"I never had no time to go to school," she said, "and I don't want to, either."

"But," said Miss Unity, greatly distressed, "you can't read your Bible, then, Keturah."

"Mother, she reads the Bible," said Kettles, as though that were sufficient.

Miss Unity went upstairs full of uneasy thought. What could be done? She could not send Keturah to school. It would be absurd to provide Betty with help, and then to take it away for half the day. She could not ask Betty to teach her. Finally, she could not let the child remain in this dreadful state of ignorance. There was one way out of the difficulty which stared Miss Unity in the face, however much she tried to avoid seeing it. She could teach Keturah herself in the evening after her work was done. Miss Unity shrank from it. She had never been brought close to poor people, and she had never taught anyone anything in her life. She was as shy of Kettles as though she were a grown-up woman, and it was altogether a most distasteful idea. Do what she would, however, she could not get rid of it. Her sense of duty at length conquered, as usual, and Keturah, with very clean hands and an immense white apron, appeared in the sitting-room one night to take her first lesson.

Miss Unity felt very nervous at first, and it was strange to have Kettles so close to her, but by degrees this wore off, and she even began to feel a sort of pleasure in the lessons. It was no trouble to teach her, for, as Betty said, she was "one of the sharp ones," and was, besides, eager to do her best. Not because she wished to know how to read, which she rather despised, but because she wanted very much to please her mistress, for whom she had a great admiration.

So things went on very well at Nearminster, both upstairs and down-stairs, and the time soon came when Miss Unity found herself looking forward to the knock at the door, which was followed by the appearance of Kettles and her spelling-book. This interest partly made up for the loss of Pennie, which had left a sad blank in Miss Unity's life at first. Here was another little living creature she could teach, rebuke, praise, and care for, and if Kettles could not fill Pennie's place in Miss Unity's heart, she could at least give it enough to do to keep it warm and active.

Although she would not have confessed it, her interest in the black children of Karawayo began to fade just now, and though she still attended the Working Societies and kept the missionary-box on her hall table, she was much more really concerned about Keturah's first pot-hooks and hangers.

Meanwhile the new maid showed such marked progress in household matters that Betty gradually allowed her to appear upstairs, and on some occasions to open the door to visitors.

"What a nice, bright little maid you have!" said Mrs Merridew, who was calling one afternoon. "One of the Easney school-children, I suppose. Country girls are so superior."

"I've always noticed that," said the dean, as Miss Unity paused before replying, "the town children are sharp enough, but they're generally wicked. And the country children are honest and steady enough, but as a rule they're so dull."

Miss Unity listened with the respect she always showed to any remarks of the dean as he went on to enlarge on the subject. Once she would have agreed with him as a matter of course, but now she had a sort of feeling that she really knew more about it than he did. What would he say if he knew that the bright little maid Mrs Merridew had admired came from the very depths of Anchor and Hope Alley?

Time went quickly by, till it was nearly a month since Pennie had gone away, and Keturah had come to help Betty. She had come "on trial" as a stop-gap only, but no one said a word about her leaving yet. Certainly Betty's wrist was still weak, and this gave Miss Unity an excuse she was glad to have. She almost dreaded the day when Betty should put off her sling and declare herself quite well, for that would mean that there was no longer any reason for keeping Keturah.

"I am thinking, Betty," she said one morning, "of asking the young ladies from Easney to come over to tea to-morrow. Miss Pennie will be interested to see how well Keturah has got on."

Betty brightened up at once.

"I'll see and make some hot-cakes then, Miss," she said; "them as Miss Pennie likes."

"And I want you," added Miss Unity, "to let Keturah bring up the tea-things. The young ladies don't know she is here, and it will be a nice surprise for them."

Betty entering heart and soul into the plot, which Miss Unity had been considering for some days, a letter was despatched to Easney, the cakes made, and Keturah carefully drilled as to her behaviour.

Pennie and Nancy had been expecting the invitation, and were quite ready for it when it came, with Kettles' new boots and stockings made into a parcel. Andrew might drive them into Nearminster and leave them at Miss Unity's for an hour, Miss Grey said, and she hoped they would be sure to start back punctually.

"How funny it seems," said Pennie as the cathedral towers came in sight, "to be going back to Nearminster!"

"Would you like to be going to stop there again?" asked Nancy.

"Well of course I like being at home best," answered Pennie, "but there were some things I liked at Nearminster. Let me see," counting on her fingers, "there were Miss Unity, and old. Nurse, and Betty, and Sabine Merridew, and Kettles, and the Cathedral, and the market, and the College. That's five people and three things. And what I didn't like were needlework and dancing, and the dean, and Monsieur Deville, and all the other Merridews."

"I hope Betty's made hot-cakes for tea," said Nancy as the carriage stopped at Miss Unity's door.

"How can she, with only one hand?" said Pennie; and then the door opened and there was Betty herself, with her arm still in a sling, and a face shining with welcome.

"Lor', Miss Pennie, it do seem natural to see you again, to be sure," she said with a giggle of delight. "And Miss Nancy's rosy cheeks too. The mistress is expecting you; run upstairs to her, my dears."

She went towards the kitchen with a shake of the head and a short laugh, as if she had some inward cause for amusement.

"Betty seems to like having a sprain," said Nancy, looking at her over the balusters. "I never saw her look so pleased or laugh so much."

Miss Unity's welcome was quite as hearty as Betty's, but she too seemed a little odd, and inclined to give nervous glances at the door as though she expected some one to come in.

"Would you like us to go and help Betty bring up tea?" asked Nancy, noticing this. "We should like it tremendously if you would let us."

She started up as she spoke, and would have rushed down-stairs in another moment, if Miss Unity had not caught hold of her hand.

"No, my dear; no, thank you; certainly not," she said hurriedly. "Betty has some one to help her."

A little disappointed, Nancy sat down again. Her eyes fell on the parcel she held, and she frowned at Pennie to draw her attention to it. Pennie was looking dreamily round the sitting-room with all its old familiar objects. She wondered where Kettles' clothes, which she had left on the side-table, had been put. What a long time it seemed since she had sat sewing in that high-backed chair! Brought back to the present by Nancy's deeply frowning glance, she gave a little start and said hurriedly:

"Nancy and I have brought some new boots and stockings for Kettles. May we give them to her with the clothes?"

"And will she be at the College?" put in Nancy, "or can we go to Anchor and Hope Alley?"

Miss Unity's head gave another nervous jerk in the direction of the door. She had heard a footstep coming upstairs, which was not Betty's.

"We will see about it after tea," she said. "You shall certainly see the little girl, as I promised you."

The door opened as she spoke, and a small maid-servant in a tall cap appeared, bearing a tray. Betty hovered in the background with a face in which pride and laughter struggled together.

Kettles was not used to her new style of dress yet, and held herself stiffly as though she had been dressed up for a joke. The tangled hair which used to fall low on her forehead was tightly brushed back and tucked up in a net. Her face looked bare and unshaded, and several degrees lighter by reason of yellow soap and scrubbing. It was surmounted by a cap of Betty's, which had been cut to fit her, but was still much too tall for such a small person. Nothing remained of the old Kettles but her eyes, which still had the quick observant look in them of some nimble animal, as she advanced in triumph with her tray.

The children stared in surprise at this strange little figure without any idea that they had seen it before, while Miss Unity and Betty watched them with expectant smiles.

"This is my new little maid," said Miss Unity.

Kettles dropped a curtsy, and having put down her tray, stood with her arms hanging straight beside her, and her bright eyes fixed on the children.

All at once Pennie gave her sister a nudge.

"Why, don't you see?" she exclaimed; "I really do believe it's Kettles!"

"We call her Keturah," said Miss Unity smiling kindly. "She is a very good little girl. Keturah, this is the young lady who made you all these nice clothes. You must say 'thank you' to her."

Pennie hung shyly back. She did not want to be thanked, and she was quite afraid of Kettles now that she was so neat and clean.

"Do you like them?" she murmured.

Keturah chuckled faintly. "They're fine," she said. "I've got 'em all on. I don't never feel cold now."

"And," continued Miss Unity, "this other young lady, whom I think you saw once at Mrs Margetts', has been kind enough to think of bringing you some nice warm boots and stockings."

She looked at Nancy as she spoke, but for once Nancy remained in the background, clutching her parcel and staring at Kettles over Pennie's shoulder. The old Kettles, who had been in her mind all this time, was gone, and Keturah, clean, tidy, and proper, stood in her place. It was too surprising a change to be understood in a moment, and Nancy was not at all sure that she liked it.

Kettles was silent when the parcel was at length opened and presented, perhaps with excess of joy.

"Well I never!" said Betty, advancing to examine the gift. "Keturah's in luck I will say. Dear, dear, what nice stout boots, to be sure! Well, now," with a nudge to the silent figure, "she'll do her best to deserve such kindness, I know. Haven't you got a word to say to the dear young ladies?"

But Keturah could not be made to speak a word. She dropped her little curtsy, and stood as if turned to stone, clasping the boots and stockings to her chest.

"She ain't tongue-tied; not as a rule," said Betty apologetically to the children; "but she hasn't been much used to presents, and it's a little too much for her."

"I think," said Miss Unity coming to the rescue, "that we must have our tea now, Betty, or the young ladies will have no time—and Keturah can go and try on her new boots and stockings."

"They're my size," said Nancy, speaking for the first time since Keturah's appearance. "I think they'll be sure to fit."

Betty and her little maid having hurried out of the room, Miss Unity's tea-table became the object of interest. It was always very attractive to the children, because it was so different to school-room tea at Easney.

The dark deep colours of the old Derby china seemed to match the plum-cake in richness; there were Pennie's hot-cakes in a covered dish, and Nancy's favourite jam in a sparkling cut-glass tub. In its way, though very different, it was as good as having tea with old Nurse at the College. On this occasion it was unusually pleasant, because there was so much to ask and hear about Keturah.

"Aren't you glad," said Nancy, when the whole story had been fully explained, "that you've got Keturah instead of a new mandarin?"

"Nancy!" said Pennie, shocked at this bold question.

But Nancy was quite unabashed.

"You know, don't you," she said to Miss Unity, "that it was Pennie's first plan to buy you a new one. The boys promised to help, but I didn't. And then all sorts of things happened, and there was hardly any money in the box. And then we saw Kettles. And then I made Pennie give up the plan, and save for the boots and stockings. But we never thought then that she'd ever have anything to do with you."

"It was very good of Pennie to wish to get me a new mandarin," said Miss Unity, her eyes resting affectionately on her god-daughter.

"She wanted to ever so much," continued Nancy. "She wouldn't buy a book she wanted at the fair, on purpose to save her money. But after all, Kettles is much nicer to have, because you can do all sorts of things with her, and the mandarin could only nod his head."

"If it had not been for Pennie," said Miss Unity, "I should never have heard or known anything about Keturah. She has given me a new maid instead of a new mandarin."

"But she's partly from Nancy too," said Pennie, "because you see she made me like Kettles and give up the other."

"She's partly from Pennie, and partly from me, and partly from Dickie too," said Nancy thoughtfully. "If Dickie hadn't had the measles Pennie wouldn't have stopped here, and if she hadn't stopped here you would never have heard of Kettles. Dickie did put a penny into the box out of her slug-money. She took it out again, but she wanted to help with the mandarin. And after all she's helped to give you Kettles."

"Will she always stay here," asked Pennie, "after Betty's arm gets well?"

"If Betty finds her useful I should like her to stay," said Miss Unity, but as she spoke she felt that she should never have the courage to suggest it.

The matter was, however, taken out of her hands by Nancy, who, as soon as Betty appeared to take away the tea-things, put the question point-blank:

"You'll like Kettles to stay, won't you, Betty? because what's the good of making her look so nice if she's to go back to Anchor and Hope Alley?"

"I'm quite agreeable to it, Miss Nancy, if it suits the mistress," said Betty meekly. So the thing was settled at once. Kettles, out of Anchor and Hope Alley, had become Keturah, Miss Unity's maid in the Close.

"She looks very nice now she's Keturah," said Nancy, as the little girls drove away, "but she isn't funny any more. There was something I always liked about Kettles."

And Kettles she always remained to the children at Easney, though the name was never heard at Nearminster.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE HOME-COMING.

"I don't believe I ever was so glad of anything in all my life," said Nancy.

She was sitting with Pennie in a favourite place of theirs, a broad window-seat at the end of a passage which looked out on the garden. It was a snug private sort of corner, and when they had any particular bit of work, or any matter they wished to talk over without the boys, it was always their habit to retire there. This morning something very special had happened. A letter from mother to Miss Grey, inclosing one for the children, to say that they were all coming back on Monday. To-day was Saturday. Only one more day and two more nights before mother and father, Dickie, baby, and nurse, would be in their right places, and the house would feel natural again.

The boys, after hearing the news, had at once rushed upstairs to the museum and had not been seen since, though, as Nancy said, there was nothing more they could possibly do to it, unless they made it untidy for the pleasure of putting it straight. For the museum was now in very fine order, with all its shelves full, and all its specimens neatly labelled and arranged. The doctor himself had climbed the steep staircase to pay a visit to it, and squeezed himself with difficulty through the low doorway. True, there was only one corner in it where he could stand upright, because the roof sloped so much and he was so tall; but if it had been a palace he could not have admired it more, or looked more really pleased with everything in it.

The boys, therefore, were quite satisfied; there could not be a better thing to celebrate the return than to open the museum. But Pennie and Nancy were quite outside all this, and they had a strong feeling that they too would like to do something remarkable on Monday. Only what should it be?

"It's of no use at all to keep on saying you're glad," said Pennie. "Of course we're glad, but what can we do to show it?"

"Couldn't we decorate the house," said Nancy, "like Christmas?"

"It would be better than nothing," said Pennie, but she evidently did not think it much of an idea.

"What do you call those things that emperors drive under when they come back from wars?" asked Nancy suddenly.

"Laurels," suggested Pennie doubtfully.

"No, no," said Nancy, "you know what I mean. I've heard you read about them to Miss Grey in history."

"Canopies," said Pennie after deep thought. But that was wrong too. Nancy bit her lips with impatience.

"It's something to do with an arch," she said, "only there's another word before it."

"I know," said Pennie, "you mean a triumphant arch."

"That's it," exclaimed Nancy with great relief. "Well, why couldn't we make a triumphant arch over the white gate for them to drive under?"

Pennie approved of this.

"If the boys would help," she added; "you and I couldn't do it alone, we shouldn't have time. And besides we should want their hammers and things."

"We must ask them at once," said Nancy springing up. "They must be tired of staring at that stupid museum."

The boys were quite ready, for there really was nothing more to do to the museum, and they were glad of a change. The next person to be appealed to was Andrew, but here came an unexpected difficulty. Andrew would not allow a single twig to be cut while master was away.

"But we must have ever-greens," insisted Ambrose, "it's to make a triumphant arch for father and mother."

But Andrew was firm. They might make as many triumphant arches as they liked after master was at home, but he couldn't cut ever-greens without orders.

"It wouldn't be a bit of use afterwards," said David. "People never have triumphant arches after they get back. We must have some now."

"Not from me, Master David," was Andrew's answer, and he left the children in a downcast group and went on his way. Poor Nancy was almost in tears. It was very hard to have her plan so suddenly destroyed, but she knew that Andrew was not to be persuaded to change his mind.

"It's a shame!" she exclaimed with heated cheeks. "I'm sure mother and father would like us to have them. I shall go and ask Miss Grey."

She ran off towards the house, and Pennie followed more slowly. The boys, easily consoled by remembering that there was still the museum, gave up the triumphant arch without any more effort, and went about their own affairs.

Nancy soon came back.

"Well?" said Pennie inquiringly.

"Miss Grey's just as bad as Andrew," said Nancy moodily. "She says she couldn't give us leave to have ever-greens in father's absence."

"Why, then, we must give it up," said Pennie soothingly, "and think of something else."

"There is nothing else," said Nancy.

It made her feel cross to see Pennie take it so quietly, and, refusing to go into the house with her, she marched off rather sulkily by herself. First she wandered listlessly about the garden, casting looks of disdain at Andrew, who was quite unaware of them, and then she went down to the white gate leading into the road, and thought how beautiful the triumphant arch would have looked.

Presently she climbed on to the top of the gate, and sat there feeling very cross with all the world—with Andrew, with Miss Grey, with the boys, and even with Pennie because she was not cross too. Engaged in these moody thoughts, she at length saw a large figure coming slowly down the road towards her. It wore black baggy clothes and a wideawake hat, and it often stopped and made lines in the dusty road with the stout stick it carried. By all this Nancy knew that it was Dr Budge, and as she sat there with her chin resting on her hand she wondered how often he would stop before he reached her, to make pictures in the dust.

She thought she would count. And she began to say one, two, three, aloud, so that she might remember. The doctor got nearer and nearer, quite unconscious of the little figure on the vicarage gate.

"Five," said Nancy's clear little voice, breaking in on his reflections as he came to a stand-still near her.

She was so used to be unnoticed by him that she was surprised to see him look quickly at her, as though he knew who she was. Not being at all shy she at once gave him a cheerful little nod.

"Five what?" asked the doctor.

"I was counting how many times you stopped before you came to the gate," said Nancy.

Dr Budge laughed. "Well, you're not very busy then, I suppose?" he said, "or is this the way you generally spend your mornings?"

"I'm not at all busy," said Nancy in an injured tone as she remembered her disappointment, "but I should like to be. I wanted to be very busy indeed, but I can't, because of that tiresome Andrew."

The doctor stood facing the gate, his stout stick in his hand, and his eyes fixed on her quite as if he knew who she was.

"He doesn't look as if he thought I was David to-day," said Nancy to herself; and encouraged by the doctor's attention she went on confidentially.

"You see, father and mother and the little ones are coming back on Monday, and the boys are going to open the museum, but Pennie and I haven't anything to do with that, and we wanted to make a triumphant arch and decorate the house, and Andrew won't let us have any ever-greens."

"A triumphant arch, eh!" said the doctor, and Nancy wondered why he smiled as he said it, as though it were something odd; "but wouldn't it be difficult for you to make that?"

"The boys would help us," said Nancy; "but it's no use thinking of it, because we can't have any ever-greens."

"It's a splendid idea," said the doctor thoughtfully. "Whose was it?"

"Mine," said Nancy proudly. She began to like Dr Budge very much.

"Why shouldn't you go up into the woods," said he after a moment. "There's plenty of ivy and holly there, and you might get as much as you liked."

"We mus'n't go there alone," said Nancy sadly, "and Miss Grey couldn't walk so far, and if she could it's too late now, for it would take us all the afternoon to get there and back, and to-morrow's Sunday."

"But you could get up early, I suppose, on Monday morning and put up the triumphant arch," persisted the doctor.

Nancy looked quickly at him with a gleam of hope in her eyes.

"If," she began, "someone could go with us—" She stopped, but the rest of the sentence was written on her face, and Dr Budge understood as well as though she had spoken it.

He nodded gravely.

"If Miss Grey gives leave," he said, "you can meet me at two o'clock at the corner of the road. And, of course, the boys are to come too."

"And Pennie," added Nancy. In her excitement she stood up on the bar of the gate as though she meant to fling herself upon the doctor's neck, but checking this impulse she climbed down and held out her hand to him.

"Thank you tremendously," she said very earnestly. "Miss Grey will be sure to let us go with you."

In this way the doctor proved himself a friend in need for the second time, and now Nancy and Pennie were loud in his praise as well as the boys. He knew so much about everything, as well as about Latin and Greek and museums. Where to find the best sort of ivy, how much would be wanted for the arch, and finally, how to get the bundle of ever-greens down the hill. He even produced out of one baggy pocket a ball of stout twine, and showed the children how to bind it all together and pull it along after them. He was the most delightful person to go out with. Miss Grey sometimes said "Not so much noise Nancy," or, "Remember you are a young lady;" but on this occasion Nancy made as much noise as she liked, scrambled about among the bushes, tore her frock, and enjoyed herself to the full.

The children went to bed happy in the thought that in spite of Andrew there was a big bundle of ever-greens in the barn, and that nothing would be wanting to the triumphant arch on Monday.

Very early in the morning it was all ready, and they stood round the white gate looking up at it with some pride, but also a little doubt.

"Doesn't it look rather wobbly?" said Nancy. "I thought pea-sticks wouldn't be strong enough, but Andrew wouldn't let us have anything else."

The ever-greens had been tied on with such a generous hand that their weight seemed a little too much for the triumphant arch, so that it trembled gently in the wind.

"Suppose," said Ambrose, "that it should fall just as father and mother drive through. And I don't believe," he added, "that Andrew, on the box, with his tall hat on, will be able to drive through without touching the top."

This seemed so likely, and was such an awful thought, that the children were silent for a moment. If Andrew's tall hat did knock against the arch it would certainly fall, and perhaps hurt the whole party.

"We must tell him to be sure to bend his head," said Pennie at last, "or it would be still better if he would take off his hat, but I'm afraid he wouldn't do that."

"Well, anyhow," said Nancy, "we can't alter it now, because we've got all the house to do. We must just leave it to chance."

Nancy was fond of leaving things to chance, and though this was a more serious matter than usual, the children at last agreed that there was nothing else to be done. The rest of the morning was spent in putting ivy and holly wherever it could be put, especially on the staircase leading up to the museum. David with his hammer nailed up wreaths and sprays as fast as Pennie and Nancy could make them, till the bare white walls were almost covered and had a very fine effect.

Ambrose meanwhile had shut himself into the school-room to carry out what he hoped would be the best idea of all. He wanted to draw the two first letters of his mother's name, MH, on cardboard, which were to be cut out, covered with ivy leaves, and put over the entrance to the museum. He could not, however, get it to look quite right, and was so long about it that the decorations upstairs were nearly finished.

"How are you getting on?" said Nancy, rushing in. You've been long enough to draw all the alphabet. "Well," she continued, looking over her brother's shoulder, "the H isn't so bad, but I shouldn't know what the other's meant for. It looks like a sort of curly insect."

"They're old English letters," said Ambrose proudly.

"Then you'd better have drawn new English ones," said Nancy, "no one will know what they mean."

"Mother will know," said Ambrose, "she's not a silly little girl like you."

"I hope she will," replied Nancy, "for it's just dinner-time, and you can't do any more. I'll help you to stick on the ivy leaves."

Nancy was always good-natured, although she said such tiresome things.

The letters were not quite so plain to read as Ambrose had hoped, when they were put up over the museum door, but still they had an ornamental look, and gave a finishing touch to the decorations.

Nothing remained after dinner was over but to wait until four o'clock, by which time the carriage might be expected to arrive from Nearminster station. Long before that the children were ready in their places, standing two on each side of the "triumphant" arch, which nodded proudly over the white gate.

"They've lost the train, I expect," said Ambrose, "and Andrew's waiting for the next."

"I sha'n't give them up yet," said Nancy, "because the church clock hasn't struck four."

"There it is!" exclaimed Ambrose as the first strokes of the hour sounded deeply from the tower near.

"Now they may be here any minute," said David solemnly, "now, don't let us forget about Andrew's hat."

But it was yet another quarter of an hour before Ruby's white nose was seen coming steadily down the road. As it got nearer the excitement at the gate grew so high that it did not seem likely anyone would think about Andrew's hat, or of anything beside shouts of welcome, and exclamations.

"There's Dickie on the box; she's holding the whip. Mother's got baby on her knee. They've seen us. They've seen the arch, hurrah!"

Now they were quite near, and now it suddenly appeared that one person's feelings about passing through the "triumphant" arch had not been considered. This was Ruby. In all his long life he had gone many and many a time through the white gate, but never had he seen it adorned by bunches of green bushy things which shook in the wind. He did not mind the jumping shouting little figures on each side of it in the least, but the "triumphant" arch was an insult to a horse who had lived many years at the vicarage, and knew every stick and stone near it. He planted his fore feet firmly on the ground, put his head down, and refused to stir.

"Come, my lad," said Andrew, "it's nowt to harm ye."

But Ruby would not be reasoned with, or coaxed, or forced with the whip.

It a little spoiled the triumph of the arrival, and Mr and Mrs Hawthorne sat laughing in the carriage, while Andrew went through all the forms of persuasion he knew. But at last Mrs Hawthorne had a good thought.

"Never mind, Andrew," she said, "we will all get out here, and walk through this beautiful arch. Then you can drive round the other way to the stable with the luggage."

So after all it had not been made in vain, though to walk through it was perhaps not quite so triumphant as driving would have been. It had, however, some advantages. It was easier to tell all the news and to ask all the questions as they walked up to the house together, than to shout them out running by the side of the carriage.

"I thought of the decorations," said Nancy as they entered the house, "and we all helped to put them up."

"But," added David, "we shouldn't have been able to get them at all, if Dr Budge hadn't helped us."

The decorations were very much admired, and Ambrose, who was nervously impatient to show the museum, soon thought that more than enough attention had been given to them. He grew quite vexed with Pennie and Nancy as they pointed out fresh beauties.

"Let mother and father come upstairs now," he said impatiently.

And at last they were on their way.

"What can you have to show us at the very top of the house?" asked their father as he climbed the last flight of steep stairs.

Ambrose and David had run on before, and now stood one on each side of the entrance, their whole figures big with importance, and too excited even to smile. Ambrose had prepared a speech, but he could not remember it all.

"We are glad to welcome you to the new museum at Easney," he said to his mother, "and, and—"

"And we hope," added David, "that you will declare it open, and allow it to be called the Mary Hawthorne Museum."

It was a moment which had been looked forward to with eagerness and delight during the past weeks, but when it really came it was even more satisfactory. When Mr and Mrs Hawthorne had left home the museum was a dusty neglected place which no one cared to enter; its very name seemed to mean trouble and disgrace; its empty shelves were like a painful reproach.

How different it looked now! Bright, clean, prosperous, with not a speck of dust anywhere, and as full as it could be of really interesting specimens. The proud little owners displayed its treasures eagerly, and there was a great deal to be told of how Dr Budge did this, and found that; his name came so often that Mrs Hawthorne said:

"I think it ought to be called the 'Budge' Museum, for the doctor seems to have had a great deal to do with it."

"He's had everything to do with it," said David; "but you see, we helped him first to find his jackdaw. That's how it all began."

"Well," said Mr Hawthorne putting his hand on Ambrose's shoulder, "I think it all began in another way. I hear that Dr Budge has had a good and industrious pupil while I have been away, and that has made him so willing to help you. I know now that I can trust Ambrose to do his best, even though he cannot quite learn Latin in a month."

There was only just room in the museum for the two boys and their father and mother, but the other children stood outside peeping in at the open door, and adding remarks from time to time.

"You didn't present mother with the key," said Nancy, "and she hasn't declared it open."

"Here it is!" said David hurriedly. He pulled a large rusty key out of his pocket.

"It's the apple-closet key really," he said in a low tone to his mother, "this door hasn't got one. You must just pretend to give it a sort of twist."

The party squeezed itself into the passage again, and Mrs Hawthorne with a flourish of the big key threw open the door and exclaimed:

"I declare this museum to be open, and that it is to be henceforth known as the Mary Hawthorne Museum."

The evening that followed the opening of the museum was counted by the children as one of the very nicest they had ever had. It was celebrated by sitting up to supper with their father and mother, and by telling and hearing all that had passed while they had been away.

"Nancy," said Pennie to her sister when it was all over and the two little girls were in bed, "all our plans are finished; we've done all we can for Kettles, and the boys have opened the museum. What shall we think of next?"

"Well, you're not sorry they're finished, are you?" said Nancy, for Pennie had spoken sadly; "that's what we've been trying to do all the time."

"Of course I'm glad," said Pennie, "and yet I'm sorry too. It's like reading a book you like very much. You want to finish it, but how sorry you are when you come to the end."

THE END.