of her own conduct, on every possible point.

‘Maid thinks and worries till she drives me nearly crazy,’ Rosamund had once said.

Biddy saw the results, without in the least understanding the trouble. ‘You’re looking washed out, Maid. What’s wrong?’

‘I didn’t sleep well.’ Maidlin could not explain that she had lain for half the night, wondering, in a truly midnight fashion, whether after all it could be right to deceive Joy or to keep so big a fact as Marie Madelon from Mary.

‘Madame, make her go out more,’ Biddy pleaded. ‘She can’t do anything for me, except talk. Make her go on the lake; it would do her good.’

Urged to it by everyone, Maidlin wrapped up well and went for a sail round the lake, and saw La Tournette and the Dents de Lanfon robed in white and the castles of Menthon and Duingt at close quarters. But she had to go alone, as Annette was needed in the café, and she came home as heavy-eyed as ever.

‘You’ve been worrying all the time and not looking at the scenery!’ Biddy reproached her.

‘The lake’s very pretty and the mountains at the other end are lovely. But I hadn’t anybody to speak to, Biddy,’ Maidlin urged.

‘Oh, là, là! It will not do,’ said madame, and next day she came with a request for help for Annette in the café.

Maidlin gladly donned an overall and went out to dust, and Annette kept her chattering and presently begged for the English songs which she had heard when she lay ill upstairs. Maidlin fell into the trap, and beginning with ‘Waly, waly,’ and ‘Edward,’ and ‘Lord Rendal,’ came by degrees to more cheerful ditties, and Annette applauded and craved for more.

‘They can’t be much fun for you, when you can’t understand a word,’ Maidlin remonstrated.

‘It is the voice of mademoiselle. It matters nothing what she sings,’ Annette protested.

‘Oh, Annette! How silly!’

‘Pas de tout! Mademoiselle Madeline ought to sing in the opera. If Monsieur, of the Casino, should hear one little song, he would fall on his knees, and mademoiselle’s fortune would be made.’

‘If Monsieur is anywhere near, I shall run and hide under Biddy’s bed,’ said Maidlin.

‘Tiens, it is well! She talks and does not look so unhappy,’ madame nodded her head at Biddy. ‘What, then, is troubling her, Madame Biddy? Is it the thought of the English miladi?’

‘Perhaps. But it’s Maid’s way. She’s a dreadful worrier. She keeps on and on; she won’t leave things alone,’ Biddy sighed.

But though Maidlin thought too much, yet her thinking bore fruit. When she had been ten days with Biddy, she had a talk with madame and then went into Biddy’s room and closed the door. ‘Biddy dear, you’re funking. Madame says you could quite well be up and sitting by the window.’

Biddy looked at her with shrinking eyes, realising that the test of wills had come and that Maidlin would shirk it no longer. There was nothing in Maidlin’s face to show how much she dreaded the next hour. She, too, had put it off as long as she could, and had only brought herself to the point with a very great effort.

‘I don’t want to get up, Maid,’ Biddy said apologetically. ‘Perhaps I’ll feel more like it in a day or two.’

Maidlin sat on the side of the bed and stared at her. ‘You’re funking, Biddy,’ she said again.

Biddy writhed under her look. ‘Maid, what’s the hurry?’

‘Only that, the moment you’re fit, we are deceiving them all, if we keep quiet any longer.’

‘It won’t hurt them——’

‘It won’t hurt you to get up, and that’s the first step towards going home.’

‘I’m not going home!’ Biddy flared.

‘Well, I am. I’m going within the next few days.’

‘Maid, you’re a brute!’ Biddy cried helplessly. ‘Can’t I stop you somehow?’

‘I can’t see how you’d do it. I’m aching to go home.’

‘You’re selfish,’ Biddy said.

Maidlin looked at her with such utter astonishment in her eyes, such unbelief, that Biddy cried frantically, ‘I didn’t say it, Maid! I take it back! I didn’t mean it!’

‘I don’t see how I’ve been selfish.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t lie awake worrying over that!’ Biddy groaned, exasperated and dismayed. ‘You haven’t been selfish. I’m an ass! Forget I said it, Maid. I’m off my head with worry. Maid, I can’t go home!’

Maidlin thought no more, at the time at least, of her own selfishness. ‘Biddy dear, you can’t do anything else,’ she said firmly.

‘I could leave the kid with madame and find a job, and you could say I was all right again. You’d go on to Italy, and nobody would ask any questions.’

‘I think they’d ask a good many. And what about Marie Madelon? Is Mary never to know she’s an aunt?’

Biddy’s lips quivered. ‘It will upset Mary so fearfully.’

‘It would upset her a great deal more if she found out in two or three years. Things have a horrible way of coming out. You’d never feel safe. Biddy, it’s the fact that you haven’t trusted them that is going to hurt Mary and Joy; the fact that you kept your marriage a secret. Every week you hide it makes matters worse. If they discovered it in a few years the shock would be far greater. Just now they’ll realise what a hole you were in, and they’ll make allowances. But if you went on with it—for your own sake I simply won’t let you do it, Biddy. And for Baby’s sake too. She’s my godchild; she isn’t going to be brought up in a corner and kept a secret, as if there was something wrong with her. She’s a pretty baby, and she has lovely ways already. Mary will be frightfully bucked about her, once she’s used to the idea.’

Biddy flung her arm across her face. ‘I wish the kid wasn’t here.’

‘Oh, you don’t! You’re as proud of her as you can be. I’ve seen you with her. You simply couldn’t bear to see her only now and then.’

‘I’d find a job where I could be near her.’

‘Yes, but’—and Maidlin paused—‘are you going to let me down? For seven years I’ve been waiting for you to be my secretary. I shall need you badly in a couple of years now. Aren’t you going to stand by me, Biddy?’

Biddy’s arm dropped, and she lay and stared at her.

‘I couldn’t bear the thought of having a strange secretary, and I’m sure I shall need somebody,’ Maidlin pleaded.

‘But you don’t mean that you’d still have me? You aren’t sticking to that old idea?’ Biddy gasped.

Maidlin bent over her and spoke with energy. It was her trump card and she knew it. ‘Biddy, why not? Of course you’re going to be my secretary. I couldn’t live without you, after looking forward to it for all these years. You don’t need to look for a job; your job’s waiting for you. For a year you’ll look after Marie Madelon and give her a proper start; she’s my godchild, and I insist on it. She’s to have her mother for the first year; I know how much it matters. After that you’ll be ready to take on your proper job and do my business and save me all the worry. You’ll never need to look for a job again, Biddy.’

Biddy had turned from her and was crying, her face hidden in her arms. ‘You can’t, Maid! You can’t have me now——’

‘Goodness gracious, why not?’

‘Joy won’t like it. She’ll say I’m not good enough.’

‘Joy isn’t going to choose my secretary,’ Maidlin said sturdily. ‘Besides, she won’t. Why should she? Because you’ve married a Frenchman? Biddy, don’t be an idiot!’

‘She’ll say you can’t trust me.’

Maidlin’s eyes gleamed. ‘But if I do trust you, what does it matter what Joy says? I know you’d never let me down.’

Biddy lay silent, with quivering shoulders. ‘Maid,’ she whispered at last, ‘is it true?’

‘Is what true, old girl?’ Maidlin put her arms round her.

‘That you’d trust me still. I haven’t been straightforward. Joy and the rest will feel I’ve cheated you all for months. You couldn’t trust me as if I hadn’t done it, Maid.’

‘I want you to work with me, as we’ve planned for years. It would be a fearful disappointment if I had to have somebody else. You haven’t been dishonest, Biddy. Don’t talk nonsense!’

‘But I kept a secret from you.’

‘You didn’t trust us enough,’ Maidlin said, stroking Biddy’s brown head. ‘You’ll always trust me, Biddy, so you’d never keep a secret from me. If I trust you, you’ll trust me, won’t you?’

Biddy’s hand clutched hers. ‘Maid—oh, I am so sorry! I wish I hadn’t done it.’

Maidlin held her hand tightly. ‘So do I, dear. But it’s silly to talk as if you’d spoiled your life. You’ve had your thrilling time, and it didn’t turn out as well as you hoped. You can’t marry anybody else, of course, but then you don’t want to, do you?’

Biddy’s face was hidden again. ‘No!’ she whispered passionately, almost too passionately, Maidlin thought. ‘No, of course not. Maid.’

‘Then you’ll go on as you did before, and work for me. You’ve a very jolly little kid to show for it all. We’ll bring her up together.’

‘Did you really mean that—that you meant to——’

‘Meant what? I’ve meant all I’ve said so far.’

‘That you’d be her godmother in earnest?’ Biddy jerked out the words. ‘It would be topping for the kid, but there’s no reason that you should.’

‘But I am her godmother! When she can talk, she’s going to call me “Marraine.” Madame calls her my filleule, my godchild. I’m not going to give up my bit of her to anybody, though I don’t mind sharing with Mary-Dorothy. That’s all settled, Biddy. Don’t argue about it.’

Biddy quivered. ‘Maid, you beat me on every point. If I’m to be your secretary, and the kid’s to be your godchild, then that means—it means I must go home.’

‘Oh, of course!’ Maidlin said cheerfully, with no sign of her very real anxiety. ‘None of it can happen till we’ve cleared up the mess. We couldn’t live with such a big secret behind us. You’ll sit up to-morrow, and the next day you’ll go downstairs, won’t you, Biddy? Then after you’ve been out for a walk once or twice we’ll go home.’

‘It will kill me,’ Biddy whispered.

‘Rubbish! It will be easy. We’ll have sleepers as far as Paris, and you and Marie Madelon will go to bed. We can’t have you arriving in Paris at nearly midnight. Ruth will meet us and take us to a quiet hotel, and we’ll rest all day and have a good night’s sleep. And next day we’ll go home, and we’ll be at the Abbey by the evening.’

‘That’s what is going to kill me, not the journey. Maid, I haven’t a scrap of courage. You’ll have to tell them.’

Maidlin’s heart sank. But she had won so much that she made no protest. There was still time. Perhaps Biddy would find her courage yet. ‘I’ll tell them, if you don’t want to, when the time comes,’ she promised bravely. ‘Biddy, it won’t be easy, but we must go through with it, for the sake of the time to come. I want you, and I want Marie Madelon. But I can’t have you unless everybody knows all about it.’

Biddy sighed, worn out. ‘Maid, I never imagined you could be like this. You’ve won. I can’t bear it, but I’ll have to do it somehow. For I want to be your secretary, Maid, and I want the kid to be your filleule. I never dreamt you were in earnest about it.’

‘I’m in earnest about both things. Now you must rest, old girl,’ and Maidlin kissed her. ‘It’s all settled; don’t think about it again. I’ll arrange everything. You’re just to do as I tell you.’

Biddy gave a laugh, that was half a sob. ‘Maid, you’ve beaten me out and out.’

Maidlin crept away to her own room and dropped exhausted on the bed. ‘Poor old Biddy! But I think I can keep her up to it now. Oh, I am tired! But it wasn’t quite so hard as I expected.’

Maidlin had used the right bribe. Biddy’s business mind grasped the advantages of having a wealthy godmother for her daughter. She was really anxious to do her best for Marie Madelon, who was gripping her heart more tightly every day. Biddy would endure a good deal to forge that tie between her child and Maidlin; it was a piece of good fortune for which she had not dared to hope. If Maidlin meant to take the suggested responsibility in earnest—and being Maid she would do so if she realised it as a responsibility at all—Biddy would be only too eager to do everything to urge her on.

Madame Pernet received the news of their decision with regret, but also with relief. ‘So!’ she looked down at Biddy, finding her sitting in a chair by the window next morning. ‘That goes better. And now?’

‘Now we go home. Maid says we must go.’

‘I have said it to Annette! Mademoiselle Madeline will have her way. She has been resolved that you shall go home.’

‘Yes,’ Biddy agreed. ‘She will not be Marie Madelon’s marraine unless we go home, madame.’

‘It is enough. You will go,’ madame agreed. ‘La petite must have her godmother. Mademoiselle Madeline will care for her all her life.’

‘She’s a brick,’ Biddy said unsteadily.

‘But you will return? I shall see you and the little one again?’

‘Oh, oui! To be sure!’ Maidlin came from her room. ‘Biddy and I will come to stay with you, madame. We shall go often to Italy; we will stop at Aix and come here to see you.’

‘We could leave the kid, and pick her up on our way home,’ said Biddy. ‘Or do you think she should be brought up in France, Maid? After Mary and the others have seen her, perhaps I should bring her back?’

‘Biddy dear, don’t be silly!’ Maidlin scolded. ‘She’s going to grow up at home. You can live in the village with her; you wouldn’t really want to have her at the Hall, and it wouldn’t be quite fair to Joy——’

‘Gracious, no!’ Biddy exclaimed. ‘Joy can’t put up all our families!’

‘What about the Abbey, with my Aunt Ann? We’ll plan it all in time. But you aren’t going to bring up my filleule in France,’ said Maidlin.

Biddy, eager now to have the next ordeal over, gained strength rapidly. Madame soon declared her fit to travel, if the journey were taken in easy stages.

‘We’ll wire to Joy from Paris,’ Maidlin decided, and wrote to Ruth asking her to meet them at the Gare de Lyon early in the morning. ‘Biddy isn’t strong yet. We’re going to take the journey very easily. But I want her to go home,’ she said in her letter.

‘Ruth will have a shock when you arrive plus a daughter, Biddy. But it won’t hurt her, and Marie Madelon isn’t a thing to be put in a letter.’

On the last morning in Annecy Biddy went for a little walk, and Maidlin carried her godchild very proudly down to the lakeside—‘To see the boats,’ she said.

When they came back, madame was waiting at the door of the café, with a post-office boy eager to deliver a telegram. ‘For Mademoiselle Madeline,’ she said, looking anxious. ‘Give me the filleule, mademoiselle. Sit and rest, Madame Biddy.’

Maidlin looked frightened as she tore open the envelope. ‘Perhaps, it’s from Ruth, to say she’ll meet us. It is from Ruth. I say, Biddy dear!’

Biddy looked at her with startled eyes. ‘Maid, what is it?’

‘Ruth knows. Who on earth can have told her?’

‘She knows?’ Biddy cried. ‘Knows what, Maid?’

‘She says: “Is Biddy married? Ruth.” Oh, Biddy, what has happened?’

‘What did you say to her?’ Biddy demanded.

Maidlin looked at her. ‘You saw my letter.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Biddy apologised. ‘But how on earth has Ruth found out, Maid?’

‘That’s what I want to know,’ Maidlin said, frowning. ‘If somebody’s told Ruth, Joy may have heard too. We must hurry home, Biddy. It would be horrible if Joy and Mary heard from anyone else.’

‘But who could possibly tell them? Who can have told Ruth?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’ Maidlin looked worried. ‘It’s hateful. I want people to know, but I don’t want them to find out. Shall I answer the telegram?’

‘We’ll see her to-morrow morning. She’ll tell us how she heard.’

‘Yes; but I want to stop her sending any message to Joy. Go and lie down, Biddy; you must rest all the afternoon. I’ll send a wire to Ruth.’

‘What shall you say?’

‘There’s only one thing to say;’ and Maidlin sat down to make up her message. She read it aloud: ‘ “Yes. Tell you story to-morrow. Please don’t tell Joy.” That will do; I’ll take it to the office. Then we’ll have to wait till we see Ruth. It’s desperately worrying.’

‘As if things weren’t bad enough!’ Biddy groaned.

‘I wonder Ruth troubled to wire, when she’s going to see us to-morrow,’ Maidlin said, when they had said good-bye to Madame Pernet and Annette in the early evening and were sitting in the train on their way to Aix.

‘Ruth was afraid I was going to hush it up,’ Biddy said grimly. ‘She’s heard somehow, and she thought perhaps we were going to go home and keep it quiet. She made sure there should be no chance of it.’

‘And she gave us a day to think it over,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘I’m sorry she thought we’d do that.’

‘Ruth knows me and she doesn’t know you,’ Biddy retorted. ‘She’s right enough; I’d have lain low if I could. What Ruth hasn’t reckoned with is your strong-mindedness.’

Maidlin’s eyes widened. ‘My strong-mindedness! You’d better not say that to Ruth; and still less to Joy. I’m not usually supposed to be strong-minded.’

‘That’s because none of them really know you,’ Biddy said. ‘I’ve found you out. You’ve swept me along and I haven’t had a chance to escape.’

‘You didn’t really want to escape; you only thought you did. You’re glad to be going home, Biddy.’

Biddy’s face quivered. ‘I know what I think of you, godmother.’

Maidlin laughed, ‘Is that my new name?—Oh, Biddy, how do you think Ruth found out?’ and the shadow fell on her face again.

‘I simply can’t imagine. Could she have met the Verdiers?’ and Biddy’s face clouded. ‘They have a Paris branch, of course.’

‘That’s possible,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘If it’s that, I don’t think she’ll have said anything to Joy. She’d wire to us first, and my answer would keep her from doing any more. I don’t want Joy to hear the story from anybody else, Biddy.’

Biddy stirred uneasily. ‘Maid, I’m a fearful coward, but I don’t want to tell Joy myself.’

‘I’ve said I’ll help you through,’ Maidlin said gravely. ‘But I do feel it would be better for you to do it yourself, old girl. It’s like at school, when somebody had to own up; the Head would far rather she’d go and tell her herself. If she asked somebody else to go, everyone would feel she’d funked.’

‘I know. But there are times when there’s nothing for it but to funk, and I feel this is one.’

Maidlin sighed. ‘I don’t know how to tell them. I’d far rather you’d do it. But I’ll stand by you, Biddy. We’ll tell them somehow.’

In the Paris express Biddy and Marie Madelon were put to bed, and then Maidlin lay down herself. But it was long before she slept, for the bewilderment caused by Ruth’s question jostled her dread of the moment of arrival, and both together almost quenched her relief at having brought Biddy safely to this point.

She slept at last, and woke only in time for her morning coffee. In the early sunshine she helped Biddy to dress and to prepare Marie Madelon for her arrival in Paris.

The train drew in to the station, and Maidlin hung out of a window and waved to Ruth. ‘She’s here, Biddy, and she’s alone. I’m glad the man hasn’t come, though he’s very nice. Let me carry la petite, and leave the luggage to the porters. You just take care of yourself. Go and speak to Ruth; you haven’t seen her for six years.’

Biddy climbed down the high steps and found Ruth beside her.

‘Well, Biddy, my dear kid! What have you been doing?’ Ruth asked gravely.

‘Ruth, how did you know? It’s true,’ Biddy cried. ‘Oh, Ruth! Help Maid down those steps! She’s bringing my kid, Ruth!’

‘Biddy!’ Ruth gasped under her breath. Then she sprang to help Maidlin. ‘Oh, Maid!—Biddy! Why didn’t you tell us?’

‘We are telling you, before anybody else.’ Maidlin climbed down very cautiously. ‘We’re going straight home to tell Mary and Joy.—Shall we let her have one peep, Biddy?—Ruth, let me introduce my godchild, Marie Madelon Verdier.’

‘Oh, Biddy!—Maid!’ Ruth whispered. ‘I never dreamt of this. Oh, why has it been a secret, Biddy?’

‘Are you going to take us to a hotel?’ Maidlin interrupted. ‘Ruth, I know you’re stunned and gasping; so was I, I can tell you! But we must think first of Biddy and the babe; they mustn’t stand about here. Shall we have a taxi?’

‘Maid has taken care of me like a mother,’ Biddy said, with a laugh that was nearly a sob, as Ruth called a taxi and hustled them in, still looking with incredulous eyes at the three of them. ‘But she’s been a stern mother. I’ve been terrified of her, Ruth.’

‘Idiot!’ said Maidlin. ‘Don’t be an ass, Biddy dear!—Now, Ruth, would you like to hold your new cousin? She’s heavy for a month old.’

Ruth held out her arms. ‘I can’t quite believe it. Biddy, your own kiddy!’

‘Biddy’s kiddy,’ Maidlin said, laughing. Then she added, ‘It was awfully hard on Biddy, Ruth. She was sick with loneliness. She wished she’d told us long ago.’

‘It was harder every month I put it off,’ Biddy said unsteadily. ‘I felt I could never bear to confess I’d kept it from everybody till after the kid was born. Then Maid turned up, and—oh, Ruth!—she’s been ripping!’

‘Why didn’t you tell us at once, Maidie?’ Ruth was looking at Maidlin curiously.

‘I wouldn’t let her. I threatened to throw myself and Marie Madelon out of the window.’

‘Don’t be silly, Biddy.—She had hysterics whenever I proposed it, Ruth.’

‘I didn’t have anything of the kind!’

‘Oh yes, you did!—I was afraid of doing her harm, Ruth. Madame Pernet said she mustn’t be excited.’

‘I see.’ Ruth gave Maidlin another keen look. ‘So you took charge of her and waited till she was well? I begin to think you’ve been a brick, Maid.’

Maidlin leaned forward, desperate anxiety in her face. ‘Never mind me. How did you know Biddy was married?’

‘And I think, perhaps, you’ve found your key,’ Ruth said thoughtfully, while Biddy stared at her blankly. ‘Yes, I think you’ve opened the door, Madalena. How did I know? Well, look at the Times!’

The folded newspaper slipped from under her arm. Biddy and Maidlin dived for it together and read a marked paragraph.

‘Verdier-Devine. If Biddy Devine, who married Claude Verdier at Lyons on April 30th last, will communicate with Messrs Verdier et Cie, Lyons, she will hear news of the greatest importance. Urgent.’

‘So that was it!’ Maidlin cried. ‘An advertisement in the Times! We never thought of that!’

‘Do you suppose Mary will have seen it?’ Biddy asked.

Ruth gave her a sharp look. ‘Is that all you think about? What do you imagine the important news is? I suppose you’ll write to them?’

‘If I don’t, Maid will; I know her.’

‘What do you think it is, Biddy?’ Maidlin asked. A note almost of authority in her voice made Ruth look at her again.

‘They’ve heard something about Claude.’

‘And don’t you want to know what it is they’ve heard?’ Ruth exclaimed. ‘Biddy, where is he? Have you had a quarrel?’

‘No. He just went away.’ Biddy’s voice was hard with pain, though she tried to speak indifferently. ‘Ruth, he knew about the child; I wrote and told him. He never came. How would you feel about a man who left you alone at a time like that?’

‘Perhaps he was ill,’ Ruth pleaded.

‘Perhaps he didn’t care,’ Biddy jerked, and stared out of the window.

Ruth looked at Maidlin, who shook her head helplessly. Presently Biddy said drearily, ‘I shall write, once we’re home. I’d better know.—Maid, do you think Joy has seen that ad? Doesn’t she read the Times from cover to cover?’

‘She reads that column; everybody does. But she may have missed it, Biddy. I think she’d have wired, as Ruth did, if she’d seen it.’

‘It would be hateful for Mary to see it in the Times,’ said Biddy. ‘I’m glad you’ve hauled me home, Maid. I’d never have come without being dragged; I felt too awful. But if I’d heard of that ad, I’d have felt worse still.’

‘You wanted to come. You only needed a little boosting,’ Maidlin said.

‘But where has Maid suddenly found the force of character necessary to make her able to boost Biddy?’ Ruth asked herself, as she carried her sleeping burden very carefully into the hotel. ‘Maid, I’ve taken rooms for you two here until to-morrow. Madame is very kind and will do everything for you. She knows one of you has been ill, but she isn’t prepared for a baby; she’ll wonder why on earth I didn’t explain properly! I’m going to spend to-day with you; the Normans are going to St Cloud to visit some American friends. Ralph had to go too, of course, so I said I’d have a day off and look after you and Biddy. I didn’t realise it was to be you and Biddy and Somebody Else. What is its name?’

‘She’s Marie Madelon. Mary and I will be her godmothers. I’m going to bring her up,’ Maidlin replied. ‘Mary will forgive Biddy when she finds she’s a godmother and an aunt, won’t she, Ruth?’

‘I don’t suppose Mary will be able to resist Marie Madelon.—Biddy dear, what a dreadful year you must have had! We’ll have another petit déjeuner while you tell me all about it.’

‘Oh no! I’ll tell you a little, perhaps,’ and Biddy’s lips pinched. ‘A great deal of it is better forgotten. What I will tell you all about is the way Maid has bullied me into coming home.’

‘I want to hear that even more than your own story,’ Ruth agreed.

Ruth had a quiet talk with each of the girls during the day, while the other rested. Biddy would tell very little of her marriage and its disappointing outcome, but Ruth gathered most of the truth from the things she left unsaid. Maidlin told of the shock and fright which had met her on her arrival in Annecy, and spoke warmly of the kindness of Madame Pernet and Annette. ‘I’m hoping Joy will do something for them. If she doesn’t care about it I shall do it myself, as soon as I can. I know one or two things they would like; I asked a few questions,’ she said.

‘Biddy and Mary should be very grateful to them. I suppose Biddy lost her head over the man, and then found out too late. It isn’t like her; she’s usually so business-like. It’s a terrible pity; she’s had a bad time.’

‘Even business-like people are silly sometimes, I suppose,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘But it wasn’t that with Biddy, Ruth. She made a mistake, but she didn’t lose her head.’

‘How do you mean?’ Ruth asked, puzzled.

‘She thought it would be a good thing to marry into the firm and be Madame Verdier,’ Maidlin said bluntly.

‘Oh, Maidie! Do you think that’s why she did it?’

‘She told me that was why. She’s always been keen to get on—as she says, at any price. This time she paid a very big price. She admits it, Ruth; I wouldn’t say it unless she had told me so.’

‘I’m desperately sorry she’s so foolish!’ Ruth exclaimed.

‘So am I. And I’m desperately sorry for her. I’m going to look after her now. I feel she can’t quite manage things for herself.’

Ruth stared at her. Then she broke into a low laugh. ‘Maid, you’re rather priceless! It’s perfectly true; if Biddy has a moral weakness of that sort she needs looking after. One can’t be sure what she will do next.’

‘That’s what I feel,’ Maidlin interrupted. ‘I don’t see anything funny about it. I’m fond of Biddy and I’m sorry for her. She needs taking care of, and I’m going to do it. If she’s my secretary, I’ll be able to keep hold of her. She won’t go marrying people while she’s keeping my accounts.’

Ruth gave a shout of laughter. ‘Maid, I can’t help it; you’re a treat! Don’t be upset because I laughed!’ she pleaded.

Maidlin looked at her gravely. ‘Laugh, if you like, but I don’t see the joke myself. I think it’s serious. Biddy’s been in one horrid mess; if they’ve heard the man’s dead, or anything like that, she’ll be lucky to be out of it so easily; and she has Marie Madelon. But she mustn’t make any more muddles. I’m going to see that she doesn’t.’

Deeply touched, Ruth exclaimed, ‘I think I laughed because I had to do that or cry. To hear you so quietly taking on the responsibility of Biddy’s future, when every one of us has looked on her as the model of all that is practical and sensible, and on you as unpractical and childish! To hear you talking as if you were Biddy’s elder sister! Maid, I could cry, as well as laugh! I do think you’re a brick! Is it Biddy’s need that has changed you so entirely?’

Maidlin coloured. She was far too shy to speak of the lesson she had learnt from loneliness and the help she had found. ‘When somebody needs you, you have to do something,’ she said. ‘You never saw anything so lonely and desolate as Biddy was, or so helpless as Marie Madelon. There was nobody else; I just had to stand by them and carry on.’

‘And what about your own plans—finding a job, and so on?’

‘I’ve found my job. You and Biddy were right; she said I’d find worries enough without looking for them. I suppose I was silly,’ Maidlin said gravely. ‘I ought to have known things would come. Anyway, they have come to me. I’ve forgotten all about my plans; there’s been no time to think of them.’

‘No, you’ve thought only of Biddy,’ Ruth agreed. ‘But in doing it you’ve found your key, Madalena. You’re a different person.’

‘Biddy thought you were wandering when you began to talk about keys and doors at the station.’ Maidlin gave a little laugh and changed the subject, to cover her embarrassment. ‘Oh, are you going, Ruth? Aren’t you going to stay with us?’

Ruth was pulling on her coat. ‘I’m coming back. We’ll have lunch together and perhaps a sail on the river in the afternoon. I love the Paris steamers! But I must change into a decent frock; I can’t go about all day in a morning jumper! Our hotel is just round the corner, Maid. I’ll be back by twelve.’

She came hurrying in just as Biddy came down for lunch. ‘The sooner you two young people go home—three young people, I mean!—the better. Look what has just been delivered to me!’ She spread out a telegram.

‘Is it from Joy?’ Maidlin cried.

‘Oh, bother that wretched Times!’ Biddy groaned.

‘Oh, it’s from Ros! She’s seen it too, Biddy.’

Rosamund’s telegram came from her Sussex tea-house, the ‘Rose and Squirrel.’

‘Is Biddy married? Please wire her address.’

‘Ros wrote to me, after I’d written to her. I had her address from you, Maid,’ Ruth explained. ‘She hadn’t Biddy’s Annecy address—She’d heard you were away for a holiday, Biddy—and she asked me to send the new address, but I haven’t had time to answer her letter.’

‘She’s seen that ad too,’ Biddy said in disgust. ‘Do you suppose she’s told Mary and Joy? I feel Maid’s right, and it would be awful if they saw it first in the papers.’

‘If they have seen it, I’ll give evidence for you that you were on your way home to tell them before you heard about the Times,’ Ruth promised.

‘Ros hasn’t told them,’ Maidlin reassured Biddy. ‘If she had, she’d have asked Joy for our address. It’s because she didn’t want to tell Joy or to give Mary a shock that she’s had to ask Ruth where you are.’

‘That’s true, Maid,’ Ruth agreed. ‘Joy may not have seen it, Biddy. She may not read every word of the paper every day.’

‘It may have been in for several days,’ Biddy said gloomily.

‘Well, it has been, because I’ve looked,’ Ruth admitted.

‘We must go as quickly as we can,’ Maidlin exclaimed. ‘What shall you say to Ros, Ruth?’

‘I shall say: “Yes. Letter follows.” Then I’ll write and give her just the facts and say you’re home again and will come to see her in a few days. Will that do?’

Maidlin looked at Biddy. ‘I think that’s best. You’ll want to see the “Rose and Squirrel,” Biddy; and you know you’re dying to show Marie Madelon to Ros.’

‘I’m afraid of Ros, all the same. What will the next telegram be? That’s what I want to know,’ Biddy groaned.

‘You’ve upset the whole clan, you see,’ Ruth retorted.

‘What about rushing home at once, Maid?’ It seemed natural to turn to Maidlin as the leader, but the strangeness of the fact struck Ruth again as she spoke.

‘By night? Oh, Biddy couldn’t do that. She must sleep in a bed to-night. We were in the train all last night.’

‘Maid’s a regular dragon. I haven’t been bullied so much for years,’ said Biddy.

‘Déjeuner is ready.’ Maidlin closed the conversation and led the way.

While Biddy rested in the afternoon, Ruth and Maidlin sailed up and down the Seine, with much to tell and to discuss. Ruth’s new future included a home in America, with frequent trips to Paris and London; and London, she explained, would always mean a visit to the Hall and the Abbey. ‘I shall see far more of you than I’ve ever done before. Ralph has Paris business, and when he comes to look up his people, I shall run across to you. I shall be much nearer you than I was in South Africa.’

‘That will be very jolly,’ Maidlin agreed. ‘And you’ll come quite soon, to see Mary and Jenny-Wren?’

‘Oh, rather! We’re all going to London, and Ralph and I will look you up; he must be introduced! I shall escape from him and Freda for a few days, and come to stay with Mary; I want to see Jen’s house and all her kiddies, and Rosamund’s craft-shop and her new relations.’

‘There’s young Roderick, her baby brother. None of us have seen him yet.’

‘Marie Madelon will be even more exciting than Rosamund’s Roderick,’ Ruth prophesied.

Maidlin’s face clouded. ‘I’m dreading having to break the news. It will be all right afterwards, but I don’t know how to tell them.’

‘My dear, Biddy must tell them. That isn’t your business. If you get her safely home, you’ll have done jolly well. She must do her own explaining!’ Ruth exclaimed.

‘Oh, but I’ve promised to see her through. She’s said all along that she wouldn’t tell them.’

‘My aunt!’ said Ruth. ‘And didn’t you spank her?’

Maidlin laughed. ‘She’s had an awful time, Ruth. Don’t be brutal! I must help her.’

‘You’re too jolly soft,’ Ruth said indignantly. ‘Biddy will impose on you. We’ll need a league of protection for you next.’

‘Oh no, she won’t. I’ve had my way in the big things; I can afford to give in over small matters. I don’t suppose there will be any need to say much,’ Maidlin said quietly. ‘I’m not thinking about it now, for I never say the things I’ve planned. We shall rush at Joy, I expect, and shove the kid into Mary’s lap and say: “Biddy’s been married for a year. She didn’t like to tell you.” And Joy will just have to put up with it.’

‘Tell Mary as gently as you can. It is hard on her, Maid! She brought Biddy up and slaved for her in the old days, and she’s been ignored.’

‘It’s awfully rough on Mary-Dorothy. But she’ll forgive Biddy. She’s much more likely than Joy is to realise what Biddy’s been through all alone.’

‘That’s true,’ Ruth agreed. ‘Mary has imagination; perhaps Joy hasn’t quite enough. Maid, I won’t lecture or suggest any more. Carry it through in your own way. But don’t let Biddy shirk everything. You’ll let her down too gently.’

‘I don’t think I could; could be too gentle, I mean. She’s had an awful time. I want to help her now.’

Ruth said no more, but set herself to see that the afternoon was one of real enjoyment to Maidlin. ‘It will buck her up to have a good day, and refresh her more than anything I could say or do,’ she thought, and was relieved to see Maidlin look less burdened when they went back to dinner with Biddy.

‘I shall slip into my hotel to see if there are any more telegrams!’ Ruth said.

She came back empty-handed, however, and Maidlin looked relieved. ‘I’m glad there isn’t one from Joy.’

It seemed to Ruth that Joy would wire direct to Annecy, but she did not say so. ‘I expect they’ve missed that paragraph. Joy will be busy with the twins, being without Mary, and Jen and Mary will be packing to come home, as all danger of mumps is past. I’m glad her family has escaped.’

‘They were to go home yesterday,’ Maidlin said. ‘We’ll wire to Joy from the station, just as we’re leaving Paris.’

‘You haven’t told her you’re on the way?’

‘Not yet,’ Maidlin said quietly. ‘I thought we’d let them hear in the morning that we were arriving at night.’

Biddy looked up. ‘Maid, you are quite certain Joy won’t fling me out?’

‘I know if she does Mary will go too.’

‘Joy couldn’t live without Mary,’ Ruth said. ‘You’re safe, Biddy, my dear. Besides, Joy won’t.’

‘And I shall stick to you. Joy will calm down, Biddy,’ Maidlin said.

‘Then I’ll write to the Verdiers from here, giving them the Hall as my address,’ Biddy said wearily. ‘I’d better know. But I’m not going to see them.’

‘I’m glad. You ought to know what their important news is!’ Ruth exclaimed.

‘I can guess,’ and Biddy’s lips pinched. ‘But I shall have to know.’

Ruth came round very early in the morning, with Ralph Norman in attendance to take charge of luggage and find seats. ‘He’s very good at that,’ she said, laughing, as he greeted ‘Miss Italy’ gaily and was introduced by her to ‘my friend, Madame Verdier.’

Ralph offered to send the telegram, but Maidlin preferred to do it herself. So he escorted her to the office, and she came back presently to say that the message had gone to Joy. ‘I said: “Home to-night. Please send car Wycombe. Five o’clock Victoria. Biddy—Maid.” They’ll work out what time we shall reach Wycombe.’

‘They’ll meet you at Victoria,’ said Ruth. ‘Good luck to you both!—all, I mean! Tell everybody I’m coming in a few days! You’ll have a lovely crossing.—Cheer up, Biddy; you’re putting things right now, and you’ll pull through.’

‘Thanks to Maid,’ said Biddy. ‘Good-bye, Ruth! You’ve been awfully kind.’

‘Good-bye all!’ and Ruth and Ralph stood waving on the platform as the boat-train began to move.

‘Now I’ve important letters to write. I haven’t a second to spare for you until they’re off my mind,’ Ruth said firmly, as his face fell. ‘The sooner you take me home and sit me down at a writing-table, with a pen and a lot of paper, the sooner I’ll be able to run about with you and keep you amused. Not one thing will I do till those letters are posted.’

She wrote to Rosamund as she had promised, but added a private paragraph emphasising Maidlin’s courage in the shock that had met her in Annecy. Then she wrote a note to the younger Lady Marchwood.

‘There! Perhaps that will help. Jen will have it to-morrow.—Ralph, you may take these to the post. Then I’ll go out with you!’

The younger Lady Marchwood—Jenny-Wren, to her home circle and school friends—sat in her sun parlour at the Manor, finishing her last cup of coffee and turning over the pages of the Times. Her fair-haired sons were playing with their soldiers on the ground at her feet; Andrew was just four years old and Tony three, and they were very like her, with the same yellow curls and blue eyes. Rosemary Jane, kicking in the sunshine on a rug, was nine months old, a dark-eyed little person with a smooth brown head.

‘Oh, I say!’ Jen sat up. ‘What will Mary-Dorothy say?’

She stared at the advertisement. ‘In April—nearly a year ago! Oh, Biddy, how mean! How could you treat Mary like that?—They haven’t seen it at the Hall yet, or Joy would have rung me up. I’d better go and tell Mary-Dorothy. It’s not a thing to break to her by phone!’

She called the children’s nurse. ‘Take them to the nursery, please. I have to go to the Hall.’ And she left Nurse full of curiosity and went out by the garden door, slipping on a blue woollen coat as she went.

Jen crossed the tennis-lawn and went through the orchard and across the park, wondering what it would be best to say to Mary. She paused for a moment by the lake, where Maidlin had once been nearly drowned during Biddy’s first visit to the Hall.

‘My goodness!’ she murmured. ‘What about Maidie? She didn’t know anything of this when she went off with Ruth, to stay one night with Biddy! And she’s stayed three weeks. Now what did Maid find when she reached Biddy? And why didn’t she tell us all about it? She’s been writing to Joy as if there was nothing to hide. There’s something behind all this! Joy will want to know why Maid didn’t explain.’

She hurried on, round the lake, across the lane which led to the hills, and into the grounds of the Hall by the shrubbery gate.

‘Maid must know! She’s been with Biddy for three weeks. Or hasn’t Biddy told her? Has Biddy’s illness been worse than we’ve thought? But Maid would have sent for Mary if things had been serious. What has been the matter with Biddy? How much does Maidie know?’

She had reached the terrace before the Hall. Elizabeth-Twin was wheeling a battered doll in a perambulator. Margaret, harnessed to the pram by reins, was the horse.

‘Twin goes too fast, Aunty Jen! She frowed my baby out ve motor-car,’ Elizabeth panted.

‘Twin’s too slow,’ Margaret complained.

But for once Aunty Jen did not stop to sympathise. She merely ruffled Margaret’s curls and touched Elizabeth’s red head as she hurried into the house.

Joy and Mary were beginning to attend to the morning’s letters.

‘Early bird!’ said Joy. ‘Have you caught all the worms, Jenny-Wren?’

‘I’ve caught one that you strenuous people seem to have missed. Sorry to interrupt business, Joy, but I want a word with Mary-Dorothy. It’s rather urgent.’

Mary looked up anxiously, for Jen’s tone was grave.

Joy raised her eyebrows. ‘Carry on! What has Mary been doing? And why are you hugging the Times?’

‘Because my worm was in the Times.—Mary, dear!’

Mary’s eyes grew startled. ‘What is it, Jenny-Wren? Something in the Times? About me?’

‘What would you say if Biddy had kept a secret from you?’

Mary grew paler. ‘I’d be hurt, but not much surprised. What is it, Jen? What has Biddy done?’

‘Oh, she hasn’t robbed the firm and been in prison! She’s married, Mary.’

‘Married?’ Joy cried. ‘Biddy? Jen, let me see!’

Mary had held out her hand for the paper. She was white now, and her hand was unsteady. ‘Show me, Jen. Who—who is he?’

‘One of the Verdiers. She’s married the firm, so to speak.’ Jen pointed out the paragraph.

Mary read it slowly. ‘In April!’ She looked at Jen, her eyes bewildered. ‘Biddy has been married for almost a year, and I haven’t known.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that.’ Jen spoke soberly. ‘It’s a pity she kept it secret. But there may have been reasons, Mary dear. Don’t let’s judge her till we know. There must have been good reasons why she couldn’t tell us.’

Mary rose, and passing Joy walked to the window and stood with her back to them.

‘I hope there are jolly good reasons!’ Joy said wrathfully. ‘If there aren’t, Miss Biddy can stay——’

‘Madame Verdier,’ Jen suggested.

Joy stared at her. ‘Madame Verdier?’

‘That seems to be her name now,’ Jen said mildly.

‘Well, I don’t want any more to do with Madame Verdier, unless she has a thoroughly good explanation of her conduct,’ Joy exploded. ‘It’s abominable of Biddy to treat Mary like this!’

‘It is, unless there’s been a good reason,’ Jen assented. ‘But I’m sure there has been a reason. We’ll wait till we’ve asked Biddy, won’t we?’

Joy reached for a sheet of paper and scribbled a few words. ‘I shall send that to Annecy at once.’

Jen read it aloud. ‘ “Is Biddy married? Please explain.” Well, that’s to the point, anyway. I should send it. Biddy ought to know it isn’t a secret any longer.’

Mary turned and came to them. She was very grave, but the colour had come back to her face. ‘I suppose it’s true, Jen? There couldn’t be any mistake?’

‘I don’t think so, Mary-Dorothy. Biddy seems to have married into her firm and then disappeared. Now they want to find her.’

‘It’s very like Biddy,’ Mary said. ‘She used to try to hide things from me when she was little. I felt then that I had failed her somehow, since she didn’t care to tell me everything. But I don’t feel so sure it’s that this time.’

‘You haven’t failed her, old thing,’ Jen said gently. ‘We’ve all given Biddy friendship and sympathy. If she has kept her marriage a secret there’s been some other reason.’

‘Do you suppose it was really a marriage?’ Joy demanded. ‘So many things matter in France—the parents’ consent, and so on. Perhaps this man tricked Biddy. She may have married him, as the paper says, but the marriage may not have been real.’

‘I don’t believe Biddy could be tricked,’ Mary began, but she looked anxious. ‘That would be a reason for keeping it secret, of course.’

‘That would explain everything. If Biddy found out too late that she’d been cheated she’d disappear and never tell us,’ said Joy.

‘I wonder it didn’t occur to Biddy that by keeping quiet she was asking people to doubt her marriage,’ Jen remarked. ‘Mary dear, don’t look so worried! Biddy wouldn’t be tricked; she has all her wits about her, and she has lived in France for years. She knows all the difficulties. She’s married safely enough.’

‘Then why——’ Joy began.

Mary stood fingering the newspaper and looking down, saying nothing.

‘Oh, a dozen reasons!’ Jen exclaimed. ‘The man turned out a rotter; he went away and left her; her employer gave her the sack and she didn’t like to say she’d lost her job. What about it, Mary-Dorothy?’

‘I can’t bear to think of Biddy in such trouble all alone,’ Mary said unsteadily. ‘She ought to have come to us. We’d have helped her.’

Jen’s face softened. ‘That’s generous of you, dear. It must have been awful for Biddy, and she’s only a kid. It’s no use being hurt or angry now, is it?’

‘Could we alter that telegram, Joy?’ Mary pleaded. ‘It sounds so hard. Could we say: “Please come home,” instead of “Please explain”?’

Joy looked at her, and then at Jen. ‘Want me to change it, Brownie?’

‘I like Mary’s version much better,’ Jen admitted.

Joy silently made the alteration.

‘Thank you very much!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘Joy, I believe I understand why Biddy did it. Why she kept it a secret I can’t tell, but Jen’s reasons are all possible. But it was just like her to marry this man in a hurry.’

‘It must have been in a hurry,’ and Joy’s face darkened. ‘She was here for her holidays in March, and she never mentioned his name.’

‘Why is it like her, Mary-Dorothy?’ Jen asked. ‘Biddy isn’t particularly impulsive.’

‘No, but he’s a Verdier and one of the firm.’ Mary knew Biddy, and she spoke with conviction. ‘Biddy would feel it would be a good thing to be Madame Verdier. If she saw a chance she’d seize it.’

‘Oh!’ Jen gazed at her. ‘That’s rather horrid, Mary!’

‘But awfully like Biddy Devine. Keen to get on, no matter how,’ Joy agreed. ‘I believe Mary’s right.’

‘It is like Biddy. She’s business-like, and she always has her eyes open for what seems a good chance,’ Mary pleaded.

In her mind was a memory of their first visit to the Hall, when her own thoughts had been full of the kindness of the welcome given to two city typists, and Biddy’s shrill little comment had been, ‘It may be a jolly good thing for us!’

At her indignant remonstrance, Biddy had added, ‘You’ve got to think of that sort of thing! Or if you won’t, I’ve got to do it for you!’

‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. It’s a side of you I don’t like,’ Mary had said uneasily. ‘As if all you thought of was how you could make use of people!’

Now, years after, Mary remembered and realised that the side of Biddy’s character which she did not like had risen up and betrayed her.

Joy sat drumming out a tune on the table. ‘She’s made a mess of things this time, evidently; she’ll have to put up with it.’

‘Poor Biddy! She’s only a silly kid, after all. If the marriage didn’t turn out well, you can understand she wouldn’t want to tell us,’ Jen said.

‘She ought to have told us—told Mary—before she was married,’ Joy retorted.

‘Of course,’ Jen said soothingly. ‘But if Biddy was marrying for ambition only, she’d be afraid to own it to Mary. Mary-Dorothy has ideas and ideals and principles which must be very terrifying to an infant like Biddy when she knows she’s in the wrong.—You do realise that, don’t you, old thing?’ and she smiled down at Mary. ‘Biddy was afraid of you. She’s a little idiot, but she just couldn’t tell you she was going to marry this Claude in order to make herself one of the firm.’

Mary nodded. ‘But she didn’t trust us, Jen.’

‘She was afraid of us all. She knew we wouldn’t approve, and she was determined to go through with it.’

Joy looked up suddenly. ‘What about Maidie?’

‘Yes, what about Maid?’ Jen agreed. ‘I’ve been wondering when somebody would remember her. Does anybody agree with me that the kid has probably had an awfully difficult time with Madame Verdier?’

Mary looked up in dismay, startled both by her sister’s new name and by Jen’s suggestion. ‘What do you think has happened?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Why didn’t Maid write and tell us?’ Joy exclaimed. ‘How could she keep such a secret from us? Jen, she has been with Biddy for three weeks, and she’s been writing to us as if there was nothing to hide! I wouldn’t have believed Maidlin would do it!’

‘Joy dear, when will you learn to think about a thing before getting all worked up over it?’ Jen groaned. ‘You don’t mean to say you don’t trust Maidie, after all these years?’

Joy spoke more quietly. ‘I do trust her, but she’s such a kid. Biddy would easily talk her round. I’m disappointed in Maidie.’

‘I’m thankful she isn’t here to hear you say it!—Mary-Dorothy, you’ll never give Joy away to Maid, will you? Never tell Maid you heard her say that!’

Mary knit her brows. ‘I won’t, of course. But what do you mean?’

‘Only that Joy’s an idiot!’ Jen burst out.

‘We’re wasting time,’ Joy said. ‘Jen, why are you so scornful? I am disappointed that Maid didn’t explain.’

Jen swallowed her wrath and spoke more gently, in response to the appeal. ‘After all these years, Joy, you might give Maid credit for caring for you a little. If she didn’t explain it was because she couldn’t. I think you might know that.’

Joy sat leaning her cheek on her hand and staring at the table. ‘If she couldn’t, then I was unkind,’ she said at last. ‘Why do you suppose she couldn’t explain, Jenny-Wren?’

‘Do you think perhaps Biddy hasn’t told her?’ Mary asked.

‘But would that be possible?’ Joy demanded. ‘They’ve been together for three weeks.’

‘I think Biddy may have kept it dark from everybody. It may be a fearful shock to Maidie when she hears. On the other hand, Maid may have had the shock already, when she didn’t find any Biddy Devine but Madame Verdier. There’s no knowing what Maid has been through in the last three weeks.’

Joy began to look troubled. ‘But a shock like that would upset Maid frightfully. Wouldn’t she wire to me at once?’

‘Biddy was ill,’ Jen reminded her. ‘Wasn’t there something in one of Maid’s letters about not letting Biddy get excited? Suppose the very thought of your being told threw Biddy into a fever?’

Joy sat up in dismay. ‘But—Jen! What would Maid do? She’d go to pieces. She was all alone, Jen.’

‘She hasn’t gone to pieces,’ Jen remarked. ‘Joy, we can’t know till they answer your telegram. But it’s possible Maid has known all the time, and hasn’t dared to tell us, for Biddy’s sake. And if she’d had a ghastly shock herself, it might just possibly occur to her to spare us, and especially Mary, the same shock. She’d hesitate to put the fact bluntly in a letter. Think if she’d written to me: “Dear Jen, Biddy has been married for a year. Please tell Mary.” No, I think Maid would try to wait till she could induce Biddy to come home and tell us herself.’

‘Maid’s last letter said Biddy was sitting up and feeling much stronger, and she hoped to bring her home quite soon,’ Mary said. ‘Jen, is it possible Maidie has borne that burden all alone, sooner than frighten us?’

‘We don’t know much about Biddy’s illness,’ Jen reminded her. She gave Mary and then Joy a keen look; but it was plain that the thought in her mind had not occurred to either of them. ‘Maid said it wasn’t exactly ’flu, but Biddy was very weak and run down and had to be kept very quiet, but that there was no need for nursing now, and that Madame Pernet was giving her every care. Wasn’t that it? Well, that doesn’t really tell us anything. It may have been deadly dangerous for Biddy to get excited, and she may have threatened to work herself into a fever if Maid wrote to us.’

‘I’m desperately sorry, if Maidie has had to face anything like that,’ Mary began.

‘But could Maidie do it?’ Joy cried. ‘She relies on people so; and there was nobody with her!’

Jen looked down at her again. ‘It’s possible we may have to revise our ideas of Madalena. If Biddy’s marriage was a secret, she would run away from the Verdiers; and if it was a failure, she might very well have a breakdown. Maid may have walked into the middle of it all without the slightest warning and have been quite unable to send for help.’

‘But Maid couldn’t stand it,’ Joy insisted. ‘She wouldn’t know what to do, Jen!’

‘She seems to have taken charge of Biddy very thoroughly. She certainly hasn’t gone to pieces. How much she has known, and what she has been through, is what we can’t tell till we’ve heard more,’ Jen said. ‘But the more I think about it, the more certain I feel that Maid has been a brick.’

‘But could she handle such a difficult matter, if you’re right?’ Mary asked anxiously.

‘It looks as if she had handled it. I’m as much amazed as you are, Joy. But we’ve always known that Maid could rise to the occasion when somebody really needed her. Do you remember the way she decided it was time for her to grow up, when Ros and I left you alone and I told her you needed a grown-up friend?’

‘I’ve never really looked on her as anything but a kid,’ Joy admitted.

‘I fancy she’s going to force you to do it now.’

‘Jen!’ said Mary. ‘Just suppose Biddy hasn’t told Maid! I see that Biddy might have put the whole thing behind her, if—if her husband had gone away and left her——’

Jen nodded. ‘I think that must have happened. Well, Mary-Dorothy?’

‘If Maidie doesn’t know, won’t Joy’s telegram be a shock to her and make things very difficult between her and Biddy?’

Jen looked at her, and then at Joy. ‘Don’t send it, Joy. Just ask them to come home.’

‘Then Maid will think somebody’s ill here.’

Jen took up the telegram. ‘You can’t send it to Biddy, for you don’t know whether she’s using her new name or her old one. Joy, suppose you say: “Will Biddy explain. Please come home.” That will tell Biddy that you know, and will tell Maid there’s a secret, without giving her any shock.’

‘I don’t want to frighten Maidie,’ and Joy rewrote the message.

‘I can’t bear to think of it either way,’ Mary said restlessly. ‘If Biddy has kept it all from Maidie, that’s only one shade less bad than if Maid has known and borne it all alone.’

‘If Maid has done that, it’s very fine of her,’ Jen said soberly.

‘Yes, but awfully hard on the child! And all Biddy’s fault,’ Mary cried.

Jen took up the telegram. ‘We’ll see what answer this brings. I’ll send it off for you. I have to go down to Wycombe, Joy; can I do any errands for you? Keep Mary-Dorothy busy, Joy!’ she pleaded as Joy went out with her on to the terrace. ‘Don’t let her brood over this. She’s worried about Maid as well as about Biddy now; and you know how she lets things burden her. Don’t talk about it, if you can help it; but make her talk if you think it’s on her mind. I’ll come round later and we’ll discuss Maid’s answer. It ought to come during the afternoon.’

Jen, returning from her shopping expedition about one o’clock, was met by the news that the Hall had rung her up three times, and that she was asked to reply as soon as ever she reached home. She ran to the telephone. ‘Hello? Joy, what news?’

‘A wire from Maid, from Paris. They’ll be here to-night.’

‘Oh, glory! But how? Did they start off the minute your message arrived?’

‘Jen, don’t be silly!’ Joy exclaimed.

‘Sorry! I hadn’t quite taken it in. It’s a ten-hour journey from Annecy to Paris, isn’t it? Unless they flew, of course. Oh, Joy!’ Jen pulled herself together. ‘They haven’t had your wire!’

‘Of course not. They must have left Annecy yesterday. Listen!’ and Joy read out Maidlin’s message. ‘It’s signed, “Biddy-Maid.” I’ll send the car to town to meet them, not just to Wycombe. Shall I send Mary? She’s making up the bed in Rosamund’s room for Biddy.’

‘Yes, she should go to welcome them. No, better not. They won’t know—I say, I’ll be across in ten minutes. Don’t arrange for Mary to go till we’ve talked it over, there’s a dear.’

‘Right! I’ll tell Frost to be ready to start for town after lunch. Come quickly, Jen.’

‘Like a shot,’ and Jen hung up the receiver and started off immediately.

‘I say, Joy!’ and she hurried along the shrubbery-path to Joy, who had come to meet her. ‘They don’t know we’ve seen that ad in the Times!’

‘No, of course not. What about it?’

‘Don’t send Mary to meet them, that’s all. Send a note by Frost, saying we’re off our heads with joy to hear they’re so nearly home, and we’re all rushing round putting flowers in their bedrooms and ordering a particularly jolly dinner for a feast of welcome. Don’t you see, Joy? They’re coming to confess. Don’t spoil it! If Mary goes to meet them they’ll have to tell her, and she won’t be able to pretend it’s a surprise. Mary-Dorothy can’t pretend anything; she’d give the whole thing away. Even if she tried not to, her face would tell them.’

‘I see,’ Joy agreed. ‘Yes, it’s only fair to let them tell us. You think that’s what has brought them home?’

‘Don’t spoil the confession!’ Jen urged again. ‘I’m certain Maid has been having a fight with Biddy about it, and Maid has won. She’s insisted that Mary must know. It will fall horribly flat if Mary meets them and they find we know already.’

‘Wouldn’t it be kind to let them down easily? But Biddy doesn’t deserve it,’ and Joy frowned. ‘If she comes of her own choice and tells us, it makes things seem a little better, doesn’t it?’

‘Much better than if we’d found out from the Times,’ Jen agreed. ‘We can tell them afterwards. If it was Maid who had to confess, I’d say by all means let her down gently; I’d do anything to make it easier for her. But it isn’t Maid’s job, it’s Biddy’s; and I feel it won’t hurt Biddy to have to own up. She won’t like admitting she’s made a false step and failed; it will be very good for her. Maid has brought Biddy home, like a perfect brick; but now she stands back and lets Biddy make her own explanations. Leave Biddy to do it, Joy!’

‘Perhaps they’d not tell Mary in the car. They might wait till they reached home,’ Joy suggested. ‘Then, if Mary kept quiet, there would be no need to mention the Times.’

‘I think they’d tell her. They might be forced to tell her. I say, Joy!’ and Jen looked carefully all round. ‘Mary-Dorothy isn’t anywhere about, is she?’

‘I told you she’s making Biddy’s bed. What are you being so mysterious about?’

‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that Biddy may be bringing somebody with her?’

Joy stared at her, blank amazement in her eyes. ‘Jen! No, I hadn’t thought of that. Whatever put it into your head?’

‘It seems to me very likely. I saw you hadn’t suspected it. We can’t know, but I shouldn’t be a scrap surprised if Biddy turned up with a little Verdier.’

Joy thought over every detail of the letters that had come. ‘There hasn’t been a hint of it.’

‘Joy dear! They hadn’t told us of Biddy’s marriage!’

‘But what about Maidie?’ Joy cried. ‘Jen, Maidie couldn’t keep quiet about a thing like a baby!’

‘She could keep it out of her letters very well. It would be a complete and absolute reason for being very careful not to excite Biddy,’ Jen retorted. ‘Joy dear, Maid may have been through the most difficult time of her life, quietly and all on her own, without asking us to help—both for our sakes and Biddy’s. It’s all a guess, but we’ll know before long. The more I think about it, the more I respect and marvel at Maid.’

‘Mary hasn’t guessed,’ Joy began.

‘Then don’t say anything to her; we may be wrong. But I’m not so sure about Mary-Dorothy; she always was a dark horse. If Mary guesses that Biddy may be bringing home a baby, she’ll be far too shy to say anything to anybody. She may be pondering the weird idea, in her own quiet way.’

‘Would Mary be pleased?’ Joy asked doubtfully.

‘She’d be fearfully sorry for Biddy—for her loneliness all this year. She’d adopt the kid for Biddy’s sake, so that it shouldn’t interfere with Biddy’s career. I think she’d be pleased and thrilled,’ Jen said.

‘It would interfere with Miss Biddy’s plans! If she has a child I hope Mary will see that she does her share in bringing it up and treats it properly. We mustn’t allow Biddy to shove all her responsibilities on to Mary!’ Joy exclaimed.

‘No, it wouldn’t be good for Biddy. Mary has always been very good to her.’

‘Too good,’ Joy said.

‘I don’t know; perhaps. Biddy certainly takes advantage. I must go back to my family; it’s time they were fed. I’ll come along in the afternoon. Don’t breathe a whisper to Mary-Dorothy, Joy. So far Biddy’s kid exists only in my imagination!’ and Jen hurried back through the shrubbery to lunch.

‘Mary didn’t suggest going to meet the girls,’ Joy said, as they walked together through the Abbey ruins before tea. ‘She’s very restless and can’t settle to anything, even her writing. She generally writes in the afternoon, and she’s busy on a new book——’

‘I know. She began it at The Grange, and she seemed keen on it. But she always says she can’t work if her mind’s fermenting, and if she’s had an idea that there may be a new person in her family she’ll be fermenting very actively. What is she doing? Wandering round the house, looking lost?’

‘I asked her to take a message to Betty about to-night’s Ranger meeting. I can’t possibly go down to the village in the middle of all the excitement. Betty will take the Rangers for once.’

‘That’s sensible,’ Jen commented.

‘I can’t stop thinking of Maidie!’ Joy exclaimed. ‘What did Maid find when she reached Annecy?’

‘I’ve been thinking of that too,’ Jen said very gravely. ‘We may be all wrong, but I seem to see this: Maid arrives, expecting to meet Biddy Devine. She finds Biddy Verdier, with a baby a few days or weeks old. She has a great shock and fright, and nearly goes to pieces; we can take that for granted. But she pulls herself together, insists on hearing the whole story, and says she’s going to write to you. Biddy runs up a temperature at the thought, and perhaps goes off her head, or threatens to do so. The woman who is nursing her warns Maid that excitement is extremely dangerous, and Biddy extracts a promise that nobody shall be told. I once said I had no opinion at all of Maidie’s commonsense, but I take that back; Maid sees there’s only one thing that matters, and that is Biddy’s health and Biddy’s reason. She says nothing to us, shoulders the burden of the secret, and sets to work to get Biddy well enough to come home. To Maid’s temperament, the fact of the secret would be a real burden and a heavy one; every letter she wrote to you would hurt her. She’d feel she was deceiving you, and she’d suffer for it. But she’d do it for Biddy; she’d have no choice. When the right time comes and Biddy is strong enough, all that Maid has put up with and that her silence has cost her comes to her help, and she’s immovably determined that Mary shall be told. Somehow—I haven’t a notion how—she makes Biddy agree to come home and confess. That’s how I see the story, Joy.’

‘And you think Maid could do it?’ Joy asked.

‘I think she has done it. If she has, then surely she has proved herself, Joy? Won her spurs, so to speak? It must have been a real ordeal.’

‘It seems incredible, for Maidie!’

‘Oh, I don’t know. She has done big things before—things that were big and difficult for her age. Look at the way she welcomed the Princess all alone, when Ros couldn’t back her up! It needed real courage, for a school-girl. Maid has courage, but she doesn’t use it until she’s driven to it. And the thing that drives her is, and always has been, somebody else’s need. Biddy’s need may have been desperate, and Maid has always looked up to Biddy enormously. Once she was through the shock of finding that Biddy was relying on her instead, she’d rise up and do anything to save Biddy.’

‘I’d have done anything to save Maid from such a shock!’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Jen said valiantly. ‘I wouldn’t have sent her to it deliberately; I couldn’t have taken that risk, for she might not have been able to rise to it, and then she’d have gone under. For things must have been very bad. I wouldn’t quite have had the courage to plan a shock like this for Maid. But I can’t say I’d have done anything to save her from it. What I’m curious to see is, what sort of Maid will come home to us this evening?’

‘You mean she’ll be more grown-up?’

‘Well, what do you think? She’s stood on her own feet, and also held Biddy up, for three weeks, when they must have felt they were on very unsteady ground—quicksands, in fact. If Maid isn’t older, it will be queer.’

Joy walked thoughtfully across the cloister-garth, saying nothing. A low laugh from Jen made her look round. ‘What’s up, Jenny-Wren?’

‘I was just thinking—they’ll be nearly at Victoria. I hope Frost has arrived. That poor man! He has known Biddy since she was sixteen. I suppose you didn’t tell him she had changed her name?’

‘I certainly didn’t.’

‘Well, Joy—but if—just suppose!—she arrives with a family! You might have warned poor Frost!’

Joy laughed. ‘He’ll be puzzled,’ she admitted.

‘Puzzled! But Biddy will tell him. She’s very fond of Frost. She used to give him violets, when he was our driver, when we lived in town. I’d like to see Frost’s face, if Biddy hands him a baby!’

‘If Biddy doesn’t, you’ll ask her where her baby is,’ Joy warned her. ‘You’ve made up your mind she’s to have a baby. You haven’t a single thing to go on.’

‘Not one,’ Jen agreed. ‘I believe I shall be disappointed if Biddy comes empty-handed.’

‘It would be much better for her. Then if she’s got rid of the husband somehow she could forget all about it.’

‘I wonder what has become of the husband?’

‘You’ll have to go on wondering all evening. Come and have some tea, to help you to bear it,’ and Joy led the way back to the Hall.

‘You will tell them, won’t you, Maid?’ Biddy pleaded, on the way from Paris to the coast. She asked the same question on the Channel steamer, and again in the London train. ‘I’m a worm, I know. But I just can’t face it,’ she said brokenly.

Each time Maidlin’s answer was the same. ‘If you want me to, I will, Biddy. But I’m sure it would be better if you’d do it yourself.’

‘There! Marie Madelon has set foot in England!’ Maidlin said triumphantly, as the London train steamed out of the station.

‘If you can call it setting foot,’ Biddy laughed unsteadily. ‘She doesn’t know anything about it. But hasn’t she been good, Maid?’

‘No trouble at all. I never dreamt it would be so easy. Aren’t you longing to show her to Mary?’

‘Um,’ said Biddy, and stared out at the chalky Downs. ‘Maid!’ she exclaimed; ‘I’ve often meant to ask you. Weren’t you terrified when I didn’t meet you at Aix?’

‘Oh, I panicked, of course. Your note said so little. My heart stopped and then went on again, and I felt as if I was a different person—all numb and cold and horrid. Annette spoke of “Madame” and “La petite,” and I nearly went crazy. But I wouldn’t ask her; I wanted to hear it from you, whatever it was.’

‘You were awfully plucky,’ Biddy said remorsefully. ‘And you didn’t know Annette then. Weren’t you afraid to go with her? I thought perhaps you wouldn’t come. Sometimes I hoped you wouldn’t.’

‘I was afraid. One hears such dreadful stories. But your note made it all right; I knew “Biddums” was nobody but you. Don’t think about it, Biddy! I felt ghastly until I found you; I nearly died, in that train with Annette. We’ll forget it all. Tea and toast would help,’ and Maidlin rang for the steward of the Pullman-car.

As the train drew in under the long roof of Victoria station, Biddy whispered, ‘Maid, I can’t do it! I’d like to do my own dirty work and tell them myself, but I can’t. You must help me, Maid!’

Maidlin was rolling up the rugs. ‘All right, Biddums; I’ll see you through. I’ve promised. I’ll carry Marie Madelon, and we’ll send a porter for the cases.’ She stepped out of the car very carefully. ‘We must have a taxi at once.’

‘Oh!’ Biddy gave a cry. ‘Here’s Frost!’

Maidlin looked up into the bewildered face of Joy’s chauffeur. ‘Hello, Frost! How jolly of you to come!’

Frost was looking at her, at her burden, at Biddy.

‘Frost, that’s my kid,’ said Biddy hurriedly, her face scarlet. ‘I’ve been married for a year. They don’t know at home.’

‘You didn’t expect Frost to think she was mine, did you?—Biddy is Madame Claude Verdier,’ Maidlin said with dignity. ‘This is little Mademoiselle Marie Madelon, Frost. Isn’t it thrilling? Won’t Miss Devine be pleased?’

‘I hope so, Miss Maidlin.’ Frost did not look quite sure.

‘Oh, wait till she’s seen Marie Madelon! Have a peep, Frost,’ and Maidlin uncovered the baby’s face.

‘He doesn’t know anything about babies, Maid,’ Biddy remonstrated.

‘A fine child, I’m sure, Miss Biddy—Miss Maidlin,’ Frost stammered. ‘Shall I put you in the car—Madame?’

Maidlin’s eyes were dancing as she followed Biddy to the car. Biddy, with flushed cheeks, allowed Frost to help her in, and sank into a corner with a sigh of rapture. ‘It’s awfully good of Joy. This is much better than a taxi to Paddington and another train!’

‘Frost’s looking at your new name on your labels, Madame Verdier,’ Maidlin said. ‘Poor Frost! Didn’t he look stunned? We had no chance of breaking it to him gently.’

‘Not with you walking right into him, carrying the kid,’ and Biddy’s face grew gloomy. ‘You’d better stalk into the house and hold her out to Joy and say, “There!” ’

‘In the circumstances I think I might say, “Voilà!” ’ said Maidlin, trying to speak lightly.

But the shadow of the coming confession was on them both now, and neither had anything to say as they drove through London and the western suburbs and out in the twilight into the country.

‘You’ll stand by me, Maid?’ Biddy whispered, as the car reached Whiteways village.

‘Rather, old chap!’ but Maidlin’s heart sank. Even yet she had kept a faint hope that Biddy would find her courage.

‘I’d better take the kid,’ Biddy said brokenly. ‘You might drop her in the excitement. I’ll stay in the car till I’m sure Mary really wants me, Maid.’

Maidlin looked at her, and handed the baby to her without a word.

‘What’s the matter now?’ Biddy whispered, her lips quivering. She bent and hid her face in Marie Madelon’s shawl.

‘You might trust Mary. You ought to know her better than that. She’ll be sorry, but she’ll want you. She’ll be glad to have you home,’ Maidlin said indignantly.

Biddy said nothing. The car swept up the beech avenue towards the lighted Hall.

‘The door’s open. They’re waiting for us,’ Maidlin said.

As the car drew up before the door, she found Marie Madelon thrust into her arms.

‘I’ll do it!’ Biddy gasped. She sprang from the car and ran up the steps.

‘Oh, good!’ Maidlin whispered to the baby. ‘Ma filleule, your mother has found her courage just in time! Oh, Marie Madelon, I’ve been afraid she wouldn’t do it!’

Joy and Jen and Mary knew the car was due. They were waiting in the big entrance-hall, sitting round a wood fire on the open hearth.

‘There’s the car!’ cried Joy. ‘Come to meet them!’

Mary rose, her eyes strained and anxious, and stood waiting.

‘Don’t go, Joy. Let Biddy come to us,’ and Jen slipped her arm round Mary. ‘Don’t swoon, old dear!’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ Mary whispered.

The inner door was pushed open, and Biddy stood there. ‘Mary!’ she cried. ‘Joy!—oh, Jen, are you there too? I’ve something to tell you all. Mary, I was married a year ago. I couldn’t tell you; he went away, and I was ashamed to tell you he’d left me. It’s all been a frightful mess. Can you ever forgive me, Mary?’

‘It isn’t a shock to them. They must have seen it in the Times,’ Maidlin whispered to the baby, watching through the glass door.

‘Biddy, my dear! You must have had an awful time!’ Mary pushed past Joy and Jen, and held out her arms. ‘I’m glad you’ve come home at last.’

Biddy clung to her. ‘Mary! Oh, Mary, I’ve felt so awful! I’ve wished you knew, a million times. I couldn’t tell you, Mary.’

‘What about Maidlin?’ Joy demanded.

Jen’s eyes were on the door, eagerly expectant. She knew very well that Maidlin was there and that she carried something wrapped carefully in a shawl. Jen was craving to rush to the door, but by a supreme effort of self-command she merely stood and looked, and waited.

‘Maid’s been an angel. She bullied me till I said I’d come home. She’s helped all the way; she’s done everything. She’s there; she’s taking care of my kid.’

And then, as Mary gave a little cry, Jen darted to the door and held it open. ‘Come in, Madalena! We are proud of you, my dear!’

Maidlin came forward quickly and thrust the child towards Mary. ‘Mary-Dorothy, look!’

‘Oh, Biddy dear!’ Mary whispered. She took the baby in her arms, and Maidlin drew back the shawl.

‘She’s my filleule, my godchild,’ Maidlin said proudly. ‘I’m thankful to have her here safely. She’s been an angel on the journey. Mary, you’re her godmother too; she’s called Marie Madelon.’

‘Let me see!’ Jen leaned over Mary’s shoulder. ‘Oh, what a pet! Her little head’s as pretty as Rosemary Jane’s; I’m sure I shall love the back of her neck as much as I do R. J.’s.’

‘You will, and all the rest of her too,’ Maidlin assured her.

Joy came to look also. ‘What a little Frenchy! She’s nicer than you deserve, Biddy Devine. You are a little wretch, you know.’

‘I know I’m an idiot,’ and Biddy sank exhausted on a settle. ‘If Mary was going to be such a dear about her I needn’t have been in such a funk over telling you. I almost didn’t do it. I meant to leave it to Maid to explain.’

‘Oh, you couldn’t have done that!’ said Jen.

Biddy looked at Maidlin, who was standing with Joy’s arm round her. Joy had said nothing, but there was meaning in her hug and in the pressure of her arm.

‘Biddy’s tired out. She needs something to eat,’ Maidlin said. ‘We’ve come all the way from Paris to-day, and she isn’t strong yet. She needs to be taken care of. Can’t we put her to bed?’

‘Maid, you sound like Biddy’s mother!’ Jen remonstrated, with dancing eyes.

‘It’s all very well to laugh,’ Biddy said wearily. ‘But she’s been like my mother for all these weeks. None of you would believe what she’s like when you’re not there to do things for her.’

‘Biddy, what rubbish!’ Maidlin reddened. ‘Mary-Dorothy, won’t you take charge of her now? If you’ll put Biddy to bed, I’ll see to Marie Madelon.’

‘Oh, I’ll see to the kid!’ Jen said. ‘You go and have a wash, and come down to dinner, Madalena. You’ve done your share. I am quite capable where babies are concerned!’

‘All her little things are in this case,’ Maidlin explained. ‘Where is Biddy going to sleep? Either Mary or I ought to be near her, in case Marie Madelon wants much done for her. Biddy must have a good night’s rest.’

Jen’s eyes twinkled again, but she made no further comment. ‘Mary has prepared Rosamund’s room for Biddy. That’s next to yours. Will that do? You ought to have a good night’s rest too.’

‘I’d like to sleep with Biddy and help her,’ Mary put in quickly.

‘Oh, it will be nice to have them in Rosamund’s room!’ Maidlin cried. ‘Mary-Dorothy, I’m used to slipping in next door if la petite wakes; I’d like to go on taking care of them. We’ll leave the door between the rooms open. It will be jolly to be in my own bed again, and still more jolly to know Biddy and my filleule are in Rosamund’s lavender room.’

‘You seem to have adopted Marie Madelon very thoroughly,’ Jen remarked.

‘I feel she’s quite half mine.’

Biddy looked up. She had listened to the discussion in the silent acquiescence of utter weariness, but now her interest seemed roused. ‘I’d like the kid to be properly christened in the old church here, and I think, if Mary doesn’t mind, I’ll change her name round and call her Madelon Marie.—Maid has meant such a tremendous lot to me these last weeks, Mary.’

‘Oh, Biddy dear, come upstairs and stop talking nonsense!’ Maidlin urged. ‘We’ll leave la petite to you, Jenny-Wren. Her name doesn’t matter so much as her supper just now.’

‘You’re certainly practical when you set your mind to it, Maid,’ Jen said, laughing.

Mary put her arm round her sister. ‘Biddy dear, you’re going to bed; come along! I’ll bring you up a meal as soon as you’re settled.’

Jen picked up the suit-case, and with Marie Madelon on her arm went up to Mary’s bedroom. She lit the gas-fire, fetched warm water, and sat down to wash and dress the baby for the night, singing quietly the songs that pleased Rosemary Jane.

Maidlin turned to Joy. ‘You knew, didn’t you, Joy? Had you seen the Times?’

Joy looked at her in surprise. ‘Yes, Maid, but we didn’t know you had. Jen found the notice this morning.’

‘Ruth saw it and told us. Ros has seen it too. You must have missed it; it seems to have been there for several days. We rushed home, hoping to be in time to tell you before you saw it. But as soon as I saw your faces I knew Biddy hadn’t given you a shock. But wasn’t Marie Madelon a surprise, Joy?’

‘Jen was sure Biddy would bring home a baby. But it was only a guess, so we didn’t say anything to Mary-Dorothy. Maidie, dear, what a dreadful time you’ve had! I wouldn’t have let you go for anything, if I’d known.’

Maidlin’s lips quivered. ‘It was desperately hard not to write to you. I can’t tell you how I felt. Every letter from you made me feel more ashamed and guilty, and more cut off. I’m not crying; it’s all right, Joy. But I’m tired; and I’ve wanted to tell you so terribly badly. I felt so horribly alone. Let me tell you now! I shall feel better.’

‘Tell me, then,’ and Joy put her arms round her. ‘Maid, Jen says I’m not to call you my baby any more; and you’ve been so splendid that I feel she’s right. But I don’t want to lose my first baby. If you turn into an elderly person I shall be lonely.’

Maidlin laughed and cried both at once. ‘Joy, I’ll always be your baby. Call me “Dear kid,” as you’ve always done; it won’t worry me now. I had to take care of Biddy and her baby, but I’ve been aching to be taken care of myself. I never felt so much alone in my life. And then—then something strange happened inside me, and I felt better. At least I felt I could carry on. I’ll tell you about it later, Joy; and I want to talk to Mary-Dorothy. I wasn’t left all alone; I couldn’t have done it all alone. I found help when I needed it.’

Joy kissed her. ‘Maid, dear, I think one always does, if things are bad enough. I’ve had my bad times, you know. Oh, I’m glad to have you safely home, Maid!’

‘I want to look at the twinnies,’ Maidlin whispered, and they crept into the night-nursery together.

‘Joy, I’ve rung up Ken and told him I’m staying here for dinner,’ Jen said, as Joy and Maidlin came downstairs together.

‘I hope you asked Ken to come too.’

‘No, I didn’t. I told him he mustn’t come on any account. I can’t tear myself away till I’ve heard every scrap of Madalena’s story of her adventures.—Maid, that’s a very nice little person you’ve brought home.’

‘I knew you’d love her. Have you taken her to Biddy?’

‘Yes, and left Mary-Dorothy gloating over her niece’s toes and fingers.—She has real French hands and feet, Joy; so neat and wee and pretty.’

‘I’m sure she’s very nice,’ Joy said soothingly. ‘But why were you so brutal to Ken? Wouldn’t he have liked to hear Maid’s story too?’

‘He’ll hear it from me. Nurse is going out,’ Jen condescended to explain. ‘One of us ought to be at home. Ken insists on it; he once had croup and he has a horror of it. He’s sure one of the children is just going to have croup at any moment. So if Nurse is out he says one of us must be in.’

‘But you’ve never seen any sign of croup, have you?’

‘Not a suspicion. But I can’t argue Ken out of the idea. He won’t see reason; he’s really afraid of the thing. And you know what he is about the boys!’

‘To say nothing of R. J. He’s quite silly about her,’ Joy agreed. ‘Then he must sit at home waiting for croup. But there never was a healthier set of kids than yours.’

‘He’ll come to fetch me at half-past ten. Nurse will be in then.—Now, Maid, fire away!’

‘No, not during dinner.’ Joy had seen real signs of weariness in Maidlin. ‘She needs to be fed as badly as Biddy; perhaps more, for Maid has had the worry and responsibility of the journey. She shall talk after dinner.—Maidie, does it strike you as at all funny that I wouldn’t let you travel alone as far as Paris?’

‘I knew I could do it.’ Maidlin sat down at the table. ‘But it was very jolly to have Ruth’s company.’

‘Tell us about Ruth,’ Joy said. ‘That won’t tire you. Is she really engaged to the American man?’

Mary came down from Biddy’s room to fetch her tray. ‘I’m drawn in two directions; what shall I do? I want to take my dinner up and sit with Biddy; but I simply must hear Maid’s story!’

‘Maid’s story is postponed till after dinner,’ Joy explained. ‘You sit with Biddy, and then leave her to go to sleep, and come and join us.’

Sitting by the open hearth in the firelight, in the big hall, Maidlin answered the questions fired at her by the other three, and told the whole story.

‘Biddy said she’d throw herself and Marie Madelon out of the window if I wrote to you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t believe she would do it, but I thought she might go into hysterics and have fever. And Madame Pernet was determined that she mustn’t do that. We’ll do something for the Pernets, won’t we? I want to help.’

‘What would they like? Yes, we must make them feel we’re grateful,’ Joy assented.

‘We’ll do it among us. What shall it be, Maid?’ Jen asked.

‘A holiday in England,’ Maidlin said, without hesitation. ‘It’s the dream of their lives. But not here—in London. A week at a good hotel in London, with Mary-Dorothy to show them everything. They know Paris well; they’ve only dreamed of London.’

‘That’s easy,’ Joy said. ‘You can write and propose it at once. But isn’t there anything more lasting?’

‘Something to help them in their business?’ Jen suggested.

‘Oh, Joy! A wireless set! They’d give anything to have wireless,’ Maidlin cried. ‘Annette used to tell me how a café near them has a fine gramophone, and people enjoy the music. “But for me, I should like the radio,” Annette said.’

‘Done!’ Jen cried. ‘Ken will know the best; we’ll ask his advice.’

‘They’ll never forget “Madame Bidet,” if they have a wireless set as a souvenir of her and la petite,’ Maidlin said happily. ‘They could come here for a day, when they’re in town; they’d like that. But they’d want to stay in London; in the very middle, Mary-Dorothy!’

‘The Regent Palace, evidently,’ observed Jen.

Mary looked up. ‘It’s like you all to be so kind. But it ought to be my business to give the Pernets presents.’

‘Give them copies of your books, signed by the author,’ Jen said. ‘Mary-Dorothy, these other things are Maid’s gifts, because the Pernets were so good to her friend. And we shall all insist on having our share because they were so good to Maid.—Go on, Maid! Tell us more!’

‘Biddy says Maid helped in the café and spilt soup on the customers,’ said Mary.

Jen shouted. ‘Maid, own up! What happened?’

‘Only when a man was rude to me.’ Maidlin coloured, but told her story sturdily.

Joy frowned. ‘I’m sorry you felt you had to help. It was all very well to take care of Biddy, but to serve in a café is quite another thing.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t like it. But I had to help, Joy!’

‘Maid, you were a regular sport!’ Jen exclaimed. ‘I won’t have her scolded, Joy. It did her no harm to be a waitress for one day, and she had to stand by Madame Pernet. You wouldn’t think much of her if she hadn’t lent a hand in a crisis.—How many bounders did you have to spill soup on, Maid? Rather a waste of good soup!’

‘Only one. Madame saw, and Annette came to help. I carried the trays, but she took the orders.’

‘And you thought you’d have to hide under Biddy’s bed, if the manager of the Casino heard you singing,’ Mary suggested.

‘I only sang to please Annette. I wasn’t going to sing in his concerts. Madame wanted me to rush off and begin singing in grand opera at once.’

The others laughed. But Jen remarked, ‘Seriously, Maid, you must keep your mouth shut in public. You might have had real difficulties if a keen concert manager had heard you. He’d have tried to bag your voice for his little show.’

‘I’d have been under Biddy’s bed.’

‘How did you manage to bring her home?’ Mary asked gravely. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for that, Maidie. It’s evident she was determined not to come, from sheer fright. She felt that she couldn’t bear to tell us, after keeping silence so long.’

‘I don’t blame her,’ and Joy frowned. ‘The worst part of the whole thing is that she concealed it for a year.’

‘She wanted to come home. She was longing to come,’ Maidlin said. ‘I was sure of it; I had that to help me. But I was desperately afraid she’d funk it. I had to be rather a bully before she gave in.’

‘How did you manage it at last?’ Jen asked curiously. ‘Did you bribe her somehow? Or did you simply use moral force, and say, “You’re going home, and that’s the end of it”?’

‘I wonder you didn’t write to us, and then tell her afterwards,’ Joy said.

‘Oh, but that would have been very uncomfortable!’ Jen exclaimed.

‘And I thought it would be horrid for you,’ Maidlin added. ‘I’d had no warning, and I’d had an awful shock. It seemed mean to give you a shock like that in a letter; I thought it wouldn’t be quite so bad if you saw Biddy and Marie Madelon.’

‘Madelon Marie!’ said Mary. ‘I like it much better that way.’

‘You were rather a brick to think of us, Maid,’ Jen said appreciatively.

‘I was afraid Biddy might take Marie Madelon and disappear, if she knew I’d written,’ Maidlin went on. ‘It seemed much safer to bring her home. I don’t know how I did it; I talked to her, and she saw the sense of it. She knew she couldn’t be my secretary, and I couldn’t be Marie Madelon’s godmother, unless she came home and was one of the family again.’

‘So that was it!’ Jen’s tone was full of satisfaction that now she understood. ‘That was the bribe! Maid, you were very wise. Biddy always has her eyes open for a chance of advantage. She wouldn’t lose touch with you by disappearing. No matter what it costs her, she wants you to be the child’s godmother. Yes, that was like Biddy!’

‘I’m afraid it was. I wish I could say it wasn’t.’ Mary’s tone was despondent. ‘It isn’t a pleasant side of Biddy.’

‘But it means that Biddy will stick to Maid through thick and thin, and that will be the saving of Biddy,’ Jen argued. ‘Don’t look so gloomy, Mary-Dorothy! Biddy may have weak and silly points, but who hasn’t? She has the sense to see that Maid’s stronger than she is and to stick to her. If they’re going to work together, and even be related by the tie of Madelon Marie, I can see real hope for Biddy.’

‘Marie Madelon, please!’ Maidlin pleaded. ‘Jen, I’m not stronger than Biddy; that’s rubbish. And in most ways she’s far more sensible. I simply must have her help when it comes to business matters.’

Jen looked at her with amused eyes. ‘All right, Maid. But if I need somebody to back me up I’ll choose you, not Biddy Verdier.’

‘Maid, I’d rather you didn’t talk about having Biddy for your secretary.’ Joy had been frowning, and now she spoke with energy. ‘She must find a job, of course, but it needn’t be with you. You need somebody more reliable.—Sorry, Mary-Dorothy, but Biddy is just a silly child at times. This business has shown us how foolish and weak she can be.’

‘I know,’ Mary agreed, but she spoke wistfully. ‘I’d rather feel Maidie had someone more trustworthy behind her. But it would be the making of Biddy to be Maid’s secretary.’

‘We can’t sacrifice Maid for Biddy’s good!’

‘No,’ Mary assented, her voice steady. But her eyes were unhappy.

‘But I’ve promised Biddy.’ Maidlin’s tone was conclusive. ‘And I don’t want anyone but Biddy. For years I’ve been looking forward to having her. What has happened doesn’t make any difference.’

‘This,’ said Jen to the blazing logs, ‘is the tone in which Maid said, “You’re going home, Biddy.” And Biddy came home.—Take warning, Joy!’

‘Silly!’ Maidlin cried, her colour rising.

‘After all, you may surely be allowed to choose your own secretary,’ Jen added. ‘Joy, don’t worry! Biddy won’t cheat Maid, if Maidie is the child’s godparent. And Biddy won’t lead Maid astray, into secrets and deceptions. On the contrary, Maid will keep Biddy on the rails. Your worries don’t take into account the fact that Maid knows how to manage Biddy and is strong-minded enough to do it. It’s a surprising fact, but it seems to be true. We have to reckon with it.’

‘You’re talking nonsense, Jenny-Wren,’ Maidlin said in a low voice.

‘And, anyway, there’s no doubt that you’ll choose your own secretary, as you’ve a perfect right to do,’ Jen ended. ‘Biddy’s settled in life, Mary-Dorothy!’

‘I wonder!’ Maidlin sat gazing into the fire. ‘Her affairs aren’t settled, you know. We don’t know yet what the urgent business is that the Times referred to. She wrote to the Verdiers from Paris; she ought to hear in a few days.’

‘What does she think it’s likely to be?’ Joy asked.

‘She thinks he’s dead.’

‘Claude Verdier? All the better for her!’

‘Yes, and better for Marie Madelon too. A father like that wouldn’t be any help to her. Biddy wants to bring her up in England. They can’t stay here, of course; Biddy doesn’t expect to stay here long. But she must live near us. I thought perhaps she could lodge in the Abbey, with Aunt Ann. The little room isn’t being used.’

‘You’ve thought it out carefully,’ Jen remarked.

‘We had plenty of time to think. Biddy must have a long rest and take care of Marie Madelon for the first few months. Then I shall need her help, and when we have to be abroad the filleule must have a nurse. We can’t take her about with us.’

‘Of course, Madame Verdier will be a much better travelling companion for you than Miss Biddy Devine,’ Jen conceded. ‘You’ll admit that, Joy. It sounds so much older and more staid and reliable!’

‘I only wish Biddy was staid and reliable,’ Mary said, deep feeling in her voice. ‘You’re a brick to stand by her, Maid. I feel, as Joy does, that you ought to turn her down.’

‘But I’ve wanted her for years. She hasn’t altered that by being married,’ Maidlin urged.

She gave a low laugh as she sat gazing into the fire. ‘Madame Pernet thought I was about fifteen when I arrived. I had to go to Biddy in the middle of the night—the first night; she was crying, and they begged me to come.’ Joy and Jen and Mary looked at one another over the top of her head, but she did not see. ‘I had my hair down, of course; and I saw madame look at Annette. I knew they were thinking I was a child, and no use at all. I felt no use; I felt as helpless as a baby. But things had to be done, and they happened somehow; and madame stopped looking at me like that. She backed me up about coming home, and Annette helped too, after the first. At first Annette was inclined to say we could leave Marie Madelon with them, and come home and say nothing about her. But she soon saw that wouldn’t do.’

‘Not with you on the job,’ Jen agreed. ‘You couldn’t have lived for ten minutes with such a secret. Maid, you’ll have to give in. The filleule will have to be Madelon Marie.’

‘But why?’ Maidlin looked up, and reddened under Jen’s gaze. ‘I’m used to calling her Marie Madelon, and Mary’s name ought to come first. She’s her aunt.’

‘But you’ve done everything for Biddy in her difficult time. Biddy’s right about this, Maid,’ Mary said. ‘Madelon Marie, I think!’

‘Yes, it’s only sensible,’ Joy agreed. She had been gazing at Maidlin without a word.

Jen rose, as Kenneth entered the hall. ‘Because, as Biddy says, you’ve been splendid, Maid, dear. Madelon Marie, by all means!—No croup, Ken? Here’s the wanderer safely home and with plenty of adventures to tell.—Maid, who is to be the filleule’s godfather?’

‘Kenneth, we hoped.’ Maidlin stretched out her hands to Kenneth. ‘Biddy says she won’t dare to ask him. But I’m not afraid of Ken.’

‘Hard lines, Ken. You’re the only man they could think of,’ Jen said. ‘Your new goddaughter is a little French girl, called Madelon Marie Verdier.’

‘No, Marie Madelon Verdier,’ Maidlin insisted, her colour rising.

‘May I see the lady?’ Kenneth asked.

‘Not to-night,’ his wife said promptly. ‘But you’ll love her almost as much as our R. J. She’s really very jolly. Now take me home, and I’ll tell you all about her!’

Before going to bed Maidlin crept into Biddy’s room through the connecting door which had stood open when Rosamund had slept for years in the lavender room.

Biddy lay with wide-open eyes, waiting for her. ‘Maid, I knew you’d come.’

Marie Madelon, in the twins’ big cradle, was sound asleep. Maidlin paused to look at her and touch her cheek with a gentle finger. Then she bent over the bed. ‘It’s lovely to be home, Biddy! You’re glad, aren’t you?’

‘Glad? It’s like waking up after a nightmare!’ Biddy whispered passionately. ‘I’ve always loved being here. I’ve dreamed of it, but I thought I’d never come again. I began to hope, when you came; the sight of you made me ache for Mary and home. But it seemed too hard; I really thought I couldn’t bear it. You’ve brought me through; I don’t know how you’ve done it. Glad, Maid? It’s all been a bad dream!’

Maidlin knelt and kissed her. ‘Then go to sleep, and have nice dreams this time. Remember I’m just in there; if you call, or if the filleule gives even a little whisper, I shall come. Why, Biddy! What’s up? There’s nothing to cry about, silly!’

‘No, nothing,’ Biddy gasped, and choked down a sob. ‘I’m an idiot. Nothing—only you, Maid. You’re so awfully decent!’

‘And it’s eleven o’clock, and you ought to have been asleep an hour ago,’ Maidlin scolded. ‘Everything’s all right, Biddy. Ken will be godfather to la petite, but he wants to see her. She’ll be well taken care of.’

‘If working for you will show you how I feel, Maid——’

‘Going to sleep would be more to the purpose,’ and Maidlin kissed her and crept away. She heard the door open as she reached her own room, and glanced back. Mary had come in very quietly to kiss Biddy good-night.

Maidlin switched on the light in her own room, and shook her head severely, her finger on her lip, as Mary looked up. Mary nodded, and did not say a word. She kissed Biddy, and then stood for several minutes gazing down at the sleeping baby. Then she kissed Biddy again and slipped away.

Maidlin pushed the door closer, so that her light should not worry Biddy, and laughed to herself as she let down her hair and began to brush. ‘Mary-Dorothy’s going to love the filleule. I was sure she would. It’s a big thing for her; she’s had a starved life in some ways, Jen says. Perhaps Biddy has done something really worth while for Mary by giving her Marie Madelon to play with!’ And thinking of them all—Mary and Biddy and the baby, Joy and her twins, Jen and her husband and children next door, and Rosamund with her very new baby brother—Maidlin went to bed, intensely happy and relieved to be at home again.

Biddy’s nightmare seemed very far away next morning, when she woke to find the sun streaming in and Mary standing by her bed with an early cup of tea. ‘How well you’ve slept, Biddy dear! And Madelon Marie seems to like English air. Maid says she only woke you once.’

‘She’s very good,’ and Biddy sat up to take the tea. ‘Mary, you are being an angel to me! Does it seem very odd to have us here?’

‘Very odd that Biddy should say “us.” Maid is out in the Abbey with Joy and the twinnies. The children have been told there’s a new baby in the house, and they’re wild with excitement.’

‘Why, what time is it? Ten o’clock! Oh, why didn’t you wake me? I’m not an invalid, Mary!’

‘No, you’re a traveller and entitled to a morning in bed. Will you go to sleep again, or shall I bring your breakfast?’

‘Oh, breakfast, please! I want to see all the dear old place, and the Abbey, and the twins. That kid’s going to wake,’ and Biddy glanced down at her daughter, who was stirring in the big cradle.

Mary laughed. ‘You’re very offhand in your way of speaking about her. But you’re very proud of your daughter, Biddy.’

‘Maid’s bursting with pride because she’s a godmother,’ Biddy retorted. ‘Give her to me, Mary. Oh, she won’t break! You needn’t look so terrified.’

‘I’m not terrified; just a little bit awed. She seems so wonderful,’ Mary said, as she laid the baby in Biddy’s arms.

‘Had any of you guessed?’ Biddy asked, as she nursed the child.

‘I wondered,’ Mary admitted. ‘The others may have been wondering too, but they didn’t say anything to me. I thought it was just possible. I ached to think of you all alone, Biddy,’ and she hurried away to see about breakfast.

Elizabeth and Margaret had gone dancing ahead of their mother and Maidlin, through the garden and into the Abbey. They were bareheaded, for at the Abbey March was spring; in yellow overalls over their knickerbockers they looked like very lively daffodils.

Maidlin turned to Joy as they stood on the cloister-garth. ‘Joy, you heard how Jen talked—how you all talked—last night, about Biddy keeping secrets and not being reliable; and Jen said I couldn’t have kept a secret for ten minutes?’

Joy looked at her, knitting her brows. ‘Is there something you haven’t told me, Maid?’

‘I never meant to speak about it. But I woke this morning feeling it would be fairer to tell you. I’d rather not, because I was so silly. But I’ll be uncomfortable, now that I’ve thought of it, if I don’t tell you.’

‘Tell me quickly, Maid!’ Joy commanded. ‘I couldn’t bear to feel you’d kept anything from me.’ She sat on the broken stone wall of the cloisters and waited.

Maidlin slipped into the little room which, in her mind, was to be Biddy’s home, and brought a cushion and handed it to Joy. It was a rule that nobody was to be allowed to sit in the Abbey on bare stone.

Joy laughed, and sat on it. ‘Thanks, Maid. But be quick, dear.’

‘When I went away with Ruth, I meant to ask Biddy to find me a job,’ Maidlin confessed, flushed and shy, but resolute. ‘I meant to run away from you for a little while, Joy.’

Joy looked at her in amazement. ‘To run away?—Oh, Jenny-Wren, come and hear what Maid’s saying!’

Jen had come from the Abbot’s garden out on to the garth. She came across to them, a letter in her hand. ‘I came for a chat. Mary sent me after you. What is Maid saying?’

‘That when she went to France she’d planned to run away.’

Maidlin’s colour rose. ‘Jen, you haven’t heard the beginning. It sounds mad, but there was a reason.—Joy, don’t you remember what I said, the night I went away?’

‘About finding a job? Yes, but I thought it was all nonsense.’

‘I haven’t heard the beginning,’ Jen agreed, ‘but I have heard the end. This is a letter from Ruth, just come. She seems to think she needed to tell us you’d been splendid, Maid; she wants to be sure we’ll appreciate you. And she says you’d talked to her about finding a job. Suppose you tell me the beginning, my dear!’

Maidlin, flushed and shy, spoke out bravely. ‘Before I left home I felt very helpless and babyish, and I thought if I could have a year away from you all, working in a regular job as other girls have to do, and trying to live on what I earned, I might feel more fit to manage that money when I’m twenty-five. I felt as if I’d lived too long here in this quietness, and as if the real world would be too much for me. I told Joy how I felt, but she didn’t think it was sensible.’

Jen looked at her, and then at Joy, and nodded, as if to say it was only to be expected.

Maidlin hurried on. ‘In the train I told Ruth I meant to ask Biddy to help me. Ruth was nice about it, but she said she’d only help me if Joy knew where I was. Then we postponed it all till I’d talked to Biddy; Ruth was going to follow in a day or two, and we were going to make plans. She didn’t know then that she was going to be engaged so quickly! That’s all; but I thought Joy ought to know I’d planned to run away and hide, and go into business for a while.’ She looked at Joy anxiously.

There was real dismay in Joy’s eyes. ‘I was driving you to that by not sympathising with your ideas! Is that what happens? Is that how one is punished for not understanding?’

‘Well, you might have taken Maid’s ideas more seriously,’ Jen scolded. But she spoke gently, for Joy’s distress was plain. ‘I wouldn’t call it punishment, but I think it’s a natural result. If someone is very much in earnest, and a friend fails to realise it and to give understanding and help, the natural next step is to go ahead and disregard the friend, turning to somebody else for sympathy. You were driving Maid to Ruth and Biddy, though she had come to you first.’

Joy’s eyes filled with a sort of terror, as she looked, not at Maidlin, but at her twins, chasing one another round the cloisters with shrieks of excitement. ‘Suppose—oh, suppose, some day, I failed them and drove them to other people! Suppose they had to hide things from me because I hadn’t understood!’

‘Joy! Oh, Joy, it couldn’t happen! Don’t look like that!’ Maidlin cried in sharp distress. ‘Jen, talk sense to her! She mustn’t look like that!’

‘Joy, don’t be silly!’ Jen took up the challenge. ‘You really are a child at times! You talked like that when your twinnies were infants in arms. But now they’re big girls and you know them through and through. You understand them; you’ve never quite understood Maid, and neither have I. She has secret sides that she hides from everybody; how can we know what is going to come out next? It won’t happen with you and your twins. But, Joy dear, do take people seriously. Give them credit for being in earnest. You hurt Maid to the depths when you swept her ideas aside as unworthy of notice. It really was unkind. She has lived with you for so long that you should have seen she meant what she said, and that it had been a tremendous effort to her to say it. I hate scolding you, Joy; but you were unkind to Maid.’

‘It seemed such an impossible idea,’ Joy urged. ‘I thought if I squashed it quickly it would be better for her.’

‘So Maid said no more, but quietly turned to Ruth and Biddy!’

Joy looked at Maidlin. ‘Maid, I’m really sorry. I honestly didn’t believe you’d think any more about it. Next time—will there be a next time?’ she asked wistfully. ‘Perhaps next time you’ll go to Jen first.’

‘Joy!’ Maidlin cried, really wounded.

Joy recognised the hurt note in her voice. ‘I’ve always been afraid I should do something like this. I seem to hurt everybody in turn; I remember once making Joan cry, just by not thinking. Maid, give me another chance! Nobody else has turned me down.’

‘But I came and told you all about it,’ Maidlin pointed out, with quivering lips.

Jen strolled away to meet Mary, who had appeared at the other side of the garth. ‘Poor “Traveller’s Joy”! She’s such an infant, and yet we all love her.—What’s up, Mary-Dorothy? A telegram?’

‘For Joy,’ and Mary gave her the envelope.

‘Then Joy and Maid will have to stop apologising and come down to earth,’ and Jen hurried to Joy with the message.

‘I’m glad you told me. It means you haven’t quite turned me down,’ Joy was saying.

She looked at Jen, then tore open the envelope. ‘It’s from Rosamund; I didn’t know she was home. She seems to know all about you, Maid. She says: “Must see Maid and Biddy. Can you fetch me to-day?”—Tell Frost to get out the car, please, Mary. If Ros wants to come here, she must be fetched. But how does she know Biddy is here?’

‘Because of the Times,’ Maidlin explained, gladly forgetting her own confession and Joy’s distress. As the others stared at her she laughed. ‘Ros saw the paragraph and wired to Ruth for Biddy’s address. The message came while we were with Ruth in Paris. Ros wired: “Is Biddy married?” and Ruth answered: “Yes, going home. Letter follows.” So I expect she wrote to Ros as soon as we’d left, and Ros had the letter this morning. But didn’t you really know she was home?’

‘We hadn’t heard she had arrived. Would you like to go in the car to fetch her?’

‘I’d love it!’ Maidlin’s face lit up, and she raced away to fetch her coat.

‘They’ll have all the cream of the talk over before we see Ros,’ Jen mourned. ‘And Maid will see young Roderick before any of us!’

‘I wanted to give her something new and jolly to think about,’ Joy said sombrely.

‘Good for you,’ Jen commented. ‘I’m glad you sent her. She needs a few really jolly days to cover up the thought of the bad times. She must have had a very heavy strain on her, Joy; we’ll all be very good to her for a while. And presently we’ll discuss her great idea again. I don’t believe she’ll refer to it unless we do; you did hurt her badly, you know. If she really wants an adventure I don’t see why she shouldn’t be helped to have it. She’s right; she has led a sheltered life long enough.’

‘Won’t she be satisfied now? She’s had a big adventure, and she’s risen to it marvellously.’

‘She may feel she’s had what she wanted. We’ll find out later on. But for a week or two Maid must enjoy herself and have things go easily. She must be very tired. A visit to Ros, and a long day with Rosamund here, will help her to forget.’

‘Ros! Oh, Ros! Let me see your little brother!’ Maidlin had been thinking as she drove alone in the car, and as it drew up she sprang out and ran to Rosamund, who stood at the gate of the tea-house waiting for her.

Rosamund laughed and closed the gate behind her. ‘How topping of you to come! But you’ll have to wait a little longer. Young Roderick is in town with his mother and aunts. I came on first to open the house and air the beds.’

‘Oh, I wanted to see your Roderick!’

‘You’ll see him soon. They’re coming the day after to-morrow. How is Biddy, Maid?’

‘Oh, all right!’ Maidlin’s eyes danced, as they jumped into the car and set off. ‘The journey tired her and she’s resting to-day. But she’ll be up for lunch. She wants to see you.’

‘And what is it she’s going to show me?’

‘Oh!’ Maidlin exclaimed. ‘Oh, what did Ruth say?’

‘That Biddy was bringing home something to show me.’

‘That’s Marie Madelon; though the others will call her Madelon Marie.’

‘Maid! Is there really a baby? And did you bring them both across France all on your own?’

‘It was easy. La petite was an angel; she’s my godchild, so I call her the filleule. She’s a darling, Ros. Poor Biddy was awfully lonely!’

Rosamund thought it over. ‘I guessed what Ruth meant, of course, but I couldn’t quite believe it. Why on earth didn’t Biddy tell us?’

‘Frightened. She was in an awful funk about coming home. I had a hard job to make her come.’

‘Tell me all about it, Maid!’ Rosamund commanded.

As Maidlin told the story Rosamund’s eyes never left her face. But at the end she said only, ‘You were a brick to stand by poor old Biddy when she was in such a mess. What an idiot she is! Do you suppose the man’s dead?’

‘I think she hopes so.’

‘I expect she does. She’s soft sometimes,’ Rosamund said indignantly. ‘Marrying isn’t a thing to play at. She may say he behaved badly when he left her; but what did she do when she married him because it would be a good move—a lift-up in her career? A low-down way to treat a man, I say.’

‘It wasn’t as bad as that,’ Maidlin pleaded. ‘She was really fond of him for a time. But she says she might have known he was a rotter if he hadn’t been one of the Verdiers.’

‘She wanted to get on,’ Rosamund assented. ‘If she has no more trouble with him it’s more than she deserves.’

‘Don’t be brutal, Ros! She’s feeling sore. You will be jolly to her, won’t you?’

‘I won’t say anything I don’t mean.’ Rosamund was uncompromising.

‘And be nice about my godchild! She’s a jolly baby, and Biddy’s really keen on her, though she pretends not to be. She talks about “my kid,” but she’s very good with her. And Mary-Dorothy’s going to love her, Ros.’

‘Isn’t Mary very fed up with Biddy?’

‘She’s desperately sorry for her. She hasn’t time to think of anything else.’

Rosamund nodded. ‘Everybody will be good to Biddy, of course. That’s their way. But she is a rotter, all the same.’

‘She isn’t. And if she is, she’s sorry for it. Tell me about your new mother, and young Roderick, and your journey, Ros! Joy didn’t know you were home.’

‘I wrote last night. She’ll have had the letter by the time we get there.’ Rosamund said no more about Biddy, but plunged into the story of her journey to Malta, and the meeting with her infant brother and the new stepmother. ‘Father has left her fairly well off—enough to live on; so I’m hoping she’ll live in town, or go back to Ceylon, and leave young Roderick with me. She isn’t very pleased with him,’ and Rosamund’s lips pinched. ‘It’s sad, and worst of all for herself. But she really doesn’t care for children, and she feels a baby will be a dreadful nuisance. What will Biddy do with her kiddy?’

Maidlin outlined Biddy’s future, as she saw it. ‘That’s what I want, anyway.’

Rosamund’s eyes widened. ‘You’re sticking to that old plan? I should have thought you’d have had enough of Biddy.’

‘That’s the way Joy talks. But I feel related to Biddy by Marie Madelon, don’t you see?’

Rosamund laughed. ‘Jolly for Bridget! Why should these people always have somebody to pull them through? Biddy has found you ready to take up the burden of her and her kid; and Eleanor is more and more inclined to dump young Roderick on me and go off and enjoy herself. You and I are keen, but it isn’t good for Biddy and Eleanor.’

‘Oh, but Biddy isn’t going to desert Marie Madelon! I’m only going to help!’ Maidlin said, as they drove up the beech avenue to the Hall.

The sun was shining on the sheltered terrace, and Biddy was sitting in a big chair, the cradle at her side. She had watched the car, as it came up, with shrinking eyes, secretly a little afraid of Rosamund’s direct frankness.

‘She’s scared of what you’ll say, Ros,’ Maidlin whispered.

Rosamund went to Biddy, who looked up at her shyly. ‘Well, Madame Verdier! You’ve had a big adventure, all on your own! Ruth said you had something to show me, and Maid’s bursting with pride. Let me see the godchild, Bridget.’

Biddy’s lips quivered. ‘Everybody’s awfully decent. It’s jolly of you to let me down so gently. Look at her, Ros. She’s rather nice.’

‘What a jolly little kid!’ Rosamund exclaimed, with genuine pleasure in her tone. ‘She’s something to show for it, anyway.—Hello, Mary-Dorothy! How does it feel to be an aunt, and a godmother?’

Mary’s face was very grave. She smiled, however. ‘It feels very good, but I’m still not used to it.—Biddy, dear, there’s a letter for you, from Paris.’

Biddy started up, wild anxiety in her eyes. ‘Where is it?’

‘We’ll stay with the filleule, Mary,’ Maidlin exclaimed. ‘You go with Biddy.’

Biddy had fled into the house. Mary followed quickly, and Rosamund and Maidlin turned to Joy and Jen, who were coming across the lawn.

‘Biddy’s letter has come. Mary’s with her,’ Maidlin said, her face anxious.

‘Is she upset? I thought she’d had enough of that man?’ Joy asked.

‘Yes, but——’ and Maidlin stumbled and hesitated.

‘He was her husband, Joy!’ Jen suggested.

They stood waiting by Marie Madelon’s cradle, till presently Mary came out to join them. ‘Maid, Biddy wants you.’

‘There’s more in this than we understood,’ Mary said gravely, when Maidlin had gone racing to Biddy. ‘The letter—a very kind letter—is from the son of M. Verdier; Biddy calls him M. Etienne. Her husband, Claude Verdier, was killed in an accident in Brazil some months ago. M. Etienne himself went to South America to make certain it was true; evidently they have had reason to put no trust in Claude’s word, and he might have caused a false report to be sent, to rid himself of a wife and responsibilities he had tired of. M. Etienne made sure of the truth before they advertised for Biddy. She’s crying over the letter in a way that makes me feel—well, that M. Etienne’s kindness means more to her than Claude’s death.’

Rosamund whistled. ‘My hat! How many more French husbands does she want?’

‘Two would be a very good allowance,’ Jen said coolly. ‘Poor old Biddy! Did she find too late that she’d married the wrong cousin?’

‘No wonder she’s been calm about losing her husband!’ said Joy. ‘You say this man sounds nice?’

‘Most kind. The trouble over the marriage may have been chiefly because M. Etienne had wanted Biddy too,’ Mary spoke thoughtfully. ‘If they felt she had chosen the unsatisfactory one of the family, when M. Verdier’s son would have liked to marry her, there would be trouble, of course.’

‘Sounds as if Maid might lose her secretary, after all,’ said Rosamund.

‘Poor Maid! It would be hard on her,’ Jen exclaimed. ‘She really has adopted Biddy and Madelon Marie for good and all.’

‘Biddy, tell me!’ Maidlin was pleading, her arms round Biddy.

‘Read it!’ Biddy whispered. ‘It’s a kind letter. It’s from M. Etienne. Oh, Maid, do you think he still cares?’

‘M. Etienne?’ Maidlin cried. ‘Oh, Biddy, let me see!’

‘He says’—Biddy whispered—‘that he’d like to offer to be godfather to the kid. But he’d better not, because I’ll want to bring her up a Protestant. But unofficially he’d like to be her parrain and to help to look after her. And he says, perhaps in a year or two, we could meet and be friends, and forget all about Claude. He knows I—I’d stopped caring. Oh, Maid, do you think he means just friends?’

Maidlin read the letter, her arm round Biddy’s shoulders. ‘No, he means more than that. Oh, Biddy, you’ll be happy yet! Some day—and quite soon. But I shall have to do without my secretary!’

‘No, Maid! I’ll work for you.’

‘Oh no, you won’t!’ and Maidlin kissed her. ‘I’ll steal Mary-Dorothy from Joy. I don’t think you’ll ever be my secretary, Biddy dear!’

THE END.

[End of Biddy’s Secret, by Elsie J. Oxenham [Elsie Jeanette Dunkerly]]