Penelope was taken upstairs and shown the arrangements that had been made for her comfort. Her eyes sparkled with delight when she saw the little cot.

"There's no time like the night for telling things," she thought to herself. "Aunt Sophy can't get away from me at night. It's only to stay awake, perhaps to pertend to have a nightmare. Anyhow, night is the time to do what I have to do."

Being quite sure, therefore, that she would get her opportunity of talking to Aunt Sophia, she revived for the time being to enjoy herself. Her volatile spirits rose. She laughed and talked, and ate an enormous meal. After the sort of tea-dinner was over the three girls went out by themselves on the sands.

"You may stay out half-an-hour," said Miss Tredgold: "no longer, for Penelope has to go to bed. Afterwards I will take a walk with you two elder ones if you care to have me."

"Of course we care to have you, dear Aunt Sophy," said Verena in her gentlest tone; and then the three started off. Penelope, in honor of her recent arrival, was promoted to the place in the middle. She laid a hand on each sister's arm and swung herself along. People remarked the trio, and said to themselves what a remarkably fat, healthy-looking little girl the one in the middle was.

"Well, Pen," said Pauline as they approached the house, having discussed all sorts of subjects, "I can't see where the tum-ache and the sore throat and the pale cheeks come in."

"They're gone," said Penelope. "I knew the sea would cure 'em. I am quite perfect well. I am going to be quite perfect well while I am here. I love the sea; don't you?"

"Come, wash and be clean," whispered the sea to Pauline.

She was silent. Verena said, however, that she greatly liked the sea. They went back to the house. Penelope was escorted upstairs. Pauline helped her to undress, and presently she was tucked into her little bed.

"It seems a'most as if I wor still a nursery child," she said to her elder sister.

"Why so?" asked Pauline.

"Being sent to bed afore you and Renny. I am quite as old as you and Renny—in my mind, I mean."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Pauline almost crossly.

"Paulie," said Penelope, taking hold of her hand and pulling her towards her, "I went to see Nancy King t'other day."

"Why did you do that?" asked Pauline.

"Because I wanted to come to the sea, and there was no other way. Vinegar wouldn't do it, nor tum-aches, but I thought Nancy might."

"I don't know what you mean," said Pauline. "In what possible way could Nancy King have brought you here?"

"Only that I got so desperate after seeing her that I wrote that funny, funny letter, and nursey helped me; and now I'm here, and I think I can do what I like. You had best be friends with me now, for I can do just what I like."

Pauline felt just a little afraid. She knelt down by Pen.

"Tell me why you went," she said. "You know you disobeyed Aunt Sophy when you went."

"Yes; but what's one more in a family doing disobeying things?" answered Pen in her glib fashion. "But now listen. I will tell you."

She related her adventures with much glee—her walk through the woods, her arrival, the terrible way in which Lurcher had treated her, the kindness of the farmer, the proposed dinner, Nancy's manners. She was working up to the grand climax, to the moment when she should speak about the thimble.

"What do you think?" she said suddenly. "Nancy put me on a sofa, and I slept. I slept sound, and when I woke up I saw Nancy sitting by the window sewing. She wor making a blue scarf, and her thimble went flashing in and out; and what do you think, Paulie? What do you think?"

"Well?" said Pauline.

"Pauline, dear, are you ready?" called a voice from below.

"I must go," said Pauline; "but tell me at once, Pen, what you mean."

"It was the thimble—the lost one," said Penelope—"the one with the dark-blue top and the light-blue stones round the rim, the goldy thimble which was Aunt Sophy's."

In spite of her efforts Pauline did find herself turning white.

"Pauline, dear, we can't wait any longer," said Miss Tredgold's voice.

"I must go," said Pauline. "Tell me afterwards."

"Whisper," said Penelope, pulling her hand. "I have got it. The deep-blue top and the light-blue stones and the goldy middle—I have it all. And I can tell Aunt Sophy, and show it, and I will if—if you don't tell me about——"

"About what?"

"About that time when three peoples walked across the lawn—the night after your birthday, I mean. Will you tell? I asked Briar, and she said she didn't know. She told a lie. Are you going to tell a lie, too? If you do I will—— Well, I won't say any more; only I have put it in the safest of places, and you will never find it. Now you can go down and go out with Aunt Sophy. Now you know, 'cos I've told you."

Pauline slowly left the room. She felt dazed. Once again Miss Tredgold called her. She ran to her washstand, filled her basin with cold water, and dipped her face into it. Then she ran downstairs. She found it difficult to analyze her own sensations, but it seemed to her that through her little sister's eyes she saw for the first time her own wickedness.

"To think that Pen could do it, and to think that I could be afraid of her!" she thought.

She went out and walked with her aunt and Verena, but the insistent voice of the sea, as with each swish of the waves it cried, "Come, wash and be clean," hit like a hammer on her brain.

"What is the matter with Pauline?" thought Verena.

"The child is tired; she is not quite well yet," was Miss Tredgold's mental reflection.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE WHITE BAY.

Penelope did not repeat her threat, but she watched Pauline. Miss Tredgold also watched Pauline. Verena felt uncomfortable, without quite knowing why. The keen vigor and joy of the first days at the seaside had departed. Pauline became pale once more, and Miss Tredgold's anxieties about her were revived. The Dales were a healthy race, but one or two of the Tredgolds had died of consumption. Miss Tredgold remembered a young—very young—sister of her own who had reached Pauline's age, and then quite suddenly had become melancholy, and then slightly unwell, and then more unwell, until the fell scourge had seized her as its prey. She had died when between sixteen and seventeen. Miss Tredgold seemed to see her sister's face in Pauline's. She did not for a single moment accuse the child of any wrong-doing. She did not imagine that what ailed her could have to do with the mind. Nevertheless she was anxious about her. Miss Tredgold had a good deal of penetration, but she was not accustomed to children. She thought that children of Pen's age were more little animals than anything else. It did not occur to her that a small child like Pen could have a mind of a very extraordinary order, and that the mind of this child could work in a direction which might hurt others. She did not suppose such a terrible child could exist.

Pauline was therefore more or less a prey to the naughtiness of Pen, who used her as a weapon for her own enjoyment. Pen was quite determined to enjoy herself at the seaside. She would have her bucket and spade and make castles in the sand as long as ever she liked, and she would play with other children, and would make acquaintance with them. She insisted also on going very often to the shops to buy caramels or chocolates. In short, she was determined that during her brief stay at Easterhaze she would have as good a time as possible. It is quite on the cards that she would not have had so good a time as she did but for the agency of Pauline. Pauline, however, in spite of herself, sided with Pen. She almost hated Pen, but she sided with her. She used to throw her voice into the scale of Pen's desires, and Pen in consequence got pretty much what she wanted.

There came a day when two children, a boy and a girl of the name of Carver, ran up to Pen and asked her if she would join them in going round the next promontory and gathering shells in a wide bay on the other side, which was known as the White Bay. The way to this bay, except at low-water, was not very safe, as during high-tide the sea was apt to come up and cut off retreat. Pen, however, knew nothing about this. The moment she was asked to go it occurred to her that there could be no such delightful place as the White Bay anywhere else in the world. She knew well, however, that Miss Tredgold never allowed her to go fifty yards from the house on either side. She looked up. Pauline was walking along the upper walk. She had a story-book in her hand. She meant to reach one of the shelters and sit down there to read. Pen turned to the two Carvers and said that she must ask permission, but she would be with them in a minute. She then scrambled up the path and ran to Pauline's side.

"Pauline," she said, "I am going to the White Bay with the Carvers—those two children there—that boy and girl; you see 'em. We are going at once. They have got a basket of cakes, and we are going to gather shells and have a jolly time. We won't be back till one o'clock."

"But you can't go," said Pauline. She did not know of any danger in going; she only thought that Penelope meant to disobey Miss Tredgold. "Aunt Sophy is out, and she has not given you leave," she said. "You must stay where you are, Pen."

"But you can give me leave, Paulie, darling, can you not?"

"I can't do anything of the sort; you mustn't ask me."

Pen's eyes danced. The children on the sands called out to her.

"Be quick, little girl, or we'll be cotched. If nurse comes out she won't let us go. We can go if we start at once."

"Well, I'm off. You must give me leave, Paulie. If you don't I will——"

"Don't!" said Pauline, backing away from her sister. She felt a sort of terror when Penelope taunted her with her superior knowledge and the cruel use she meant to put it to.

"Go if you like," she said, in a white heat of passion. "You are the worry of my life."

Pen gave her a flashing, by no means good sort of glance, and then tore down the winding path which led to the sands. Pauline got up; she left her seat by the shore and went inland.

"I don't know how I am to bear it," she said to herself. "Pen has made me so wretched. I was hoping that nothing would be known. I was trying to forget, and I was making a lot of good resolves, and I am loving Aunt Sophy more and more each day. Why have I got such a dreadful little sister as Pen? She is like none of the rest. It seems almost incredible that I should be in the power of such a small child. Nevertheless I am in her power. I had no right to let her go to the White Bay; still, I told her to go, for I couldn't bear the agonies I should have to go through if I refused. Oh, I am wretched! Pen practically knows everything; so does Patty, and so does Briar. But they're safe enough; they won't betray me—they wouldn't for all the world. As to Pen, I don't know what she is made of. She will be a terrible woman by-and-by."

Pauline walked on until she heard Verena's voice. She then turned back.

"Aunt Sophy said we were to go up to the town to meet her," said Verena. "She's doing some shopping. She wants to get a new autumn hat for you, and another for me. Come along, Paulie. We are to be at Murray's in the High Street at eleven o'clock."

Pauline turned and walked soberly by her sister's side.

"Are you as tired as ever this morning, Paulie?" asked Verena.

"I am not tired at all," replied Pauline.

Verena considered for a minute.

"Aunt Sophy is often anxious about you," she said. "I can't imagine why, but she is. She says that she doesn't think you are at all strong."

"Oh, I am!" interrupted Pauline. "I wish she wouldn't worry about me. I wish you'd tell her not to worry. I am really as strong as any girl could be. Do tell her not to fret about me any more."

"Where is Pen?" said Verena suddenly.

Pauline did not speak.

"I suppose she is down on the beach as usual," said Verena again in a careless tone. "She's always down there. She is such a queer little mite!"

"Don't let's talk about her," said Pauline almost crossly.

The girls turned their conversation to other matters, and when they joined Miss Tredgold at Murray's shop they had both forgotten the existence of their little sister Penelope.

Meanwhile that young person was having a good time. Having gained her wish, she was in excellent spirits, and was determined to make herself extremely agreeable to the Carvers. She thought them quite nice children. They were different from the children at home. They had lived almost all their lives in London. They told Pen a good many stories about London. It was the only place worth living in, Harry Carver said. When you went out there you always turned your steps in the direction of the Zoo. Pen asked what the Zoo was. Harry Carver gave her a glance of amazement.

"Why, it's chock-full of wild beasts," he said.

Pen thought this a most exciting description. Her cheeks paled; her eyes grew big. She clasped hold of Harry's arm and said in a trembling voice:

"Are you joking, or do you mean real lions and bears and tigers?"

"I mean real lions and bears and tigers," said Harry. "Oh, if you only heard the lions roar! We see them fed, too. It is fun to hear them growling when they get their meat; and the way they lick it—oh, it's most exciting!"

"So it is," said Nellie Carver. "It's awful fun to go to the Zoo."

"You must be very courageous," said Pen, who did not know that the wild beasts were confined in cages.

Neither Eleanor nor Harry Carver thought it worth while to enlighten Pen with regard to this particular; on the contrary, they determined to keep it to themselves. It was nice to have a little girl like Pen looking at them with awe.

"It isn't everybody who can go to the Zoo," proceeded Harry. "There are people that the wild beasts don't ever care to touch. Nellie and I are that sort; we're made that way. We walk about amongst them; we stroke them and pet them. I often sit on the neck of a lion, and quite enjoy myself."

"My pet beast for a ride is a panther," said Nellie, her eyes sparkling with fun at her own delicious ideas; "but most children can never ride on lions and panthers."

"I don't believe you ride on them," said Pen. "You don't look half brave enough for that."

"Why don't you think us brave?" asked Harry. "You are not a nice girl when you talk in that way. You wouldn't even be brave enough to ride on the elephants. Oh, it's very jolly for the real brave people when they go to the Zoo."

"And is that the only place to go to in London?" asked Pen.

As she spoke she quickened her steps, for the children were now crossing the extreme end of the promontory round which was the celebrated White Bay.

"There are other places. There's the British Museum, full of books. There are miles and miles of books in London, and miles and miles of pictures."

"What an awful place!" said Pen, who had no love for either books or pictures. "Don't tell me any more about it. Go on ascribing the wild animals. Is there serpents at the Zoo?"

"Tons of 'em. When they have gorged a rabbit or a lamb or a girl whole, they lie down and sleep for about a week."

"They don't gorge girls!"

"They think nothing of it; that is, if the girl is the sort of child they don't like."

"I won't go," said Pen. "I am not the sort of child the wild beasts would love. I think maybe I might be crunched up by the lions. I shan't go."

"Well, no one asked you," said Harry. "You are quite certain to be eaten, so you had best stay away."

"Why do you say that?"

Harry glanced at his sister. Nellie laughed. Harry laughed also.

"Why do you talk in that way, you horrid boy?" said Pen, stamping her foot. "What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you, only you need not try to kill me with your eyes. The wild beasts only like good uns. You ain't good. The wild beasts would soon find that out."

For some extraordinary reason Pen found herself turning pale. She had a moment of actual fear. At this instant she would have resigned the thimble—the golden thimble, with its sapphire top and turquoise rim—to the safe keeping of Pauline. For if Pauline had the thimble Pen would have very little to say against her. As long as she possessed the thimble she felt that Pauline was in her power. She liked the sensation, and she was honest enough to own as much.

The conversation was now quickly turned. The children found plenty of shells in the White Bay. Soon they were sitting on the sands picking them up and enjoying themselves as only children can.

"So," said Pen, pushing back her hat and fixing her eyes on Harry's face, "you comed here without leave?"

"Of course we did," said Harry. "Won't nurse be in a state when she finds we've gone! She will rush up and down in front of the house and cry, for father and mother have gone away for the whole day, and nurse is in sole charge. Oh, won't she be in a state! She went off to walk with her young man, and we thought we'd play a joke on her, for she's often told us not to come here. 'If you go near that White Bay,' she said, 'you will be drowned as sure as sure.' She daren't tell father and mother because of her young man. Isn't it fun?"

"Yes," said Penelope, "it's prime fun; but isn't this fun, too? You won't be able to go to that Zoo place any more."

"Now what do you mean?"

"Why, this: the animals will eat you up. You are bad, same as me. You two won't be able to go to any more Zoos;" and Pen rolled round and round in fiendish delight.

The other children looked at her with anything but approval.

"I don't like her," whispered Nellie to her brother.

"Of course you don't like bad little girls," replied Harry. "Let's run away at once and leave her. Let's."

They scrambled to their feet. To love a new playmate and yet without an instant's warning to desert her was quite in accordance with their childish ideas. In a moment they were running as fast as their legs would permit across the sands. The tide had been coming in fast for some time.

For a moment Pen sat almost petrified; then she rushed after them. She was wild with passion; she had never been so angry in all her life. There were many times when the other children at The Dales treated her with scant courtesy, but to be suddenly deserted in this fashion by strange children was more than she could endure.

"Oh, how bad you have got! You are so bad—so dreadfully, horribly bad—that the tide is certain to come in and drown you up," she cried. "You can't go away from me; you can't. Oh, see! it has comed;" and Pen danced up and down and clapped her hands in triumph.

She was right. She had gained a complete victory. Just at the extreme end of the promontory a gentle wave, peaceful, pretty, and graceful, curled up against the solid rock. It had scarcely retired in bashful innocence when another wave tumbled after it. They looked like charming playfellows. Then came a third, then a fourth and a fifth. Faster and faster they rolled in, flowing up the white sands and making a white foam round the rock.

The little Carvers stood still, transfixed with a curious mingling of delight, excitement, and horror. Pen ceased to jump up and down. Presently she ceased to laugh. She was only a very small girl, and did not in the least realize her danger; nevertheless, as she used her eyes to good purpose, and as she quickly perceived that the opposite side of the bay was now shut away by a great body of water, it did occur to her that they would have to stay in their present shelter for some time. Harry turned round slowly. Harry was ten years old, and he understood. He had heard his father talk of the dangerous White Bay. He went straight up to Pen, and, taking her hand, burst out crying.

"It don't matter," he said—"it don't matter whether we are good or whether we are bad. We can none of us ever go to the Zoo again. Nellie and I won't ever go any more, and you can never go at all."

"What do you mean?" asked Pen.

Her heart began to beat fast and loud.

"What do you mean? Oh, you dreadful bad——"

"Don't call names," said Harry. "You will be sorry by-and-by; and by-and-by comes soon. We have got to be drowned, all three of us."



CHAPTER XXII.

"OUR FATHER" IS BEST.

Pauline and Verena found Miss Tredgold waiting for them. They went into the shop, which was quite one of the best shops in the High Street. There Miss Tredgold asked to see hats, and presently the two girls and their aunt were absorbed in the fascinating occupation of trying on new headgear. Miss Tredgold was buying a very pretty hat for herself also. It was to be trimmed with lace and feathers, and Verena had a momentary sense of disappointment that she was to have nothing so gay to wear on her own head. The attendant who was serving them made a sudden remark.

"Yes, ma'am," she said, "this little brown hat trimmed with velvet will exactly suit the dark young lady." Here she looked at Pauline. "And I should venture to suggest a very little cream-colored lace introduced in front. The autumn is coming on, and the young lady will find this hat very suitable when the weather changes."

"Well, the weather seems inclined to remain fine," said Miss Tredgold, glancing out of the window, where a very blue sky met her gaze. There were heavy white clouds, however, drifting quickly across the sky, and the young shop attendant said:

"I hear that there's a storm expected. And anyhow it is high-tide to-night. The tide will come up and quite cover the White Bay this evening. It is always more or less dangerous there, but it is specially dangerous to-day. I never like these high-tides; children and nursemaids are so apt to forget all about them."

Miss Tredgold muttered something conventional. Pauline suddenly sat down on a chair.

"How white you are, dear!" said Miss Tredgold. "Would you oblige me," she added, turning to the attendant, "by bringing this young lady a glass of water?"

But Pauline had already recovered herself.

"Please don't," she said. "I want to go out. I want to get the air. Don't—don't keep me."

Her movement was so sudden and so unexpected that neither Miss Tredgold nor Verena had time to say a word. The people in the shop saw a somewhat untidy-looking little girl rush wildly down the stairs and out of doors, and long before Miss Tredgold had time to recover her scattered senses that same little girl was tearing as though on the wings of the wind up the High Street. Panting, breathless, overpowered with emotion, she presently reached the long flat stretch of beach at the farther end of which was the dangerous White Bay. Never in all her life had Pauline run as she did now. Faster and faster flew her feet. There was a noise in her ears as though something was hammering on her brain. She was almost faint with terror. Should she be in time? Should she be too late? Oh! she must be in time.

Presently she saw the far end of the promontory. Her heart gave a bound and almost stood still. What was that white thing curling round it? Water? Oh, yes; but she did not mind. She had waded before now. This was a case of wading again. She reached the spot, and a moment later she had torn off her shoes and stockings, had gathered her skirts round her waist, and was walking through the waves. The water was already over a foot deep. There was also a strong tide, and she had some difficulty in keeping her feet. She managed to hold her own, however, and found herself a minute or two later, drenched all over, panting and trembling, but still safe in the White Bay. To her relief, she saw three terrified children crouching up as near as they dared to the water. Even now a great wave, deeper and stronger than its predecessors, rolled in. It took Pauline off her feet just as she was clambering to dry ground. She recovered herself, ran up to Pen, took her hand, and said:

"We have played pickaback before now. Get on my back this moment; don't stop to think."

"I daren't," said Pen.

"Little boy—I don't know your name," said Pauline—"put Pen onto my back whatever happens."

Harry Carver sprang towards Pen.

"You must," he said. "She is brave; she is a true heroine. The lions and tigers would love her. Get on her back and she will return for us. Oh! be quick—do be quick—for we don't any of us want to be drowned."

"Can you swim?" asked Pauline. "No; I know you can't. I haven't a moment to stay; I'll come back somehow."

She struggled towards the water, but Pen scrambled off her back and stood firm on the ground.

"I am bad," she said—"there never was anybody much badder—but I'm not going first. Take that little girl; I will go afterwards."

"Come, little girl," said Pauline.

Harry rushed towards his sister.

"Do go, Nellie. Let mother keep one of us. I don't mind being drowned—not a bit. You tell mother I don't mind. Go, Nellie; do go with the big brave girl."

So Pauline carried Nellie through the rising tide, and, marvellous to relate, did land her safely on the other side.

"Now look here," she said, "you must rush home as fast as you can, and when you get there you are to say that there are two girls and a boy in the White Bay, and that your people are to bring a boat immediately. Don't waste a second. Find somebody. If all your people are out, go to ours. Our house is No. 11. You understand? There isn't a minute to lose."

"Yes, see you go," shouted Harry Carver. "And if you are too late, be sure you tell mother that I wasn't afraid to drown."

Nellie Carver began to run as fast as she could across the sands. Pauline hesitated for a moment; then she deliberately waded back to the other two. The water was up to her waist now, and she had the greatest difficulty in keeping her feet.

"I couldn't face anybody again if Pen were drowned," she said to herself. "If she drowns, so will I. It is the only thing fit for me. Perhaps when God sees that I am sorry, and that I did try to save Pen, He will forgive me; but I am not sure. Anyhow, I deserve to be drowned. I could never, never face the others if Pen were to die because of me."

She was just able to scramble again out of the water on the White Bay side. The tide was coming in with great rapidity. It was hopeless to think of carrying Pen across.

"Let us go to the top part of the bay, as close to the rocks as possible," said Pauline; "and don't let's be really frightened, for I am sure the boat will be in time."

"Oh, I am certain of it!" said Harry. "Nellie never does lose her head. She won't want us to drown, so she'll hurry up."

"Give me your hand, Pen," said Pauline. "You are a very brave little girl to let the other little girl go first. I am glad you did it."

"Will God remember that about me by-and-by?" asked Pen.

"I hope so," replied Pauline, with a shiver.

She took Pen's icy hand and began to rub it.

"It isn't at all good for you to shiver like this," she said. "Here is a bright piece of sunshine. Let us run up and down in the sunshine. It doesn't seem, somehow, as though anybody could drown when the sun shines."

"Maybe the boat will be in time," said Harry.

They ran up and down for some time, and then stood quiet. Pauline was very silent. Beside the other two children she felt quite old and grown-up. She had got Pen into this terrible scrape; it was her mission to help them both. If they must all die, she at least would have to show courage. She was not ready to die. She knew that fact quite well. But she had naturally plenty of pluck, and fearful as her present surroundings were, she would not have been afraid but for that ugly black thing which rested on her conscience. Penelope looked full into her face. There was something also pricking Penelope's conscience. The three children stood close together on the little white patch of sand which had not yet been covered by the waves. The wind was getting up, and the waves were mounting higher; they rushed farther and farther up the bay, and curled and swept and enjoyed themselves, and looked as though they were having a race up the white sands. Pauline made a rapid calculation, and came to the conclusion that they had about half-an-hour to live; for the bay was a very shallow one, and when the wind was in its present quarter the tide rose rapidly. She looked back at the rocks behind her, and saw that high-water mark, even on ordinary occasions, was just above their heads. This was what is called a spring-tide. There was not the least hope.

"If only we could climb up," she thought.

Then Penelope gave her hand a great tug. She looked down. Pen went on tugging and tugging.

"Look," she said; "stoop and look."

In the palm of Pen's hand lay the thimble.

"Take it," said Pen. "I comed with it to make mischief, but I won't never tell now—never. Take it. Put it in your pocket. I am sorry I was so bad. Take it."

Pauline did take the little gold thimble. She slipped it into her pocket; then she stooped and kissed Pen.

"What are you two doing?" said Harry. "Why don't you talk to me? Can't I do something to help? I'm ten. How old are you?"

"I was fourteen a few weeks ago," said Pauline.

"Granny!" said the boy. "Why, you are quite old; you are withering up. I wouldn't like to be fourteen. You must know a monstrous lot. You are a very plucky one to come through the water as you did. I wish I could swim, and I wouldn't let the waves get the better of me; but I'm glad I let Nellie see that I wasn't afraid of drowning. Do you mind drowning, big, big, old girl?"

"Yes, I do," said Pauline.

"You have a queer sort of look in your eyes, like the little one has in hers. Are you wicked, too?"

"You have guessed it," said Pauline.

"I expect we're all wicked for that matter; but we can say our prayers, can't we?"

"Yes," said Pauline, and now her lips trembled and the color faded from her cheeks. "Let us say them together."

"By-and-by," said Pen. "We needn't say our prayers yet. It will be some time afore the water will touch us; won't it, Paulie?"

Pauline knew that the water would come in very quickly. Harry looked full at Pen, and then he nodded his head. He came to Pauline and whispered something in her ear.

"What is it?" she said.

"She's little," he said. "She's quite a baby—not eight yet. I am ten. When the water begins to come in we'll lift her in our arms and raise her above it; shan't we?"

"Yes; that is a very good thought," said Pauline. She looked back again at the rocks. They were smooth as marble; there did not seem to be a possible foothold. She felt a sense of regret that they had not gone to the farther end of the bay, where the rocks were lower and more indented, and where it might be possible for a brave boy and girl to get temporary foothold; but the sea had already reached those rocks and was dashing round them.

"I wish I had thought of it," said Pauline.

"What about?"

"The rocks—those rocks out there."

The words had scarcely passed her lips before Harry darted back. A wave from the incoming tide had rolled over his feet.

Pen uttered a sudden cry:

"I am frightened. I won't drown. I am awful frightened."

She began to shriek.

"Try and keep up your courage, darling," said Pauline. "It won't be long. It will be quickly over, and I will stay close to you. Paulie will be close to you."

"Let us get her to stand on our two shoulders, and we'll lean up against the rocks," said Harry. "She can steady herself against the rock, and I will support you both. Here, I will hoist her up. Now, missy, you look slippy. That's it."

Harry was a very active boy, and he did manage to lift Pen, who was stiff with cold and fright, and miserable with a sense of her own naughtiness, on to Pauline's and his shoulders. When she was established in that position she was propped up against the rocks.

"Now you are safe," said Harry, looking back at her and trying to laugh. "We'll both drown before you. See how safe you are."

Just for a moment Pen was somewhat consoled by this reflection. But presently a fresh terror seized her. It would be so awful when she was left alone and there was only a dead Pauline and a dead Harry to keep her company. She had never seen anybody die, and had not the least idea what death meant. Her terrors grew worse each moment. She began to cry and whimper miserably, "I wish that boat would come."

Another wave came in and washed right over both Pauline's and Harry's ankles. They were jammed up against the rocks now. This big wave was followed by a second and a third, and soon the children were standing in water very nearly up to their knees.

"Seems to me," said Harry in a choky voice, "that it is about time we began our prayers. It is like going to sleep at night. Just when you are preparing to sleep you say your prayers, and then you dump your head down on your pillow and off you go to by-bye land. Then mother comes and kisses you, and she says—— Oh, bother! I don't want to think of that. Let's try and fancy that it is night. Let's begin our prayers. Oh, what a wave that is! Why, it has dashed right into my eyes."

"How far up is the water now, Pauline?" asked Penelope from her position.

"It is not very far up yet," replied Pauline in as cheerful a tone as she could. "We had better do what Harry says, and say our prayers."

"Shall us?" said Pen.

"I think so," replied Pauline.

There was a strange sensation in her throat, and a mist before her eyes. Her feet were so icy cold that it was with difficulty she could keep herself from slipping.

"Which prayer shall we say?" asked Harry. "There's a lot of them. There's our special private prayers in which we say, 'God bless father and mother;' and then there's 'Our Father.'"

"'Our Father' is best," said Pauline.

The children began repeating it in a sing-song fashion. Suddenly Pen violently clutched hold of Pauline.

"Will God forgive our badnesses?" she asked.

"He will—I know He will," answered Pauline; and just at that instant there came a cry from Harry.

"A boat! a boat!" he shrieked. "And it's coming our way. I knew Nellie was a brick. I knew she'd do it."

A boat rowed by four men came faster and faster over the waves. By-and-by it was within a stone's-throw of the children. A big man sat in the stern. Harry glanced at him.

"Why, it's father!" he cried. "Oh, father, why did you come home? I thought you had gone away for the day. Father, I wasn't a bit afraid to drown—not really, I mean. I hope Nellie told you."

"Yes, my brave boy. Now, see, when I hold out my hand, spring up carefully or the boat will capsize."

The next instant a stalwart hand and arm were stretched across the rapidly rising waves, and Harry, with a bound, was in the boat.

"Lie down in the boat, and stay as quiet as a mouse," said his father.

Pauline, already up to her waist in water, struggled a step or two and was dragged into the boat; while two of the men bent over, and, catching Penelope round the waist, lifted her into their ark of shelter.

"It was touch-and-go, sir," said one of the sailors who had accompanied Harry's father. "Five minutes later and we could have done no good."



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE DULL WEIGHT.

The rest of that day passed for Pauline in a sort of dream. She felt no fear nor pain nor remorse. She lay in bed with a languid and sleepy sensation. Aunt Sophia went in and out of the room; she was all kindness and sympathy. Several times she bent down and kissed the child's hot forehead. It gave Pauline neither pain nor pleasure when her aunt did that; she was, in short, incapable of any emotion. When the doctor came at night his face looked grave.

"The little girl is all right," he said. "She has had a terrible fright, but a good night's rest will quite restore her to her usual health; but I don't quite like the look of the elder girl."

Verena, who was in the room, now came forward.

"Pauline is always pale," she said. "If it is only that she looks a little more pale than usual——"

"It isn't that," interrupted the doctor. "Her nervous system has got a most severe shock."

"The fact is this," said Miss Tredgold. "The child has not been herself for some time. It was on that account that I brought her to the seaside. She was getting very much better. This accident is most unfortunate, and I cannot understand how she knew about Penelope."

"It was a precious good thing she did find it out," said the doctor, "or Mr. Carver's two little children and your young niece would all have been drowned. Miss Pauline did a remarkably plucky thing. Well, I will send round a quieting draught. Some one had better sleep in the child's room to-night; she may possibly get restless and excited."

When Miss Tredgold and Verena found themselves alone, Miss Tredgold looked at her niece.

"Can you understand it?" she asked.

"No, Aunt Sophy."

"Has Pen told you anything?"

"No."

"We must not question her further just now," said Miss Tredgold. "She will explain things in the morning, perhaps. Why did the children go to the White Bay—a forbidden place to every child in the neighborhood? And how did Pauline know that they were there? The mystery thickens. It annoys me very much."

Verena said nothing, but her eyes slowly filled with tears.

"My dear," said Miss Tredgold suddenly, "I thought it right this afternoon to send your father a telegram. He may arrive in the morning, or some time to-morrow; there is no saying."

"Oh, I'm sure he will come if he remembers," said Verena.

"That's just it, Renny. How long will he remember? Sometimes I think he has a fossil inside of him instead of a heart. But there! I must not abuse him to you, my dear."

"He is really a most loving father," said Verena; "that is, when he remembers. Why he should forget everything puzzles me a good deal; still, I cannot forget that he is my father."

"And you are right to remember it, dear child. Now go and sleep in the same room with Pen, and watch her. I will take care of Pauline."

Pauline was given her sleeping draught, and Miss Tredgold, placing herself in an easy-chair, tried to think over the events of the day. Soon her thoughts wandered from the day itself to the days that had gone before, and she puzzled much over Pauline's character and her curious, half-repellent, half-affectionate attitude towards herself.

"What can be the matter with the child?" she thought. "She doesn't really care for me as the others do, and yet sometimes she gives me a look that none of the others have ever yet given me, just as if she loved me with such a passionate love that it would make up for everything I have ever missed in my life. Now, Verena is affectionate and sweet, and open as the day. As to Pen, she is an oddity—no more and no less. I wish I could think her quite straightforward and honorable; but it must be my mission to train her in those important attributes. Pauline is the one who really puzzles me."

By-and-by Pauline opened her eyes. She thought herself alone. She stretched out her arms and said in a voice of excitement:

"Nancy, you had no right to do it. You had no right to send it away to London. It was like stealing it. I want it back. Nancy, I must have it back."

Miss Tredgold went and bent over her. Pauline was evidently speaking in her sleep. Miss Tredgold returned again to her place by the window. The dawn was breaking. There was a streak of light across the distant horizon. The tide was coming in fast. Miss Tredgold, as she watched the waves, found herself shuddering. But for the merest chance Pauline and Pen might have been now lying within their cold embrace. Miss Tredgold shuddered again. She stood up, and was just about to draw the curtain to prevent the little sleeper from being disturbed by the light, when Pauline opened her eyes wide, looked gravely at her aunt, and said:

"Is that you, Nancy? How strange and thin and old you have got! And have you brought it back at last? She wants it; she misses it, and Pen keeps on looking and looking for it. It is so lovely and uncommon, you see. It is gold and dark-blue and light-blue. It is most beautiful. Have you got it for me, Nancy?"

"It is I, dear, not Nancy," said Miss Tredgold, coming forward. "You have had a very good night. I hope you are better."

Pauline looked up at her.

"How funny!" she said. "I really thought you were Nancy—Nancy King, my old friend. I suppose I was dreaming."

"You were talking about something that was dark-blue and light-blue and gold," said Miss Tredgold.

Pauline gave a weak smile.

"Was I?" she answered.

Miss Tredgold took the little girl's hands and put them inside the bedclothes.

"I am going to get you a cup of tea," she said.

Miss Tredgold made the tea herself; and when she brought it, and pushed back Pauline's tangled hair, she observed a narrow gold chain round her neck.

"Where did she get it?" thought the good lady. "Mysteries get worse. I know all about her little ornaments. She has been talking in a most unintelligible way. And where did she get that chain?"

Miss Tredgold's discoveries of that morning were not yet at an end; for by-and-by, when the servant brought in Pauline's dress which she had been drying by the kitchen fire, she held something in her hand.

"I found this in the young lady's pocket," she said. "I am afraid it is injured a good bit, but if you have it well rubbed up it may get all right again."

Miss Tredgold saw in the palm of the girl's hand her own much-valued and long-lost thimble. She gave a quick start, then controlled herself.

"You can put it down," she said. "I am glad it was not lost."

"It is a beautiful thimble," said the girl. "I am sure Johnson, the jeweller in the High Street, could put it right for you, miss."

"You had better leave the room now," replied Miss Tredgold. "The young lady will hear you if you talk in a whisper."

When the maid had gone Miss Tredgold remained for a minute or two holding the thimble in the palm of her hand; then she crossed the room on tiptoe, and replaced it in the pocket of Pauline's serge skirt.

For the whole of that day Pauline lay in a languid and dangerous condition. The doctor feared mischief to the brain. Miss Tredgold waited on her day and night. At the end of the third day there was a change for the better, and then convalescence quickly followed.

Mr. Dale made his appearance on the scene early on the morning after the accident. He was very much perturbed, and very nearly shed tears when he clasped Penelope in his arms. But in an hour's time he got restless, and asked Verena in a fretful tone what he had left his employment for. She gave him a fresh account of the whole story as far as she knew it, and he once more remembered and asked to see Pauline, and actually dropped a tear on her forehead. But by the midday train he returned to The Dales, and long before he got there the whole affair in the White Bay was forgotten by him.

In a week's time Pauline was pronounced convalescent; but although she had recovered her appetite, and to a certain extent her spirits, there was a considerable change over her. This the doctor did not at first remark; but Miss Tredgold and Verena could not help noticing it. For one thing, Pauline hated looking at the sea. She liked to sit with her back to it. When the subject was mentioned she turned fidgety, and sometimes even left the room. Now and then, too, she complained of a weight pressing on her head. In short, she was herself and yet not herself; the old bright, daring, impulsive, altogether fascinating Pauline seemed to be dead and gone.

On the day when she was considered well enough to go into the drawing-room, there was a festival made in her honor. The place looked bright and pretty. Verena had got a large supply of flowers, which she placed in glasses on the supper-table and also on a little table close to Pauline's side. Pauline did not remark on the flowers, however. She did not remark on anything. She was gentle and sweet, and at the same time indifferent to her surroundings.

When supper was over she found herself alone with Penelope. Then a wave of color rushed into her face, and she looked full at her little sister.

"Have I done it or have I not, Pen?" she said. "Have I been awfully wicked—the wickedest girl on earth—or is it a dream? Tell me—tell me, Pen. Tell me the truth."

"It is as true as anything in the wide world," said Pen, speaking with intense emphasis and coming close to her sister. "There never was anybody more wicked than you—'cept me. We are both as bad as bad can be. But I tell you what, Paulie, though I meant to tell, I am not going to tell now; for but for you I'd have been drownded, and I am never, never, never going to tell."

"But for me!" said Pauline, and the expression on her face was somewhat vague.

"Oh, Paulie, how white you look! No, I will never tell. I love you now, and it is your secret and mine for ever and ever."

Pauline said nothing. She put her hand to her forehead; the dull weight on her head was very manifest.

"We are going home next week," continued Pen in her brightest manner. "You will be glad of that. You will see Briar and Patty and all the rest, and perhaps you will get to look as you used to. You are not much to be proud of now. You are seedy-looking, and rather dull, and not a bit amusing. But I loves you, and I'll never, never tell."

"Run away, Pen," said Miss Tredgold, coming into the room at that moment. "You are tiring Pauline. You should not have talked so loud; your sister is not very strong yet."



CHAPTER XXIV.

PLATO AND VIRGIL.

Mr. Dale returned home to find metamorphosis; for Betty and John, egged on by nurse, had taken advantage of his day from home to turn out the study. This study had not been properly cleaned for years. It had never had what servants are fond of calling a spring cleaning. Neither spring nor autumn found any change for the better in that tattered, dusty, and worn-out carpet; in those old moreen curtains which hung in heavy, dull folds round the bay-window; in the leathern arm-chair, with very little leather left about it; in the desk, which was so piled with books and papers that it was difficult even to discover a clear space on which to write. The books on the shelves, too, were dusty as dusty could be. Many of them were precious folios—folios bound in calf which book-lovers would have given a great deal for—but the dust lay thick on them, and Betty said, with a look of disgust, that they soiled her fingers.

"Oh, drat you and your fingers!" said nurse. "You think of nothing but those blessed trashy novels you are always reading. You must turn to now. The master is certain to be back by the late afternoon train, and this room has got to be put into apple-pie order before he returns."

"Yes," said John; "we won't lose the chance. We'll take each book from its place on the shelf, dust it, and put it back again. We have a long job before us, so don't you think any more of your novels and your grand ladies and gentlemen, Betty, my woman."

"I have ceased to think of them," said Betty.

She stood with her hands hanging straight to her sides; her face was quite pale.

"I trusted, and my trust failed me," she continued. "I was at a wedding lately, John—you remember, don't you?—Dick Jones's wedding, at the other side of the Forest. There was a beautiful wedding cake, frosted over and almond-iced underneath, and ornaments on it, too—cupids and doves and such-like. A pair of little doves sat as perky as you please on the top of the cake, billing and cooing like anything. It made my eyes water even to look at 'em. You may be sure I didn't think of Mary Dugdale, the bride that was, nor of poor Jones, neither; although he is a good looking man enough—I never said he wasn't. But my heart was in my mouth thinking of that dear Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton."

"Who in the name of fortune is he?" asked nurse.

"A hero of mine," said Betty.

Her face looked a little paler and more mournful even than when she had begun to speak.

"He's dead," she said, and she whisked a handkerchief out of her pocket and applied it to her eyes. "It was bandits as carried him off. He loved that innocent virgin he took for his wife like anything. Over and over have I thought of them, and privately made up my mind that if I came across his second I'd give him my heart."

"Betty, you must be mad," said nurse.

"Maybe you are mad," retorted Betty, her face flaming, "but I am not. It was a girl quite as poor as me that he took for his spouse; and why shouldn't there be another like him? That's what I thought, and when the wedding came to an end I asked Mary Dugdale to give me a bit of the cake all private for myself. She's a good-natured sort is Mary, though not equal to Jones—not by no means. She cut a nice square of the cake, a beautiful chunk, black with richness as to the fruit part, yellow as to the almond, and white as the driven snow as to the icing. And, if you'll believe it, there was just the tip of a wing of one of those angelic little doves cut off with the icing. Well, I brought it home with me, and I slept on it just according to the old saw which my mother taught me. Mother used to say, 'Betty, if you want to dream of your true love, you will take a piece of wedding-cake that belongs to a fresh-made bride, and you will put it into your right-foot stocking, and tie it with your left-foot garter, and put it under your pillow. And when you get into bed, not a mortal word will you utter, or the spell is broke. And that you will do, Betty,' said my mother, 'for three nights running. And then you will put the stocking and the garter and the cake away for three nights, and at the end of those nights you will sleep again on it for three nights; and then you will put it away once more for three nights, and you will sleep on it again for three nights. And at the end of the last night, why, the man you dream of is he.'"

"Well, and did you go in for all that gibberish?" asked nurse, with scorn.

She had a duster in her hand, and she vigorously flicked Mr. Dale's desk as she spoke.

"To be sure I did; and I thought as much over the matter as ought to have got me a decent husband. Well, when the last night come I lay me down to sleep as peaceful as an angel, and I folded my hands and shut my eyes, and wondered what his beautiful name would be, and if he'd be a dook or a marquis. I incline to a dook myself, having, so to speak, fallen in love with the Dook of Mauleverer-Wolverhampton of blessed memory. But what do you think happened? It's enough to cure a body, that it is."

"Well, what?" asked nurse.

"I dreamt of no man in the creation except John there. If that isn't enough to make a body sick, and to cure all their romance once and for ever, my name ain't Betty Snowden."

John laughed and turned a dull red at this unexpected ending to Betty's story.

"Now let's clean up," she said; "and don't twit me any more about my dreams. They were shattered, so to speak, in the moment of victory."

The children were called in, particularly Briar and Patty, and the room was made quite fresh and sweet, the carpet taken up, the floor scrubbed, a new rug (bought long ago for the auspicious moment) put down, white curtains hung at the windows in place of the dreadful old moreen, every book dusted and put in its place, and the papers piled up in orderly fashion on a wagonette which was moved into the room for the purpose. Finally the children and servants gazed around them with an air of appreciation.

"He can't help liking it," said Briar.

"I wonder if he will," said Patty.

"What nonsense, Patty! Father is human, after all, and we have not disturbed one single blessed thing."

Soon wheels were heard, and the children rushed out to greet their returning parent.

"How is Pauline, father?" asked Briar in an anxious voice.

"Pauline?" replied Mr. Dale, pushing his thin hand abstractedly through his thin locks. "What of her? Isn't she here?"

"Nonsense, father!" said Patty. "You went to see her. She was very ill; she was nearly drowned. You know all about it. Wake up, dad, and tell us how she is."

"To be sure," said Mr. Dale. "I quite recall the circumstance now. Your sister is much better. I left her in bed, a little flushed, but looking very well and pretty. Pauline promises to be quite a pretty girl. She has improved wonderfully of late. Verena was there, too, and Pen, and your good aunt. Yes, I saw them all. Comfortable lodgings enough for those who don't care for books. From what I saw of your sister she did not seem to be at all seriously ill, and I cannot imagine why I was summoned. Don't keep me now, my dears; I must get back to my work. The formation of that last sentence from Plato's celebrated treatise doesn't please me. It lacks the extreme polish of the original. My dear Briar, how you stare! There is no possible reason, Briar and Patty, why the English translation should not be every bit as pure as the Greek. Our language has extended itself considerably of late, and close application and study may recall to my mind the most fitting words. But there is one thing certain, my dear girls—— Ah! is that you, nurse? Miss Pauline is better. I was talking about Plato, nurse. The last translation I have been making from his immortal work does not please me; but toil—ceaseless toil—the midnight oil, et cetera, may evoke the spirit of the true Muse, and I may be able to put the matter before the great English thinking public in a way worthy of the immortal master."

Mr. Dale had now pushed his hat very far back from his forehead. He removed it, still quite abstractedly, and retired with long, shuffling strides to his beloved study.

"No food until I ring for it," he said when he reached the door, and then he vanished.

"Blessed man!" said Betty, who was standing in the far distance. "He might be a dook himself for all his airs. It was lovely the way he clothed his thoughts that time. What they be themselves I don't know, but his language was most enthralling. John, get out of my way. What are you standing behind me like that for? Get along and weed the garden—do."

"You'll give me a cup of tea, and tell me more about that dream of yours," was John's answer.

Whereupon Betty took John by the hand, whisked into her kitchen, slammed the door after her, and planted him down on a wooden seat, and then proceeded to make tea.

But while John and Betty were happily engaged in pleasant converse with each other, Mr. Dale's condition was by no means so favorable. At first when he entered his study he saw nothing unusual. His mind was far too loftily poised to notice such sublunary matters as white curtains and druggets not in tatters; but when he seated himself at his desk, and stretched out his hand mechanically to find his battered old edition of Plato, it was not in its accustomed place. He looked around him, raised his eyes, put his hand to his forehead, and, still mechanically, but with a dawning of fright on his face, glanced round the room. What did he see? He started, stumbled to his feet, turned deathly white, and rushed to the opposite bookcase. There was his Plato—his idol—actually placed in the bookshelf upside-down. It was a monstrous crime—a crime that he felt he could never forgive—that no one could expect him to forgive. He walked across to the fireplace and rang the bell.

"You must go, Miss Patty," said nurse. "I was willing to do it, but I can't face him. You must go; you really must."

"Well, I'm not frightened," said Patty. "Come on, Briar."

The two little girls walked down the passage. Mr. Dale's bell was heard to ring again.

"Aren't you the least bit frightened, Patty?" asked Briar.

"No," answered Patty, with a sigh. "If only I could get the real heaviness off my mind, nothing else would matter. Oh, Briar, Briar!"

"Don't talk of it now," said Briar. "To-night when we are alone, when we are by ourselves in our own room, but not now. Come, let us answer father's bell."

They opened the door and presented themselves—two pretty little figures with rosy faces and bright eyes—two neatly dressed, lady-like little girls.

"Do you want anything, father?"

"Yes," said Mr. Dale. "Come in and shut the door."

The girls did what he told them.

"Who did this?" asked the master of The Dales. He swept his hand with a certain majesty of gesture round the restored room. "Who brushed the walls? Who put those flimsies to the windows? Who touched my beloved books? Who was the person? Name the culprit."

"There were quite a lot of us, father. We all did it," said Briar.

"You all did it? You mean to tell me, little girl, that you did it?"

"I dusted a lot of the books, father. I didn't injure one of them, and I put them back again just in the same place. My arms ached because the books were so heavy."

"Quite right that they should ache. Do you know what injury you have done me?"

"No," said Patty suddenly. "We made the room clean, father. It isn't right to live in such a dirty room. Plato wouldn't have liked it."

"Now what do you mean?"

Mr. Dale's white face quieted down suddenly; for his daughter—his small, young, ignorant daughter—to dare to mention the greatest name, in his opinion, of all the ages, was too much for him.

"You are always talking to us about Plato," said Patty, who grew braver and braver as she proceeded. "You talk of Plato one day, and Virgil another day, and you always tell us how great they were; but if they were really great they would not be dirty, and this room was horrid and dirty, father. It really was. Nice, great, good, noble people are clean. Aunt Sophy says so, and she knows. Since Aunt Sophy came we have been very happy, and the house has been clean and nice. And I love Aunt Sophy, and so does Briar. I am very sorry, father, but I think when we made your room sweet and pretty as it is now we pleased Plato and Virgil—that is, if they can see us."

"If Plato and Virgil can see mites like you?" said Mr. Dale.

He took up his spectacles, poised them on his forehead, and gazed at the children.

"There is the door," he said. "Go."

They vanished. Mr. Dale sank into a chair.

"Upon my word!" he said several times. "Upon—my—word! So Plato liked things clean, and Virgil liked things orderly. Upon—my—word!"

He sat perfectly motionless for a time. His brain was working, for his glasses were sometimes removed and then put on again, and several times he brushed his hand through his hair. Finally he took up his hat, and, gazing at the frills of the white window-curtains, he opened the French windows, and, with an agile leap, found himself in the open air. He went for a walk—a long one. When he came back he entered his clean study, to find the lamp burning brightly, his Plato restored to its place by his left-hand side, and a fresh pad of blotting-paper on the table. His own old pen was not removed, but the inkpot was clean and filled with fresh ink. He took his pen, dipped it into the ink, and wrote on a sheet of paper, "Plato likes things clean, and Virgil likes things orderly," and then pinned the paper on the opposite wall.

For the rest of the evening the astonished household were much beguiled and overcome by the most heavenly strains from Mr. Dale's violin. He played it in the study until quite late at night; but none of the household went to bed, so divine, so restoring, so comforting was that music.

About eleven o'clock Patty and Briar found themselves alone.

"Well," said Patty suddenly, "I have made up my mind."

"Yes," said Briar, "I thought you had."

"When Aunt Sophy comes back I am going to tell her everything."

Briar went up to her sister, put her arms round her neck, and kissed her.

"I wonder what she will say," said Briar.

"Say!" echoed Patty. "She will be hurt. Perhaps she'll punish us; but that doesn't matter, for in the end she is quite, quite certain to forgive us. I am going to tell her. I couldn't go through another night like last night again."

"Nor could I," said Briar. "I stayed awake and thought of Paulie, and I seemed to see her face as it might look if she were really dead. I wish they'd all come back, for Paulie is better. And then we'd have just a dreadful ten minutes, and everything would be all right."

"That's it," said Patty. "Everything would be all right."



CHAPTER XXV.

"YOU ARE NOT TO TELL."

Pauline was certainly better, although she was not what she was before. In body she was to all appearance quite well. She ate heartily, took long walks, and slept soundly at night; but she was dull. She seldom laughed; she took little interest in anything. As to the sea, she had a positive horror of it. When she went out for walks she invariably chose inland directions. She liked to walk briskly over the great moors which surround Easterhaze, and to sit there and think, though nobody knew what she was thinking about. Her face now and then looked pathetic, but on the whole it was indifferent. Miss Tredgold was much concerned. She made up her mind.

"The seaside is doing the child no good," she thought. "I will take her straight back home. She is certainly not herself; she got a much greater shock than we knew of or had any idea of. When she gets home the sight of the other children and the old place will rouse her. She is not consumptive at the present moment. That is one thing to be thankful for. I shall take her to London for the winter. If going back to The Dales does not arouse her, she must go somewhere else, for roused she certainly must be."

Miss Tredgold, having made up her mind, spoke to Verena.

"We are going home to-morrow, Verena," she said.

"And a very good thing," answered the young girl.

"Do you really think so?"

"I do, Aunt Sophy. Pauline has got all she can get out of the sea at present. She does not love the sea; she is afraid of it. She may be better when she is home."

"And yet she is well," said Miss Tredgold. "The doctor pronounces her in perfect health."

"In body she is certainly well," said Verena.

"Oh, then, you have observed it?"

"Yes, I have," replied Verena slowly. "There is some part of her stunned. I can't make out myself what ails her, but there is undoubtedly one part of her stunned."

"We will take her home," said Miss Tredgold.

The good lady was a person of very direct action and keen resource. She had whisked Pauline and Verena off to the sea almost at a moment's notice, and quite as quickly she brought them back. They were all glad to go. Even Pen was pleased. Pen looked very still and solemn and contented during these days. She sat close to Pauline and looked into her eyes over and over again; and Pauline never resented her glance, and seemed to be more pleased to be with Penelope than with anybody else.

The nice landau which Miss Tredgold had purchased met the travellers at Lyndhurst Road, and the first piece of news which Briar, who had come to meet them, announced was that the ponies had arrived.

"Peas-blossom and Lavender are so sweet!" she said. "They came yesterday. We are quite longing to ride them. As to Peas-blossom, he is quite the dearest pony I ever looked at in my life."

"Peas-blossom will be Pauline's special pony," said Miss Tredgold suddenly. "Do you happen to know if the sidesaddles have arrived?"

"Oh, yes, they have; and the habits, too," said Briar. "It is delicious—delicious!"

"Then, Pauline, my dear, you shall have a ride to-morrow morning."

Pauline scarcely replied. She did not negative the idea of the ride, but neither did she accept it with any enthusiasm.

There was a wild moment when the entire family were reassembled. All the girls surrounded Pauline, and kissed her and hugged her as though she had come back from the dead.

"You quite forget," said Penelope, "that I was nearly drownded, too. I was very nearly shutting up of my eyes, and closing of my lips, and stretching myself out and lying drownded and still on the top of the waves. I was in as big a danger as Pauline, every bit."

"But you didn't get ill afterwards, as Paulie did," said the other girls.

They kissed Pen, for, being their sister, they had to love her after a fashion; but their real adoration and deepest sympathy were centred round Pauline.

Meanwhile Pen, who never cared to find herself neglected, ran off to discover nurse.

"Well," she said when she saw that worthy, "here I am. I'm not pale now. I am rosy. The seaside suits me. The salty waves and the sands, they all agrees with me. How are you, nursey?"

"Very well," replied nurse, "and glad to see you again."

"And how is Marjorie? Kiss me, Marjorie."

She snatched up her little sister somewhat roughly.

"Don't make the darling cry," said nurse.

"All right," replied Pen. "Sit down, baby; I have no time to 'tend you. Nursey, when I was at the sea I was a very 'portant person."

"Were you indeed. Miss Pen? But you always think yourself that. And how is Miss Pauline?"

"Paulie?" said Penelope. "She's bad."

"Bad!" echoed nurse.

"Yes, all-round bad," said Penelope.

As she spoke she formed her mouth into a round O, and looked with big eyes at nurse.

"The seaside didn't agree with her," said Pen. "Nor does the fuss, nor the petting, nor the nice food, nor anything else of that sort. The only thing that agrees with Paulie is me. She likes to have me with her, and I understand her. But never mind about Paulie now. I want to ask you a question. Am I the sort of little girl that lions would crunch up?"

"I never!" cried nurse. "You are the queerest child!"

"But am I, nursey? Speak."

"I suppose so, Miss Pen."

"I thought so," answered Pen, with a sigh. "I thought as much. I am bad through and through, then. They never eat good uns. You know that, don't you, nursey? They wouldn't touch Marjorie, though she is so round and so white and so fat; and they wouldn't look at Adelaide or Josephine, or any of those dull ones of the family; but they'd eat me up, and poor Paulie. Oh! they'd have a nice meal on Paulie. Thank you, nursey. I am glad I know."

"What is the child driving at?" thought nurse as Penelope marched away. "Would lions crunch her up, and would they crunch up Miss Paulie? Mercy me! I wouldn't like any of us to be put in their way. I do hope Miss Pen won't go off her head after a time; she is too queer for anything. But what is wrong with Miss Pauline? I don't like what she said about Miss Pauline."

When nurse saw Pauline she liked matters even less. For though her dearly beloved young lady looked quite well in health, her eyes were no longer bright, and she did not take the slightest interest in the different things which the children had to show her. When asked if she would not like to visit the stables, now in perfect restoration, and see for herself those darling, most angelic creatures that went by the names of Peas-blossom and Lavender, she said she was tired and would rather sit in the rocking-chair on the lawn.

The others, accompanied by Aunt Sophia, went off to view the ponies; and then at the last moment Pen came back. She flung herself on the ground at Pauline's feet.

"I has quite made up my mind for ever and ever," she said. "Not even lions will drag it from me."

"What?" asked Pauline.

"Why, all that I know: about who stole the thimble, and about the picnic on the birthday, and about what Briar and Patty did, and about you, Paulie, and all your wicked, wicked ways. I meant to tell once, but I will never tell now. So cheer up; even lions won't drag it from me."

Pauline put her hand to her forehead.

"I keep having these stupid headaches," she said. "They come and go, and whenever I want to think they get worse. I suppose I have been very bad, and that all you say is right, but somehow I can't think it out. Only there is one thing, Pen—if I were you I wouldn't do wrong any more. It isn't worth while."

"It is quite worth while getting you cheered up," said Pen, "so I thought I'd let you know."

That same evening Briar and Patty held a consultation in their own room.

"We must do it after breakfast to-morrow," said Patty.

Just then there was a slight rustle. Briar paused to listen.

"Those horrid mice have come back again," she said. "We must get Tiddledywinks to spend a night or two in this room."

"Oh, bother the mice!" was Patty's response. "Let us arrange when we must see her."

"I have planned it all out," said Briar. "We must tell her just everything we know. She won't be so terribly angry with Paulie, because poor Paulie is not well. But I suppose she will punish us terribly. I have been thinking what our punishment ought to be."

"What?" asked Patty.

"Why, not to ride either of the ponies until after Christmas."

"Oh! don't tell her to do that," said Patty, in some alarm. "I have been so pining for my rides."

"There's that mouse again," said Briar.

The children now looked under the little beds, and under the farther one there was something which would certainly have preferred to be thought an enormous mouse. On being dragged to the front, the stout, dishevelled figure of Penelope Dale was discovered.

"I comed a-purpose," said Pen, who did not look the least taken aback. "I saw by your faces that you were up to fun, and I thought I'd like to be in it. It is well I comed. I am willing to talk to you about everything. Call me a mouse if you like. I don't care. I meant to listen. I am glad I comed."

"You are too mean for anything," said Briar. "You are the horridest girl I ever came across. Why did you dare to hide under my bed in order to listen to what I had to say to Patty?"

"I knew it all afore," said Penelope, "so that wasn't why I comed. I comed to keep you from doing mischief. What are you going to tell to-morrow?"

"That isn't your business," said Briar.

"But I am going to make it my business. What you have to tell isn't news to me. You are going to 'fess 'cos of the pain in your little hearts. You must keep your pain, and you must not 'fess. You are going to tell Aunt Sophy about that wicked, wicked birthday night—how you stole away in the dark across the lawn, and wore your Glengarry caps, and how you didn't come back until the morning. But you mustn't tell. Do you hear me, Briar and Patty?"

"But why not? Why should you talk to us like that?" asked Patty. "Why shouldn't we say exactly what we like?"

"You mustn't tell 'cos of Paulie. She is ill—more ill than you think. She mustn't be punished, nor fretted, nor teased, nor worrited. If you tell it will worrit her, so you mustn't tell. Why do you want to tell? You have kept it dark a long time now."

"Because we are unhappy," said Patty then. "We haven't got hard hearts like yours. My heart aches so badly that I can't sleep at nights for thinking of the lies I've told and how wicked I am."

"Pooh!" said Penelope. "Keep your achy hearts; don't worrit."

"But it's past bearing," said Briar. "What we feel is remorse. We must tell. The Bible is full of the wickedness of people not confessing their sins. We can't help ourselves. We are obliged to tell."

"Just because you have a bit of pain," said Pen in a tone of deepest contempt. "I suppose you think I never have any pain. Little you know. I have done a lot of wicked things. I consider myself much the most desperate wicked of the family. Your little pains is only pin-pricks compared to mine. It would relieve me to tell, but I love Paulie too much, so I won't. We have all got to hold our tongues for the present. Now good-night. I am not a mouse, nor a rat, nor a ferret. But I mean what I say. You are not to tell."



CHAPTER XXVI.

DECEITFUL GIRLS.

Miss Tredgold was dreadfully puzzled to know what to make of the girls. The time was autumn now; all pretense of summer had disappeared. Autumn had arrived and was very windy and wet, and the girls could no longer walk in twos and twos on the pretty lawn. They had to keep to the walks, and even these walks were drenched, as day after day deluges of rain fell from the heavens. The Forest, too, was sodden with the fallen leaves, and even the ponies slipped as they cantered down the glades. Altogether it was a most chilling, disappointing autumn, winter setting in, so to speak, all at once. Verena said she never remembered such an early season of wintry winds and sobbing skies. The flowers disappeared, several of the Forest trees were rooted up in consequence of the terrible gales, and Miss Tredgold said it was scarcely safe for the children to walk there.

"The best cure for weather of this sort," she said to herself, "is to give the young people plenty to do indoors."

Accordingly she reorganized lessons in a very brisk and up-to-date fashion. She arranged that a good music-master was to come twice a week from Southampton. Mistresses for languages were also to arrive from the same place. A pretty little pony-cart which she bought for the purpose conveyed these good people to and from Lyndhurst Road station. Besides this, she asked one or two visitors to come and stay in the house, and tried to plan as comfortable and nice a winter as she could. Verena helped her, and the younger girls were pleased and interested; and Pen did what she was told, dashing about here and there, and making suggestions, and trying to make herself as useful as she could.

"The child is improved," said Miss Tredgold to Verena. "She is quite obliging and unselfish."

Verena said nothing.

"What do you think of my new plans, Verena?" said her aunt. "Out-of-door life until the frost comes is more or less at a standstill. Beyond the mere walking for health, we do not care to go out of doors in this wet and sloppy weather. But the house is large. I mean always to have one or two friends here, sometimes girls to please you other girls, sometimes older people to interest me. I should much like to have one or two savants down to talk over their special studies with your father; but that can doubtless be arranged by-and-by. I want us to have cheerful winter evenings—evenings for reading, evenings for music. I want you children to learn at least the rudiments of good acting, and I mean to have two or three plays enacted here during the winter. In short, if you will all help me, we can have a splendid time."

"Oh, I will help you," said Verena. "But," she added, "I have no talent for acting; it is Paulie who can act so well."

"I wish your sister would take an interest in things, Verena. She is quite well in body, but she is certainly not what she was before her accident."

"I don't understand Pauline," said Verena, shaking her head.

"Nor do I understand her. Once or twice I thought I would get a good doctor to see her, but I have now nearly resolved to leave it to time to restore her."

"But the other girls—can you understand the other girls, Aunt Sophy?" asked Verena.

"Understand them, my dear? What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't mean the younger ones—Adelaide and Lucy and the others. I mean Briar and Patty. They are not a bit what they were."

"Now that you remark it, I have noticed that they are very grave; but they always do their lessons well, and I have nothing to complain of with regard to their conduct."

"Nor have you anything to complain of with regard to Paulie's conduct," said Verena. "It isn't that."

"Then what is it, my dear?"

"It is that they are not natural. There is something on their minds. I am certain of it."

"Verena," said her aunt gently, "I wonder if I might confide in you."

Verena started back; a distressed look came over her face.

"If it happens to be anything against Paulie, perhaps I had better not hear," she said.

"I do not know if it is for her or against her. I am as much in the dark as you. I have not spoken of it yet to any one else, but I should like to mention it to you. It seems to me that light ought to be thrown on some rather peculiar circumstances or your sister will never get back her old brightness and gaiety of heart."

"Then if you think so, please tell me, Aunt Sophy," said Verena.

She got up as she spoke and shut the door. She was a very bright and pretty-looking girl, but her face sometimes wore too old a look for her age. Her aunt looked at her now with a mingling of affection and compassion.

"Come," she said, "sit on this sofa, darling. We can understand each other better when we are close together. You know how much I love you, Renny."

"There never, never was a better aunt," said the girl.

"I am not that. But I do love you. Now, dear, I will tell you. You remember when first I came?"

"Oh, don't I? And how angry we were!"

"Poor children! I don't wonder. But don't you think, Verena, I was a very brave woman to put myself into such a hornet's nest?"

"Indeed you were wonderful. It was your bravery that first attracted me. Then I saw how good you were, and how kindly you meant, and everything else became easy."

"But was it equally easy for Pauline?"

"I—I don't know. I am sure I do know, however, that now she loves you very much."

"Ah! now," said Miss Tredgold. "But what about the early time?"

"I don't quite know."

"Verena, if I am to be frank with you, you must be frank with me."

"I think perhaps she was not won round to you quite as easily as I was."

"You are right, my dear. It was harder to win her; but she is worth winning. I shall not rest until I bring her round altogether to my side. Now, little girl, listen. You know what a very odd child we are all forced to consider your sister Pen?"

"I should think so, indeed." Verena laughed.

"Well, your sister found out one day, not very long after I came, that I had lost a thimble."

"Your beautiful gold thimble? Of course we all knew about that," said Verena. "We were all interested, and we all tried to find it."

"I thought so. I knew that Pen in particular searched for it with considerable pains, and I offered her a small prize if she found it."

Verena laughed.

"Poor Pen!" she said. "She nearly broke her back one day searching for it. Oh, Aunt Sophy! I hope you will learn to do without it, for I am greatly afraid that it will not be found now."

"And yet, Verena," said Miss Tredgold—and she laid her hand, which slightly shook, on the girl's arm—"I could tell you of a certain person in this house to whom a certain dress belongs, and unless I am much mistaken, in the pocket of that dress reposes the thimble with its sapphire base, its golden body, and its rim of pale-blue turquoise."

"Aunt Sophy! What do you mean?"

Verena's eyes were wide open, and a sort of terror filled them.

"Don't start, dear. That person is your sister Pauline."

"Oh! Pauline! Impossible! Impossible!" cried Verena.

"It is true, nevertheless. Do you remember that day when she was nearly drowned?"

"Can I forget it?"

"The next morning I was in her room, and the servant brought in the dark-blue serge dress she wore, which had been submerged so long in the salt water. It had been dried, and she was bringing it back. The girl held in her hand the thimble—the thimble of gold and sapphire and turquoise. She held the thimble in the palm of her hand, and said, 'I found it in the pocket of the young lady's dress. It is injured, but the jeweller can put it right again.' You can imagine my feelings. For a time I was motionless, holding the thimble in my hand. Then I resolved to put it back where it had been found. I have heard nothing of it since from any one. I don't suppose Pauline has worn that skirt again; the thimble is doubtless there."

"Oh, may I run and look? May I?"

"No, no; leave it in its hiding-place. Do you think the thimble matters to me? What does matter is this—that Pauline should come and tell me, simply and quietly, the truth."

"She will. She must. I feel as if I were in a dream. I can scarcely believe this can be true."

"Alas! my dear, it is. And there is another thing. I know what little trinkets you each possess, for you showed them to me when first I came. Have you any reason to believe, Verena, that Pauline kept one trinket back from my knowledge?"

"Oh, no, Aunt Sophy; of course she did not. Pauline has fewer trinkets than any of us, and she is fond of them. She is not particularly fond of gay clothes, but she always did like shiny, ornamenty things."

"When she was ill I saw round her neck a narrow gold chain, to which a little heart-shaped locket was attached. Do you know of such a locket, of such a chain?"

"No."

Miss Tredgold rose to her feet.

"Verena," she said, "things must come to a climax. Pauline must be forced to tell. For her own sake, and for the sake of others, we must find out what is at the back of things. Until we do the air will not be cleared. I had an idea of taking you to London for this winter, but I shall not do so this side of Christmas at any rate. I want us all to have a good time, a bright time, a happy time. We cannot until this mystery is explained. I am certain, too, that Pen knows more than she will say. She always was a curious, inquisitive child. Now, until the time of the accident Pen was always pursuing me and giving me hints that she had something to confide. I could not, of course, allow the little girl to tell tales, and I always shut her up. But from the time of the accident she has altered. She is now a child on the defensive. She watches Pauline as if she were guarding her against something. I am not unobservant, and I cannot help seeing. From what you tell me, your sisters Briar and Patty are also implicated. My dear Verena, we must take steps."

"Yes," said Verena. "But what steps?"

"Let me think. It has relieved my mind to tell you even this much. You will keep your own counsel. I will talk to you again to-morrow morning."

Verena felt very uncomfortable. Of all the Dales she was the most open, in some ways the most innocent. She thought well of all the world. She adored her sisters and her father, and now also her aunt, Miss Tredgold. She was the sort of girl who would walk through life without a great deal of sorrow or a great deal of perplexity. The right path would attract her; the wrong would always be repellent to her. Temptation, therefore, would not come in a severe guise to Verena Dale. She was guarded against it by the sweetness and purity and innocence of her nature. But now for the first time it seemed to the young girl that the outlook was dark. Her aunt's words absolutely bewildered her. Her aunt suspected Pauline, Pen, Briar, and Patty of concealing something. But what had they to conceal? It is true that when Aunt Sophia first arrived they had felt a certain repugnance to her society, a desire to keep out of her way, and a longing for the old wild, careless, slovenly days. But surely long ere this such foolish ideas had died a natural death. They all loved Aunt Sophia now; what could they have to conceal?

"I dare not talk about it to the younger girls. I don't want to get into Pen's confidence. Pen, of all the children, suits me least. The people to whom I must appeal are therefore Briar or Patty, or Pauline herself. Patty and Briar are devoted to each other. The thought in one heart seems to have its counterpart in that of the other. They might even be twins, so deeply are they attached. No; the only one for me to talk to is Pauline. But what can I say to her? And Pauline is not well. At least, she is well and she is not well. Nevertheless I will go and see her. I will find her now."

Verena went into the nursery. Pauline was sometimes there. She was fond of sitting by the cosy nursery fire with a book in her hand, which of late she only pretended to read. Verena opened the nursery door and poked in her bright head and face.

"Come in, Miss Renny, come in," said nurse.

"I am not going to stay, nurse. Ah, Marjorie, my pet! Come and give me a sweet kiss."

The little baby sister toddled across the floor. Verena lifted her in her arms and kissed her affectionately.

"I thought perhaps Miss Pauline was here, nurse. Do you happen to know where she is?"

"Miss Pauline has a very bad headache," said nurse—"so bad that I made her go and lie down; and I have just lit a bit of fire in her bedroom, for she is chilly, too, poor pet! Miss Pauline hasn't been a bit herself since that nasty accident."

"I am sure she hasn't; but I did not know she was suffering from headache. I will go to her."

Verena ran along the passage. Her own room faced south; Pauline's, alongside of it, had a window which looked due east. Verena softly opened the door. The chamber was tiny, but it was wonderfully neat and cheerful. A bright fire burned in the small grate. Pauline was lying partly over on her side; her face was hidden. Her dark hair was tumbled about the pillow.

"Paulie, it is I," said Verena. "Are you awake?"

"Oh, yes," said Pauline.

She turned round almost cheerfully. A cloud seemed to vanish from her face.

"I am so glad you have come, Renny," she said. "I see so little of you lately. Get up on the bed, won't you, and lie near me?"

"Of course I love to be with you, but I thought——"

"Oh! don't think anything," said Pauline. "Just get on the bed and cuddle up close, close to me. And let us imagine that we are back in the old happy days before Aunt Sophy came."

Verena did not say anything. She got on the bed, flung her arms round Pauline's neck, and strained her sister to her heart.

"I love you so much!" she said.

"Do you, Renny? That is very, very sweet of you."

"And you love me, don't you, Paulie?"

"I—I don't know."

"Pauline! You don't know? You don't know if you love me or not?"

"I don't think that I love anybody, Renny."

"Oh, Paulie! then there must be something dreadfully bad the matter with you."

Pauline buried her face in Verena's soft white neck and lay quiet.

"Does your head ache very badly, Paulie?"

"Pretty badly; but it is not too bad for us to talk—that is, if you will keep off the unpleasant subjects."

"But what unpleasant subjects can there be? I don't understand you, Paulie. I cannot think of anything specially unpleasant to talk of now."

"You are a bit of a goose, you know," replied Pauline with a smile.

"Am I? I didn't know it. But what are the subjects we are not to talk about?"

"Oh, you must know! Aunt Sophia, for instance, and that awful time at Easterhaze, and the most terrible of all terrible days when I went to the White Bay, and Nancy King, and—and my birthday. I can't talk of these subjects. I will talk of anything else—of baby Marjorie, and how pretty she grows; how fond we are of nurse, and of father, and—oh!"

Pauline burst into a little laugh.

"Do you know that John is courting Betty? I know he is. He went up to her the other day in the garden and put his hand on her shoulder, and when he thought no one was by he kissed her. I hid behind the hedge, and I had the greatest difficulty to keep back a shout of merriment. Isn't it fun?"

"I suppose so," said Verena. "But, Pauline, what you say makes me unhappy. I wish I might talk out to you."

Pauline raised herself on her elbow and looked full into Verena's face.

"What about?" she asked.

Verena did not speak for a minute.

"Where are your dresses?" she asked suddenly.

"My dresses! You silly girl! In that cupboard, of course. I am getting tidy. You know I would do anything I possibly could to please Aunt Sophy. I can't do big things to please her—I never shall be able to—so I do little things. I am so tidy that I am spick-and-span. I hate and loathe it; but I wouldn't leave a pin about for anything. You open that door and look for yourself. Do you see my skirts?"

Verena got off the bed and opened the cupboard door. Pauline had about half-a-dozen skirts, and they all hung neatly on their respective hooks. Amongst them was the thick blue serge which she had worn on the day when she had gone to the White Bay. Verena felt her heart beating fast. She felt the color rush into her cheeks. She paused for a moment as if to commune with her own heart. Then her mind was made up.

"What are you doing, Renny?" said her sister. "How funny of you to have gone into the cupboard!"

For Verena had absolutely vanished. She stood in the cupboard, and Pauline from the bed heard a rustle. The rustling grew louder, and Pauline wondered what it meant. A moment later Verena, her face as red as a turkey-cock, came out.

"Paulie," she said—"Paulie, there is no good going on like this. You have got to explain. You have got to get a load off your mind. You have got to do it whether you like it or not. How did you come by this? How—did—you—come—by—this?"

As Verena spoke she held in her open palm the long-lost thimble. Poor Pauline had not the most remote idea that the thimble was still in the pocket of the blue serge dress. She had, indeed, since the day of her accident, forgotten its existence.

"Where did you get it?" she asked, her face very white, her eyes very startled.

"In the pocket of the dress you wore on the day you were nearly drowned in the White Bay."

"I told you not to mention that day," said Pauline. Her whole face changed. "I remember," she said slowly, but she checked herself. The words reached her lips, but did not go beyond them. "Put it down, Verena," she said. "Put it there on the mantelpiece."

"Then you won't tell me how you got it? It is not yours. You know it belongs to Aunt Sophy."

"And it is not yours, Renny, and you have no right to interfere. And what is more, I desire you not to interfere. I don't love anybody very much now, but I shall hate you if you interfere in this matter."

Verena laid the thimble on the mantelpiece.

"You can leave me, Renny. I am a very bad girl; I don't pretend I am anything else, but I won't talk to you now."

"Oh!" said poor Verena. "Oh!"

Before she reached the door of the room she had burst into tears. Her agony was so great at Pauline's behavior to her that her tears became sobs, and her sobs almost cries of pain. Pauline, lying on the bed, did not take the least notice of Verena. She turned her head away, and when her sister had left the room and shut the door Pauline sprang from the bed and turned the key in the lock.

"Now, I am safe," she thought. "What is the matter with me? There never was anything so hard as the heart that is inside me. I don't care a bit whether Renny cries or whether she doesn't cry. I don't care a bit what happens to any one. I only want to be let alone."

At dinner-time Pauline appeared, and tried to look as though nothing had happened. The other girls looked neat and pretty. They had not the least idea through what a tragedy Verena and Pauline were now living. Verena showed marks of her storm of weeping, and her face was terribly woebegone. Miss Tredgold guessed that things were coming to a crisis, and she was prepared to wait.

Now, Miss Tredgold was a very good woman; she was also a very wise and a very temperate one. She was filled with a spirit of forbearance, and with the beautiful grace of charity. She was all round as good a woman as ever lived; but she was not a mother. Had she been a mother she would have gone straight to Pauline and put her arms round her, and so acted that the hard little heart would have melted, and the words that could not pass her lips would have found themselves able to do so, and the misery and the further sin would have been averted. But instead of doing anything of this sort, Miss Tredgold resolved to assemble the children after breakfast the next day, and to talk to them in a very plain way indeed; to assemble all before her, and to entreat the guilty ones to confess, promising them absolute forgiveness in advance. Having made up her mind, she felt quite peaceful and happy, and went down to interview her brother-in-law.

Mr. Dale still continued to like his study. He made no further objection to the clean and carefully dusted room. If any one had asked him what was passing in his mind, he might have said that the spirits of Homer and Virgil approached the sacred precincts where he wrote about them and lived for them night after night, and that they put the place in order. He kept the rough words which he had printed in large capitals on the night when he had returned to his study still in their place of honor on the wall, and he worked himself with a new sense of zest and freedom.

Miss Tredgold entered the room without knocking.

"Well, Henry," she said, "and how goes the world?"

"The world of the past comes nearer and nearer," was his reply. "I often feel that I scarcely touch the earth of the nineteenth century. The world of the past is a very lovely world."

"Not a bit better than the world of the present," said Miss Sophia. "Now, Henry, if you can come from the clouds for a minute or two——"

"Eh? Ah! What are you saying?"

"From the clouds, my dear brother, right down to this present prosaic and workaday world. Can you, and will you give me five minutes of your attention?"

"Eh? Yes, of course, Sophia."

Mr. Dale sat very still, drumming with his right hand on his pad of blotting-paper. Miss Tredgold looked at him; then she crossed the room, took away the pad, his pen and ink, the open volume of Homer, and removed them to another table.

"Sit with your back to them; keep your mind clear and listen to me, Henry."

"To be sure."

"I want you to come into the schoolroom after breakfast to-morrow morning."

"To the schoolroom?"

"I have a reason. I should like you to be present."

"But it is just my most important hour. You commence lessons with the girls—when, Sophia?"

"We sit down to our work at nine o'clock. Prayers take ten minutes. I should like you to be present at prayers—to conduct Divine worship in your own house on that occasion."

"Oh, my dear Sophia! Not that I have any objection—of course."

"I should hope you have no objection. You will take prayers, and afterwards you will assist me in a most painful task which lies before me."

"Painful, Sophia? Oh, anything I can do to help you, my dear sister, I shall be delighted to undertake. What is it? I beg of you to be brief, for time does fly. It was only a quarter of an hour ago that I found Homer——"