L.T. Meade (continued 4)

“Well,” she said, after a pause, “if I can manage it I will. I’ll just get father to understand, without telling too big a tarradiddle, you perceive, that it is all right, and that you are coming. Then you must be at the station, and you must bring a box with you. You must on no account come without luggage, or he’d be up in arms at once.”

“What train are you going by?” asked Nesta, whose cheeks were very bright.

“We’re leaving Newcastle by the 12:15. There’ll be a crowd of people, because so many go away from Saturday to Monday, and just now it is holiday time, and the crowd will be worse than ever. We are going third-class, of course; you won’t mind that, will you?”

“Not a bit.”

“Well, father will have taken four tickets—one for himself, one for mother, one for me and one for you, and all you have to do is to hide yourself as much as possible behind me. But what about your box? Whatever will you do about getting it there?”

“I could come with quite a small box. Could not you put some of my things in with yours? I could get them to you to-morrow evening. I know I could.”

“That’s a good idea; I’ll ask mother to give me a larger trunk than I really want for myself, and I’ll put your best things on the top. I’ll tell mother that you haven’t a great lot of trunks at home, and that I am helping you by packing some of your things. That will do; only be sure you don’t come in too shabby a frock, Nesta. We must be at least a little smart at Scarborough. Mother is making me a blue gingham frock, and a red gingham, and a bright blue voille for Sunday. I wonder how many nice dresses you have?”

“I don’t care—I’ve got something, and I’ll rummage the other girls’ drawers for ribbons and a pair of gloves. I’ll manage somehow. I can take just a little box, that can be easily managed.”

“You had best be going back now,” said Flossie.

“Oh, I can go home with you to tea, Marcia said I could if you liked.”

“Well, that’s all right—I’m very glad, because if you meet father you can tell your own tarradiddle. I’d much rather keep my own conscience clear. I have never told a downright absolute lie in my life.”

“Very well,” said Nesta. She wondered what was the matter with her; why she cared less and less to be good, and why she felt so reckless and indifferent to all that most girls would have considered sacred. She was puzzled about herself, and yet at the same time she did not care.

She went back with Flossie to the home of the latter and enjoyed the excellent meal, and when, in the course of it, Mr Griffiths appeared, she ran up to him and clapped her hands.

“I’m going, it’s all right,” she said. “Isn’t it prime!”

“I’m as pleased as anything,” he said, his honest face beaming all over. “So your father don’t mind. I thought perhaps Aldworth would be too proud—I mistook him, didn’t I?”

“Father?” said Nesta; “oh, father’s all right, and I’m going; it’s splendid. And what do you think?” she added. “Flossie is going to take some of my things in her trunk. You don’t mind that, do you, Mrs Griffiths?”

“For goodness’ sake,” cried Mr Griffiths, “don’t bring too much finery, girls, too much toggery and all that sort of thing. The place will be chock full, and we haven’t taken expensive rooms. Mother and me, we didn’t see the sense of it. You are heartily welcome to come with us, Nesta, and if we can give you a good time—why, we will. It’ll be about a week or ten days you’ll be staying, won’t it?”

“Yes, that will be nice,” said Nesta.

“And you don’t mind, dear, sharing the same room with Flossie,” said Mrs Griffiths.

“I don’t mind a bit,” said Nesta.

“Of course, she doesn’t, wife. We always pack up like herrings in a barrel at the seaside, don’t we?”

“That’s true enough,” said Mrs Griffiths, “and I must own sometimes I find it a bit stuffy—that is, when I’m indoors.”

“But you don’t when you’re on the seashore, wife, when you’re looking at the merry-go-rounds and listening to the bands, and watching the niggers dancing, and seeing the Punch and Judy shows.”

Mrs Griffiths smiled and her face relaxed.

“We’ll wade and we’ll bathe and we’ll go out in boats, and we’ll have no end of fun!” said Flossie. “Oh, it will be prime.”

She and Nesta wandered away by themselves when the meal came to an end.

“I didn’t even tell him a lie. Didn’t I manage splendidly?” said Nesta.

Flossie replied that she did.

“Now, I must really be going home. I’ll have to be as good as gold; butter won’t melt in my mouth between now and Saturday,” said Nesta.

She flew home. In the garden she met Molly and Ethel, who were walking up and down, having a rather dull time, poor girls, and were anything but contented. When they saw Nesta they pounced upon her.

“Now, Nesta, it’s all arranged. Marcia has been planning everything. She goes to the St. Justs on Saturday.”

“On Saturday?” said Nesta, starting and colouring very deeply.

“Yes, I thought you knew.”

“I knew she was going, but I didn’t know the day. You needn’t look at me as though you wanted to eat me.”

“You’re so horribly disagreeable, Nesta, ever since you got that bedroom to yourself,” said Ethel. “I hope you’ve put out of your mind, once and for ever, that selfish plan of yours of going away to the seaside with Flossie Griffiths.”

“Am I likely to think much more about it after the way you snubbed me this morning?” replied Nesta.

“Well, that’s all the better, for you will be kept very much occupied. Marcia is a martinet, I will say. Mule Selfish is no word for her. The way she has planned everything—all our time taken up—Molly is to house-keep, and I am to look after the house linen, and Nurse Davenant is to superintend every scrap that mother eats, and mother is to have all her time planned so that she is to be as cheerful as possible, and Marcia will come to see her once a week, and if there is any change for the worse, Marcia will come right back, and won’t we have a time of it, if that happens?”

“I do think,” said Nesta, “that if we ever made a mistake in our lives, it was that time when we begged and implored father and Horace to bring Marcia back.”

“Well, there’s more to come. Father and Horace are also going away on Saturday.”

Nesta’s face very perceptibly brightened. If Marcia was away, as well as her father, and also her brother, why, there would be nobody to make much fuss about her having absented herself. When she was at Scarborough, she would be allowed to stay there, for there would be no one to force her back. How delightful.

“I’m glad they’re going to have a holiday,” she said. “I really am; and they’re going on Saturday?”

“Yes, by the 12:15 train. They’re going through Scarborough right on to—why, how pale you are.”

“It’s so horribly hot,” said Nesta, sinking into a chair.

“Well, that’s about it; they’re going by the 12:15 train, but they’re not going to stop at Scarborough, they’re going to a little place about twenty miles further on. They’re going to have a lot of fishing and yachting. Father says that he doesn’t want to be too far away from mother in her present state, and, of course, Horace loves his fishing. There, Nesta, you do look white. Hadn’t you better go into the house?”

“No, I’m all right; don’t bother me,” said Nesta.

Chapter Twenty.

The Missing Sovereign.

It was Saturday morning; the Carters were going to Whitby, the Griffiths to Scarborough, Mr Aldworth and his son to a place called Anchorville, on the coast, a remote little fishing hamlet, far away from railways, or any direct communication. Nevertheless a telegram could bring Mr Aldworth back to his wife if necessity arose, within six or seven hours.

The whole place seemed to be redolent of paper and string and trunks and labels and all the rest of it, thought Penelope Carter. Penelope was watching eagerly for the post, and that letter from Jim, which never came. She was really working herself into a fever, and when Saturday arrived and the sun shone brilliantly, and the whole world—or at least, all their world—was full of confusion, she could scarcely eat her breakfast. At each sound she started, and Clara came to the conclusion that the child was not well. In reality, Pen, having given up all hope of Jim’s coming to the rescue, was struggling to make up her mind. If, by any chance, her father did not miss the sovereign, she would not tell, but if he missed it, and if he began to suspect any one of having stolen it; why, tell him she must.

She ran up to Jim’s room; shut the door and fell on her knees by Jim’s bedside.

“Give me strength,” she murmured. “Give me strength. I am awfully frightened. Please, God, give me strength. I won’t let any one else be suspected.”

Just then Clara’s voice was heard calling her.

“Come along, Pen, what are you hiding for? And in Jim’s room of all places! We want every hand that we can get; we’ll never be in time for the train.”

“Where’s father?” said Pen wildly.

“How do I know where father is? Pen, you must be mad. What do you want with father of all people?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing?” said Pen. “Nothing at all.” She felt frightened at Clara’s manner.

“Now, do bustle up,” continued Clara. “Look here, we want a lot of peaches to eat by the way. There are some peaches in the hothouse at the end of the garden, you can pick some of those; never mind how cross old Archer is. Tell him that I want them. He won’t dare to keep anything back from me.”

Pen started on her errand. She was glad to be out, but when she reached the place where the peaches were, she stood for a long time in contemplation. Then she suddenly roused herself.

“I haven’t a bit of strength; I don’t know how I can do it,” she thought.

She went in and picked some peaches, without giving much thought to the fact that they were not ripe, and she was presently aware that old Archer was standing over her. Archer was rather a terrible personage; he began to scold Pen. How dare she take his peaches? and she had not taken the ripe ones. Here were ten lovely peaches absolutely destroyed, good for nothing.

“You can’t have ’em,” he said. “I’ll lay ’em in the sun. Maybe they’ll ripen. It’s a sinful shame to have a tree with its fruit torn off in this fashion. Why, Miss Pen, haven’t you got any sense at all? Don’t you know by this time when a peach is ripe and when it isn’t? Miss Clara’ll be in a fine tantrum when she sees these sort of things. Here, give me yer basket, you stand by me, and I’ll select ’em.”

Pen did not seem to care. Archer made a careful choice. He picked seven or eight peaches, then chose some nectarines, then some apricots, and then some grapes; the basket was packed, and he was proud of its appearance when he handed it to Pen.

She went back to the house. Clara was in the hall, her face was scarlet.

“What a time you’ve been,” she said. “I do declare you’ve been away three-quarters of an hour. But oh, that fruit does look good. Put it there in the hall; I’ll tell James to cover it over. Pen, what do you think has happened?”

“What?” asked Pen faintly.

“Why, father went to his room, as usual, to get his purse to pay the men, and he found a sovereign short. He’s in a thundering rage. Who in the world can have taken it? He has made up his mind that it is Betty, that new under-housemaid. She’s not been with us a month yet. He says he’ll dismiss her; nothing will induce him to keep her unless she confesses.”

“Has he—has he—accused her?” asked Pen.

“Of course, he has; he went to her and spoke to her, and she’s crying fit to break her heart, but I suppose all the same she has done it. There, there, Pen, it’s no affair of yours. Father would be fit to kill anybody who did such a mean thing. Fancy going to his room and taking a sovereign out of his drawer.”

“He—he wouldn’t be likely to forgive very easily?” said Pen.

“Forgive! I wouldn’t like to be in Betty’s shoes.” Penelope went slowly upstairs.

“Now do hurry; the carriage will be at the door in twenty minutes. And, Pen, do change your dress. We may meet smart people going to Whitby, we may indeed.”

Pen turned an angle in the staircase. She walked more and more slowly. Clara’s words kept echoing in her brain. “Father would half kill anybody who had done this. She wouldn’t like to be in Betty’s shoes.” Pen went straight into Jim’s room. When she had shut the door, she said aloud:

“You might have helped me out of this awful mess; oh, you might, I wrote you such a distracted letter. Oh, I can’t see Betty. I can’t, I can’t! Oh, what am I to do? Well, I won’t go to Whitby, on that point I have quite made up my mind.”

Before her resolution could falter she ran downstairs again.

“My dear Pen, not ready yet?” said Mabel, who was now in the hall.

“No, I’m not, and what is more, I’m not going.”

“Not going, Penelope? Not going?”

“No, I’m not well, and I’m not going.”

“You do look hot, we all noticed it this morning; but you are not so bad as all that.”

“Yes, I am, but you needn’t stay, I can get nursey to look after me. I will go when I am better; anyhow, I am not going to-day, so there.”

Mabel rushed at her sister, and felt her brow, and took her hot hand.

“I don’t believe you are so bad you can’t go. I wonder where father is? Oh, here you are, Clara. What do you think this tiresome Pen has gone and done?”

“What now?” said Clara. “Does she want father? He is at Newcastle. He won’t be back until late this evening. He bade us all good-bye. He asked for Pen, but as she was not about he sent his love to her.”

“I don’t want to go,” said Pen, “that’s all. I’m going to stay behind. I’m—I’m not well.”

“But what ails you? A headache?”

“Splitting,” said Pen.

“Pain in your back?”

“A bit.”

“Sore throat?”

“A bit.”

“Good gracious! What else have you got a bit of?”

“I don’t know—a bit of everything. Anyhow, I’m not going.”

“Hadn’t we better take her temperature?” said Clay. “It seems frightfully wrong to leave her.”

“No, no, I won’t put that horrid little thing into my mouth,” said Pen. “I’ll stay with nursey. Nursey shall look after me. You can all go, and if nursey wants to send for the doctor she can. But I’m not bad enough for that, only I can’t stand the train. Do let me stay, please, please. If you don’t, you’ll have to take me by force, for I’ll scream and shriek all the way.”

The waggonette appeared at the door. The coachman bent down.

“Young ladies,” he said, “it’s about time to go.”

“Our luggage has gone,” said Clara, “and yours too, Pen.”

“Perhaps I’ll come to-morrow,” said Pen. “I can’t—I can’t go now.”

“We’ll have to leave her,” said Clara. “I’ll just run up and tell old Richardson to look after her.”

Clara rushed upstairs, and found Nurse Richardson, who told her there was not the slightest occasion for any of them to stay with Pen, for she could nurse her and fifty more like her, if it were necessary. Clara, therefore, returned to the hall.

“Where is the child?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mabel. “Isn’t the here!”

“You’ll miss your train, Miss,” said the coachman. “So we will. Clara, do get in!” called out Mabel. “Here you are, Annie, we are both waiting for you.” Clara jumped into the waggonette; the door was slammed to, the delicious fruit lay in a basket on the seat, and the horses started forward. They went down the avenue at a spanking pace. Pen was watching them from behind the house. She gave one glad cry, a cry almost of ecstasy, and then she burst into tears.

“Oh, I’m glad and yet I’m sorry,” she said. “Both glad and sorry! both glad and sorry!”

Mrs Richardson called and called in vain for Pen; there was no sign of her darling young lady. What in the world had become of her?

But Pen was determined to stay out. She had got to make up her mind. There was just a vague hope within her that perhaps Jim might yet return. Perhaps he was coming back in person; he was answering her letter in that best of all ways. Still, it was scarcely likely, for he must know that by Saturday morning his father would have discovered the missing sovereign. There was Betty, too. Pen had scarcely given Betty a thought. She was a very common, rather untidy little girl. She had never in the least attracted Pen; but she hardly thought of any one else that day. And yet, after a fashion, she quite envied Betty, for Betty at least was innocent.

“She hasn’t my guilty conscience,” thought Pen. “Oh dear, oh dear, what is to become of me?”

By-and-by Pen heard the sound of crying. It came nearer and nearer. A girl with her apron over her head was coming down the shady path where Pen herself was sitting. Pen started to her feet. That was Betty; she could not meet Betty, she would not see her for all the world.

But Betty had caught sight of Pen. She ran up to her, removed her apron, and said:

“Oh, Miss Pen, couldn’t you save me? Won’t you speak for me to Mr Carter? I ain’t done it, Miss. I ain’t done it. I wouldn’t touch what don’t belong to me. He says I’m the only one that could ha’ done it, and if I don’t confess I’m to go, but if I confess he’ll forgive me. But I ain’t done it, and I’ll have to go, and he won’t give me a character, and mother—mother, she’ll never forgive me. She’ll believe as I done it.”

“But—but—” said Pen, bringing out her words with difficulty, “didn’t you take it?”

“Oh, no, Miss Pen. Oh, that you should think that! All my people are as honest as honest can be. I never took it, I never knew anything about that purse, and I never, never opened a drawer in my master’s room, not since I came to the house. But there, I see you don’t believe me.”

Betty did not waste any more time with Pen. She walked on, her sobs grew louder, and then fainter; she was perfectly distracted, she did not know what to do with herself.

Chapter Twenty One.

Nurse Comforter.

When Betty had left her, Pen sat very still in the hammock where she had perched herself. Once or twice she swung herself backwards and forwards, but most times she sat motionless. She had come to the first real grave problem in her young life. She had always been a careless, never-may-care, somewhat untidy, reckless little girl. She had had no special training. Being the youngest she had been petted now and then, and scolded now and then; fussed over occasionally, bullied occasionally; allowed to grow up in any sort of fashion. She had had some sort of teachers, but they had never had much influence over her. Nurse Richardson thought more of her than of all the other girls, for was she not her darling, her baby? Her father, too, was fond of pinching her rosy cheeks, and calling her his little dear, or his little pet, just as fancy took him. Her elder sisters made her their messenger, and partly their slave. She did not mind; she was contented. She had a few friends, but not any very special ones. When Nesta and her sisters had come to stay at Court Prospect during their great trouble, Pen had at first taken warmly to Nesta; but she was tired of her now. She had never liked Flossie Griffiths, and Flossie was really Nesta’s friend.

As to the affair of the sovereign, Pen had made a bet without giving it a serious consideration. She had never for one moment supposed that Nesta considered it a serious affair. Then Pen had begun to long to be grown up like her sisters, to wear dresses which would cover her somewhat ungainly feet, to walk about with boys, and to receive compliments from them; never to do any tiresome French or German, or any unpleasant practising on the school-room piano, or any grammar, or any English history, or any of those things which she called school work, and hated accordingly. She wanted these things to cease, and she hoped to have a right good time when Clay and Mabel and Annie wore getting passée. She considered that Clay would be quite passée when she was one and twenty, and by that time surely Pen, who would be about seventeen, would be in her first charming bloom.

By this it will be seen that Pen was quite an ordinary little girl, but she was a girl with a conscience. She had inherited a sturdy sense of honour from her father, who was a good business man, and Pen, had circumstances been different, might have been a good business woman. He had won his present enviable position by the strongest code of honour; he had piled up his gold without injuring any man. To be honest—honest at any cost—was his motto, and he had instilled these ideas into his sons, and had talked about them in the presence of his daughters. The elder girls had never listened, but Pen had. Her conscience now was stirred to its depths. Nothing but fear would have kept her from confessing the truth. She struggled hard with herself for some time.

It was the middle of the day, however, and Nurse Richardson, after many fruitless searches, found Pen just at the time when luncheon was to be served. She pounced upon the little girl, and took her hand somewhat roughly.

“There now,” she said, “a nice state of things you have been and gone and done. I’ve been the whole morning searching for you. Why, Miss Clara said you were that feverish and sore-throaty and head-achy as never was. Why, what has come to you, Miss Pen? What’s wrong?”

Pen sprang from the hammock, ran up to old Richardson, and embraced her.

“I’m not a bit head-achy, nor a bit sore-throaty, nor a bit of anything, but just that I didn’t want to go,” she said.

“And you made up all that story?”

“I’d rather stay with you, nursey,” said Pen, rubbing her cheek against the old woman’s.

Nurse was by no means a strict moralist; she was soothed by Pen’s attitude.

“Then you will come right in and have a beautiful little bit of dinner,” she said. “Roast duck and green peas, and afterwards a plum tart, and cream and peaches.”

Pen was, notwithstanding her perturbation of mind, somewhat hungry.

“And you’ll have it up in the old nursery with me,” said Richardson.

“All right, nursey, if you’ll eat your dinner with me.”

“If you don’t mind, my pretty.”

“Mind?” said Pen. “I’d love it.”

For the time she was in quite good spirits. She went into the house with the old nurse. They visited the nursery, and the dinner in question was soon brought on the board, and the two ate with hearty good appetite.

“I’m that relieved that you ain’t a bit sore-throaty nor head-achy,” said the nurse.

“No. I’m as right as possible,” said Pen, “as well as possible,” she repeated. “It isn’t that.”

“You’ll go to-morrow? Miss Clara was in a state.”

“I don’t know—I don’t know when I’ll go.”

Having satisfied her appetite her nervous fears began again.

“I want to go back to the garden—I want to be alone,” she said.

But as she was leaving the room she turned.

“Where’s Betty?” she said.

“Betty, the bad little thing! To think of her doing it,” said nurse.

“Oh, nursey, do you think she did it?”

“You have heard, then, my pet?”

“Yes, I have heard.”

“Of course, she done it,” said the nurse. “Who else would? All of us old trusted servants, and she just fresh in the place. But I’ve heard before now that the Wren family are just about—well, to say the least of it, not all they might be. She’ll have to go back to Mrs Wren.”

“What sort of a woman is Mrs Wren?” asked Penelope.

“Oh, a decent body enough; but they do say the husband was a poacher. Well, he’s dead, and Betty’s the eldest of the family. She wouldn’t have got in here if I hadn’t spoke for her, and I’m ashamed of her, that I am.”

“Nursey, I do wish you’d tell father that you know she hasn’t done it, and beg and beseech of him not to send her away.”

“I, tell the master that?” said nurse, holding up her hands. “Much good it would be. He’d say back to me—‘Nurse, who has done it? Until I find out who has done it, I shall suspect Betty Wren and Betty Wren must go out of the house. If she confesses I may forgive her, but if she sticks to it that she hasn’t done it, out she goes, and without a character.’ That’s the master all over, and I must say he’s about right. A thief ought to be punished awfully severe.”

Pen went and stood by the window.

“I believe I have a bit of a headache,” she said, after a pause. “I’ll just go down to the garden and sit there in the shade. What time is father coming back, nurse?”

“I suppose the usual time, about six. He’ll be took up to see you, and he’ll be pleased enough, I take it. You may as well stay with him now until next Saturday, when I understand he is going to join the young ladies.”

Pen made no reply to this. When she got into the passage she gave a deep sigh. When would Jim be back? Why had he not answered her letter? She passed his room, the door was ajar, but she did not go in this time. Jim was faithless, he was no better than the others. Indeed, he was worse. He had promised to help her, and then had not done so.

She went into the garden and chose a shady seat under a tree, took up a book which she could not read, and then pressed her hand to her eyes.

Perhaps she had fallen asleep; at any rate she found herself sitting bolt upright, and gazing straight before her. A great trembling took possession of her, and just for a moment she did not know what had happened. But coming down the path to meet her, was some one who looked very like a vision—some one slender, marvellously graceful, and all in white; a white dress, a white hat, everything white. The hat was tilted back from a broad brow, and the dark hair under it was rendered darker by the shade of the hat, and the eyes were large and misty and very beautiful, and the face was pale. The girl, for Pen soon discovered that it was only a girl, and not an angel, hurried when she saw Pen, and went towards her with outstretched hand. Pen rose, confused and puzzled.

“Don’t you know me? I have seen you before. I am Angela St. Just. May I sit down for a little?”

“Oh, please do,” said Pen. How delighted Clay would be! How overpowered Mabel would be! Even Annie would be confused, and a little off her guard; but Pen was not confused, nor off her guard in the least. “Would you like the hammock?” she said, “or this seat? The hammock is most comfortable.”

“I will take the seat,” said the young lady.

She leant back and looked across the garden.

“That is our tennis lawn,” said Pen, pointing in the distance. “It used to be the old garden, with the queer dragons and beasts and birds cut out of the box trees. Doesn’t it make a beautiful tennis lawn? Wouldn’t you like to see it? Clay is so proud of it.”

“No, I shouldn’t like to see it,” said Angela very gently.

She turned those misty, unfathomable eyes of hers towards the little girl.

“Don’t you understand,” she said impulsively, and she laid her slender hand on Pen’s arm, “that the old garden was more to me than the tennis lawn is to you?” Pen felt a vague, very vague sort of flutter at her heart. She did not know that she understood, but she felt puzzled and uneasy.

“Why have you come here to-day?” was her next question.

“I am waiting for my friend, Marcia Aldworth. I hope to take her back with me to-night—that is if Mrs Aldworth’s mind is relieved.”

“But what has happened?” said Pen. “Is Mrs Aldworth ill again?”

“Not exactly, but she is anxious. Perhaps you can tell us something. It is Nesta.”

“What about Nesta?” asked Pen.

“She cannot be found. Since early this morning no one has seen her. They are searching for her everywhere, and are making inquiries, but no one knows anything about her. Mrs Aldworth hasn’t been told exactly what has happened, but she particularly misses Nesta, and dear Marcia will not be able to come to me unless Nesta turns up. Do you know anything about her?”

“No,” said Pen, a little wearily. She was not deeply interested in Nesta, nor particularly interested in Mrs Aldworth.

“I half hoped you might, or some of you. You were so kind to the Aldworths when they were in such trouble about their mother.”

“No, I wasn’t kind,” said Pen abruptly, “I didn’t like them.”

Angela did not smile; she looked grave.

“Still, I don’t know why you came here?” was Pen’s next remark.

“Your sister wanted me to come; she invited me, and I thought I would come to see her. Is she at home?”

“I’m the only one at home. They have all gone to Whitby to have a spree. I didn’t want to go.”

“But why? You are the youngest, are you not?”

“Yes, I’m the youngest.”

“Why didn’t you want to go?”

Pen coloured. There was nothing at all inquisitive in the visitor’s voice, but there was a note of sympathy in it as though in some indescribable, marvellous way she could guess that Pen was in trouble, and that Pen had something on her mind that was worrying her a good deal. Insensibly Pen drew a little nearer to the white-robed visitor.

“I say,” she exclaimed, “shall I tell you what I thought you were when I saw you coming down the path?”

“What?” asked Angela.

“Well, perhaps I had been asleep, I can’t quite tell, but I opened my eyes with a start, and there was an angel coming along; I really thought for a minute that you were an angel; and that is your name, isn’t it?”

“Angela is my name.”

“Now that I come to look at you more closely, Angela,” said Pen, bringing out the word without the slightest hesitation, “I think you are very like an angel. Have you ever seen them?”

“I have never seen them, but I have often thought about them.”

“I don’t quite know why you are different from others,” said Pen. “It’s that far-away sort of look, and yet it isn’t the far-away look—you are different, anyhow.”

Angela laid her hand again on Pen’s arm.

“Tell me your name,” she said.

“Pen, Penelope.”

“Penelope, what a grand old name. Have you got that wonderful perseverance that the real Penelope had? Will you be as faithful as she was?”

But Pen did not know the story of the real Penelope, nor did she ask. Angela’s hand seemed to draw her in some marvellous way.

“Look at me,” said Angela very gravely. “I must go in a few minutes. I wonder why I came to you instead of going straight to the front door. Your servant would have sent me away. But as I drew up my ponies at the front entrance, I saw a girl in the garden, and I thought I could bear this visit to the old place best if I came across the garden and spoke to the girl. And do you know, what is more, I hoped the girl would be you?”

“Did you?” said Pen, her black eyes dancing with a look of intense pleasure.

“I did, for you have such an honest face.”

“No, no; if you knew you wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t speak to me. Angels would have nothing to do with me; but I can’t help it—oh, why did you come?”

“Tell me, dear; tell me.”

Pen struggled and struggled. Give herself away to this girl, to Angela St. Just, whom all the neighbourhood worshipped from afar; tell this girl what she had done? She could not! But just as little as though Angela were a real angel could Pen withstand the matchless sympathy which Angela could throw into her voice, with which she could fill her eyes, with which she could wrap the sore heart of the puzzled little sufferer.

“It was Jim,” said Pen at last in a stricken voice. “Jim—he’s my brother; he’s not a bit like others. Jim has thoughts, you know, thoughts, and he is splendid, and full of honour. He said he would help me out. He promised faithfully, but he went away, he went to a place called The Chase, to some people of the name of Holroyd. He went quite suddenly. I had a talk with him one evening, and I told him; and he said there was only one thing to do, and he’d put it right, and be with me when I did it. But he’s away. Oh dear, oh dear!”

“Was the thing you had to do very difficult?”

“Awfully. But oh, Angela, you don’t know.”

It never occurred to Pen to call this fascinating visitor by any other name.

“I am sure I can partly guess; it is exceedingly difficult for any one to own himself or herself in the wrong, and we all do wrong at times. Your brother must be a very nice boy.”

“Oh, he’s grand, only I don’t know why he forsook me.”

“Tell me more. I think I must have been guided to go down the garden path and have a talk with you.”

“But you will never speak to me again.”

“Does that really matter, Penelope? The one thing for you to do is to put wrong right.”

“I will tell you more,” said Penelope suddenly.

“You won’t always be in the house to stare at me as Clay would do, and as Mabel and Annie would do, thinking that perhaps I’d do it again, and always taunting me with it. Oh, no, you won’t be there.”

“Only in spirit, and my spirit will be very tender, and full of love to you.”

“Love to me?” said Pen.

“Of course, Penelope. Can you doubt it?”

Penelope could not look in those eyes, which were full of matchless love, eyes such as she had never before encountered. She burst into a torrent of tears, struggled with her emotions, and finally laid her curly head with its wealth of red-gold hair on Miss St. Just’s white dress. The slender hand touched the head once or twice, but Pen was allowed to cry until the pain in her heart was eased a little.

“It was this way,” she said, and then she told her story.

“I spoke to Jim first, I was driven to it, and—and Nesta was so persistent. But I don’t want to excuse myself.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Angela, “for of course you have no excuse.”

Her words were perfectly gentle, perfectly firm. Pen looked up at her.

“Ah,” she said, “you and my conscience say the same thing.”

“I hope so; your conscience is sure to tell you the right thing.”

“Well, anyhow, I told Jim, and Jim agreed with me. He said there was only one thing to do. Only, you see, it was like this; he had promised to help me, and he didn’t. He went away instead. I wrote to him, and he took no notice of my letter, no notice at all. I know he must have got it, and I couldn’t speak, although I tried. Then Saturday came, and father has discovered all about the lost sovereign, and Clay said he was in a thundering rage, quite wild with rage. She said he was fit to kill any one who had done it, and he accuses Betty, our new under-housemaid, Betty Wren is her name, and of course, Betty is innocent. He says unless she confesses she will be sent away; that’s quite awful. I don’t know how I am to tell him; I can’t imagine how I am to do it, for he’ll half kill me, and I shall die, die, if Betty Wren is sent away. Oh, I am so frightened. I wish Jim were here. What shall I do?”

“You must do this,” said Angela, “you must give your fears to God, he will take care of them, and of you. You must not think of what your father will do, you must simply think of what is right. The very moment he comes in you must go and tell him what you have told me, that in a moment of impulse you took the money, that afterwards you were afraid to tell him, that all the week von have been frightened, that this morning your fears kept you away from him, but that now you wish him to know the truth, and he—but never mind about him; he must know the truth.”

“I can’t, Angela, I can’t. Oh, if only Jim were here!”

“Do you think I should do instead of Jim?”

“You?” exclaimed Penelope. “Oh, Angela! Angela!”

Chapter Twenty Two.

Wrong Set Right.

Mr Carter hurried home about six o’clock. He had spent a busy day in Newcastle, and had gone through a few worries. He took the worries of life hard. He was exacting on all nice points of honour, and one of his clerks had deceived him. His mind, therefore, was especially sore as he sank back in the luxurious carriage which was to convey him back to Court Prospect. Halfway back he also remembered the affair of the sovereign. The loss of the sovereign was a mere nothing, but the fact that one of his dependents could steal from a private purse kept in one of his drawers, meant a great deal.

“Of course, it’s that girl,” he thought. “She’s as bad in her way as young Hanson is in his. I am sorry for them both, of course, but as I said to Hanson, if he had told me that he was in money difficulties, I would have helped him out; but instead of that he thought he’d help himself. Well, he has helped himself out of my service for ever; that’s plain, that’s only justice, and that girl, Betty Wren, if she doesn’t confess, she’ll go the same road; I vow it, and I’m a man who never yet broke my word.”

But as he got nearer to the house, more pleasurable thoughts succeeded the dismal ones. There was Jim—his eldest son, his pride, his boy. He had had a business letter from Jim that morning which had not arrived at Court Prospect, but had been sent to his father’s big offices in Newcastle, and in that letter it turned out that Jim had done splendidly. He had acted with tact and diplomacy, and would soon be back again.

“Won’t I give him a good time for this?” thought the father. “He is a lad to be proud of. Hullo, though, who’s that?”

He had turned into the avenue now; the horses were going under the beautiful beech trees at a spanking trot, and a girl was coming slowly to meet him.

“Why, if that isn’t my own Pen,” he said.

He was so amazed and startled that he pulled the check string, and the carriage stopped.

“Hullo, Pen!” he said. “What in the name of wonder are you doing here? What is the matter? Here, jump in, child.”

Pen obeyed.

“I want you, father,” she spoke in a tremulous voice—“I want you to come into the study the very minute you get home. I have something to say to you.”

Mr Carter turned round and gazed at Pen in surprise.

“Have you been ill?” he asked. “Why didn’t you go with the others to Whitby?”

“I’ll tell you when we get in the study.”

He looked at her again, and a frown came between his brows. He did not know why he was suddenly reminded of young Hanson and of Betty Wren, but he was. Oh, of course it was all nonsense, his little Pen—and yet she kept her face averted.

Presently they reached the house. Her father helped her out of the carriage.

“Now, come along, child,” he said with a sort of gentle roughness. “I guess by your manner that you have got into a bit of a scrape. I cannot make out what it is, but you are right to come to the old father; the old father will help you, if he can. What on earth are you trembling for?”

“Oh, come at once to the study, father.”

Pen pulled him along. He was tired, he had gone through a hard day; he wanted his customary cup of tea; he wanted to go into the garden and talk to Archer. He loved his garden, he enjoyed counting his peaches and gloating over his fruit trees, and considering how he could make more and more money out of the old place. He was terribly keen about money making. He was interested in money, it was a power, and he meant to have it whatever else he failed in.

But there was Pen, why had she not gone with the others to Whitby? Something ailed her; she was his youngest. He was fonder of Penelope than of any of his other children, except Jim. Jim, of course, was altogether on a different platform; there was no one like Jim in the world. It was worth struggling hard to make a fortune for a boy like Jim.

So he hurried as fast as Pen could wish, and presently she burst open the door of his study. There, standing by the window, was the white-robed vision which had so startled, so stirred, so moved Pen herself a few hours ago. The white vision came forward slowly, and Mr Carter looked with dazzled eyes at the girl he most wished to know, Angela St. Just. She was in his study, she was coming to meet him.

“I must introduce myself,” she said. “You have, of course, met my father in business matters, Mr Carter, but I want to see you on quite a different subject.”

“Miss St. Just,” said the startled man.

“Yes, I am Angela St. Just, Penelope’s friend.”

Mr Carter turned and looked at Pen as though he suddenly loved her passionately.

“Penelope’s friend; and I trust I may be able to help her through a rather difficult matter.”

“Now, what in the name of fortune does this mean?” said Mr Carter. “You here, Miss St. Just, you here in your old home, when they said that neither you nor your father could abide to come near the place, and yet you are here! What does it mean? I don’t understand.”

“Penelope will explain,” said Angela very gently. Then Penelope came forward. She made a valiant struggle, and after a minute or two some words came to her lips.

“Clay says that perhaps you will kill me. I don’t think you can forgive me. Father, it was I who took that sovereign out of your purse—the purse you always put money in to pay the men’s wages. I took it in the middle of the week, father.”

Mr Carter had forgotten Angela by this time. What was this—what was the matter? He was so absorbed, so stunned by Pen’s words that he could scarcely contain himself. He made one step forward, seized her hand, drew her to the light.

“What?” he said. “Say those words again.”

“I took your sovereign.”

“You—you, my child, stole my money!”

Angela now moved slowly across the room and put her hand on Pen’s shoulder.

“She is very, very sorry,” said Angela. “She feels heartbroken; she failed just in the one thing, she had not the courage to confess. But because you discovered the theft she would not go to Whitby to-day; she was determined to stay and brave it out.”

“And she came,” said Pen, “and she told me that I ought to tell you.”

There was no word about Jim. Pen had determined that Jim was to be left out of the matter.

But just at that moment there was a noise in the hall, a hurried step, a cheerful tone, and Jim himself burst into the room.

“Oh, father! You here, Pen? Oh, my darling, I am ever so sorry! Father, I forgot all about it in the other excitement, but it’s all right, it’s all right. We’re all right, everything is all right, and—and Pen told me. I said I would speak to you, but when you sent me away in such a hurry, I forgot, and Pen, I suppose she was frightened. Pen, can you forgive me?”

“Then you never got my letter?” said Pen. “I sent it to the Holroyds’, I knew you were there.”

Mr Carter looked troubled. He went up and took Jim’s hand.

“I am ever so puzzled,” he said. “I accused that girl, Betty Wren, and it seems—but tell me the whole story, Pen. I must hear it from beginning to end. Then I shall be able to decide.”

So Pen told him the story. Angela stood very gravely by. She stood a little bit in the background, and the shadow of the great curtain partly concealed her face, but the light of evening fell across her white dress, so that her whole appearance was like that of a pitying angel, who was waiting for the moment when the sinner was to be forgiven. Mr Carter looked from one of his children to the other, then at Angela.

“You have pretty high ideas of honour,” he said. “You know what this sort of thing means. Now, tell me what you would do if you were in my shoes.”

“There is no doubt whatever about what you will do,” said Angela.

“You think, don’t you—I believe saints always do—that sin ought to be punished.”

“We have the Divine Example,” said Angela in a low tone.

Mr Carter looked at her.

“You said a strange thing a minute ago; you said you were Penelope’s friend,” he remarked.

“So I am, from this day forward, as long as we both live.”

“You are in rare luck,” said Carter, looking gloomily at Pen, “to have a friend like that.” He walked to the other end of the room and began to stride up and down. He was hurt beyond anything he could have imagined. What was he to do? How was he to endure his own misery? It was bad enough to have a servant in the house who could be dishonest, bad enough to have a clerk who could steal, but here was his own child.

“Did I ever deny you anything?” he said.

“No, father.”

“Couldn’t you come to me and ask me for the money?”

“I was so terrified and afraid—oh, I have no excuse.”

“That is it,” said Angela. “She has no excuse whatever. It is not a case of excuse, it is a case of a girl having done wrong, and being bitterly sorry, and having confessed her fault. Now you come in, sir.”

“I come in, pray?” he said.

He forgot that the speaker was Miss St. Just, she was just a girl addressing him. But there was wonderful power in her voice.

“Of course you come in. What would God do in such a case?”

Carter turned away.

“Oh, father, you will, you will forgive me.”

“I come in, forsooth!” said the man. “I, who made a fool of myself this morning, and told that poor girl that she certainly had done it, but that if she confessed I would forgive her!”

“Then there is a similar case,” said Angela. “Penelope has confessed, so you ought to forgive her.”

“I don’t know—I don’t know,” he said.

“Oh, father, mayn’t I bring Betty down, and may I tell her that I was the real thief?”

“No good in that, child. No good in making it public.”

“Of course, father, you’ll have to forgive Pen,” said Jim’s sturdy young voice at that moment.

“If you wish it, Jim—if you wish it, of course there is nothing more to be said. What do you feel about it? You have metal in you; you’re made of the right stuff. What do you feel about this matter?”

“I feel that I have never loved Pen more than I do at this moment. I never was so proud of her. She has grit in her, she is worth all the rest of us, to my way of thinking.”

“No, that is not so; but if you wish it, Jim, and you, Miss St. Just.”

“I do wish it,” said Angela.

“Then I will say nothing more. Pen, I am disappointed; I am bitterly hurt, but I will say nothing more.”

He took the child’s hand, held it for a minute, looked into her face, and said:

“Why, I do believe you have suffered, you poor bit of a thing.”

Then he abruptly kissed her on her forehead and left the room.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Nesta Lost Again.

The Aldworths were in a state of confusion. Mrs Aldworth was anxious; Nurse Davenant was keeping the worst from her, but nevertheless she was anxious. Molly and Ethel were so firmly desired on no account to give themselves away, that they were absolutely excluded from the room. They were loud in their denunciations of Nesta.

“Catch old Nesta getting herself into trouble,” they said. “She has just gone off on one of her sprees.”

That was their first idea, but when they went to the Griffiths’ house, as the most likely place for the naughty Nesta to have taken herself to, and were greeted by the news that Mr, Mrs, and Miss Griffiths had started for Scarborough that morning, and that certainly no one else had gone with them, their ideas were somewhat shaken; they really did not know what to think. What was to be done? There was Mrs Aldworth wanting Nesta, and asking for her from time to time.

“Where is the child?” she said.

Now, Mrs Aldworth was herself, with her own delicate fingers, making a new blouse for Nesta. It was a very pretty one, of delicate pink silk, with embroidery trimming it all round the neck and round the pretty fancy sleeves. Mrs Aldworth wanted to try it on, and there was no Nesta to be found. The other girls were slighter than Nesta, who was a very buxom young woman for her years.

What was the matter? What was to be done? Still she was not seriously alarmed, for Marcia managed to keep her mind at rest. Nesta was out, she would be in soon.

But when lunch time came, and no Nesta appeared, Marcia sent a hurried line to Angela to tell her that she might, after all, not be able to go to Hurst Castle that day. She certainly would not leave the Aldworths while they were in anxiety.

Angela had replied that she was coming into Newcastle, and would go and pay the Carters a visit. She would wait for Marcia, and take her back.

It was late that evening when Angela did call for Marcia. She drew up her little pony carriage outside the door; she had driven all the way from Hurst Castle, but the ponies were fresh from their long rest in the old Court Prospect stables. Angela waited in the porch.

“I won’t come in to-night,” she said to Susan. “Just go up and say that Miss St. Just is waiting.”

Marcia came down. Her face was very pale.

“Oh, my dear Angela,” she said. “Whatever will you think of me? What is to be done? I have spent such a miserable day. We are all most anxious.”

“What?” said Angela, “haven’t you found the truant yet?”

“No; we have searched high and low, all over the place. We don’t want to alarm people. We could, of course, send a telegram to father and Horace, but we don’t want to do that.”

“She is evidently a very naughty girl,” said Angela.

“I am afraid she is; she is terribly self-willed,” said Marcia with a sigh.

“I’m not a scrap uneasy about her,” said Angela. “She is quite certain to have taken care of herself. But what frets me is that you are looking so white, dear. You want your holiday so badly.”

“I can’t really go with you to-night; I am ever so sorry, Angela, but it is quite impossible.”

“Then let me stay and help you.”

“Oh, I can’t do that!” but Marcia’s eyes expressed a longing.

“Now, why shouldn’t I stay?” said Angela. “I have always longed to see Mrs Aldworth. You might bring me up to her, mightn’t you?”

“I wonder if I dare?”

“Of course, you can, dear. Have I ever tired or frightened any one in the whole course of my life?”

“You have been so shamefully neglected, dear, and what will your father say?”

“I’ll send him a wire telling him not to expect us to-night. Or, better still, I’ll send the carriage home with a note. He’ll get it just when he is expecting me, and he will be quite contented in his mind.”

“Well, then, if you will, you can share my room.”

“Certainly,” said Angela lightly.

“You have been a long time at the Carters’,” said Marcia.

“Yes, I have had a most interesting time.”

“Your first visit to your old home.”

“I hadn’t much time to think of that, and I’m glad it is over. I shall go there very often. What nice young people the Carters are.”

Marcia opened her eyes.

“The two I saw—Jim and Penelope.”

“Penelope—yes, there is a good deal in that child.”

“I am her friend; I will tell you presently something, but not all, about her. I am truly glad I went to-day. Now, if only I can help you.”

“You can, you shall; I think God must have sent you.”

Marcia and her friend entered the house. They went into the library, where Marcia ordered a meal for Angela, and then went upstairs. Molly and Ethel were ready to dart upon her in the passage.

“What a long time you’ve been. Mother is beginning to cry. She says that Nesta has deserted her shamefully. We daren’t say that she is not in the house. I was thinking,” continued Molly, “of making up a little story, and saying that she was in her bedroom with a headache; mother couldn’t be very anxious about that, could she?”

“You mustn’t make up any such story. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Marcia, you are so over particular. Of course, you are not going to Hurst Castle to-night.”

“I am not.”

“Is Miss St. Just very sorry?”

“She is rather; but by the way, Molly, you might help me; Miss St. Just is spending the night here.”

“Good gracious!” said Ethel, drawing herself up. “Yes; won’t you two go down and have a chat with her? I wish you would. She is going to see mother presently. I think she will do mother a lot of good. Anyhow, she is staying, and I must make up my mind what is to be done about Nesta. If there are no tidings of her within the next hour or so, I must send a telegram to father.”

“We must make ourselves smart, first,” said Ethel, turning to Molly.

“I suppose so,” answered Molly.

They both went into their bedroom, the nice room which Marcia had prepared for them, and considered.

“My white dress,” said Molly—“oh, but there’s that horrid stain on it. I got it yesterday.”

“Our pink muslins are quite fresh; we look very nice in pink, and two dressed alike have always a good effect,” was Ethel’s suggestion.

Accordingly the pink muslins were donned, the raffled but pretty hair was put into immaculate order, and the girls, their hearts beating a little, went downstairs to entertain their distinguished guest. Of course, she was distinguished. But she was going to stay in their house—she was to be with them for a whole long, beautiful night. How lovely! They could look at her and study her, and furtively copy her little ways, her little graciousnesses, her easy manners, her politeness, which never descended to familiarity, and yet put people immediately at their ease. And better still, they could talk to their friends about her and about what had occurred. When those upstart, disagreeable Carters came back, what a crow they would have over them.

They were both in good spirits and forgot Nesta. Nesta was nothing but a trouble-the-house. She would turn up when she pleased. She deserved a sound whipping, and an early putting to bed; that was what she deserved.

Molly entered the room first; Ethel followed behind. Susan had lit a lamp, and the drawing room looked fairly comfortable. Angela was standing by the open window. She turned when she saw the girls and came forward to meet them.

“We’re so pleased and proud to know you,” began Molly.

“You are Molly, of course—or are you Molly?” said Angela, glancing from one girl to the other.

“We’re awfully alike, you know,” laughed Molly, “aren’t we, Ethel? Yes, I am Molly, and this is Ethel. We’re not twins, but there’s only about a year between us. We’re very glad to know you. Have you heard much about us?”

“Of course I have, from Marcia, my greatest friend.” Molly’s eyes were fixed in fascinated wonder and open admiration on her distinguished guest. There was something intangible about Angela, something quite impossible to define; she was made for adoration; she was made for a sort of worship. Girls could never feel about her in the ordinary way. These girls certainly did not. They looked at one another, and then looked back again at Angela.

“Are you tired? Are you really going to stay the night here?” said Molly at last.

“I will sit down if you don’t mind. No, I am not tired.”

“But you look so pale.”

“I am always pale; I never remember having a scrap of colour in my life.”

“I think pale people look so interesting,” said Ethel. “I wish Molly and I were pale; but we flush up so when we are excited. I know I shall have scarlet cheeks in a minute or two.”

“That is because we are so glad to see you,” said Molly.

“That is a very pretty compliment,” laughed Angela. “But although I’m not tired, I shouldn’t mind going up to Marcia’s room just to wash my hands and take my hat off.”

“We’ll both take you,” said Molly.

They were immensely flattered; they were highly pleased. Angela ran upstairs as though she were another girl Aldworth, and had known the place all her days. Marcia’s room was immaculately neat, but it was shabbily furnished; it was one of the poorest rooms in the house. Molly earnestly wished that she could have introduced her guest into her own room.

“I wonder,” she said suddenly, “where you are going to sleep to-night?”

“With Marcia; she said so.”

“Oh, but her bed is so small, you would not be comfortable. We’d be ever so pleased if you—”

“But I prefer to sleep with Marcia, and this room is quite nice.”

Molly ran to fetch hot water, and Ethel remembered that she had a silver brush and comb which she always kept for visits which seldom occurred. She rushed away to fetch it. Angela brushed her hair, washed her hands, said that she felt as though she had been living with the Aldworths for years, and ran downstairs again.

“How nice you are,” said Molly; “we don’t feel now as though we were afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me,” said Angela. “Why should you be that?”

“Only, somehow, you belong to a better set.”

“Please, don’t talk nonsense,” said Angela, with the first note of wounded dignity in her voice. “I have come here to make myself useful. Can I be useful?”

“It is so delightful to have you—”

“That’s not the point; can I be useful?”

Molly looked puzzled.

“We’ll have supper presently,” she said. “I’ll go and speak to Susan. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She turned away. Of course, Angela could not be useful—the mere thought was profanation. She had come there to be waited on, to be worshipped, to be looked at, to be adored, Angela St. Just, the most beautiful, the most aristocratic girl in the entire neighbourhood!

Ethel drew nearer to Angela.

“I have been at Court Prospect to-day,” said Angela.

“Why, that was your old place.”

“It was.”

“Did you find it much changed—bourgeois, and all that?” said Ethel.

“Nothing could really change the old place to me; but I would rather not talk of what the Carters have done.”

“I am sure it must have given you profound agony,” said Ethel.

Angela faintly coloured, and then she said:

“Tell me about your little sister, the one about whom you are so anxious.”

“Oh, Nesta! Nesta’s all right.”

“Then she has come back?”

“No; she hasn’t come back; we can’t imagine where she is.”

“Then how can you say she is all right?”

“She is always all right; she is the sort that turns up when you least expect her. She is not specially good,” continued Ethel, who felt that she might revenge herself on Nesta’s many slights by giving Angela as poor an opinion of her as possible. She did not want Angela to like Nesta better than her. She had dim ideas of possible visits for herself to Hurst Castle. Could she possibly manage the dress part? She was intensely anxious now to lead the conversation away from Nesta to more profitable themes.

“You must have a good many people staying at Hurst Castle,” she said.

“My uncle has some guests, naturally. But tell me about your sister. When did she go?”

“I wish I could tell you. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? But surely you can guess!”

Molly came in at that moment. She had made a frantic effort to order a supper which would be proper to set before so distinguished a guest. A fowl had been hastily popped into the oven—that would be something. People in Angela’s class, for all Molly knew to the contrary, lived on fowls.

“Molly, when did we see Nesta last?” asked Ethel.

“She was here at breakfast. I just saw her when she was rushing out of the room. I was rather late. Why do you ask?”

“Miss St. Just was anxious to know.”

“We are all troubled about your sister,” said Angela.

“Oh, I’m not troubled,” said Molly.

“Nor I,” said Ethel.

But Ethel was quick to read disapproval in Angela’s soft eyes.

“I suppose we ought to be,” she said abruptly. “Do you think there is any danger?”

She opened her eyes wide as she spoke.

“I hope not; but, of course, she ought to be found. Then there is your mother—the great thing is to keep your mother from fretting.”

“We have managed that, for Marcia, old Marcia—I mean dear Marcia,—is so clever about mother.”

“She is clever about everything. I wonder if you know what a very remarkable sister you have got.” Marcia rose by leaps and bounds in both the girls’ estimation. If she was remarkable, and if Angela, beautiful, bewitching Angela, said so, then indeed there must be something to be proud of, even in old Marcia. Ethel remembered how she had nicknamed her Miss Mule Selfish, and a nervous desire to giggle took possession of her, but she suppressed it.

“I wish I could tell you,” said Angela, “all that Marcia has been to me; how she has helped me. And then she is such a wonderful teacher. My aunt, Mrs Silchester, never ceases to lament her having left the school at Frankfort, I understand that she came here to help you girls.”

“Oh, no; she didn’t,” said Molly, her face becoming crimson, “she came home to look after mother.”

“You mean to help you to look after her, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, of course. Oh, dear Miss St. Just, aren’t you very tired? I know you are, even though you say in that pretty way that you are always pale, I know you are weary.”

“I’m all right, thank you; I really am.”

Just then Marcia entered the room.

“Angela,” she said, “we shall have supper presently, and afterwards you shall come up and see mother.”

“Oh, Marcia, do you think it well?” said Ethel, who looked very pretty with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

“I should like to go,” said Angela. “Do you think I should harm her?”

No; it would be impossible for such a creature as Angela to harm any one, even if that person were seriously ill; there was repose all over her, sweetness, tenderness, sympathy, where sympathy was possible. But Ethel and Molly, notwithstanding their efforts, did not feel that Angela truly sympathised with them. The moment Marcia came in they began to see this more clearly.

“What are you doing about Nesta?” she said immediately.

“If we don’t know by nine o’clock, I must wire to father.”

It was just at that moment that there came a ring at the front door, a sharp ring. Ethel felt her heart beating; Molly also turned first red and then pale.

“That sounds like a telegram,” said Molly, and she rushed into the hall.

It was; it was addressed to Marcia Aldworth. She tore it open and read the contents.

“I’m all right; expect me when you see me. Nesta.”

There was no address; but it was plain that the telegram had been sent from Scarborough. Marcia sank on to the sofa. Molly bent over her; Ethel peered at the telegram from the other side.

“There, didn’t I say she was about the—”

“Please, Angela, will you come with me into the next room?” said Marcia.

She left the telegram for her two sisters to devour between them, and took Angela away. The moment they were alone, Marcia sank down on a chair; tears rose to her eyes—she did not know that they were there—one overflowed and rolled down her cheek. Angela looked at her steadily.

“It is quite hopeless,” she said. “Think of her doing that!”

“Doing what? Remember I have not seen the telegram.”

“She says she is all right, and we are to expect her when we see her. She has gone to Scarborough; she has run away. She is with the Griffiths, of course. What is to be done with a girl of that sort?”

“Marcia, you are wearing yourself out for them.”

“I am, and it is hopeless. What am I to say to mother? How am I to put it to her?”

“You must tell her that Nesta will not be back until the morning; that she is quite safe. In the morning you must tell her the truth.”

“How can I possibly tell her the truth?”

“You must.”

“Oh, Angela! it is hopeless; those girls seem to have no hearts. I did think after mother was so ill that they had turned over a new leaf; I was full of hope, and Nesta seemed the most impressed; but see what this means. She has gone away; she has left us all in misery. What a day we have had! and now, at the eleventh hour, when she thought we could not possibly send for her, she sends this. What am I to do?”

“You must just go on hoping and praying, and trusting and believing,” said Angela. “My dear Marcia, twenty things ought not to shake a faith like yours.”

“Well, at any rate, she is not in bodily danger; but what a terrible revelation of her character! She must have planned all this. She knew that father was away, and that Horace was away, and she fully expected that I should also be away. She had a kind of vague hope that the girls would not open the telegram. You see how she has laid her plans. She knows in the end she must be recalled, but she is determined to have as much pleasure as she can.”

“Marcia,” said Molly, putting in her head at that moment, “supper is ready. Shall we go in?”

They went into the dining-room. Angela ate little; she did not perceive the efforts the two younger Aldworths had made in her honour; the presence of the best dinner service, the best glass, the fact that the coffee—real Mocha coffee—was served in real Sèvres china. She ate little, thinking all the time of Marcia, who was as unobservant of external things as her friend.

“Now, you will come up to see mother,” said Marcia, when the meal was over.

“Yes; let me. I will tell her about Nesta—I mean as much as she need know to-night.”

Marcia took her friend upstairs. Mrs Aldworth was tired. Her day had not been satisfactory, and she still wanted that one thing which she could not get—the presence of her round, fair, apparently good-natured youngest daughter. When Marcia opened the door, she called out to her:

“Dear me, Marcia! I thought you were going?”

“No, mother; I am not going to-night.”

“Has Nesta come back? We should have plenty of time, if you light that pretty lamp and put it near me, to try the effect of the new blouse. I am so anxious to see if it will fit.”

“I have just got an account of Nesta; she is all right, mother; she will be back to-morrow,” said Marcia. “So I am going to stay with you; and, mother, may I introduce you to my friend, Angela St. Just? Angela, this way, please. Mother, this is Angela, my great friend.” Mrs Aldworth had been on the eve of crying; on the eve of a fit of nervous anxiety with regard to Nesta; but the appearance of Angela seemed to swallow up every other thought. She flushed, then turned pale, then held out her hand.

“I am glad to see you,” she said.

Angela dropped into a chair.

“Just run away, Marcia,” she said. “Leave me with Mrs Aldworth. Oh, Mrs Aldworth, I’m so glad Marcia let me come in. I have been longing to come to you—often and often. I have been so sorry for you; I have been thinking what a weary time you must have; I hope you will let me come often as long as I am near; I should like it so much.”

The sweet eyes looked down into the faded face of the elder woman. They seemed somehow to have a magical power to arrest the finger of time, to erase the wrinkles, to smooth out some of the constant pain. Mrs Aldworth smiled quite gladly.

“How nice you are,” she said, “and not a bit—not a bit stuck-up. I am so glad to make your acquaintance. Sit there and talk to me.”

Angela took a chair and she did talk—all about nothings, perhaps about nothings; but she still talked and Mrs Aldworth listened.

Chapter Twenty Four.

An Uneasy Conscience.

Nesta’s first day at Scarborough had been full of intense enjoyment. She had managed her escapade with great cleverness. The Griffiths were quite sure that she was going away with the consent of her parents. Mr Griffiths was kind, and pleased to have her; Mrs Griffiths was motherly; Flossie was all delight. First had come the journey; what a delicious sensation of excitement had she felt whenever the train stopped; with what more than a delicious sensation of importance she had owned to a thrill through her being at the thought that the others were anxious about her. That her own people would be trying to get her back as soon as possible but added to the sense of enjoyment.

The day was a brilliant one; the sea breezes were exhilarating, and Nesta’s conscience did not awaken. She enjoyed the lodgings, and the room she was to share with Flossie, and the shrimps for tea, and the wading when the tide was down. She enjoyed listening to the band; in short, she enjoyed everything. Her constant smiles were always wreathing her lips; Mr and Mrs Griffiths thought her quite a delightful girl.

So passed the first day. Nesta had even managed, with Flossie’s aid, to send a telegram without either Mr or Mrs Griffiths knowing anything about it. Those magical shillings, which had been produced by her yellow-boy, were so useful. She went to bed that night without any unpleasant telegram, or any unpleasant person coming from Newcastle to disturb her pleasure.

But the next morning she woke with a sigh. It would be all over to-day; she could not expect it to last longer than the middle of the day. Pleasure would be followed by retribution. She had made up her mind to this. She thought, however, that she would have a good morning. Immediately after breakfast she got away with Flossie.

“Floss, it will be all up to-day; they are quite certain to send for me. Even if Molly and Ethel did not open the telegram last night, they will at least send it on to old Marcia, and do you suppose that Miss Mule Selfish will not use every bit of her influence to get me back, and to have me well punished? There’s no doubt on that point whatever.”

“I know all that,” said Flossie. “But, perhaps, they won’t want you back.”

“Not want me back?” said Nesta.

This comment, delightful as it sounded, was scarcely flattering.

“Mothery will want me,” said Nesta.

“If you thought that, I wonder you came.”

“Oh, don’t begin to reproach me,” said Nesta. “Let us go and have a long, long morning all by ourselves.”

“But I want to bathe. Mother is going to bathe, and she said we two could go with her. You didn’t, of course, bring a bathing dress, but we can hire them here.”

Nesta was not inclined to bathe. It would, she protested, take up too much time. She wanted to go for a long walk alone with her friend. She suggested that they should go first of all to a pastrycook’s, supply themselves with a good, large bag of edibles, and then wander away on the cliffs. Flossie; after due consideration, was nothing loath.

“That horrid telegram is sure to come, and then the fat will be in the fire,” said Nesta.

“That’s true enough,” replied Flossie, “and I expect I’ll be scolded too. You’ll have to stand the blame—you’ll have to tell them that it was more your fault than mine.”

“Oh, I like that!” said Nesta. “You mean to tell me that you won’t take my part, when I get into a beastly row all on account of you?”

The girls had a little tiff, as was their way; but their real affection for each other soon smoothed it over. Mrs Griffiths was talked round to see the expediency of Nesta and Flossie putting off their bathe until the next day, and accordingly the two girls started off for their walk.

There was no doubt whatever in Nesta’s mind that retribution must come that day. It was the right day for Nemesis. She had enjoyed Saturday, but she had not enjoyed Sunday quite so much, for there was the possibility that somebody would come to fetch her back. On Sunday the girls might have sent the telegram to Marcia by special messenger, but on the other hand, Molly and Ethel were very careless; they did not care whether Nesta was in the house or not. They had probably not sent it on. But of course, there was not the least doubt that Marcia would receive it on Monday morning. What was to be done? She resolved to enjoy her walk even if it was the last. She spent a shilling of her precious money, secured a most unwholesome meal, which the two girls ate on the high cliffs just outside Scarborough, and then returned home in time for lunch.

“I’m not a bit hungry,” said Nesta, “and I know there’ll be a fearful row when we go upstairs. Do go first, Flossie; I’ll wait here. If there’s anything awful, I’ll run down by the shore until it has blown over. Do go, Floss.”

Flossie was cajoled into doing what Nesta wished. She went upstairs. Her father and mother were both waiting for them. They looked tranquil, as tranquil could be.

“Where’s Nesta!” called out Mrs Griffiths from the landing. “Tell her to take off her hat and come in at once. Our dinner is getting cold.”

Flossie flew downstairs.

“You needn’t be a bit uneasy. Father and mother look as contented as though they never had a trouble in the world.”

Wondering somewhat, Nesta did go upstairs. She ate her dinner, but all the time she was watching the door. Any minute either Marcia herself, stern, uncompromising, unyielding, unforgiving, might appear, or a horrible telegram addressed to Mrs Griffiths might be thrust into her hand. In any case her disgrace must be near at hand.

But strange as it may seem, the whole day passed, and there was no sort of telegram for Nesta. She wondered and wondered.

“This is quite lucky,” she said to Flossie, as she was undressing for the night. “I really can’t understand it. Of course, it’s those girls; they never sent my telegram on to Marcia.”

“Well, you know, you didn’t send any address,” said Flossie.

“Of course I didn’t; but don’t you suppose that they’d immediately rush off to your house, and get your address from your servants?”

“I never thought of that,” said Flossie.

“They could find me if they wished. It’s all that Miss Mule Selfish; she’s so absorbed in her own pleasure she has forgotten all about me.”

The next day passed without any notice being taken of Nesta, and the next, and the next. Nesta was quite bewildered. At first she was delighted, then she began to consider herself a slightly aggrieved person, particularly when Flossie taunted her with the fact that she did not seem to be missed much at home.

This was gall and wormwood to the little girl.

On the fifth day of her visit, Mr Griffiths, who had received some letters, said to Nesta:

“You don’t seem to be hearing from your people—at least I have not seen any letters addressed to you. I hope they are all right.”

“Oh, of course they are, no news is good news,” said Nesta.

He took no notice of her remark, being absorbed in his own affairs. When he had read one of his letters he looked at his wife.

“I must go back to Newcastle this afternoon, but I’ll return to-morrow,” he said. “I’ll call in, if you like, Nesta, and find out how your mother is.”

“Oh, please don’t—I mean you really needn’t,” said Nesta.

He raised his brows in some surprise.

“I should think,” he said slowly, “that a girl who has an invalid mother, would like to know how she is.”

Nesta coloured. She did not dare to say any more. She and Flossie had been having what she called a ripping time, that is, Nesta could enjoy herself in spite of her anxiety. But now things were changing. The yellow-boy had his limits; he was reduced in bulk until he had come down to a few pence. Between Nesta and that which made her so valuable in Flossie’s eyes there was now but eleven-pence halfpenny. Nearly a shilling, a whole beautiful silver shilling, but not quite. When that was spent—and it would be spent that very day—Nesta would be of no special importance to Flossie Griffiths.

Flossie was making friends, too, on her own account. There was a family of young people also staying at Scarborough, whom the Griffiths used to know. They boasted of the name of Brown. They were all good-natured, hearty, friendly young folks. But in the beginning Nesta had chosen to turn up her nose at them. In consequence they devoted themselves to Flossie, and left Nesta very much out in the cold.

On the very day that Nesta was forced to spend her last pence on a feast for Flossie, Flossie calmly informed her that she was going early the next morning on a picnic with the Browns.

“They haven’t invited you—I’m sorry,” said Flossie. “They might have done it, but I said you were going away. This is Friday, you know. You will have been with us a week to-morrow. I know father and mother will want you to stay until the middle of next week, at any rate, but, of course, you and I—knowing what we do—” Flossie giggled—“thought you would be gone long ago.”

“Well, I’m here,” said Nesta, “and I wish I weren’t.”

“Why do you say that? I’m sure we have done all we could to give you a real good time.”

“I think you hate me,” said Nesta, in a passion.

“Well, Nesta, I do call that ungrateful! But there, you’re in the sulks, poor old girl. You thought you’d be awfully missed at home, and you see you are not one little bit.”

“I’m anxious about mother,” said Nesta. “It’s so queer none of them writing.”

She burst into tears. Flossie was soft-hearted enough, and she comforted her friend, and said that she would not hurt her for the world, and would do her very best to get her an invitation to the picnic the next day. At this intimation Nesta immediately wiped her eyes.

“I’d like it,” she said; “it would be horrid to be left at home with only your old mother.”

“You needn’t call mother old—she’s no older than yours.”

“Well, anyhow, mine’s the prettiest,” said Nesta.

“And my mother is the strongest,” retorted Flossie. “Oh, there, don’t let us quarrel,” said Nesta. “If I hadn’t you for my friend now, Floss, I’d be the most miserable girl in the world. To tell the truth, I’m rather terrified at the way they’re taking things at home—not a word—not a line, nothing whatever. It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”

Flossie made no remark. Just then Henrietta Brown was seen passing the window. Flossie put out her head and called to Henrietta to stop, and then dashed downstairs.

“Oh, Henny,” she gasped, “I’m ever so sorry, but Nesta Aldworth, my friend, she is still with us. I wonder—”

“We really couldn’t,” said Henny, who was downright, and not quite as refined as even the Griffiths themselves. “We haven’t a seat left. Either you must come, or your friend. We can’t fit in the two of you. It’s impossible. We might have done so at the beginning, but you said your stuck-up Miss Aldworth would be gone away.”

“Well, she has not gone,” said Flossie. “Of course, if you like I can give up my seat if you are sure you couldn’t squeeze us both in.”

“I’m certain, positive on the subject. And, Flossie, you mustn’t give up your seat,” said Henny, linking her arm inside Flossie’s arm, “for we don’t like her one little bit. She’s not pretty like von, and she has no go in her. You must come. Why, Tom and Jack and Robert—they’d be just mad if you weren’t there.”

Flossie was pleased to hear that the Brown boys—Tom, Jack, and Robert—wished for her society.

“Well, of course, it’s her own fault,” she said aloud, and then she went back to Nesta.

“It’s no go,” she said. “You must stay with mother—or—or do anything you like. Ah, there’s father—he’s off. Good-bye, Dad.”

Flossie’s voice sounded on the summer breeze. Mr Griffiths looked up and kissed his hand to her.

“Good-bye to you both,” he said. “I’ll be back to-morrow, and if I can, Nesta, I’ll look in and see how your mother is getting on. Are you sure you have no message?”

“None; please, don’t trouble,” said Nesta.

She was feeling now most frantically wretched. That last feast with Flossie was scarcely a success. She did not know how she was to live through the next day. If she had money enough she would return home. She would boldly declare that she had a right to her own home, the home that no longer seemed to want her. There was no telegram that day—no letter, no message of any sort.

The next morning rose bright and glorious. Flossie, dressed in her very best, went off for the picnic with the Browns. They had two waggonettes packed full of people, and Flossie squeezed herself in amid peals of laughter. Nesta watched her from behind the curtain of the drawing room window; Mrs Griffiths was well to the front, bowing and smiling, and kissing her hand.

“There,” she said, when the waggonettes passed out of sight, “I’m glad my Floss is going to have a good time. Sorry for you, Nesta, but then you gave us to understand that you’d be sent for so soon.”

“I thought so,” said Nesta.

“Well, dear, it’s all the better for you, you have the advantage of the sea. You must put up with an old woman for once. I’m going for a dip in the briny this morning. What do you say to coming with me?”

Nesta acquiesced. She might as well do that as anything else. She didn’t care about it, of course.

Mrs Griffiths was energetic when she was at the seaside, and she took her dip and then a long walk, and then she waded for a time, and Nesta had to wade with her. They were both tired when they returned to the house in the middle of the day.

And now, at last, there was a telegram. It lay on the table in its little yellow envelope. Nesta felt suddenly sick and faint. Mrs Griffiths took it up.

“It’s for me,” she said. “It’s to say that my man is coming back this evening—or maybe not until to-morrow, or Monday.”

She read the telegram. Nesta watched her with parted lips, as Mrs Griffiths slowly acquainted herself with the contents. She was a quick, energetic woman, but as regarded matters relating to the mind she slow. The telegram puzzled her.

“It’s queer,” she said. “Can you make anything of it?”

She handed it to Nesta. Nesta road the contents.

”‘Coming back sooner than I expected. Have been to the Aldworths’—a very queer business; will tell you when we meet.’”

“I wonder if your mother is worse,” said Mrs Griffiths, looking with her kind eyes at the girl. “Why, Nesta, you are as white as a sheet! Is anything wrong?”

“No,” said Nesta. She let the telegram flutter to the floor; it was Mrs Griffiths who picked it up. Nemesis had come—Nemesis with a vengeance.

“I don’t expect it is anything. Your father—I mean Flossie’s father, is always fond of making mountains out of molehills. It is nothing special, it really isn’t; you may be sure on that point,” said the good woman. “Anyhow, he will tell us when he comes, and not all the guessing in the world will spoil our appetites, will it, Nesta? See this pigeon pie, the very best that could be got; I ordered it from the pastrycook’s, for I don’t much like some of our landlady’s cooking.”

Nesta could have enjoyed that pigeon pie, but the telegram, Nemesis, in short, had crushed what appetite she possessed out of her. She fiddled with her food, then sprang up.

“I am so anxious,” she said.

“Why, what is it, child?”

Mrs Griffiths looked at her; Nesta looked full at Mrs Griffiths.

“I must tell you something; I know you will hate me; I know you will, but if you would be kind just for once—”

“Goodness me, child! Of course I’ll be kind. What is troubling you? Anything wrong with the mother?”

“It isn’t that—it is that when I came with you I ran away.”

“You did what?” said Mrs Griffiths.

Nesta mumbled out her miserable story. She told it dismally. Mrs Griffiths had, as she averred afterwards, to drag the words from the child. At last the ugly facts were made plain to her. Nesta had deliberately left her home without saying one word to anybody. She had been aided and abetted by Flossie, Mrs Griffiths’ good, honourable, open-hearted Flossie—at least that is what Mrs Griffiths had considered her child. Yes, Flossie had helped her friend, and her friend had gone; she had not said a word to any one at home; she had only sent off a telegram. The telegram, of course, must bear the Scarborough mark, but they had taken no notice.

“Of course, Mr Griffiths went to see them, and of course they told him, and of course—of course, he will be just mad,” said Mrs Griffiths. “He will be in a towering rage; I don’t know what he won’t do. There’ll be a split between us; he’ll never let our Flossie speak to you again, that’s plain.”

“Oh, Mrs Griffiths, if you would be good, if you would but just lend me enough money to get home before—before he comes.”

“Well, now, that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” said Mrs Griffiths. “You can make off, I will see you into the tram; you don’t mind travelling third-class, do you?”

“I’d travel on the top of the train—I’d travel in the guard’s van—I’d travel anywhere only to get away,” said Nesta.

“Well, child, I’ll just look up the trains, and put you into one myself—or no, perhaps I’d better not. You might give us the slip, as it were. If he thought that I’d let you go home before he came, he’d give me a piece of his mind, and there’d be the mischief to pay again. You can find your own way to the station.”

“I can. I can.”

“I’ll look out the very next train, the very next.”

“Oh, do, please do. And please lend me some money.”

Mrs Griffiths produced half a sovereign, which she put into Nesta’s palm. Nesta hardly waited to thank her.

“Good-bye. Oh, I am grateful—I will write. Explain to Flossie. Try to forgive me—it was so dull at home, only Miss Mule Selfish, you know, and Molly and Ethel.”

“And your mother,” said Mrs Griffiths, a little severely, for it was the thought of the anxiety that Nesta had given her mother which touched Mrs Griffiths’ heart most nearly.

“Mothery wouldn’t be cross, that is certain sure,” said poor Nesta.

She was putting on her hat as she uttered the words, and a few minutes later she was toiling through the hot sun and blinding dust, for the day was a windy one, to the railway station en route for Newcastle.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Nemesis.

It was late that evening when two men entered Mrs Griffiths’ drawing room at Scarborough. One was Mr Griffiths, and the other Horace Aldworth, Nesta’s half-brother. Mrs Griffiths was overpowered by Horace’s presence. She had spent a wretched time since Nesta had gone. The girl was scarcely out of the house before the elder woman decided that she had done very wrong to lend her money; there was no saying what she might do, nor how she would spend it. She might not go home at all. She was a queer girl—unlike her Flossie. She had done a strange, a most unaccountable thing; just for the sake of a bit of pleasure, she had left her own friends, her mother, her sisters—she had planned it all cleverly, but—and here lay the sting—she had not planned it alone. Flossie was in the thick of the mischief.

Mrs Griffiths’ uneasiness with regard to Nesta presently melted down into a tender sort of regret. Her real sorrow was for her Flossie, her little black-eyed, dancing, mischievous girl, Flossie, who had always been fond of her father and mother, and who had never given herself airs, but had just delighted in Nesta because she must have some friend, but who would not do what Nesta had done for the wide world. And yet, try as she would, Mrs Griffiths could not get over the fact that Flossie had aided and abetted Nesta; that she knew all about it. Mrs Griffiths thought she could understand. She had recourse to her favourite adage—“Girls will be girls.” She remembered the time when she was at school. Girls’ schools were somewhat common sort of places in Mrs Griffiths’ early days. She remembered how she had smuggled in cakes, how she had secreted sticky sweetmeats in her pockets, how she had defied her teachers, and copied her themes from other girls, and what romps they had had in the attics, and how they had laughed at the teachers behind their backs. All these things Mrs Griffiths had done in the days of her youth; but nevertheless these things did not seem so grave or serious as what Flossie had done. Of course, she would forgive her; catch a mother being long angry with her only child; but then Griffiths—Mrs Griffiths always called her husband by that name—he would be wild.

“Griffiths will give it to her, and she’s that saucy she’ll answer him back, and there’ll be no end of a row,” thought the poor woman.

So it was an anxious-faced, wrinkled, rather elderly woman who started up now to receive the two men. Griffiths came in first.

“I have brought Mr Horace Aldworth back with me, wife. Did you receive my telegram?”