Yes, doubtless these were forbidden fruits; but she could not help, as she paced alone on the terrace, contrasting her mode of education with that which was put within the reach of her friends Molly and Isabel, and of Maggie herself. How dull, after all, were her lessons! The daily governess, who was always tired when she arrived, taught her out of books which even Molly and Isabel declared to be out of date; who yawned a good deal; who was always quite, quite kind, but at the same time had no enthusiasm; who said, "Yes, my dears; very nicely done," but never even punished; and who only uttered just that mild phrase which was monotonous by reason of its repetition. Where was the good of reading Racine aloud to Miss Beverley day after day, and not being able to talk French properly at all? And where was the use of struggling through German with the same instructress?

Then the drawing-master who came from Warwick: he was better than Miss Beverley; but, after all, he taught what Molly and Isabel said was now quite exploded—namely, freehand—and he only came once a week. Merry's passion was for music more than for drawing; it was Cicely who pleased Mr. Vaughan, the drawing-master, best. Then there was the music-master, Mr. Bennett; but he never would allow her to sing a note, and he taught very dull, old-fashioned pieces. How sick she was of pieces, and of playing them religiously before her father at least once a week! Her dancing was better, for she had to go to Warwick to a dancing-class, and there were other girls, and they made it exciting. But compared to school, and in especial Mrs. Ward's school, Merry's mode of instruction was very dull. After all, Molly and Isabel, although they would be quite poor girls, had a better time than she and Cicely with all their wealth.

"A penny for your thoughts, my love," said her father at that moment, and Merry turned her charming little face towards him.

"I ought not to tell them to you, dad," she said, "for they are—I'm ever so sorry—they are discontented thoughts."

"You discontented, my dear child! I did feel that I had two little girls unacquainted with the meaning of the word."

"Well, I'll just tell you, and get it over, dad. I'll be perfectly all right once I have told you."

"Then talk away my child; you know I have your very best interests at heart."

"Indeed I know that, my darling father. The fact is this," said Merry; "I"——She stopped; she glanced at her father. He was a most determined and yet a most absolutely kind man. Merry adored him; nevertheless, she was a tiny little bit in awe of him.

"What is the matter?" he said, looking round at her. "Has your companion, that nice little Miss Howland, been putting silly thoughts into your head? If so, she mustn't come here again."

"Oh father, don't say that! You'll make me quite miserable. And indeed she has not been putting silly thoughts into my head."

"Well, then, what are you so melancholy about?"

"The fact is—there, I will have it out," said Merry—"I'd give anything in the world to go to school."

"What?" said Mr. Cardew.

"Yes," said Merry, gaining courage as she spoke; "Molly and Isabel are going, and Aneta Lysle is there, and Maggie Howland is there, and I'd like to go, too, and I'm sure Cicely would; and, oh, father! I know it can't be; but you asked me what was the matter. Well, that's the matter. I do want most awfully to go to school!"

"Has that girl Miss Howland been telling you that you ought to go to school?"

"Indeed no, she has not breathed such a word. But I am always interested, as you know—or as perhaps you don't know—in schools; and I have always asked—and so has Cicely—Molly and Isabel to tell us all about their lives at school."

"I did not know it, my little Merry."

"Well, yes, father, Cicely and I have been curious; for, you see, the life is so very different from ours. And so to-day, when Maggie and I were in the picture-gallery, I asked her to tell me about Aylmer House, and she—she did."

"She made a glowing picture, evidently," said Mr. Cardew.

"Oh father, it must be so lovely! Think of it, father—to get the best music and the best art, and to be under the influence of a woman like Mrs. Ward. Oh, it must be good! Do you know, father, that every girl in her school has an East End girl to look after and help; so that some of the riches of the West should be felt and appreciated by those who live in the East. Oh father! I could not help feeling a little jealous."

"Yes, darling, I quite understand. And you find your life with Miss Beverley and Mr. Vaughan and Mr. Bennett a little monotonous compared to the variety which a school-life affords?"

"That is it, father darling."

"I don't blame you in the least, Merry—not in the very least; but the fact is, I have my own reasons for not approving of school-life. I prefer girls who are trained at home. If, indeed, you had to earn your living it would be a different matter. But you will be rich, dear, some day, and——Well, I am glad you've spoken to me. Don't think anything more about it. Come in to lunch now."

"I'll try not to think of it, father; and you're not really angry?"

"Angry!" said Mr. Gardew. "I'll never be angry with you, Merry, when you tell me all the thoughts of your heart."

"And you won't—you won't," said Merry in an anxious tone—"vex darling mother by talking to her about this?"

"I make no promises whatsoever You have trusted me; you must continue to trust me."

"I do; indeed I do! You are not angry with dear, nice Miss Howland, are you, father?"

"Angry with her! Why should I be? Most certainly not. Now, come in to lunch, love."

At that meal Mr. Cardew did his very utmost to be pleasant to Merry; and as there could be no man more charming when he pleased, soon the little girl was completely under his influence, and forgot that fascinating picture of school-life which Maggie had so delicately painted for her edification.

Soon after lunch Mrs. Cardew and Cicely returned; and Merry, the moment she was with her sister, felt her sudden fit of the blues departing, and ran out gaily with Cicely into the garden. They were seated comfortably in a little arbor, when Isabel's voice was heard calling them. She was hot and panting. She had come up to tell them of the proposed arrangements for the afternoon, and to beg of them both to come immediately to the rectory.

"How more than delightful!" said Merry.—"Cicely, you stay still, for you're a little tired. I'll run up to the house at once and ask father and mother if we may go."

"Yes, please do," said Isabel; "and I'll rest here for a little, for really the walk up to your house is somewhat fatiguing." She mopped her hot forehead as she spoke. "You might as well come back with me, both of you girls," she added. But she only spoke to Cicely, for Merry had already vanished.

"Father! mother!" said the young girl, bursting abruptly into their presence. "Belle Tristram has just come up to ask us to spend the afternoon at the rectory. Tea in the hay-field, and all kinds of fun! May we go?"

"Of course you may, dears," said Mrs. Cardew at once. "We intended motoring, but we can do that another day."

Mr. Cardew looked dubious for a moment. Then he said, "All right, only you must not be out too late. I'll send the pony-trap down to the rectory for you at half-past eight o'clock."

"Oh, but, father," said Merry, "we can walk home."

"No dear; I will send the little carriage. Now, go and enjoy yourself, my child."

He looked at her with great affection, and she felt herself reddening. Had she hurt that most dear father after all? Oh! no school that ever existed was worth that.



CHAPTER VII.

DISCONTENT.

On that special afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Cardew happened to be alone. The girls had gone down to the rectory. This was not Mrs. Cardew's At Home day, and she therefore did not expect any visitors. She was a little tired after her long drive to Warwick, and was glad when her husband suggested that they should go out and have tea all alone together under one of the wide-spreading elm-trees.

Mrs. Cardew said to herself that this was almost like the old, old times of very long ago. She and her husband had enjoyed an almost ideal married life. They had never quarreled; they had never even had a small disagreement. They were blessed abundantly with this world's good things, for when Sylvia Meredith of Meredith Manor had accepted the hand of Cyril Cardew she had also given her heart to him.

He and she were one in all particulars. Their thoughts were almost identical. She was by no means a weak-minded woman—she had plenty of character and firmness; but she deferred to the wishes of her husband, as a good wife should, and was glad! to feel that he was slightly her master. Never, under any circumstances, did he make her feel the yoke. Nevertheless, she obeyed him, and delighted in doing so.

The arrival of their little twin-daughters was the crown of their bliss. They never regretted the fact that no son was born to them to inherit the stately acres of Meredith Manor; they were the last sort of people to grumble. Mrs. Cardew inherited the Meredith property in her own right, and eventually it would be divided between her two daughters.

Meanwhile the children themselves absorbed the most loving care of their parents. Mr. Cardew was, as has already been said, a great merchant-prince. He often went to London to attend to his business affairs, but he spent most of his time in the exquisite country home. It was quite true that discontent seemed far, very far away from so lovely a spot as Meredith Manor. Nevertheless, Mr. Cardew had seen it to-day on the face of his best-loved child, his little Merry. The look had hurt him; and while he was having lunch with her, and joking with her, and talking, in his usually bright and intelligent way, her words, and still more the expression of her face and the longing look in her sweet brown eyes, returned to him again and again.

He was, therefore, more thoughtful than usual as he sat by his wife's side now under the elm-tree. He had a pile of newspapers and magazines on the grass at his feet, and his favorite fox-terrier Jim lay close to his master. Mrs. Cardew had her invariable knitting and a couple of novels waiting to occupy her attention when Mr. Cardew took up one of the newspapers. But for a time the pair were silent. Mrs. Cardew was thinking of something which she wanted to say, and Mr. Cardew was thinking of Merry. It was, as is invariably the case, the woman who first broke the silence.

"Well, Cyril," said his wife, "to find ourselves seated here all alone, without the children's voices to listen to reminds me of the old times, the good times, the beautiful times when we were first married."

"My dear," he answered, starting slightly as she spoke, "those were certainly good and beautiful times, but surely not more good and beautiful than now, when our two dear little girls are growing up and giving us such great happiness."

"That is true. Please don't misunderstand me, love; but you come even before the children."

He felt touched as she said this, and glancing at her, said to himself that he was indeed in luck to have secured so priceless a woman as his wife.

"We have had happy times together, Cyril," she said, returning his glance.

"Yes, Sylvia," he answered, and once again he thought of Merry's face.

"Nothing can alter that," she continued.

"Nothing, my love," he said.

Then he looked at her again, and saw that she was a little troubled about something; and, as was his custom, he determined to take the bull by the horns.

"You have something on your mind, Sylvia. What is it?"

"I have," she said at once; "and something of very great importance. I have a sort of fear that to talk of it with you may possibly trouble you a little. Shall we defer it, dear? The day is so peaceful, and we are so happy."

"No, no," he replied at once. "We will take the opportunity of the children being perfectly happy at the rectory to discuss the thing that worries you. But what can it be?" he continued. "That is more than I can imagine. I have never seen you worried before."

Again he thought of Merry, but it was impossible to connect his wife's trouble with his child's discontent.

"Well, I will tell you just out, Cyril," said his wife. "I urge nothing, but I feel bound to make a suggestion. I know your views with regard to the girls."

"My views, dear! What do you mean?"

"With regard to their education, Cyril."

"Yes, yes, Sylvia; we have done our very best. Have you any reason to find fault with Miss Beverley or with Vaughan or Bennett?"

"Unfortunately," said Mrs. Cardew, "Miss Beverley, who, you know, is an admirable governess, and whom we can most thoroughly trust, wrote to me yesterday morning saying that she was obliged to resign her post as daily governess to our girls. She finds the distance from Warwick too far; in fact, she has her physician's orders to take work nearer home. She regrets it immensely, but feels that she has no alternative."

"Provoking!" said Mr. Cardew; "but really, Sylvia, I wouldn't allow it to upset me if I were you. Surely there are plenty of other Miss Beverleys in the world; and"—again he thought of Merry—"we might perhaps find some one a little less old-fashioned."

"I am afraid, dear, that is impossible, for you will not allow a resident governess in the house."

"I will not," said Mr. Cardew with decision. "Such an arrangement would break in on our family life. You know my views."

"Yes, dear; and I must say I approve of them."

"You must find some one else in Warwick who is not too tired to take the train journey. Doubtless it would be quite easy," said Mr. Cardew.

"I went to Warwick this morning in order to make inquiries," said Mrs. Cardew in her gentle voice, "and I grieve to say there is no one who can in the least take the post which dear Miss Beverley has so worthily filled. But I have further bad news to give you. Mr. Bennett is leaving Warwick for a better post in London, and we shall be at our wits' end to get the girls good music-lessons for next term."

"How provoking! how annoying!" said Mr. Cardew, and his irritation was plainly shown in his face. "It does seem hard," he said after a moment's pause, "that we, with all our wealth, should be unable to give our girls the thorough education they require."

"The fact is this, dear," said Mrs. Cardew, "and I must speak out plainly even at the risk of displeasing you—Cicely and Merry are exceedingly clever girls, but at the present moment they are very far behind other girls of their age. Their knowledge of foreign languages is most deficient. I have no doubt Miss Beverley has grounded them well in English subjects; but as to accomplishments, they are not getting the advantages their rank in life and their talent demand. Dear Cyril, we ought to forget ourselves and our interests for the children."

"What has put all this into your head?" said Mr. Cardew. "As, for instance—" He paused. "It seemed impossible——"

"What, dear?" asked his wife very earnestly.

"Well, I may as well say it. Has Merry been talking to you?"

"Our little Merry!" said Mrs. Cardew in astonishment. "Of course not. What in the world do you mean?"

"I will not explain just at present, dear. You have some idea in your head, or you wouldn't speak to me as you do."

"Well, the fact is, when my cousin, Lucia Lysle, was here yesterday she spoke very strongly to me on the subject of the girls' education, and urged me to do what I knew you would never for a moment consent to."

"And what is that?" asked Mr. Gardew. "I seem to be an awful bugbear in this business."

"No, dear, no. I quite understand your scruples, and—and—respect them. But Lucia naturally wanted us to seize the opportunity of two vacancies at Aylmer House, Mrs. Ward's school."

"I shall soon begin to hate the name of Mrs. Ward," said Cardew with some asperity.

"My cousin spoke most highly of the school," continued Mrs. Cardew. "She said that two years there, or perhaps a little longer, would give the girls that knowledge of life which will be all-essential to them in the future."

"Home education is best; I know it is best," said Mr. Cardew. "I hate girls' schools."

"I gave her to understand, dear, that those were your views; but I have something else to tell you. You know how attached we both are to the dear Tristrams."

"Of course, of course," said Mr. Cardew with impatience.

"Well, at supper yesterday evening Mr. Tristram began to talk to me on the very same subject as my cousin, Lady Lysle, had spoken of earlier in the day."

"Very interfering of Tristram," replied Mr. Cardew.

"He didn't mean it in that way, I assure you, my love; nothing could be nicer than the way he spoke. I was telling him—for I had not mentioned the fact to you, and it was troubling me a little—about Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett, and asking his advice, as I often do. He immediately urged Aylmer House as the best possible substitute for Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett. I repeated almost the same words I had used to Lucia Lysle—namely, that you were dead-set against girls' schools."

"That was scarcely polite, my love, seeing that he sends his own daughters to school."

"Well, yes," said Mrs. Cardew; "but of course their circumstances are very different."

"I would be sorry if he should feel that difference, Sylvia. Tristram is a most excellent fellow."

"He is—indeed he is!" said Mrs. Cardew. "Feeling for him, therefore, as you do, dear, you may perhaps be more inclined to listen to an alternative which he proposed to me."

"And what is that, my dear?"

"Well, he thinks we might occupy our house in London during the school terms of each year——"

"During the school terms of each year!" echoed Mr. Cardew in a voice of dismay. "But I hate living in London."

"Yes, dearest; but you see we must think of our girls. If you and I took the children to town they could have governesses and masters—the very best—and would thus be sufficiently educated to take their place in society."

Mr. Cardew was quite silent for a full minute after his wife had made this suggestion. To tell the truth, she had done a somewhat extraordinary thing. Amongst this great lady's many rich possessions was a splendid mansion in Grosvenor Street; but, as she hated what is called London society, it had long been let to different tenants, for nothing would induce the Cardews to leave their delightful home, with its fresh air and country pursuits, for the dingy old house in town. They knew that when the girls came out—a far-distant date as yet—they would have to occupy the house in Grosvenor Street for the season; but Mrs. Cardew's suggestion that they should go there almost immediately for the sake of their daughters' education was more annoying to her husband than he could possibly endure.

"I consider the rector very officious," he said. "Nothing would induce me to live in town."

"I thought you would feel like that, dear. I was certain of it."

"You surely would not wish it yourself, Sylvia?"

"I should detest it beyond words," she replied.

"Besides, the house is occupied," said Mr. Cardew, catching at any excuse not to carry out this abominable plan, as he termed it.

"Well, dear, at the present moment it is not. I had a letter a week ago from our agent to ask if he should relet it for the winter and next season, and I have not yet replied to him."

"Nonsense, nonsense, Sylvia! We cannot go to live there."

"I don't wish it, my love."

The pair sat quite silent after Mrs. Cardew had made this last remark.

After a time her husband said, "We're really placed in a very cruel dilemma; but doubtless there are schools and schools. Now, I feel that the time has arrived when I ought to tell you about Merry."

"What about the dear child?" asked her mother. "Isn't she well?"

"Absolutely and perfectly well, but our dear little girl is consumed by the fever of discontent."

"My dear, you must be mistaken."

"I am not. Listen, and I will tell you what has happened."

Mr. Cardew then related his brief interview with Merry, and Merry's passionate desire to go to Aylmer House.

"And what did you say to her, love?" asked his wife.

"I told her it was impossible, of course."

"But it really isn't, dear, you know," said Mrs. Cardew in a low tone; "and as you cannot make up your mind to live in London, those two vacancies at Aylmer House seem providential."

At these words Mr. Cardew sprang to his feet. "Nothing will ever shake my opinion with regard to school-life," he said.

"And yet the life in town——"

"That is impossible. Look me straight in the face, Sylvia. If by any chance—don't, please, imagine that I'm giving way—but if, by any possible chance, I were to yield, could you, my darling, live without your girls?"

"With you—I could," she answered, and she held out her hand to him, which he raised to his lips and kissed.

"Well, I am upset," he said. "If only Miss Beverley and Bennett were not so silly, we should not be in this awkward fix. I'll go for a ride, if you don't mind, Sylvia, and be back with you in an hour's time."

During that ride Mr. Cardew felt as a strong man does when his most cherished wishes are opposed, and when circumstance, with its overpowering weight, bears down every objection. Beyond doubt the girls must be educated. Beyond doubt the scheme of living in London could not be entertained. Country life was essential. Meredith Manor must not be deserted for the greater part of the year. He might visit the girls whenever he went to London; but, after all, he was now more or less a sleeping partner in his great firm. There was no necessity for him to go to London more than four or five times a year. Oh! school was hateful, but little Merry had longed for it. How troublesome education was! Surely the girls knew enough.

He was riding home, his thoughts still in a most perturbed condition, when he suddenly drew up just in front of a little figure who stood by the roadside, attired as a gipsy, with a scarlet bandana handkerchief twisted round her head, a short skirt reaching not quite to her ankles made also of scarlet, and a little gay blue shawl across her shoulders. She was carrying a tambourine in one hand and in the other a great bunch of many-colored ribbons.

This little, unexpected figure was seen close to the rectory grounds, and Mr. Cardew was so startled by it, and so also was his horse, that he drew up abruptly and looked imperiously at the small suppliant for his favor.

"If you please, sir," said Maggie Howland, speaking in her most enticing voice, and knowing well that her dress magnified her charms, "will you, kind sir, allow me to cross your hand with silver and let me tell your fortune?"

Mr. Cardew now burst into a merry laugh.

"Why, Miss Howland," he said, "I beg your pardon; I did not recognize you."

Maggie dropped a low curtsy. "I'm the gipsy girl Caranina, and I should like to tell your fortune, kind and generous sir."

Just then the pretty face of Cicely was seen peeping over the rectory grounds. She was dressed as a flower-girl, and looked more lovely than he had ever seen her before.

"Why, dad, dad," she cried, "oh! you must come in and join our fun. Mustn't he, Maggie?"

"I am Caranina, the gipsy girl," said Maggie, dropping another low curtsy, and holding her little tambourine in the most beseeching attitude; "and you are Flora, queen of the flowers."

"Well, really, this is entertaining," said Mr. Cardew. "What queer little minxes you all are! And may I really come in and see the fun?"

"Indeed you may, dad," said the flower-girl. "Oh, and please we want you to look at Merry. Merry's a fairy, with wings. We're going to have what we call an evening revel presently, and we are all in our dress for the occasion. But Maggie—I mean Caranina—is telling our fortunes—that is, until the real fun begins."

"Do please come in, Mr. Cardew. This is the height of good luck," said Mrs. Tristram, coming forward herself at this moment. "Won't you join my husband and me under the shadow of the tent yonder? The young people are having such a good time."

"I will come for a minute or two," said Cardew, dismounting as he spoke. "Can some one hold Hector for me?"

David was quickly summoned, and Mr. Cardew walked across the hay-field to where the hastily improvised tent was placed.

"No one can enter here who doesn't submit to the will of the gipsy," remarked Caranina in her clear and beautiful voice. "This is my tent, and I tell the fortunes of all those kind ladies and gentlemen who will permit me to do so."

"Then you shall tell mine, with pleasure, little maid," said Mr. Cardew, who felt wonderfully cheered and entertained at this al fresco amusement.

Quick as thought Maggie had been presented with a silver coin. With this she crossed the good gentleman's palm, and murmured a few words with regard to his future. There was nothing whatever remarkable in her utterance, for Maggie knew nothing of palmistry, and was only a very pretense gipsy fortune-teller. But she was quick—quicker than most—in reading character; and as she glanced now into Mr. Cardew's face an inspiration seized her.

"He is troubled about something," thought the girl. "It's the thin end of the wedge; I'll push it in a little farther."

Her voice dropped to a low tone. "I see in your hand, kind sir," she said, "all happiness, long life, and prosperity; but I also see a little cross, just here—" she pointed with her pretty finger—"and it means self-sacrifice for the sake of a great and lasting good. Kind sir, I have nothing more to add."

Mr. Cardew left the tent and sat down beside the rector and his wife. Maggie's words were really unimportant. As one after the other the merry group of actors went to have their fortunes told he paid no attention whatever to them. Gipsy fortune-tellers always mixed a little sorrow with their joyful tidings. It was a bewitching little gipsy after all. He could not quite make out her undefined charm, but he was interested in her; and after a time, when the fortune-telling had come to an end and Maggie was about to change her dress for what they called the evening revels, he crossed the field and stood near her.

"So you, Miss Howland, have been telling my daughter Merry a good many things with regard to your new school?"

She raised her queer, bright eyes, and looked him full in the face. "I have told Merry a few things," she said; "but, most of all, I have assured her that Aylmer House is the happiest place in the world."

"Happier than home? Should you say it was happier than home, Miss Howland?"

"Happier than my home," said Maggie with a little sigh, very gentle and almost imperceptible, in her voice. "Oh, I love it!" she continued with enthusiasm; "for it helps—I mean, the life there helps—to make one good."

Mr. Cardew said nothing more. After a time he bade his friends good-by and returned to Meredith Manor. In course of time the little pony-carriage was sent down to the rectory for the Cardew girls, who went back greatly elated.

How delightful their evening had been, and what a marvelous girl Maggie Howland was.'

"Why, she even manages to subdue and to rule those really tiresome boys," said Cicely.

"Yes," remarked Merry, "she is like no one else."

"You have quite fallen in love with her, haven't you, Merry?"

"Well, perhaps I have a little bit," said Merry. She looked thoughtful. She longed to say to Cicely, "How I wish beyond all things on earth that I were going to the same school!" But a certain fidelity to her father kept her silent.

She was startled, therefore, when Cicely herself, who was always supposed to be much calmer than Merry, and less vehement in her desires, clasped her sister's hand and said with emphasis, "I don't know, after all, if it is good for us to see too much of Maggie Howland."

"Why, Cissie? What do you mean?"

"I mean this," said Cicely: "she makes me—yes, I will say it—discontented."

"And me too," said Merry, uttering the words with an emphasis which astonished herself.

"We have talked of school over and over again," said Cicely, "with Molly and Belle; but notwithstanding their glowing accounts we have been quite satisfied with Miss Beverley, and dear, gray-haired Mr. Bennett, and Mr. Vaughan; but now I for one, don't feel satisfied any longer." "Nor do I," said Merry.

"Oh Merry!"

"It is true," said Merry. "I want to go to Aylmer House."

"And I am almost mad to go there," said Cicely.

"I'll tell you something, Cissie. I spoke to father about it to-day."

"Merry! you didn't dare?"

"Well, I just did. I couldn't help myself. It is hateful to be under-educated, and you know we shall never be like other girls if we don't see something of the world."

"He didn't by any chance agree with you?" said Cicely.

"Not a bit of it," said Merry. "We must bear with our present life, only perhaps we oughtn't to see too much of Maggie Howland."

"Well," said Cicely, "I've something to tell you, Merry."

"What's that?"

"You don't know just at present why mother and I went to Warwick this morning?"

"No," said Merry, who was rather uninterested. "I had a very good time with Maggie, and didn't miss you too dreadfully."

"Well, you will be interested to know why we did go, all the same," said Cicely. "It's because Miss Beverley is knocked up and can't teach us any more, and Mr. Bennett is going to London. Mother can't hear of anyone to take Miss Beverley's place, or of any music-teacher equal to Mr. Bennett; so, somehow or other, I feel that there are changes in the air. Oh Merry, Merry! suppose——"

"There's no use in it," said Merry. "Father will never change. We'll get some other dreadfully dull daily governess, and some other fearfully depressing music-master, and we'll never be like Molly and Belle and Maggie and our cousin Aneta. It does seem hard."

"We must try not to be discontented," said Cicely.

"Then we had best not ask Maggie here too often," replied Merry.

"Oh, but they're all coming up to-morrow morning, for I have asked them," said Cicely.

"Dear, dear!" replied Merry.

"We may as well have what fun we can," remarked Cicely, "for you know we shall be going to the seaside in ten days."



CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. WARD'S SCHOOL.

It is to be regretted that Mr. Cardew spent a restless night. Mrs. Cardew, on the contrary, slept with the utmost peace. She trusted so absolutely in her husband's judgment and in in his power to do the very best he could on all possible occasions for her and hers that she was never deeply troubled about anything. Her dear husband must not be forced to live in London if he did not like to do so, and some arrangement must be made for the girls' home education if he could not see his way to sending them to school.

Great, therefore, was her astonishment on the following morning when he came hastily into her room.

"My dear," he said, "I am off to London for the day."

"What for?" she asked.

"I will tell you, darling, when I return to-night."

"Cyril, may I not come with you?"

"I think not, my love. Make all the young people as happy as you can. I'm just off to the station, in the motor-car."

Mr. Cardew left his wife's room. The girls were told at breakfast that their father had gone to London; but as this frequently happened, and was invariably connected with that business which they knew nothing whatever about, they were not keenly interested. As a matter of fact, they were much more absorbed in getting things ready for the entertainment of their friends; and in this Mrs. Cardew very heartily joined them. She proposed that during Maggie Howland's visit the five girls should have as happy a time together as possible; and as the weather was perfect the invariable picnics and gipsy teas were arranged for their benefit.

"You can all make yourselves happy here to-day, my darlings," said Mrs. Cardew, addressing Cicely and Merry. "To-morrow, when your father is here, the Tristrams, he and I, and you girls will have a very pleasant picnic to the Aldersleigh woods. We will arrange it to-day, for there is nothing your father enjoys more than a whole, long, happy day in the open air. I will speak to Mrs. Fairlight, and tell her to have all things in readiness for our picnic."

"Oh mummy, how good! how good!" said Merry, clasping her mother's hand. Then she added, "Mummy, is it true that Miss Beverley is never going to teach us any more?"

"I am afraid it is only too true, Merry; but this is holiday-time, darling; we needn't talk of your education just at present."

"Only, we must be educated—mustn't we, mother?"

"Of course, dearest. Your father will see to that."

Merry ran off to join her sister, and it is not too much to say that the whole of that glorious day was one of unalloyed pleasure. The Tristram girls were always delightful to the Cardew girls, but now that they were accompanied by Maggie Howland there was a great addition to their charm. Nevertheless, Maggie, with her purpose full in view, with her heart beating a little more quickly than usual when she heard that Mr. Cardew had gone to London, religiously avoided the subject of the life at Aylmer House. She felt, somehow, that she had done her part. A great deal of her own future depended on these two girls coming to Aylmer House. She would make use of them—large use of them—at school. She was fond of Molly and Belle; but they were poor. Maggie herself was poor. She wanted to have rich friends. The Cardews were rich. By their means she would defeat her enemy, Aneta Lysle, and establish herself not only in the school but with regard to her future life. Maggie felt that she could make herself indispensable to Cicely and Merry. Oh yes, they would certainly go to Aylmer House in September. She need not worry herself any further, therefore, with regard to that matter. Little would they guess how much she had really done toward this desirable goal, and how fortunate circumstances had been in aiding her to the accomplishment of her desire. It was enough for Maggie that they were certainly going. She could, therefore, give herself up to enjoyment.

With Maggie Howland enjoyment meant a very different thing from what it does to the average English girl. She enjoyed herself with all her heart and soul, without one single reservation. To see her face at such moments was to behold pure sunshine; to hear her voice was to listen to the very essence of laughter and happiness. She had a marvelous power of telling stories, and when she was happy she told them with such verve that all people within earshot hung on her words. Then she could improvise, and dance, and take off almost any character; in short, she was the life of every party who admitted her within their circle.

Meanwhile a rather tired and rather sad man found himself, very much against his will, in London. He said to himself, "This wonderful Mrs. Ward will not be at Aylmer House now. These are the holidays, and she will be probably miles away. I will go to see her. Yes, but she won't be in; that alone will clinch the matter. But first I will pay a visit to Lucia Lysle; she said she would be in London—she told my dear wife so. But Lucia is so erratic, it is most improbable that she either will be at home."

Mr. Cardew drove first of all to Lady Lysle's house in Hans Place. He asked if she was within, and, very much to his annoyance, the servant replied in the affirmative. He entered Lady Lysle's drawing-room feeling rather silly. The first person he saw there was a tall, slim, lovely girl, whom he did not recognize at first, but who knew him and ran up to him and introduced herself as Aneta.

"Why, my dear," he said, "how are you? How you have grown!"

"How is dear Cousin Sylvia, and how are Cicely and Merry?" asked Aneta. "Oh, I am very well indeed, Mr. Cardew; I don't suppose anybody could be anything but well who was lucky enough to be at Aylmer House."

"Mrs. Ward's school?" said Mr. Cardew, feeling rather shy and almost self-conscious.

"Of course. Don't you know Mrs. Ward, Mr. Cardew?"

"No, my dear, I don't."

"It's the most marvelous school in the world," said Aneta with enthusiasm. "I do wish you would send Cicely and Merry there. They would have a good time."

"Is your aunt in?" said Mr. Cardew, a little restlessly.

"Oh yes; she'll be down in a minute."

Lady Lysle now hurried into the room.

"How do you do, Cyril?" she said. "I didn't expect to find you in town just now. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I am rather anxious to have a chat with you," replied Mr. Cardew.

"Aneta darling, you had better leave us," said her aunt.

The girl went off with a light laugh. "Auntie," she said, "I've just been telling Mr. Cardew that he ought to send Cicely and Merry to Aylmer House." She closed the door as she made this parting shot.

"As a matter of fact, I agree with Aneta," said Lady Lysle. "A couple of years at that splendid school would do the girls no end of good."

Mr. Cardew was silent for a minute. "I may as well confess something to you, Lucia," he said then.

"What is it, Cyril?"

"I have by no means made up my mind; but we are very much annoyed at the illness of our daily governess Miss Beverley, and at the girls' music-master Mr. Bennett removing to London. So I just thought I would ask you a question or two about this wonderful Mrs. Ward. I don't suppose for a single moment I should dream of sending the children there; and, besides, she is not in London now, is she?"

"Yes, she is," replied Lady Lysle. Mr. Cardew felt at that moment that he hated Mrs. Ward. "She came to see me only last evening. She is leaving town to-morrow; but if by any chance you would like to go and see her, and thus judge of the school for yourself—it would commit you to nothing, of course—she will, I know, be at home all this morning."

"Dear, dear!" said Mr. Cardew. "How very provoking!"

"What do you mean, Cyril?"

"Nothing, nothing, of course, Lucia. But if, as you say, the school is so popular, there will be no vacancies, for I think some one told me that Mrs. Ward only took a limited number of pupils."

"There are two vacancies at the present moment," said Lady Lysle in her calm voice, "although they are likely to be filled up immediately, for Mrs. Ward has had many applications; but then she is exceedingly particular, and will only take girls of high birth and of very distinguished character."

"Doubtless she has filled up the vacancies by this morning," said Mr. Cardew, rising with some alacrity. "Well, thank you, Lucia. As I am in town—came up on business you know—I may as well just have a look at Aylmer House and Mrs. Ward. It will satisfy my dear wife."

"Why, surely you don't for a minute really intend to send the girls there?" said Lady Lysle with a superior smile.

"I cannot tell what I may do. When a man is distracted, and when a valuable daily governess breaks down, and—and—don't question me too closely, Lucia, and keep our little interview to yourself. As I have just said, nothing will probably come of this; but I will go and see the lady just to satisfy myself."

"Aneta will be delighted if you do send the girls to Aylmer House," was Lady Lysle's last word.

She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Cardew found himself turning rather red. He left her, called a hansom, and got into it.

"Of course the vacancies will be filled up," he said to himself as he was driving in the direction of South Kensington. He further thought, "Although that good Mrs. Ward is remaining for such an unconscionable time in town, she will very probably be out this morning. If she is out that puts an end to everything; but even if she is in, she must ave filled up her vacancies. Then I shall be able to return to the Manor with a quiet mind. I'll have done my best, and the thing will be taken out of my hands. Dear little Merry! I didn't like that discontent on her sweet face. Ah, well, she can't guess what school is like. It's not home; but I suppose the educational advantages would be greater, and a man must sacrifice himself for his children. Odd what that queer little Miss Howland told me last night: that I was approaching a deed of self-sacrifice. She's a queer girl, but quite nice; and Aneta is a charming creature. I could never desire even one of my own precious girls to look nicer than Aneta does. Well, here I am. Now, then, what will Fate decide?"

Mr. Cardew sprang from the hansom, desired the man to wait, ran up some low steps, and rang the bell at the front door of a stately mansion.

A smiling, very bright-looking maid-servant opened it for him.

"Is Mrs. Ward, within?" questioned Cardew.

"Yes, sir."

"Good heavens!" murmured Cardew under his breath.

"Is she disengaged, and can she give me a few moments of her time?" continued the much-disappointed gentleman.

"Certainly, sir. Will you come into the drawing-room? What name shall I say?"

Cardew produced one of his cards.

"Have the goodness to tell your mistress that if she is particularly engaged I can "—he hesitated—"call another time."

"I will tell her, sir; but Mrs. Ward is not particularly engaged. She will see you, I am sure, directly."

The girl withdrew, and Cardew sank into a low chair.

He had to wait a few minutes, and during that time had abundant leisure to look round the beautiful room in which he found himself. It was so furnished as to resemble a fresh country room. The wall-paper was white; the pictures were all water-colors, all original, and all the works of well-known artists. They mostly represented country scenes, but there were a few admirable portraits of charming girls just in the heyday of youth and happiness. The floor was of polished oak and had a large pale-blue drugget in the center, which could be rolled up at any moment if an impromptu dance was desirable. The large windows had boxes of flowers outside, which were fresh and well kept, and had evidently been recently watered, for some sparkling drops which looked almost like summer rain still glistened on them. The room itself was also decked with flowers in every available corner, and all these flowers were fresh and beautifully arranged. They were country flowers—and of course roses, roses everywhere. There were also great bowls of mignonette and large glass vases filled with sweet peas.

The air of the room was fresh and full of delicate perfume. Mr. Cardew had to admit to himself that this was a room in which the most refined young ladies in the world might sit with pleasure and profit. There was a shelf for books running round the dado, and the books therein were good of their kind and richly and handsomely bound. There were no small tables anywhere. Mr. Cardew was glad of that—he detested small tables; but there was a harp standing close to the magnificent grand piano, and several music stands, and a violin case on a chair near by.

The furniture of the room was covered with a cool, fresh chintz. In short, it was a charming room, quite different from the rooms at Meredith Manor, which, of course, were old and magnificent and stately; but it had a refreshing, wholesome look about it which, in spite of himself, Mr. Cardew appreciated.

He had just taken in the room and its belongings when the door was opened and a lady of about thirty-five years of age entered. She was dressed very simply in a long dress made in a sort of Empire fashion. The color was pale blue, which suited her calm, fair face, her large, hazel-brown eyes, and her rich chestnut hair to perfection. She came forward swiftly.

"I am Mrs. Ward," she said, and held out her hand.

Mr. Cardew considered himself a connoisseur as regards all women, and he was immediately impressed by a certain quality in that face: a mingling of sweetness and power, of extreme gentleness and extreme determination. There was a lofty expression in the eyes, too, and round the mouth, which further appealed to him; and the hands of the lady were perfect—they were white, somewhat long, with tapering fingers and well-kept nails. There was one signet ring on the left hand, worn as a guard to the wedding-ring—that was all.

Mr. Cardew was a keen observer, and he noted these things at a glance.

"I have come to talk to you, Mrs. Ward," he said; "and, if you will forgive me, I should like to be quite frank with you."

"There is nothing I desire better," said Mrs. Ward in her exceedingly high-bred and sympathetic voice.

That voice reminded Cardew of Maggie Howland, and yet he felt at once that it was infinitely superior to hers.

"Sit down, won't you, Mr. Cardew?" said Mrs. Ward, and she set him the example by seating herself in a low chair as she spoke.

"I hope I am not taking up too much of your time," he said; "for, if so, as I said to your servant, I can call again."

"By no means," said Mrs. Ward; "I have nothing whatever to do this morning. I am, therefore, quite at your service. You will tell me what you wish?" she said in that magnetic voice of hers.

"The fact is simply this," he said. "My friend Tristram, who is rector of Meredith, in Warwickshire, is sending his two daughters to your school."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward gently. "Molly and Isabel are coming to me next term."

"I am Tristram's near neighbor," said Mr. Cardew, "I live at Meredith Manor. At the present moment the Tristram girls have another pupil of yours staying with them—Miss Howland."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward very quietly.

"Lady Lysle's niece Aneta is also one of your pupils."

"That is true, Mr. Cardew."

"Lady Lysle is my wife's cousin."

Mrs. Ward bowed very slightly.

"I will come to the point now, Mrs. Ward. I am the father of two little girls. They are of the same age as Molly and Isabel Tristram; that is, they are both just sixteen. They are twins. They are my only children. Some day they will be rich, for we have no son, and they will inherit considerable property." Mrs. Ward looked scarcely interested at this. "Hitherto," continued Mr. Cardew, "I have stoutly opposed school-life for my children, and in consequence they have been brought up at home, and have had the best advantages that could be obtained for them in a country life. Things went apparently all right until two or three days ago, when I discovered that my girl—her name is Meredith; we call her Merry for short—was exceedingly anxious to change her home-life for school-life. At the same time, our excellent daily governess and the music-master who taught the children have been obliged to discontinue their work. The girls are at an age when education is essential; and, although I hate schools, I have come here to talk over the possibility of your receiving them."

"Had you delayed coming to me, Mr. Cardew, until this evening I should have had no vacancy, for at the present moment I have twelve applications for the two vacancies which are to be filled at Aylmer House. But do you really wish me to consider the proposal of taking your girls when you hate school-life for young ladies?"

Mr. Cardew could not help smiling. "Then you are not anxious to have them?"

"Certainly not, unless you yourself and Mrs. Cardew most earnestly desire to send them to me. Suppose, before we go any further, that I take you over the house."

"Thank you," said Mr. Cardew in a tone of relief.

Mrs. Ward rose immediately, and for the next hour the head-mistress and the owner of Meredith Manor went from one dainty room to another. They visited the gymnasium; they entered the studio. All the different properties of the music-room were explained to the interested visitor. The excellent playground was also inspected.

By-and-by, when Mr. Cardew returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Ward said, "My number of pupils is limited. You have seen for yourself that sisters are provided with a room together, and that girls who are not related have rooms to themselves. The house is well warmed in winter, and at all seasons of the year I keep it bright and cheerful with flowers and everything that a judicious expenditure of money can secure. I have my own special plan for educating my girls. I believe in personal influence. In short, Mr. Cardew, I am not at all ashamed to tell you that I believe in my own influence. I have never yet met a girl whom I could not influence."

"If by any chance my Cicely and Merry come to you," said Mr. Cardew, "you will find them—I may at least say it—perfect ladies in word and thought and deed."

Mrs. Ward bowed. "I could receive no others within this establishment," she said. "If," continued Mrs. Ward, "you decide to entrust your daughters to me, I will leave no stone unturned to do my best for them, to educate them in a three-fold capacity: to induce their minds to work as God meant them to work—without overtoil, without undue haste, and yet with intelligence and activity; to give them such exercises as will promote health to their bodies; and to teach them, above all things, to live for others, not for themselves. Please, Mr. Cardew, give me no answer now, but think it over. The vacancies at Aylmer House will remain at your disposal until four o'clock this afternoon. Will you send me before that hour a telegram saying 'Yes' or 'No'?"

"I thank you," said Mr. Cardew. He wrung Mrs. Ward's hand and left the house.

The hall was as spacious and nearly as beautiful as the drawing-room, and the pretty, bright parlor-maid smiled at the gentleman as he went out. Mrs. Ward remained for a time alone after her visitor had left.

"I should like to have those girls," she said to herself. "Any girls related to such a splendid, lofty character as Aneta could not but be welcome to me. Their poor father, he will feel parting with them; but I have no doubt that I shall receive them next September at this house."

The thought had scarcely passed through her mind before there came a brisk ring at the front door, and Lady Lysle and Aneta were announced.

"Oh, dear Mrs. Ward!" said Lady Lysle, speaking in her quick, impulsive manner, "have you seen my dear friend and cousin, Mr. Cardew?"

"And are the girls coming to the school?" asked Aneta.

"I have seen Mr. Cardew," said Mrs. Ward. "He is a very charming man. He will decide whether he will send his daughters here or not during the course of to-day."

"But," said Lady Lysle, "didn't you urge him?"

"No, dear friend; I never urge any one to put a girl in my care. I should feel myself very wrong in doing so. If Mr. Cardew thinks well of what he has seen here he may send his daughters to me, but I certainly did nothing to urge him."

"Oh dear!" said Aneta, "I should so like them to come. You can't think, Mrs. Ward, what nice people the Cardews are; and the girls—they do want school-life. Don't they, auntie darling?"

"Such a school as this would do them a world of good," said Lady Lysle.

"Well, I really hope they will come," said Mrs. Ward; "but I quite understand their father's objections. They are evidently very precious treasures, and he has the sort of objection which exists in the minds of many country gentlemen to sending his girls to school."

"Ah," said Aneta, "but there are schools and schools!"

"The girls will be exceedingly rich," said Lady Lysle. "Their mother was a Meredith and belonged to an old county family. She inherits vast wealth and the old family place. Their father is what may be termed a merchant-prince. By-and-by all the money of the parents will go to these girls. They are very nice children, but know nothing whatever of the world. It seems to me a cruel thing that they should be brought up with no knowledge of the great world where they must eventually live."

"I hope they will come here," said Mrs. Ward. "Great wealth means great responsibility. They can make magnificent use of their money. I should be interested to have them."

"I know you would, my dear friend," said Lady Lysle, "and they are really quite sweet girls. Now, come, Aneta; we must not keep Mrs. Ward any longer."

When her visitors had left her Mrs. Ward still remained in the pleasant drawing-room. She sank into a low chair, folded her hands in her lap, and remained very still. Although she was only thirty-five years of age, she had been a widow for over ten years. She had married when quite a young girl, and had lost her husband and child before she was five-and-twenty. It was in her generous and noble nature to love most passionately and all too well. For a time after her terrible trouble she scarcely know how to bear her grief. Then she took it to the one place where such sorrow can be borne—namely, to the foot of the throne of God; and afterwards it occurred to her to devote her life to the education of others. She was quite well-off, and did not need to work for her living. But work, to a nature such as hers, was essential. She also needed the sympathy of others, and the love of others; and so, aided by her friends, her small but most select school in South Kensington was started.

From the very first it was a success. It was unlike many other schools, for the head-mistress had broader and nobler views of life. She loved all her girls, and they all loved her; but it was impossible for her not to like some girls more than others, and of all the girls at present at her school Aneta Lysle was the one she really loved best. There was also, it is sad to relate, a girl there whom she did not love, and that girl was Maggie Howland. There was nothing whatever with regard to Maggie that her mistress could lay hold of. She was quite aware of the girl's fascination, and of her powerful influence over her schoolfellows. Nevertheless, she never thought of her without a sense of discomfort.

Maggie was one of the girls who were educated at Aylmer House for a very low fee; for Mrs. Ward was quite rich enough and generous enough to take girls who could not afford her full terms for very much less. Maggie's fees, therefore, were almost nominal, and no one knew this fact better than Maggie herself and her mother, Mrs. Howland. None of her schoolfellows knew, for she learned just what they did, and had precisely the same advantages. She was treated just like the others. No one could guess that her circumstances were different. And certainly Maggie would never tell, but none the less did she in her heart hate her position.

As a matter of fact, Molly and Isabel Tristram were also coming to the school on specially low terms; but no one would know this. Maggie, however, suspected it, and intended, if necessary, to make the fact an added power over her young friends when they all assembled at Aylmer House.

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward, half-aloud, half to herself, "I don't quite trust Maggie Howland. But I cannot possibly dismiss her from the school. I may win her round to a loftier standard of life, but at present there is no doubt she has not that high ideal in view which I think my other girls aim at."

Between three and four o'clock that day Mrs. Ward received a telegram from Mr. Cardew. It contained the following words:

"After consideration, I have made up my mind to do myself the great honor of confiding my girls to your care. Their mother and I will write to you fully in a day or two."

Mrs. Ward smiled when she received the telegram. "I will do my best for those children," she said to herself.



CHAPTER IX.

THE NEWS.

Mr. Cardew arrived at Meredith Manor very late that evening. The long and happy day had come to an end. The Tristram girls and Maggie Howland had returned to the rectory. Cicely and Merry were having a long, confidential chat together. They were in Merry's bedroom. They had dismissed their maid. They were talking of the pleasures of the day, and in particular were discussing the delightful fact that their beautiful cousin Aneta had wired to say she would be with them in two days' time.

They had not seen Aneta for some years, but they both remembered her vividly. Her memory shone out before them both as something specially dazzling and specially beautiful. Maggie Howland, too, had spoken of Aneta's beauty. Maggie had been told that Aneta was coming, and Maggie had expressed pleasure. Whatever Maggie's private feelings may have been, she was very careful now to express delight at Aneta's appearance at Meredith Manor.

"What a darling she is!" said Merry. "I doubt very much—I suppose it's rank heresy to say so, Cicely, but I really greatly doubt whether I shall ever prefer Aneta to Maggie. What are mere looks, after all, when one possesses such charm as Maggie has? That seems to me a much greater gift."

"We need not compare them, need we?" said Cicely.

"Oh, certainly not," said Merry; "but, Cicely darling, doesn't it seem funny that such a lot of girls who are all to meet in September at Aylmer House should be practically staying with us at the present moment?"

"Yes, indeed," said Cicely. "I feel almost as though I belonged to it, which of course is quite ridiculous, for we shall never by any chance go there."

"Of course not," said Merry, and she sighed.

After a time Cicely said, "I wonder what father went to town for to-day."

"Well, we don't know, so where's the use of troubling?" said Merry.

"I asked mother," said Cicely, "why he went to town, and she said she couldn't tell me; but she got rather red as she spoke."

"Cicely," said Merry after a long pause, "when these glorious holidays come to an end, and the Aylmer House girls have gone to Aylmer House, what shall you and I do?"

"Do," said Cicely—"do? I suppose what we've always done. A fresh governess will be found, and another music-master, and we'll work at our lessons and do the best we can."

Merry gave a deep sigh.

"We'll never talk French like Belle Tristram," she said, "and we'll never play so that any one will care to listen to us. We'll never, never know the world the way the others know it. There seems very little use in being rich when one can't get education."

It was just at that moment that there came a light tap at the girls' door. Before they could reply, it was opened and Mrs. Cardew came in. She looked as though she had been crying; nevertheless, there was a joyful sort of triumph on her face. She said quickly, "I thought, somehow, you two naughty children would not be in bed, and I told father that I'd come up on the chance of finding you. Father has come back from London, and has something important to tell you. Will you come down with me at once?"

"Oh mother! mother! what is it?" said Merry in a tone of excitement which was slightly mingled with awe.

"Your father will tell you, my darling," said Mrs. Cardew.

She put her arm round Merry's slight waist and held Cicely's hand, and they came down to the great drawing-room where Mr. Cardew was waiting for them.

He was pacing slowly up and down the room, his hands folded behind his back. His face was slightly tired, and yet he too wore that odd expression of mingled triumph and pain which Mrs. Cardew's eyes expressed.

When the mother and the girls entered the room he at once shut the door. Mr. Cardew looked first of all at Merry. He held out his hand to her. "Come to me, little girl," he said.

She flew to him and put her arms round his neck. She kissed him several times. "Oh dad! dad!" she said, "I know I was downright horrid and unkind and perfectly dreadful yesterday, and I don't—no, I don't—want to leave you and mother. If I was discontented then, I am not now."

Merry believed her own words at that moment, for the look on her father's face had struck to her very heart.

He disengaged her pretty arms very gently, and, still holding her hand, went up to Cicely, who was clinging to her mother. "I have just got some news for you both," he said. "You know, of course, that Miss Beverley cannot teach you any longer?"

"Poor old Beverley," said Cicely; "we are so sorry. But you'll find another good governess for us, won't you, dad?"

"I am afraid I can't," said Mr. Cardew, "So I sent for you to-night to tell you that I have broken the resolve which I always meant to keep."

"You have what?" said Merry.

"I have turned my back on a determination which I made when you were both very little girls, and to-day I went up to town and saw Mrs. Ward."

"Oh!" said Merry. She turned white and dropped her father's hand, and, clasping her own two hands tightly together, gazed at him as though she would devour his face.

"Well, it's all settled, children," said Mr. Cardew, "and: when September comes you will go with your friends Molly and Belle to Aylmer House."

This announcement was received at first in total silence. Then Merry flew to her father and kissed him a great many times, and Cicely kissed her mother.

Then Merry said, "We can't talk of it to-night; we can't quite realize it to-night; but—but—we are glad!"

Then she took Cicely's hand, and they went out of the room. Mr. and Mrs. Cardew watched them as the little figures approached the door. Merry opened it, and they both passed out.

"I wonder," said Mr. Cardew, looking at his wife, "if they are going out of our lives."

"Indeed, no," said Mrs. Cardew; "from what you have told me of Mrs. Ward, she must be a good woman—one of the best."

"She is one of the very, very best, Sylvia; and I think the very happiest thing for us both would be to run up to town to-morrow, and for you to see her for yourself."

"Very well, darling; we will do so," said Mrs. Cardew.



CHAPTER X.

ANETA.

So everything was settled. Cicely and Merry scarcely slept at all that night. They were too much excited; the news was too wonderful. Now that their wish was granted, there was pain mingled with their joy. It seems as though perfect joy must have its modicum of pain to make it perfect.

But when the next morning dawned the regret of the night before seemed to have vanished. In the first place, Mr. and Mrs. Cardew had gone early to London; and the mere fact that their father and mother were not present was a sort of relief to the excited girls. The picnic need not be postponed, for Mr. and Mrs. Tristram could act as chaperons on this auspicious occasion.

They were all to meet at the Manor at eleven o'clock; and, punctual to the hour, a goodly array of happy young people walked up the avenue and entered the porch of the old-house. Andrew, devoted to Maggie, was present. Jack, equally Maggie's slave, was also there. Maggie herself, looking neat and happy, was helping every one. Molly and Belle, all in white, and looking as charming as little girls could, were full of expectation of their long and delightful day.

One wagonette could hold the whole party, and as it drove round to the front door the boys fiercely took possession of the box-seat, fighting with the coachman, who said that there would be no room for Miss Howland to sit between them.

"Well then, Mags, if that is the case," said Peterkins, "you get along in at once, and take this corner close to me; then, whenever we want, we can do a bit of whispering."

"You won't whisper more than your share," said Jackdaw. "I've a frightful lot to say to Mags this morning."

"Hush, boys!" said Maggie; "if you quarrel about me I shall not speak to either of you."

This threat was so awful that the boys glanced at each other, remained silent and got quietly into their places. Then the hampers were put on the floor just under their feet.

Presently Cicely and Merry came out to join the group. They were wearing pretty pink muslins, with pink sashes to match. Merry's beautiful dark eyes were very bright. Mr. and Mrs. Tristram inquired for their host and hostess.

"Oh, I have news for you!" said Merry.

"Yes," said Cicely, "Merry will tell."

"Well, it's Just this," said Merry, almost jerking out her words in excitement: "Father and mother have been obliged to go rather unexpectedly to town."

"Why?" said Maggie; then she restrained herself, knowing that it was not her place to speak.

"They have gone to town," said Merry, scarcely looking at Maggie now, and endeavoring with all her might and main not to show undue excitement, "because a great and wonderful thing has happened; something so unexpected that—that Cicely and I can scarcely believe it."

Maggie glanced at the sweet little faces. She said to herself, "All right," and got calmly into the wagonette, where she sat close under the box-seat which contained those obstreperous young heroes Andrew and Jack. The others clustered round Merry.

"As I said, I can scarcely believe it," said Merry; "but father has done the most marvelous thing. Oh Belle! oh Molly! it is too wonderful! For after all—after all, Cicely and I are to go with you to Aylmer House in September, and—and—that is why father and mother have gone to town. Father went up yesterday and saw Mrs. Ward, and he—he settled it; and father and mother have gone up to-day—both of them—to see her, and to make final arrangements. And we're to go! we're to go!"

"Hurrah!" cried Molly. Immediately the boys, and Maggie and Belle, and even Mr. and Mrs. Tristram, took up the glad "Hurrah!"

"Well, children," said Mr. Tristram when the first excitement had subsided, "I must say I am heartily pleased. This is delightful! I take some credit to myself for having helped on this most excellent arrangement."

"No one thanks me for anything," thought Maggie; but she had the prudence to remain silent.

"We had better start on our picnic now," said Mr. Tristram, and immediately the whole party climbed into the wagonette. The horses started; the wheels rolled. They were off.

By-and-by Merry felt her hand taken by Maggie. Maggie just squeezed that hand, and whispered in that very, very rich and wonderfully seductive voice of hers, "Oh, I am glad! I am very, very glad!"

Merry felt her heart thrill as Maggie uttered those words. She answered back, turning her face to her young companion, "To be with you alone would be happiness enough for me."

"Is it true, Cicely," said Mrs. Tristram at the moment, "that your cousin, Aneta Lysle, is coming to stay with you?"

"Oh yes; but I had half-forgotten it in all this excitement," said Cicely. "She will arrive to-morrow.—Maggie, you'll be glad, won't you?"

"More than delighted," said Maggie.

"It is too wonderful," said Cicely. "Why, it will soon come to pass that half Mrs. Ward's school will be all together during the holidays. Fancy, we two, and you two"—she touched one of the Tristram girls—"and you, Maggie, and then dear Aneta; why, that'll make six. What a lot we shall have to talk about! Maggie, you and Aneta will be our two heroines; we shall always be applying to you for information."

The conversation was here interrupted by Jackdaw, who pinched Maggie on the arm. "You're not attending to us," he said.

"Nonsense, Jackdaw!"

"Well, stand up for a minute; I want to whisper to you."

Maggie, who never lost a chance of ingratiating herself with any one, obeyed.

"Jack dear, don't be troublesome," said his mother.

"I am not," said Jackdaw. "She loves it, the duck that she is!"

"Be quick, Jackdaw; it's very difficult for me to keep my hold standing up," said Maggie.

"How many chocolates can you eat at a pinch?" whispered Jackdaw in her ear.

"Oh, forty," replied Maggie; "but I should be rather ill afterwards."

"We've got some in our pockets. They're a little bit clammy, but you don't mind that?"

"I don't want any just now, dear boy; and I'll tell you why. I want to be really starving hungry when the picnic begins."

"That's a good notion, isn't it?" said Jackdaw.—"I say, Andrew, she wants to be starving hungry when the picnic begins!"

Maggie resumed her seat, and the boys went on whispering together, and kicking each other at intervals, and rather upsetting that very stolid personage, Mr. Charles, the Meredith Manor coachman.

The picnic was a perfect success. When people are very happy there is no room for discontent in their hearts, and all the members of that party were in the highest spirits. The Cardew girls had no time yet for that period of regret which must invariably follow a period of intense excitement. They had no time yet to realize that they must part with their father and mother for the greater portion of the year.

To children so intensely affectionate as Cicely and Merry such a parting must mean considerable pain. But even the beginning of the pain did not come to them on that auspicious day, and they returned to the house after the picnic in the highest good-humor.

Mr. and Mrs. Tristram, however, were wise in their generation; and although Cicely and Merry begged and implored the whole party to come to the Manor for supper, they very firmly declined. It is to be regretted that both Jack and Andrew turned sulky on this occasion.

As the rectory girls and Maggie and the boys and Mr. and Mrs. Tristam were all going homewards the two girls and Maggie fell behind.

"Isn't this real fun? Isn't it magnificent?" said Molly Tristram.

"It's a very good thing indeed for your friends Cicely and Merry," said Maggie. Then she added, "Didn't I tell you, girls, that you would win your bracelets?"

Belle felt herself changing color.

"We don't want them a bit—we really don't," said Molly.

"Of course we don't want them," said Isabel.

"You'll have them all the same," said Maggie. "They are my present to you. Surely you won't refuse my present?"

"But such a very rich and handsome present we ought not to accept," said Molly.

"Nonsense, girls! I shall be unhappy unless you wear them. When I return to mother—which, alas! I must do before many days are over—I shall send you the bracelets."

"I wish you wouldn't, Maggie," said Belle Tristram; "for I am certain father and mother would not like us to wear jewelry while we are so young."

"Well, then," said Maggie, "I will give them to you when we all meet at Aylmer House. You must take them; you know you promised you would. You will hurt me most frightfully if you don't."

As Molly and Isabel certainly did not wish to hurt Maggie, they remained silent, and during the rest of the walk the three girls scarcely spoke. Meanwhile Cicely and Merry entered the Manor House and waited impatiently for the return of their father and mother.

"We must get everything extra nice for them," said Cicely to her sister. "I do think it is so wonderfully splendid of them to send us to school."

The sun had already set, and twilight had come on; but it would be quite impossible for Mr. and Mrs. Cardew to arrive at the Manor until about ten o'clock. What, therefore, was the amazement of the girls when they heard carriage-wheels in the distance!

"Father and mother could not possibly have done their business and caught the early train," said Merry in some excitement. "Who can be coming now?"

The next moment their doubts were set at rest, for Aneta Lysle entered the hall.

"I came to-day after all," she said. "Auntie thought it would be more convenient. You got my telegram, didn't you?"

These words were uttered while her two cousins, in rapture and delight, were kissing her.

"No, no," said Merry, "we got no telegram; but, oh, Aneta! we are glad to see you."

"Here's the telegram on the hall-table," said Aneta, and she took up a yellow envelope. This was addressed to "Cardew, Meredith Manor." "Yes, I know this must be from me," said Aneta. "But why didn't you open it?"

"Well, the fact is," said Cicely, "father and mother were in London, and the rest of us were out on a picnic. But it doesn't matter a bit; you've come, and the sooner the better. Oh, it is nice to see you again! But how tall you are, Neta, and how grown up you look!"

"I am seventeen, remember," said Aneta. "I don't feel grown-up, but auntie says I look it."

"Oh, come into the light—do," said Merry, "and let's see you! We've heard so very much of you lately, and we want to look at your darling face again."

"And I want to look at you both," said Aneta in her affectionate manner.

The servants had conveyed Miss Lysle's luggage into the house, and now the three girls, with their arms twined round each other, entered the same big drawing-room where Mr. Cardew had given his wonderful news of the night before. There was a blaze of electric light, and this, judiciously softened with rose-colored silk, was most becoming to all those who came under its influence. But the strongest glare of light could not disfigure any one so absolutely beautiful as Aneta Lysle. Her delicate complexion, the wonderful purity and regularity of her features, her sweet, tender young mouth, her charming blue eyes, and her great luxuriance of golden hair made people who looked at her once long to study that charming face again and yet again.

There was no vanity about this young girl; her manner, her expression, were simplicity itself. There was a certain nobility about her fine forehead, and the shape of her head was classical, and showed undoubted talent. Her clear, musical voice was in itself a charm. Her young figure was the very personification of grace. Beside her, Cicely and Merry felt awkward and commonplace; not that they were so, but very few people could attain to Aneta Lysle's incomparable beauty.

"Well, girls," she said, "you do look sweet, both of you!"

"Oh Neta, what a darling you are!" said Merry, who worshipped beauty, and had never come across any one so lovely as her cousin. "It's two years since we met," she continued, "and you have altered, and not altered. You're more grown-up and more—more stately, but your face is the same. Whenever we want to think of the angels we think of you too, Neta."

"That is very sweet of you, darlings; but, indeed, I am far from being an angel. I am just a very human girl; and, please, if you don't mind, we won't discuss my looks any more."

Cicely and Merry both save their cousin a thoughtful glance. Then they said eagerly, "You must come to your room and wash your hands, and get refreshed for supper, for of course you are starving."

"I shall like to have something to eat," said Aneta. "What room am I to have, girls?"

"Oh, the white room, next to ours; we arranged it all this morning," said Cicely.

"Well, come along at once," said Aneta.

Soon the three girls found themselves in the beautiful bedroom which had been arranged for Aneta's reception. As soon as ever they got there Cicely clasped one of her cousin's arms and Merry the other.

"We have news for you—news!" they said.

"Yes?" said Aneta, looking at them with her bright, soft eyes.

"Most wonderful—most extraordinary—most—most beautiful!" said Merry, speaking almost with passion. "We're going to your school; yes, to yours—to Aylmer House, in September. Could you have believed it? Think of father consenting, and just because I felt a little discontented. Oh, isn't he an angel? Father, of all people, who until now would not hear of our leaving home! But we're going."

"Well," said Aneta, "I am not greatly surprised, for I happen to know that your father, Cousin Cyril, came to see auntie yesterday, and afterwards he went to visit Mrs. Ward, and after his visit we saw Mrs. Ward; and, although he had not quite made up his mind then whether he would send you or not, we quite thought he would do so. Yes, this is splendid. I'll he able to tell you lots about the school; but, after all, it isn't the school that matters."

"Then what matters, Aneta?"

"It's Mrs. Ward herself," said Aneta; "it's she who makes the whole thing so perfect. She guides us; she enlightens us. Sometimes I can scarcely talk of her, my love for her and my passion for her are so deep."

Cicely and Merry looked thoughtful for a minute.

"I'm ready now to come downstairs," said Aneta; and they went down, to find supper prepared for them, and the old butler waiting to attend on his young ladies.

After the meal was over the girls retired to the drawing-room, where they all three sat by one of the windows waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Cardew's return.

Merry then said, "It is so funny of you, Aneta, to speak as though the school was Mrs. Ward."

"But it is," said Aneta.

"Surely, surely," said Merry, "it's the girls too."

"You will be surprised, perhaps, Aneta, to hear," said Cicely, "that our dear, darling friends—our greatest girl-friends, except yourself perhaps, and you're a sort of sister—Molly and Isabel Tristram are also going to Aylmer House in September. They are so nice—you will like them; and then, of course, there's Maggie Howland, one of the most charming girls we have come across."

"Whom did you say?" asked Aneta.

"Maggie Howland. She is here."

"In this house?" said Aneta.

"No; she is at the rectory. She is a special friend of Molly and Isabel. She has been at school with them before in Hanover. You know her, of course? She is one of the girls at Aylmer House."

"I know her—oh yes, I know her," said Aneta.

"And you like her, you feel her charm, you—you almost worship her, don't you, Neta?"

Aneta was silent.

"Oh, I know she is considered plain," said Merry, "but there's something about her which prevents one even considering her features. She is the most unselfish, most fascinating girl we have ever come across. You love her, don't you, Neta?"

There had come a curious change over Aneta's face. After a brief pause she said, "I have no right to say it, but you two are my cousins"——

"Yes, yes! What does this mean?" said Cicely with great eagerness.

"Well, I know you will be faithful and not repeat it to any one; but I don't love Maggie Howland."

"Oh, Neta!"

"And," continued Aneta, "you; as my cousins, I most earnestly hope, will not make her your special friend at Aylmer House."

"But we have done so already, Neta. Oh, Neta darling! you are mistaken in her."

"I say nothing whatever against her," said Aneta, "except that personally I do not care for her. I should be very glad if I found that I had misjudged her."

"Then why don't you want us to be friends with her? We are friends with her."

"I cannot control you, darlings. When you come to school you will see a variety of girls, and most of them—indeed, all of them—nice, I think."

"Then why shouldn't we like poor Maggie?"

"You do like her, it seems, already."

"Yes; but you are so mysterious, Neta."

"I cannot say any more; you must forgive me," answered Aneta. "And I hear the sound of wheels. Your father and mother are coming."

"Yes, yes, the darlings!" said Merry, rushing into the hall to meet her parents.

Aneta and Cicely followed her example, and there was great excitement and much talk. Mrs. Cardew was now as anxious that the girls should go to Aylmer House as though she herself had always wished for such an arrangement, while Mr. Cardew could not say enough in Mrs. Ward's praise.

"You agree with me, Aneta," said Mrs. Cardew, "that the school is quite unique and above the ordinary."

"Mrs. Ward is unique and above the ordinary," was Aneta's reply.

When the girls retired to their own rooms that night, Cicely and Merry met for a brief moment.

"How funny of Aneta not to like Maggie!" said Merry.

"Well, if I were you, Merry," said Cicely, "I wouldn't talk about it. I suppose Aneta is prejudiced."

"Yes," said Merry; "but against Maggie, of all people! Well, I, for my part, will never give her up."

"I suppose," said Cicely, who was more conscientious than her sister, "that we ought to think something of Aneta's opinion."

"Oh, that's very fine," said Merry; "but we ought to think something, too, of Molly's opinion, and Belle's opinion. They have known Maggie longer than Aneta has."

"Yes," replied Cicely; "I forgot that. But isn't Aneta herself delightful? It's a pure joy to look at her."

"It certainly is," said Merry; "and of course I love her dearly and am very proud of her; but I confess I did not quite like her when she spoke in that queer way about dear little Maggie. I, at least, am absolutely determined that nothing will induce me to give Maggie up."

"Of course we won't give her up," said Cicely. But she spoke with thought.



CHAPTER XI.

TEN POUNDS.

In perfect summer weather, when the heart is brimful of happiness, and when a great desire has been unexpectedly fulfilled, what can there possibly be more delightful than an open-air life? This was what the girls who belonged to the rectory and the girls who belonged to the Manor now found. Mr. and Mrs. Cardew and Mr. and Mrs. Tristram could not do enough for their benefit. Maggie could only stay for one week longer with her friends; but Aneta had changed her mind with regard to Belgium, and was to go with the young Cardews to the seaside, and Mrs. Cardew had asked the Tristram girls to accompany them. She had also extended her invitation to Maggie, who would have given a great deal to accept it. She wrote to her mother on the subject. Mrs. Howland made a brief reply: "You know it is impossible, Maggie. You must come back to me early next week. I cannot do without you, so say no more about it."

Maggie was a girl with a really excellent temper, and, recognizing that her mother had a good reason for not giving her the desired holiday, made the best of things.

Meanwhile Cicely and Merry watched her carefully. As to Aneta, she was perfectly cordial with Maggie, not talking to her much, it is true, but never showing the slightest objection to her society. Nevertheless, there was, since the arrival of Aneta on the scene, a strange, undefinable change in the atmosphere. Merry noticed this more than Cicely. It felt to her electrical, as though there might be a storm brewing.

On the day before Maggie was to return to London to take up her abode in her mother's dull house in Shepherd's Bush, a magnificent picnic on a larger scale even than usual was the order of the hour. Some young girls of the name of Heathfield who lived a little way off were asked to Meredith Manor to spend the night, and these girls, who were exceedingly jolly and bright and lively, were a fresh source of delight to all those whom they happened to meet. Their names were Susan and Mary Heathfield. They were older than the Tristrams and the Cardews, and had, in fact, just left school. Their last year of school-life had been spent in Paris; they were highly educated, and had an enviable proficiency in the French tongue.

Mr. and Mrs. Heathfield, the parents of these girls, were also guests at the Manor, so that the picnic on this last day of Maggie's visit to the rectory was quite a large one. They drove nearly twenty miles to a beautiful place not far from Warwick. There the usual picnic arrangements were made with great satisfaction; dinner was eaten out-of-doors, and presently there was to be a gipsy-tea. This all the girls looked forward to, and Andrew and Jack were wild with delight over the prospect of making the kettle boil. This particular task was given to them, and very proud they were of the trust reposed in them.

But now, dinner being over, the older people took shelter from the fierce rays of the sun under the wide-spreading trees, and the young people moved about in groups or in couples. Merry Cardew found herself alone with Maggie Howland. Without intending to do so, she had slightly, very slightly, avoided Maggie during the last day or two; but Maggie now seized her arm and drew her down a shady glade.

"Come with me, Merry," she said; "I have a lot I want to say to you."

Merry looked at her. "Of course I will come with you, Maggie," she answered.

"I want just to get quite away from the others," continued Maggie, "for we shall not meet again until we meet in the autumn at Aylmer House. You don't know, perhaps—do you, Merry—that you owe the great joy of coming to that lovely school to me?"

"To you!" said Merry in the utmost amazement.

"Yes," replied Maggie in her calmest tone, "to me."

"Oh, dear Maggie!" replied Merry, "you surely must be mistaken."

"I don't intend to explain myself," said Maggie; "I simply state what is a fact. You owe your school-life to me. It was I who inserted the thin end of the wedge beneath your father's fixed resolution that you were to be educated at home. It was I, in short, who acted the part of the fairy princess and who pulled those silken reins which brought about the desire of your heart."

"I don't understand you, Maggie," said Merry in a distressful tone; "but I suppose," she added, "as you say so, it is the case. Only, I ought to tell you that what really and truly happened was this"——