Front matter (continued 2)

"Lena!" was all he said, but the tone in which it was said startled them all.

Lena looked up. Never before had she heard her name so spoken. Startled and confused at the suddenness with which she had been called, she answered hastily and nervously, "Yes, Papa."

"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Graham.

"Lena knows," was the short reply.

Poor Lena was frightened, not only at the sternness of the voice, but by her father's face. It seemed to her that it had the same look that she had remarked in the photograph and had hoped never to see shown towards her. Her fear and nervousness brought the colour to her looks and gave her the conscious look of guilt.

"I don't know, Papa. What is it?" she faltered out.

"You must know what a dishonourable thing you were doing, reading your Aunt's letter over her shoulder."

"Oh!" she said with a great sigh of relief, "is that all, Papa? Why, I always do it."

Here Aunt Mary interposed hastily, and said, before Colonel Graham could speak the astonishment he certainly felt at Lena's answer, "It is my fault, Henry. Lena always sees my letters. I may have been wrong; but remember she has been niece and child and companion to me all in one. I may have spoilt her in many ways, but I am sure she would not do a dishonourable thing;" and as she spoke, she pulled Lena on to her knee and kissed the troubled little face. "I ought to have told her I did not wish her to read this quite yet, and I am sure she would not have done it."

At her Aunt's kind words Lena burst out crying. The child had been frightened, and the burst of tears relieved her feelings.—"No, Auntie dear, indeed, indeed I would not," she sobbed out.

"I think you have made a mistake about it, Mary. And I hope Lena will remember that though you have allowed her to see yours, letters are sacred, and she must never look at any without leave that are not addressed to her."

"No, Papa, indeed I never will," she said earnestly.

"Come and give Papa a kiss," said her mother, leading the still sobbing child to her father.

"You are not afraid of me, Lena?" he asked kindly, as she shrunk from him, without lifting her eyes from the ground. "Come, look up, and give me a kiss."

Lena looked up as bidden, and seeing nothing in his face but love and kindness, summoned back her courage as she said, "You looked so angry before, and so stern."

"I am only angry when you do wrong and act dishonourably; and you need not be afraid to look even a stern man in the face if you have done nothing to be ashamed of, my child."

As Lena returned to her chair she thought, "Oh dear, I hope he will never speak to me again like that. Even if I was ever so naughty, I don't think I could tell him, and ask him to forgive me."

Aunt Mary said quietly to Lena, "I will read you all that Miss Howard says to-morrow, dear; it will interest you, I am sure, and I meant you to hear it soon."

"Where is Lucerne?" she asked in a low voice.

"In Switzerland," answered her Aunt. And not another word would she say that night on the subject of the letter and its contents.

CHAPTER VI.

LEAVING MEADENHAM.

"Switzerland! O Auntie, that is such a long way off! You don't mean really that you are going all that way from me," and Lena as she spoke these words burst into tears, and clung tightly to her Aunt, as if to prevent her leaving her.

"I am not going away to-day, dear," said Miss Somerville, trying to speak cheerfully and brightly as she fondly stroked the little head that was buried on her shoulder. "And, my child," she went on more gravely, "this is no new thought to you; we both knew this parting must come."

"But not so soon, and such a long way."

"You have Papa and Mama and your sisters, and will be so happy with them, and will often write to me. And I shall hope for such good accounts of my pet."

"You won't get them," said Lena in a most doleful tone; "I shan't be able to be good without you, I know I shan't."

"Lena, dear, that is not a right way to speak. I shall think that I have taught you what is wrong if you say such things."

"No, no, I did not mean that; but why can't you always live with us? What do you want to go to that horrid place for?"

"It is not at all a horrid place, but a very nice one. Why I am going is this"——

Lena lifted her head to listen with such an injured expression that her Aunt laughed. "I believe you are glad to go!" (indignantly).

"Yes, dear, I am glad, though very very sorry to leave you. I am glad because Miss Howard has to go, and wants a companion; and you know, dear, it is always pleasant to be able to do anything for your friends."

"But I want you too."

"Not now. You have wanted me, but now you have Mama and Papa; and, Lena, you love them both very dearly, I know."

"Yes, but I want you too."

"We none of us can have all we want in this world. Ask God, my little one, to make you grateful and thankful for all the blessings He has so liberally bestowed on you, instead of murmuring for what you cannot have."

Before Lena had time to reply, Mrs. Graham opened the door, asking, as she did so, if she might come in.

"O Mama, why does Auntie want to go away from us? Mayn't she stay with us?"

"Of course she may, dear; but Aunt Mary thinks Miss Howard requires her. We want her, and she requires her. Now don't you see why Auntie has decided on going abroad?"

"Yes, because she thinks it right;" adding, "but couldn't Miss Howard come and live with her here?"

"Why do you wish that, Lena?"

"Because it's so much nearer, and we could come and see her sometimes."

"Oh, so you don't want it for Aunt Mary's pleasure, but your own," was the quiet rebuke.

Lena's face flushed scarlet as she murmured some words in too low a tone for her mother to hear.

"Listen, my child; do you not think that a change would do Auntie good? Think how much more she would miss the little niece she has been so good to, and has learned to love so dearly, if she remained on here, than if she goes abroad, and sees new sights and beautiful scenery."

"Yes, I see; but, Mama, I can't help being sorry, and wishing changes would not come—at least not nasty changes."

"I should be very much astonished and very grieved too, if you were not sorry at parting with Auntie, who has been so good and kind to you and to me too. Changes must come in this world, my child; but we know that if we love our Saviour, every one that comes is sent in love and for some good purpose."

"I can't see why Auntie's going away can do us good."

"That is what the disciples said when their Divine Master told them of His ascension: they, like you, thought they knew best." Mama spoke the words so significantly that they at once recalled to her the conversation they had held together some evenings before, and when Lena had expressed herself as so shocked at the idea of any one thinking they knew better than God. Humbled and abashed, Lena promised to try and bear whatever was sent for her, though she was quite sure it would be dreadfully hard to bear parting with Auntie, forgetting that it was harder for Auntie than herself. It was a great comfort to both Colonel and Mrs. Graham, since Aunt Mary had decided not to go and live with them, that she was going abroad with her friend Miss Howard for a few months. It was very easy to let her house for the summer, as West Meadenham was a favourite resort for summer visitors, and Lena was comforted by hearing that before Miss Somerville settled down for the winter, she had promised to pay a visit to her brother and sister at Astbury.

"We shall spend our first Christmas at home altogether," said Colonel Graham cheerfully, as Aunt Mary's plans were being discussed one day openly, now that all was arranged.

Lena expected, and Milly also, that the former would be quite heart-broken at the prospect of parting from her Aunt. Milly was of rather a sentimental character, and had secret visions of herself comforting and consoling poor Lena; and felt rather disappointed, to say the least of it, when she saw her sister interested and busy in the preparations for their departure, and talking brightly and hopefully of what was to be done at Astbury. Not that Lena was unkind or unloving. She did love her Aunt very very dearly, and felt really sorry and unhappy at the prospect of losing her; but with the buoyancy and cheerfulness of youth, she soon learned to look on the bright and hopeful side of things. She had never written to Auntie in all her life, and she talked much of the long letters she would write to her, and then how nice it would be to show her the new home when she came to see them at Christmas. So very soon she was the same bright, lively little Lena of old. Occasionally, however, some little thought or action would cause her to sigh, and wish that changes would not come—at least she would add, "I wish people had not to go away from one another. I like going to new places."

There were other changes in store also, for an invitation came for Milly from her godmother, who lived in London. Mrs. Clifford wanted to see and know her little namesake and godchild. Would Colonel Graham, who was going to Astbury a few days earlier than the rest of the family, bring Milly and leave her with Mrs. Clifford on his way through London? So ran the invitation.

"I wish she had asked me!" exclaimed Lena, when she heard of the letter.

"O Lena, and leave Aunt Mary the last few days!" said Milly reproachfully.

"No, of course not—I did not think of that—but I should like to see London and all the sights."

Milly was not at all of this opinion. She shrank from the very thought of going away to a strange house without Mama. She had never left her before; and although she was called after Mrs. Clifford, she had only seen her once when they were in town, on first arriving from India. She begged very hard not to go, but her parents thought it was right for her to do so. Lena alternately teased and laughed at her for being shy and stupid for not wanting to go, and envied her for being invited, and wished she was going, for she was quite sure that Mrs. Clifford would take her to see all sorts of things and be ever so kind to her. If this invitation had come to Milly at any other time, I am afraid Lena would have been terribly disappointed at not being invited also; but these last few days at Aunt Mary's were too full of interest and occupation to allow much time for regrets of any sort. There were so many people and places to take farewell of, and so much to be seen to in the house, that Lena was what she called "deliciously busy." Hester was to go with them as nurse to Lucy, so she also was very busy, and also went away for a day or two to say good-bye to her parents, who lived in the neighbourhood of Meadenham. During those days Lucy was Lena's constant companion, and on the whole they got on capitally together. They were very much alike in disposition; and although Lucy was very fond of Lena, she found she was quite a different sort of sister in authority than Millicent.

Time slipped away very fast, as it always does when there is much to be done. It is only with the idle and lazy that time lags and creeps slowly along. How the minutes crawl while one is waiting without anything to do—they seem to lengthen themselves out in the most extraordinary manner. Let one of my little readers remark the length of five minutes when she or he, as the case may be, is busy and interested, and five minutes when they are standing idle, wondering what they shall do next, or perhaps grumbling because they are prevented doing something on which they had set their heart. Once a very small child, who was told to wait ten minutes for some reason, was seen to give the clock a great push and call it "a stupid, tiresome thing"—she was quite sure it had stopped just to tease her. She was too small to be able to tell the time herself, but nurse had shown her where the big hand would point when the ten minutes were up, and, oh dear! they were so long to that impatient little mortal who stood gazing up at it with such interest and anxiety. The last day came, and they all—that is, Mama, Auntie, Lena, Lucy, and Hester—all started for London, at which place they were to meet Milly. Mrs. Clifford was to meet them with her at the station, and there also Aunt Mary was to part from them.

On reaching London, they drove from the station at which they arrived from Meadenham to one on the other side of the town, from which they were to go to the town near which their future home was situated. Aunt Mary was to drive with them and see them off. At first Lena and Lucy were in the wildest of spirits, everything was new and pleasant; but before they reached London they both became tired of the monotony of being shut up in one place; and as the train was a fast one, it whirled along too rapidly for them to get more than a passing glimpse of the different places on the road.

Most children delight in going away, but I never yet met with one that liked being in the train. The Grahams were no exception to this rule. Lucy first became restless and inclined to be cross, then Mama seated her on her knee, to look out, and very soon the rapid motion wearied the little frame, the blue eyes began to blink, then close, the head fell back on Mama's shoulder, and Lucy was sound asleep, to the relief and comfort of her fellow-passengers. Lena nestled up against Aunt Mary, and as she thus sat with the kind arm round her, the remembrance came to her with startling distinctness, that this would be the last time for many months that she would feel the pressure of that kind hand; and then thought after thought came thronging into her mind of all the love and goodness that Aunt Mary had showered upon her during the last six years. Her whole life, as it seemed to the child, had been passed with Auntie, and now that they were to be separated, she wished, oh so much, that she had been a better and more obedient girl. When she came to them at Christmas she would show her how much she loved her by being so good, and all that she could wish. And she crept closer to her Aunt as she thus thought of the past and of the future. She would have liked to throw her arms round her neck, and tell her how much she loved her, and how sorry she was to part with her; but there were strangers in the compartment with them, and Lena did not like any one but her own people to see her in tears, so she only crept close, and squeezed the hand that clasped hers very tight. Lena's thoughts were good and loving, but mingled with all the goodness was the one thing that was so seldom wanting from her good resolutions, and was the invariable cause of their failure, self-confidence—she would be good she was determined. How often and often had Auntie shown this to Lena, and now Mama was trying to teach her the same lesson of humility and trust in God. If Lena had said to her own heart, "I will try, by God's help, to be good and do what I know will please Auntie," she would certainly have succeeded. But fortunately for Lena, both Mama and Auntie were asking for her what she forgot to ask for herself—the grace of humility.

When the train reached its destination, it was a very sobered, quiet Lena that got out of it; she was so gentle, and waited so quietly, holding Lucy's hand, while the luggage was being collected and placed on a cab, that Mama said, "Why, Lena, what a capital little traveller you are! I shall tell Papa that he need not be afraid of my travelling without him when I have you."

Lena blushed with pleasure at her mother's words, and when they were settling how to divide their party—for they were obliged to have two cabs—and Lucy said she wanted Lena to come with her and Hester, she complied at once, determining that from that very moment she would carry out her good intentions of doing everything that Aunt Mary would approve of; and that both aunt and mother were pleased with her present conduct, she saw at once.

It was a long drive from one station to the other. The streets were so crowded that it took them a much longer time than they expected, not that either Lena or her little sister thought it too long, for they were delighted with all the bustle and noise around them, and especially with the passing glimpse they had at the shops that they drove past. So long had been their drive across London, that there was but little time to spare on arrival at the station, where Millicent and Mrs. Clifford were waiting for them—Milly all smiles and beaming with pleasure at sight of the dear home faces. Though so glad to see them, she had evidently been very happy with Mrs. Clifford, to judge from her friendly attitude towards that lady, and the warm kiss and grateful words of farewell when the time came for saying good-bye.

There was no opportunity for any private last words between Aunt Mary and Lena in all the fuss of starting: a fond kiss and a whispered "God bless you, my darling," was all Auntie said as she parted from her little niece.

"Good-bye, Auntie, darling; you will come back soon, won't you? and I will be so good I promise you."

"Promise me to try, dear," laying a stress on the word try, as she returned the kisses that the now weeping Lena was pressing on her cheek.

Auntie's eyes were full of tears also as she stood watching them all take their places in the train.

"You will let Milly come to me again, I hope," said Mrs. Clifford. "She has been such a good girl, I have quite enjoyed having her. And Lena must come too," she added, kindly laying her hand on the girl's shoulder as she spoke, seeing her struggling bravely to check her sobs, "Won't you, dear?"

A nod was all Lena could manage; speaking was out of the question at that moment; but the nod and grateful look showed Mrs. Clifford that her kindness was appreciated.

"I won't forget your parcel, Milly," called out Mrs. Clifford as the train began to move, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker.

Lena stooped forward to take a last loving look at Auntie, who stood waving her hand in farewell. Then the train glided out of the station, and they were fairly on their way to their new home. Mama drew Lena down beside her, and with loving words cheered and consoled the poor girl, who, now that the excitement was all over, broke down utterly, and laying her head on Mama's shoulder, wept bitterly. The tears came from many mingled sources: first was sorrow from parting with Auntie, and that sorrow was real and deep, but she had the hope of seeing her again very soon, and she was with the dear mother she loved so dearly, and had so often and often longed to be with; fatigue and over-excitement helped to cause the sobs, which were in great part hysterical. Lena had lived such a quiet regular life with her Aunt, that she was now feeling all the excitement and bustle of the last week or two. There had been all the packing and good-byes, and the journey, and now, to crown it all, was the parting from Auntie.

Mrs. Graham let her cry on quietly for some time as she sat encircled by her arm, until the first violence of her tears was over. Then she spoke to her a few caressing words, which helped to soothe the weary child; gradually, as the sobs ceased, the poor tear-swollen eyes closed, from sheer "weariness of grief," and Lena fell asleep on Mama's arm, while Milly, with frequent looks of sympathy towards her sister, helped Hester to amuse Lucy at the opposite window.

Thus they journeyed quietly on, until the train stopping roused Lena. "Have we arrived?" she asked in a sleepy voice.

"No, dear, we are not half-way yet. Edgerley is a very small place, which this is certainly not."

By the time Mama had done speaking Lena was wide awake, and the three girls crowded to the window to look out, and also, as they said, in hopes of preventing any one coming in. Several people peeped into the carriage, but whether it was the sight of the small fellow-travellers, who, however charming they may be, are certainly not appreciated by the travelling public, or from some other reason, they left our party to themselves, so that, when they once more started off, it was in quite a lively tone Lena exclaimed, "Oh, I am glad no one came in, I was in such a fright they would!" Her sleep had done Lena good, although the ready tears sprang to her eyes whenever the thought of Aunt Mary was recalled. She was calmer and happier, and as the time wore on she soon recovered her spirits, and was busy helping her sisters with the buns and sandwiches that were in Mama's basket, and eagerly talking about what they were to see at their country home, and also listening to Milly's account of her visit to Mrs. Clifford.

"I am to go next time with you, am I not, Mama?" she asked.

"Perhaps Milly won't want you to," said Lucy in a very grave tone.

"O Lucy, of course I shall. It will be ever so much nicer. And there are such lots of things to see and do." And here she launched into an animated account of all her doings.

"What is the parcel she is going to send?" Mrs. Graham with a smile asked.

"I don't know, Mama, what it will be—it's a present. She said she would take me to the Bazaar and buy me something; but we had not time yesterday, so she said she would send it to me."

"I wonder what it will be!" said Lena, and they all fell to conjecturing what Milly's present would be, guessing all the probable and improbable things they could think off. Not satisfied with this, they—that is the two who were not included—actually talked themselves into the belief that Mrs. Clifford, now she had seen them, would very likely send them something also: in fact, it was not only a probable thing, but "almost sure to be the case."

Thus they whiled away the time of their journey, until Mama announced that the next station would be Edgerley.

When the train drew up there, three little heads were out of the window, and three shrill young voices were shouting out words of welcome to Papa, whom they at once caught sight of standing waiting for them.

It was a very small station, as Mrs. Graham had told them. She had been to it before when she had paid a visit, many years ago, to Colonel and Mrs. Freeling, who were now to be their near neighbours. They were the only passengers who alighted, and until their luggage was taken out there was no time to speak with Papa; for, as it appeared to the children, "the train seemed to be in a hurry to rush off again;" and it certainly looked as if they were right, for directly their luggage was taken out of the van and safely deposited on the platform, the guard waved his arm, the engine gave what sounded like a very impatient shriek, and the train rushed off again with its living freight, and left our young people standing gazing after it, in a sort of bewilderment, from which their father's cheery voice roused them as he exclaimed, "Now, children, come along; while you are being packed into the carriage, I will give orders for the luggage to be sent up in a cart."

"A carriage!" exclaimed Lena, as she caught sight of a handsome carriage and pair of horses standing outside the station. "Is that ours? how nice! I am glad." She asked the question of no one in particular, and no one answered it, all being busy and their attention occupied at the moment. Milly did not feel the same feeling of pleasure as her sister at the sight of the carriage, for during their stay in India her parents had kept their carriage, not as a luxury as in this country, and one only to be indulged in by rich people, but as a matter of necessity. So she took her seat next Lena without a word or sign of wonder. "This is nice," began Lena directly they started, though this was not done for a little while, during which she had been picturing to herself all sorts of wonderful visions of a large house and future drives in this comfortable equipage. It was very strange why Aunt Mary had always been so particular in making her so careful of her things, and teaching her to do so much for herself if her Papa was so rich.

"So you are pleased, little woman," said her father. "It was very kind of Colonel Freeling to send his carriage and bring you home in state like this," he added with a laugh.

"Colonel Freeling!" said Lena in a tone of surprise. "Is it not our carriage, Papa?"

"No, dear, of course not. What put such an idea into your head?" At sight of Lena's crestfallen looks at his answer, Colonel Graham burst out laughing, in which the others joined, much to Lena's secret annoyance. Then he added gravely, "I thought you knew, dear, that I was not a rich man, only"—this with a laugh—"a poor soldier."

"But Colonel Freeling was a soldier too; you said so," she persisted.

"Yes, with a private fortune, which makes all the difference."

"Riches do not make happiness, darling," said Mama kindly. "We shall be very happy in our quiet little country home without a grand carriage like this, and we ought all to be very much obliged to Colonel Freeling for having been so kind in lending it to us to-day."

"Here we are," said Colonel Graham, as turning the corner they came in sight of a small but very pretty house standing within iron gates which opened into the road.

CHAPTER VII.

THE NEW HOUSE.

As Mama had said, Astbury was a very small house, but for all that it was a very pretty one, and looked so homelike and inviting this fine spring evening. The windows shone out, lit up by the rays of the setting sun, from amid the green leaves with which the house was covered, like friendly eyes of welcome to the new-corners. Roses and wisteria seemed to vie with one another in beauty and luxuriance on the walls.

They all exclaimed with pleasure and delight at this first sight of their new home. All Lena's visions faded away of a stately mansion, and she agreed with the others that nothing could be prettier or nicer than their new home appeared to be, and although it was small, how could they help being happy in such a pretty place? There was not much garden in the front, but behind, as they soon discovered, was quite a large one, and to the side was a kitchen-garden, and beyond, stretching far away on every side of them, was field after field. The children were so impatient to explore the garden and shrubberies, and to wander forth into this delicious green world around them, that it was with extreme unwillingness that they received the summons to tea, which ought to have been a welcome one to such young travellers. Lena and Milly were to share a room together in their new home, while Lucy still occupied one with Hester, who had come as nurse. There was no fear of their getting into trouble or difficulties here, Mama thought, so they were allowed to ramble off at their own sweet will the next morning; and what wonderful discoveries they made, to be sure; everything was new and delightful to them. Although Lena had never lived quite in the country before like this, she had been so many country rambles with Auntie, that most of the wild flowers that grew in such profusion round Astbury were known to her by sight and name. Milly and Lucy considered her as quite an authority on the subject, and consulted her about every new floral treasure they acquired. Returning home with hands full of bluebells and anemones, they met the first living human creature they had come across in their rambles. Cows and sheep they had seen in plenty—almost too many of the former for their perfect comfort—but none of their own species till this young girl, who returned their looks of curiosity with one equally as curious. She was taller and bigger than either of the elder Graham girls, with short curly hair and sun-browned face, dressed very plainly in blue serge with a plain sailor-hat perched on the top of her curls, rather, Milly thought, because it was necessary to wear a hat than to shelter her face from the sun, for it was pushed well back, which quite accounted for the young face being so sun-burnt and rosy. She hesitated as she met our young people as if about to speak, then drew back with a sort of cold shyness and hurried on. Not so a little dog she had with her. At sight of the Graham girls, he stood still and set up a series of shrill barks. Lena and Milly hesitated whether to attempt to pass him or not. Lucy settled the matter by retreating backwards into the hedge, dragging Milly with her and screaming with terror. At the noise the girl turned. Seizing the dog in her arms, she exclaimed, "Don't be frightened, he won't hurt you." Then giving the dog a good hard slap, added, "Be quiet, you stupid little thing." And without another word she hurried on again.

Lucy soon recovered from her terror, and the incident of the dog and the unknown girl was an engrossing subject of conversation for the remainder of the walk, and was eagerly related to their parents at dinner.

"It must have been Bessie Freeling, I fancy," said Colonel Graham; "she answers to your description."

"Would not she be afraid to go about by herself?" asked Milly.

"No, I fancy from what I have seen of her that she is only too fond of roaming about in the fields; likes it better, I suspect, than staying in the schoolroom and learning her lessons," said their father with a smile.

"I don't wonder, Papa," was Lena's emphatic remark; "I could be out in the fields all day long."

"You must be careful what fields you go into, children, for some of them are set aside for hay, and you would be doing sad mischief if you went wandering about there."

"Had not you better go with them and show them where they may go and where not?" said their mother.

"Yes," said Colonel Graham, "we will all go together this afternoon, Mama and all, later in the day, I mean when it is cooler."

"May not we go out now?" asked Milly.

"No, dear, it is too hot; besides, you have not put your books and things away tidily in your room. I thought you both had decided on making your room pretty and keeping it so."

"So we did. Let us go and do it now, Lena, while Lucy has her sleep." For little Lucy always required a sleep in the middle of the day, for however much she wished to be running about, her eyes would grow heavy, and her little feet weary after spending the morning trotting about.

Lena and Milly were very busy in their room when they received a summons to the drawing-room to see Mrs. Freeling, who, with her two girls, had come to call. It was Hester who had come to tell them, and on seeing Lena jump down from the chair she was standing on, so as to enable her to reach the bookcase, where hers and Milly's books were to be kept, she exclaimed—

"Why, Miss Lena, you are not going to leave your work unfinished, now it is so nearly done, are you?"

"We can do that afterwards; I do so want to see Bessie Freeling."

"There are so few books left, you had better put them all tidy; I know you will forget afterwards."

"Well, give them to me, Milly. We will stick them up anyhow now, and put them right by and by."

"It is as easy to put them in tidily as untidily," said Hester; "and I don't mean to let you go down till you have done it, and seen that you are tidy also."

So, very unwillingly, Lena had to wait till Hester considered they were fit to go down, for both children's hands showed they had been at work. When they were ready Lena said, "Come, Milly; how slow you are! I don't believe you want to go," and she turned to Milly, who was still lingering at the table.

"I do hate going down to see new people. I never know what to say to them first."

"I like it when there are children, and I do want to know if Bessie is the same girl we saw this morning. Come on, Milly."

"Curiosity" gained the day, and overcame Milly's shyness, for she too wanted to see if Bessie and their unknown friend were the same.

Yes, Papa had been quite right in his surmise, for when they entered the room, they at once recognised the young girl sitting so quietly and demurely beside Mrs. Freeling to be the same one they had met in the morning. Gertrude, the elder sister, was there also. Much taller than Bessie, with long fair hair, and a quiet self-possessed manner, that made both our little friends decide that she was almost grown up, though Milly thought she must be very nice, she had such a sweet gentle look. Lena did not trouble very much about her, as she saw she was so "grown-up looking;" all her looks and interest were centered upon Bessie, who looked very rosy and uncomfortable, for she was as shy nearly as Milly, and only answered Lena's friendly advances with short low monosyllables, until the door opened and Lucy entered. At first she did not recognise Bessie as the owner of the little dog that had so frightened her, but the moment she did so she ran to her with outstretched hand, asking, "Where is your little dog? haven't you brought him, 'cause he was naughty?"

Bessie's eyes brightened as she greeted the child, and very soon Lucy was on her knee chattering away quite at her ease, and Bessie soon forgot her shyness also in the delight of the little one's company.

"How nice for you to have a little sister!" she said, looking at Lena.

"Yes, she is a dear little thing. Are you so fond of little children?"

"Yes, I love them. I hate dolls; they can't speak or anything, just pieces of wood. I would rather have Dash than any doll; but Lucy is better than Dash," she added with a low laugh.

Lena looked rather disgusted at her words, and said in an aggrieved tone, "We all love dolls; don't we, Milly?"

"Love dolls," said Gertrude, joining them, "so used I; and I am not sure that I don't still, at any rate I like dressing them."

"Gerty has got a whole drawerful at home. I think it is so silly to like them," said Bessie scornfully.

Mrs. Freeling rising at that moment to leave, there was nothing more said about the dolls.

"Bessie, we must ask Miss Gifford to give you a half-holiday to-morrow."

"It is Wednesday, Mama, so I have one," interrupted Bessie hastily.

"Ah yes, so it is, I had forgotten. Mrs. Graham has promised to bring her children to-morrow to spend the day with you and Gertrude."

"How nice! And, Mama, mayn't Lucy come too?"

"Of course, dear, she was included;" then she added, turning to Mrs. Graham, "We will expect you by one o'clock. You are sure you prefer to walk up?"

"Yes, we shall all enjoy the walk across the fields." And she looked at her children, whose beaming faces showed they were delighted at all Mama's arrangements for them.

As the carriage drove away, the three children all began a chorus of remarks upon their late visitors. Lucy was unqualified in her praises, but not so Lena and Milly; they were neither of them sure whether they liked Bessie quite so much as they expected.

"Gertrude was very nice," said Milly.

"What fault have you to find with poor Bessie?" said Mrs. Graham.

"Why, Mama, she turned up her nose at our liking dolls, called them pieces of wood, and spoke as if she thought we were silly," said Lena indignantly.

"Well, dear, you cannot expect to find everybody with exactly the same tastes as yourselves. I daresay you will find she is really very nice; she looks a bright frank girl, and she must be kind, judging from the way she treated Lucy."

"She loves little girls," said Lucy with a toss of her small head. "She likes me better than Dash; she said so."

Mrs. Graham was right. The girls found out the next day that they had very many tastes in common with Bessie. Although she did not like dolls, there were a great many things she did like, especially playing in the garden and the fields, and before they separated that evening they were all the closest of friends. But Lucy was prime favourite with Bessie; everything that the child wanted was done at once, nothing was too much to give the little one pleasure. Bessie had spoken the truth when she had said that Gertrude had a drawer full of dolls, and as they were looking at them—for Bessie condescended to be one of the party, as Lucy expressed a wish to see the "dear dollies"—she exclaimed, "Don't you think it silly of Gerty keeping those dolls when she is so old? And then she is so fond of books, she is always at them. Miss Gifford says she knows three times as much as I do."

"That is your own fault, Bessie, you know; for you won't try to learn, so how can you get on?"

"How can one think of lessons when one wants to be out of doors? I don't mind them on wet days, but on fine ones I cannot bear the sight of a book. I envy you," looking at her friends as she spoke, "for you have holidays and no governess."

"But only for a week longer. Our new governess is coming then, and we are not to have any more holidays this summer, except a fortnight in August."

"What a shame!"

"Mama says we have had so many lately; but we shall have the same half-holidays as you."

"Then we can be out together, and the summer evenings are lovely for the fields."

"Don't you like your lessons at all, Bessie?" asked Milly.

"No. How can I, when I feel I am such a long way behind Gerty? It's no good my trying to get on—I can't," and a shade passed over the bright face as she sighed. Bessie was in fact disheartened and disappointed. She had been, when younger, considered quicker at her work than Gertrude, and when she found she could learn so much sooner the lessons set them, she had become idle and careless, thinking she could easily catch up Gerty, though she did work so hard and was so fond of her books. But Bessie soon found she had made a mistake, for the careless roving habits she had given way to grew fast upon her, and soon her sister outdistanced her on the path of learning. So Bessie grew disgusted and disheartened. Instead of trying to make up for lost time, she said "It was of no use," and grew fonder, or said she did, of shirking her work. The Graham girls often wondered that Mrs. Freeling allowed her so much liberty, for not only on the summer evenings, but every spare hour she could get, Bessie made her way to the Grahams, and would coax Mrs. Graham to let her carry off little Lucy to the garden, much to the child's delight. The reason of this was that Mrs. Freeling had come to the decision that Bessie must go to a boarding-school. She had watched with sorrow how the girl's idle habits were increasing, and she also saw that a good deal of it was caused by her being so thoroughly put out of heart about her own doings and work. It would be better for her, Mrs. Freeling knew, to have a change, and she hoped that being with other girls, with whom she had not lost ground, would give her courage to make a fresh start. Little did Bessie guess, as she played with Lucy or her sisters, that very soon all this wild free life was to be exchanged for the routine and discipline of a school. Gertrude knew of it, and over and over again would she try and persuade Bessie to settle down more steadily to her lessons; but argument and persuasion were alike in vain. She was always unprepared and in trouble. "You will be sorry for it," Gertrude would many a time say; but Bessie's answer was always the same, "It is no good trying; I can't get on." Thus the next week or two slipped away. Miss Marshall had arrived, and lessons were begun regularly, when one morning Lucy rushed in, throwing the door wide open, and forgetting in her excitement that she was breaking through all rules by thus disturbing her sisters during working hours.

"O Miss Marshall, Lena, Milly, what do you think?" she exclaimed eagerly, her eyes sparkling with delight. Then without waiting for an answer she went on, "We are all to have tea in the hayfield. Mrs. Freeling has asked us, and Mama says we may go, and this afternoon Bessie is going to buy me a little rake, and I shall make hay." Here the child stopped for sheer want of breath, while Lena and Milly both exclaimed in tones of delight at the proposed treat.

Fortunately lessons were nearly over for the morning, for Miss Marshall found it very difficult to restrain her pupils' eagerness to get them finished, and go and hear all about the treat in store. Bessie, who had brought the news to Lucy, was quite ready and able to give them all particulars. And the two elder girls looked wistfully after the carriage that conveyed Mrs. Graham and Lucy with Mrs. Freeling to the neighbouring town when they began afternoon lessons.

"Lucy gets all the treats," murmured Lena crossly, while Milly added with a little sigh, "I wish I was her."

This was to be a day of surprises for them, for when Mama returned she told them she had heard from Mrs. Clifford, who wrote she had that day sent off a box. "It is addressed to you, Milly dear," she continued.

"When do you think it will come?" asked Milly.

"It has arrived at the station, dear. Mrs. Freeling kindly called, meaning to bring it back with her; but we heard then that it had been sent by the carrier, so I expect it will soon be here."

After tea and lessons were over, the three girls went down the road to look if they could see the carrier's cart coming. Lena and Lucy were both as excited about the expected parcel as Milly herself, for they had quite talked themselves into the belief that Mrs. Clifford would be sure to send them something. Mrs. Graham had repeatedly told them that it was not at all probable; but they thought otherwise, and as they wished to think so, Mama's warnings were all thrown away upon them. Bessie, too, had helped to increase Lucy's confidence, for she had said, "Of course she would not forget to send such a little darling as you something nice." So all three were in a state of great delight when they saw the cart coming towards the house. They all scampered back to call to Mama that the precious parcel would very soon arrive, and to entreat her to come and see it opened."

"You can bring it into the dining-room and open it there," said Mrs. Graham to the eager party.

"Such a nice big one, Mama," said Milly, appearing with a box in her arms, done up in brown paper, and addressed to "Miss Millicent Graham."

"It must have more than one thing in it," said Lena anxiously. Then the string was undone and the paper taken off, and a square card-board box was displayed to view.

"I see two parcels," said Milly excitedly as she opened it.

"Mine will be in the corner or underneath!" cried Lucy, as she danced about in her excitement.

Milly took out the first thing, and taking off the paper coverings that were round it, held up a very pretty white hat, trimmed with lace and a large white ostrich feather.

"Oh, how lovely! I hope mine is the same," said Lena, putting down the hat on the table.

Milly took out the other thing. It was not a hat she felt at once. Uncovering it, she saw a white straw work-basket, and opening it they further saw that it was lined with blue satin, and filled with all the necessary things for working with. Laying that on the table beside the hat, she dived again into the box. A look of disappointment crept over her face as she felt, for nothing more was there but the paper which had been placed in it to keep the hat from being hurt by the basket.

"That's all," she said at length.

Lucy stood the picture of disappointment, and screwed up her little face ready for a good cry, when Mama said, "Look, dear, here is a note in the work-basket."

Lucy waited for her cry to hear if there was any good news in the note.

"Read it, please, Mama," said Milly, putting the paper into her mother's hands. She had caught a glimpse of what was written, and she could not bear to read out the words which she knew were coming.

"For dear Milly, hoping she will like her god-mama's choice." Not a word about either Lena or Lucy.

The latter set up a howl of disappointment, but Lena said never a word. Her disappointment was very great—she had so made up her mind that she would be remembered, and had spoken so decidedly on the subject before them all. Her heart swelled with feelings of wounded pride, disappointment, and anger, for at the moment she was angry, not only with herself for having so hoped for it, but with Mrs. Clifford, who she considered had behaved very unkindly to her. Though why Mrs. Clifford should have sent her a present she could not have told you herself.

"May Lena have the hat, and me the basket, Mania?" asked Milly pleadingly. "You like the hat best, don't you, Lena?"

Mrs. Graham was trying to comfort the weeping Lucy, who refused to be comforted, and wept and raved at the cruelty of every one in general and Mrs. Clifford in particular.

"No, Milly, I don't want the hat: they were both sent to you; of course she likes you best—every one does." And with these words, and without a kind look or word of thanks to her sister, Lena left the room.

Poor Milly! Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at the presents that but a few minutes before she had thought of with such pleasure.

Mrs. Graham came to her side, and lifting up her face, kissed her, and whispered, "My poor little Milly, this is a sad way to receive your present."

"O Mama, I wish it had never come. I can never wear the hat."

"No," screamed Lucy, "it's a nasty hat—I'll spoil it," and she seized the unoffending hat roughly; but Mrs. Graham at once took it from her, and handing it to Milly, said, "Put it in the box again, and take it to my room."

"Nasty horrid thing! I'll spoil you," screamed Lucy again, and thus, screaming and struggling, the passionate child was taken by her mother to the nursery, while Milly put the hat and work-basket away in the box, and carried it up as told to her mother's room. Opening the wardrobe she put the box into it, and then shut and locked the door.

"There, you are out of sight now," she said as she did so. Then sitting down on the sofa she gave way to a burst of tears. She had looked forward with such pleasure to receiving her promised present; in her secret heart she had hoped that it might be the very work-basket that had come, for she had admired it so much in the shop one day, and Mrs. Clifford had alluded to it before she left. Now it had really been given to her, and had brought her nothing but sorrow. Why would not Lena take the hat? for she had said she hoped there would be one for her the same, and Milly couldn't wear it after what Lena had said. She was sorry there was nothing for Lucy, but she knew she would soon be comforted by some small present, and that she should have something Milly quite settled in her own mind; but she felt that with Lena it was very different, nothing she had to give her would make up for the disappointment and the wound to her self-love. It was not thus that Milly called it; she so dearly loved her sister that she made excuses for her in her own mind and also to her mother, who very soon came to seek for and comfort her.

"Mama, Lena says she won't have the hat—do make her take it."

"No, dear; I don't wish her to have it. It was sent to you, and I want my children to learn to see each other given pleasure without coveting it for themselves or being jealous about it."

"O Mama, but it was such a disappointment to her!"

"Yes, I know it is; but Lena has brought it on herself, for I have told her over and over again that she was raising false hopes both for herself and Lucy, and so it has ended in sorrow to you all."

"Can't I leave it in your wardrobe and say nothing more about it?"

"The hat you may leave in my wardrobe, and you needn't wear it just yet,—indeed there won't be an opportunity for doing so,—but the work-basket must be taken down to the drawing-room. Both Lucy and Lena must learn to see it, dear, without wanting it."

Milly felt somehow that Lena wouldn't mind the work-basket so much, especially as she had a nice one of her own, while Milly's was an old and rather shabby one, so she took it down more contentedly; now that the hat was well out of sight, she hoped that it would soon be forgotten.

Lena walked out of the dining-room with a swelling heart and clouded brow. She had been very unkindly and ungently treated, she considered. It was very hard that Milly should have everything. What right had she to have a godmama who gave presents when she herself had not, forgetting that the Aunt who had done so much for her was her godmother as well as Aunt, and had done for her far more than Milly's had ever done. Running up to her bedroom for her garden-hat, she opened the drawer where her best hat was kept. She had thought it very pretty and nice when it was given her, but now, as she looked at it, and compared it with Milly's new one, she thought how shabby and plain it was. "Not even a feather!" And she shut to the drawer with a slam, and seizing her garden-hat ran downstairs again and out of the house. As she wandered on by herself, all the jealous fancies that had raised their heads before, now began slowly to return and show themselves once more. Ah me! Lena was not only allowing them to do so unopposed, but encouraging them both to come back and remain with her. Looking back at the house, she saw, through the open window of her mother's room, Milly standing up, and beside her stood Mrs. Graham. If Lena had only heard the words her sister was saying, her heart would have softened. "It was such a disappointment to her," the gentle voice pleaded; but unfortunately, the words were unheard, and Lena, turning her back to the sight, walked on hurriedly. "I knew she was Mama's favourite, she has got everything; it is me Mama might be sorry for. Oh, I wish Aunt Mary was here!" At this thought the tears filled her eyes, but she pressed them back; if any one saw her crying, they would think it was because she was sorry for the hat, and she would not let them think that Very soon she caught sight of Bessie coming across the fields. As soon as the latter saw her, she hurried on, calling out the moment she was within hearing, "Has the parcel arrived?"

"Yes," said Lena, trying to speak indifferently. "But it was only for Milly—a hat and a work-basket."

"Nothing for you?"

"No," said Lena with a shaky voice, which Bessie seeing, she slipped her arm in hers, saying, "What a shame! And nothing for little Lucy; she will be disappointed!"

Lena began to walk off in the direction away from the house; and Bessie, who was always good-natured, especially when any one was in trouble, walked beside her, and began telling her what they hoped to do the next day, when they were to spend the afternoon in the hay-field. "Mama wants Mrs. Graham to let Hester and the other servants come too—every one ought to help in the hay-field."

Lena did not return home until as late an hour as she dared to, but nothing was said by either Mama or Miss Marshall at her being a little late, both hoping that she had had time to reflect on what had passed, and that by this time she knew she alone had been to blame for the false hopes she had raised for herself and her little sister. Not one word did Lena say about the parcel or her disappointment. She would show them she did not care. And when Milly, who was longing for an opportunity to say something kind about it, saw that Lena did not wish the subject mentioned, she kept silence, only trying, by being extra kind and loving to her, to show she felt with and for her. When they were alone in their room Lena said she was tired and sleepy, hurrying over her undressing, and, alas! her prayers also. She did not wish to forgive, and the girl's mind was so clouded by her wrong and jealous thoughts, that she would not allow that she herself had any need of forgiveness. With a cold kiss she returned Milly's clinging, loving embrace; and prayerless—for no mere formal words, repeated from habit only, can be called prayer—and unhappy,—for how could she be otherwise with such thoughts as hers?—she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. So still did she lie, that when Mrs. Graham came in to see her little girls, as was her custom every night, Milly said softly, "Lena was tired, Mama, and she is asleep already."

"Poor child," said her Mother, "I won't stay and talk to you, dear, for fear of waking her. I am glad she has taken the disappointment so quietly." After kissing Milly, she stooped over Lena, and with a tender "God bless you, my child," she kissed her forehead softly, and left the room.

The tears forced themselves under the closed lids, but Lena gulped them back, and with them, all the softened thoughts that began to rise at her mother's words; and as she drove back the good, the wrong thoughts returned and filled the child's mind with seeds that were to reap a bitter harvest ere long.

CHAPTER VIII.

MILLY'S NEW HAT.

"I shall be sorry to have to keep you in this afternoon, Lena," said Miss Marshall; "but if you do not pay more attention to your lessons I shall be obliged to."

"They are so difficult," grumbled Lena.

"That is nonsense. Milly has said hers correctly, and surely you can do so also; you are not paying the slightest attention this morning."

"Of course Milly does it best when you help her," muttered Lena, but in tones loud enough to be heard by her governess.

Things went on from bad to worse. Lena was in a cross, stubborn mood. She was hugging to herself, as it were, the disappointment of the afternoon before, dwelling upon it, and looking at it over and over again in the light of her own wounded pride and vanity. This was the morning of the day they had all looked forward to with such pleasure, the day when they were all to have tea in the hay-field; and now, instead of getting through her lessons well and quickly, she was allowing her thoughts and attention to wander anywhere they would, except to the one place they ought to have rested on.

"Have you got a headache, Lena?" asked Miss Marshall at length, when her patience was nearly exhausted.

"No," was the short answer.

"Then what is the matter with you, dear?" she asked kindly.

"Nothing, only my lessons are so difficult."

"Let me try and explain them to you again," said Miss Marshall; and taking the book she went over the prescribed task. But all her kindness was thrown away; it was not that Lena could not, it was that she would not learn. When the usual hour for ending morning lessons arrived, Lena was all behind, and there was nothing to be done except to excuse her them altogether, or to keep her in for part of the afternoon. The latter course was what Miss Marshall resolved on.

"Lena must stay in alone," said Mrs. Graham, when she heard of this resolution. "I am very sorry for it, my child, but I cannot help myself. It would not be fair to deny any of the others their pleasure because you choose to be so naughty and wilful."

All but the cook were going to the hay-field. She was remaining to look after the house during the absence of all the others, and so Lena would not be quite alone in the house.

"Directly you think you know your lessons you may come and join us. I know I can trust you, my little one," said her mother kindly to the child as she left her sitting alone in the schoolroom. For a little while Lena sat leaning her elbows on the table and gazing into vacancy, as she heard the voices of her mother and sisters gradually dying away in the distance. It was very hard, she thought, sitting here all by herself, when they were all enjoying themselves out of doors, forgetting that it was all her own doing. Suddenly a new impulse seized her, and bending down over her book, she began to read over her lesson. The door opened, and Hester came in.

"Have you not gone yet, Hester?" asked Lena in surprise.

"No, Miss, I had to finish my work first. I am ready now, only waiting for Emma. She has gone to put the salt into Miss Milly's bath. Oh, Miss Lena, do make haste and do your lessons: only think what your Auntie would say if she saw you now."

"She would not have been so cross and kept me in."

"Well, dear, show that you can do them as well as Miss Milly."

Hester had touched her pride with this speech, and tossing back her head she answered, "Of course I can if I choose."

"Well then, dear, I would choose; it's a pity to lose all the fun of the haymaking, and such a lovely afternoon as it is, too."

"I won't be long now, Hester; I will learn them."

"Shall I wait for you?"

"No, thank you, Hester, I will soon follow you."

Then with a few kindly words of encouragement Hester left the room, and Lena applied herself to her task with such goodwill that very soon she had learnt it correctly.

Putting away her books, she went up for her walking things. As she passed her mother's room, the door of which was left wide open, she went in, and going to the window looked out to see if she could see them in the field. Not a person was to be seen—all lay so still and peaceful in the bright sunshine, the silence only broken by the song of a bird or the distant lowing of cattle. Turning from the window, Lena's eye fell on the box that had come from Mrs. Clifford. It had been taken out for some reason from the wardrobe, placed on the bed, and evidently forgotten to be put back. Lena lingered a moment beside it. She had not seen it except for the few moments that Milly had held it before her on first taking it out of the box. She would like to have a good look at it, and here was an opportunity for doing so privately and without having to ask Milly to allow her to do so. Opening the box, she lifted the paper and looked in. Then taking it carefully out, she turned it round and examined it more attentively. "What a nice feather!" she murmured. "I wonder if it looks nice on." That was very easy to decide. Placing it on her head, she walked to the looking-glass. It was a very becoming one, she considered, as she turned her head from side to side to see it to every advantage. A sudden noise made her start guiltily and turn quickly round, "for a fearful conscience makes cowards of us all." So quickly had she turned and with such a jerk, that off went the hat. Lena made a dash at it, but it was too late, she could not save it. With a splash it went into the salt bath prepared for Milly's weak ancles, and which was always taken into her mother's room. With a cry of horror Lena snatched it out, but alas! the mischief was done, the beautiful curly feather was soaking. Such a miserable-looking object it was, as Lena gazed at it in dismay. Hastily taking a towel from the rack, she rubbed away at the unfortunate hat; then when the straw was dry, or looked nearly so, she shook it vigorously, hoping in this way to restore the feather to its former beauty. All the shaking and rubbing was of no use, for the feather still remained all wet and uncurled. Holding it before the fire sometimes did a wet feather good, Lena knew; should she take it down and ask cook to let her hold it before the kitchen fire? As she stood meditating she saw through the open window her father and Milly coming towards the house. If Milly had been alone she would have run and told her all, for all anger and pride had died away in her fright and sorrow, for she was sorry for the mischief she had caused, but the sight of her father made her hesitate. "He would be so angry," she thought, and the remembrance of the stern way he had spoken to her the night she had looked over Aunt Mary's shoulder and read her letter, came back to her. "She could not tell him." She would wait and tell Milly afterwards, or Mama. She would understand it was not done intentionally. Thrusting the hat hastily into the box again, she hurried to her room, trembling and almost in tears.

"Lena, Lena, where are you?" shouted Milly, as she bounded upstairs to look for her, after having failed to find her in the schoolroom. "Getting ready? Oh, I am so glad you have done. I have come back to bring you—we all want you so much. Crying, Lena?" she continued, and receiving no answer—"Oh, don't cry; it is all right now."

Here was Lena's opportunity to confess all, and this she determined to do. Bursting out afresh into tears, she sobbed, "Oh, Milly clear, do forgive me; the hat"——she went on incoherently.

Here Milly interrupted her with a kiss—"Never mind the tiresome old hat; I never want to see it again. I love you better than all the hats in the world."

"But, Milly, I must tell you"——

Here Colonel Graham's voice was heard calling in rather impatient tones for them to make haste.

"There, Lena, you must come; I won't listen to one word more about the hat;" and dragging her after her, she hurried down to join her father.

No one took any notice of Lena's tear-stained face, all attributing it to the fact of her having been kept in; and when Mama, greeting her with a loving kiss, the tears welled up afresh, they were thought to be only signs of sorrow for her conduct during the morning, and only drew forth another kiss and kind words of forgiveness, "Now, darling, run and join the others, and all enjoy yourselves."

Though Lena joined in all the games and pleasures of the others, it was not with the full enjoyment with which she usually did so. No one alluded either to her having been kept at home, or to the disappointment of the day before, except once, and that was done by Lucy, who said, "Milly, Bessie says she expects that my present was small, and must have got hidden among the paper."

"No, Lucy dear, I am sure there was not anything more in the box."

"Yes, so am I," said Lena, flushing scarlet, "it is very stupid of Bessie saying such things to you."

"I believe Bessie, and she is not stupid; she is very nice—nicer than you," and the child walked off, indignantly murmuring to herself, "I mean to look and see, for I believe Bessie."

"I wish she would not tell Lucy such things; she never thinks how bad it is for her." The one she alluded to being Bessie, who petted and spoiled the child, giving her everything she asked for, and never allowing either of her sisters to contradict her; or when they did so, she made up for it by an extra petting.

Lena was ill at ease, and looked so tired when evening came that Mama sent her off to bed, attributing the weary looks and subdued manner to over fatigue from running about in the heat.

As Lena lay waiting for Milly to come to bed—for Lena had been sent off first by Mama—she decided that she would tell Milly when she came in, and then together they would tell their mother; but all her plans were frustrated by the weary eyes closing in sleep before her sister came in, and so quiet was Milly that she did not awake her.

The following morning doubts and conjectures began to trouble Lena. Milly made such a fuss when she began to speak of the hat, and say she would not hear a word more about it; she had said she did not care one bit about it. Still conscience kept telling her over and over again, that there was but one path before her, and that was a very plain and straight one, called Truth. The longer she put off telling, the more difficult it became. She would tell her while dressing. "Milly," she began, just before they left the room, "I want to speak to you about the hat."

"O Lena, please don't say anything now about it, or I shall hate it. Mama and I decided last night that it is to be left in its box, and I shall forget all about it: I could not wear it now."

"Could not wear it now," Lena repeated, but no one heard her, for Milly had left the room. "Could Mama and Milly have opened the box last night and seen what had happened? Yes, that must be it; how good and kind Milly was to forgive her so easily. She would show her how grateful she was, and how much she loved her and Mama too for forgiving her." She felt she did not deserve this kind treatment, but she would try to in the future. All that day Lena expected her mother to say something about the feather, but not one word was said, not even when they were alone. Lena tried very hard all that day to be good, and was gentle and affectionate to both her sisters, especially Milly, who was so glad to have Lena once more on amiable terms with her that she was in the best and highest spirits.

When Mama gave her little girls their good-night kiss, Lena said, "How good you are to me, Mama!"

"When one tries to be good oneself, darling, one always finds that others are trying to be the same; as when one is cross, one thinks everybody is cross too."

Lucy had not forgotten Bessie's remark, that perhaps Milly had overlooked her present, and that very probably it had got among the paper that formed the wrappings of the hat and work-basket. To find this out Lucy was quite determined, but how to do so was the difficulty. She had asked Mama if she would look, but her answer had not been satisfactory to the child—"Milly had looked, and the paper from Mrs. Clifford proved that only Milly was to receive anything." Lucy wanted to see for herself. The box was in Mama's wardrobe she knew, and could be very easily got at and searched, if only she could do so without being seen. Some days passed away, and no opportunity occurred. One was sure to come, for it is wonderful how opportunities do occur, for either good or evil, when eagerly watched for. It was the case with Lucy. Colonel and Mrs. Graham had gone to return a visit some distance off; the two elder girls had gone with Miss Marshall, Gertrude Freeling and her governess for a long walk to some woods in the neighbourhood. This walk had long been talked of, but it was too far to go in their usual walking hours, so had been arranged for a half-holiday. When Gertrude and Miss Gifford called for the Grahams, Astbury being on the way, they brought word that Bessie was not going with them; she would come down later and take Lucy for a play in the fields. This was a splendid opportunity for Lucy to search the box. Hester was busy in the nursery, so Lucy asked leave to go and meet Bessie. This was at once accorded, for the time fixed on for her coming was close at hand. Instead of going out at once, Lucy went to her mother's room. Shutting the door quietly, so that she should not be seen, she opened the wardrobe. The box was too high for her to reach, so putting a chair close she mounted on it, and was thus enabled easily to reach the desired object. Placing it on the floor, she opened it, and lifting the hat out, put it on the floor beside her, without uncovering it from the paper in which it was wrapped. Then she made a careful but unavailing search. The child's face grew longer and longer as the conviction was at last forced upon her, that there was really nothing more there. It was quite true then that she had been told the truth by Milly, and Bessie was wrong. Anger succeeded to disappointment. Without waiting to remove the chair or to replace the box, she turned to go; the paper containing the hat lay before her: giving it a kick with her foot, for Lucy had worked herself into a rage by this time, she sent hat, paper, and all flying across the room. Then, without waiting to see the effects of the kick, she rushed out of the room, down the stairs, and into the garden. Bessie had not arrived, so she started off to meet her, and pour into her ever-friendly ear her tale of woe.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SPOILT FEATHER.

Lucy had not gone very far when she saw Bessie coming towards her, not walking along briskly and brightly as usual, but with a lagging step and drooping head, so unlike her usual self that even Lucy, full as she was of her own grievance, was struck by it.

"O Bessie, what is the matter? what have you been doing?"

"Nothing, except I am miserable," was the gloomy answer.

Awed and subdued, the child walked beside her in silence, until they came to a favourite resting-place of theirs—an old tree that had been blown down in some winter storm and still lay beside the hedge. The branches had been chopped off, and grass and wild flowers had grown up around it, making it both a comfortable and picturesque seat. On this Bessie seated herself with Lucy beside her.

"Do tell me what is the matter; why are you so unhappy?" Placing her little hand on her knee, she looked up affectionately into her companion's face.

"They are going to send me away from here, all among strangers in a horrid town, and I shall be wretched."

"Send you away, your Papa and Mama! Why, what have you done?" the child asked in surprise.

"Nothing." And as she spoke the word she began to laugh in an hysterical, nervous sort of way. Then seeing the child's bewildered look she said, "Yes, Lucy, that's really why, because Mama says I am not getting on with Miss Gifford, that I do nothing, so they are going to send me to school."

"How unkind of them!"

"No, Mama could not be unkind, nor Papa either; they say it's for my good."

"Like what they say when they give you nasty medicine." This was not said saucily, but very gravely, for Lucy was not in a merry mood; the news she had just heard was too serious for a joke.

"Only think," said Bessie, looking round her with loving, admiring eyes, "to live among streets and houses, and to leave all these beautiful fields and trees—oh, it is cruel! I can never be happy away from here." Sure of a sympathising listener in her little companion, she poured forth all her sorrows for the present and fears for the future.

The prospect of dear kind Bessie going away saddened little Lucy, and so filled her thoughts that it drove away the remembrance of her own disappointment, and she quite forgot to tell her of all that had happened, and that she had come out to meet her with the full intention of telling. When they parted at the garden gate, Bessie looked happier, though I fear not one whit more resigned to the prospect in store for her.

Lucy watched her away, and then turned and ran back to the house. Though she was very very sorry about it, still it did not prevent her from being eager to tell her sisters the news, sad though it was. It gave her a feeling of importance to know something the elder ones did not, so she felt quite disappointed at finding that none of the others had come in. She must tell her tale to some one, so running up to the nursery she found Hester, who listened to her news and was as interested and sympathising as her small charge desired.

Lucy was already dressed and waiting for tea, when Lena came in, saying, "O Lucy, there you are! Mama wants you; she is in the drawing-room; come along quickly."

Together they entered the drawing-room, where they found Colonel and Mrs. Graham and Milly. The latter looked very distressed, and both parents very grave.

"What is it, Mama?" they both exclaimed.

"Have you been in your mother's bedroom to-day, Lena?" asked Colonel Graham.

"No, Papa," was the immediate answer, and she looked frankly into her father's face as she spoke. Not a suspicion of what was coming dawned upon her, she had so completely made up her mind that both her mother and sister knew of her wrong-doing and had forgiven her. At first she had often wondered that her mother had said no word to her on the subject. Then as the days wore on, she was only too glad to forget all about it, and she had tried to be very good and obedient, to show her gratitude. It was the old story with Lena, trusting to her own efforts to repair the wrong, forgetting that there is nothing that we can do that will cleanse us from sin; there is only One who can do that, and He was now going to give her the opportunity to confess her fault, and to show true repentance.

As Colonel Graham asked Lena this question, Lucy coloured and cast down her eyes. She suddenly remembered what she had done, and how she had left her mother's room.

"Lucy, have you been in?" There was little doubt what would be the answer. Conscious guilt was stamped on every feature of the child's face.

"Yes, Papa," she said timidly. Then bursting into tears, she rushed to her mother's arms for refuge and comfort.

"Tell us all about it, my child; what did you go for?"

"To see if there was not a present for me," she sobbed.

"But Milly told you she had searched the box."

"Bessie said perhaps it had got among the paper, and you had not seen it."

"Well, when you found it was not there, what did you do to the hat?"

"Kicked it," she murmured very low.

"Nothing else?"

"No, I did not even look at it."

"You must have done something more, Lucy," said her father. "How else could it be in this state?" And he held out Milly's unfortunate hat.

Lucy lifted her head from her mother's shoulder and looked. "O Papa, what a pity! how did it get like that?"

The child spoke with such an accent of truth, that the parents looked at one another in surprise. That Lucy had not done it intentionally there could be no doubt.

"We thought you had done it, Lucy. We found it in this state under the washing-stand."

"I am so sorry. I never meant to spoil the hat; I only kicked it because I was so angry;" for Lucy immediately jumped to the conclusion that she had done the mischief, though unintentionally. Springing forward she flung her arms round Milly, saying, "Please, please forgive me, Milly; I did not mean to spoil your hat really."

"No, I know you did not, Lucy. I don't mind one bit now; I did at first, because it was such a pretty one. I don't mind now; and Lena and I will have the same like always—won't we, Mama?" said Milly sweetly as she kissed her little sister.

What were Lena's feelings during this time? Very conflicting ones. So Mama and Milly had not known of it all along, and now she must confess that she had not only done the mischief, but had concealed it all this time. Would they believe her when she told them the whole story? She had not really meant to deceive them, she repeated over and over again to herself. The others were too much taken up with Lucy to notice her, or else her varying looks must have betrayed the struggle that was going on within. As Milly ceased speaking, Lena started forward. "O Milly," she began, when her father's voice arrested her.

"I am glad, my child, you told me the truth at once, for if you had tried to deceive me and denied your fault, I should have been very angry. You see what sins jealousy and passion lead you into."

"I could not tell before Papa," thought Lena as she drew back; "if he would be angry with little Lucy, how much more so would he be with me who am older?" Then as Lucy sobbed out, "I really did not mean to spoil the feather," and her mother answered, "No, dear, that must have been an accident," the temptation that rose to Lena's mind was too strong to be resisted by her feeble strength, and on that strength alone had she been and still was relying. So she held her peace and let Lucy bear the blame.

"You need not stay, dears," said Mrs. Graham to the two elder girls. "Go to your tea; I want to have Lucy with me alone for a little while."

How the feather had been spoiled still remained a mystery. Lucy fully and firmly believed that she had been the cause, by throwing it under the washing-stand, though unless the floor had been wet it would not have been so utterly ruined. It was an unsatisfactory solution of the difficulty, but as no other could be found, they had to be satisfied with it. How thankful Lena was when tea was over, and Miss Marshall gave them leave to go out into the garden for half an hour.

"May I go up and see Lucy?" asked Milly.

Gaining permission, she ran after Lena to tell her where she was going, and to ask if she would come with her.

"There is no good both going, and I want to finish my book." But not much of the book was read that evening, when, out of sight of every one, Lena sat down and tried to arrange her thoughts. What had she done? Though no one was by to see her, her cheeks flushed with shame at her conduct. What cowardice and meanness had she not been guilty of! Oh, if she had only spoken out at the beginning, all this misery and wickedness would have been saved. "It was not too late yet," conscience whispered. Then the thought of what her father would say when he heard that she had deceived them. If it was only Mama, I should not mind, so ran her thoughts; but I dare not tell Papa, he would be so angry. Oh, if only Aunt Mary were here I could tell her everything, forgetting, or rather pushing away the remembrance, of One nearer and dearer than any earthly friend, who never turns a cold or deaf ear to any of His children, and who ever has the gentlest and most loving answer for His repentant little ones. How, over and over again, we dread the anger of some earthly friend, forgetting that some day we must face the just anger of an offended God if we continue in our hardness and sin. As Lena sat thus thinking, we may be very sure that excuses, and what she called good reasons for keeping silence, were not long in making their appearance. Lucy had been forgiven, and nothing more would be said on the subject. Why should she open out such a painful thing again? She had not told a falsehood; if Papa had asked her, she would have acknowledged doing it. He had only asked her if she had been in her mother's room that afternoon, and she had spoken the truth when she said "No." Then what would Aunt Mary feel if she heard that she, her pet and darling, had got into trouble and disgrace? No, this must never be, and so on and on went the struggle between right and wrong, ending, alas! in Lena's leaving it to be settled some other time. "I could not do it to-night, I will the first opportunity;" and somehow, when an opportunity offered itself, it was not a right one—Lena would wait for a better. So day followed day, and still the secret was locked up in Lena's bosom, and it seemed probable that it never would be told. Nothing was ever said about the feather, and to all appearance no one remembered anything about it. Still Lena was not happy. How could she be, with such a weight at her heart? Aunt Mary had striven to train her niece not for this life alone; and the good seed that had been sown in love and faith was not dead, and the better thoughts would make themselves heard. Lena was not callous or hardened; no, she was very miserable, poor child, as all of us must be who carry about with us an unconfessed and unforgiven sin. As day after day she kneeled, as she had ever done in prayer, and listened to, or read God's Word, her heart grew heavier, and sometimes the longing to tell all was so strong that she would start up to go, then her courage would fail, and she was afraid of what they would say; and the remembrance of her father's words, both to herself and Lucy, would come back, and she would shrink from the task, thinking, "I will be very good and obedient, and make up for not telling by good conduct." At times she would forget all about it, and be the bright, lively Lena we first knew; but some word or deed would be sure to recall her secret, and she would have the same struggle over again.

Her mother was sure that something was amiss, and would watch her troubled, anxious face with loving eyes, fearing that her child was either ill or unhappy. Could it be, she would wonder, that she was fretting at the loss of Aunt Mary? and at this thought she would be, if that were possible, when she was always kind and loving to her children, more so than usual to Lena. Strange to say, that when this was the case, it made Lena only stronger in her determination not to tell, for she would think, "She would not be so kind to me if she knew how naughty I had been." So day after day passed and her secret was still untold.

"Where is Lena?" asked Mrs. Graham, coming into the garden, where Milly and Lucy were busy working at their own especial little garden.

"On the lawn, Mama. She wanted to finish a book Gertrude lent her. Shall I call her?"

"No, dear, I will go to her," and she moved away.

Throwing down the rake with which she had been working, Milly followed. "Mama," she began, when she was out of ear-shot of Lucy; "I don't think Lena is very happy here."

"I am afraid, dear, that she is not well," answered her mother.

"She is so much quieter, and she is not half so fond of running about and romping as she used to be."

"I am beginning to think this place does not suit her. It's a change from the sea-air she has been accustomed to. I have a letter for her from Aunt Mary; that is what I want her for."

"Oh, that will please her. There she is. Lena!" she called out as they came in sight of her lying flat on the grass, intent on a book she was reading.

Lena looked up as they joined her, saying, "It is such a nice book! Milly, you ought to read it."

"I have brought you something else to read, dear," said her mother, holding out a letter which Lena sprang up to receive; for what child is not delighted at receiving a letter, especially if directed to itself!

As Lena was opening the envelope, Mrs. Graham said, "I heard from Mrs. Clifford to-day. That will interest you, Milly. I wrote and asked her to come and stay here."

At these words Lena turned round hastily, and listened anxiously to hear the answer from Mrs. Clifford. As her mother had paused and was looking for the letter in her pocket, Lena asked impatiently, "Is she coming?"

"Yes, dear, in a fortnight."

Lena's cheek flushed crimson, for the thought flashed through her mind, "She will inquire about the hat."

At sight of her crimsoned cheeks Mrs. Graham and Milly at once came to the same conclusion—"Lena has not forgotten her disappointment at not receiving a present;" but neither took any notice of her confusion in words.

"Shall I read you your letter, dear?" asked Mrs. Graham.

"Please, Mama," she answered, placing the letter in her hand. Then walking slowly up and down the lawn, Mrs. Graham read the letter aloud to the two girls, who were walking one on each side of her.

After telling her niece about the many new and interesting places she had been visiting, she went on to say what pleasure it had given her to hear from Mrs. Graham, how good and obedient Lena had been, ending with, "Nothing can give me so much happiness as hearing this, dear Lena, and I trust that I may continue to have equally good accounts until we meet again in the winter." Lena listened to these words in silence as her mother ended the letter.

Bessie Freeling rushed out of the house to join them, exclaiming as she did so, "O Mrs. Graham, I came with Mama; she is in the drawing-room; she wants to see you."

This was a happy interruption for Lena. She dreaded hearing some words of praise from her mother, for she knew how little she deserved them. Handing her the letter with a smile, Mrs. Graham answered Bessie, and hurried back to the house to see Mrs. Freeling, leaving the three girls together.

Bessie was in a state of excitement, and the moment Mrs. Graham disappeared into the house she burst out with, "What do you think she has come for? To ask if your mother will let one of you go to the seaside with Gertrude and Miss Gifford, instead of me. I want to stay here all summer. I don't want to lose a day when I have such a miserable winter before me."

"I thought your Papa and Mama were going away too," said Milly.

"Yes, to take the boys to see Uncle Henry; but I want to come and stay here while you go with Gerty."

Milly's face fell: she did not want to leave home. "But we can't—we have no holidays," she said, brightening up at this thought.

Here was an escape for Lena from meeting Mrs. Clifford. Was ever anything more fortunate? she thought, for she dreaded any remarks or inquiries from that lady.

"I should like to go to the sea," said Lena; "I hope Mama will let me."

"Want to go away, Lena?" said Milly reproachfully. "And when Mrs. Clifford is coming; I do so want her to know you, as well as me."

"I do hope Mrs. Graham will say 'yes.' Now, Milly, don't you go trying to persuade Lena not to—I shan't let you speak to her until it is all settled;" and she laughingly dragged her away, calling loudly to Lucy to come and help her, which the moment Lucy heard her voice, she hastened to do. And a merry struggle went on between them, in which Lena, rejoiced at the prospect of escaping Mrs. Clifford's promised visit, joined in, and it was in the midst of all the fun and noise that Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Freeling joined them.

"You will consent, won't you, Mrs. Graham?" said Bessie, leaving Milly and looking up coaxingly at her.

"Consent to have you here? Yes, with pleasure; and I think, as your mother has kindly asked one of my children to go with Gertrude, that it would do Lena good. She has not been very well lately, and the sea-air may strengthen her."

"But our lessons, Mama?" said Milly.

"She will do them all the better when she is strong and well; won't you, Lena dear?"

"I am not ill, Mama, but I should like to go to the sea."

"And I do so want to stay here," said Bessie. "O Lucy, won't we be happy? I shall have no lessons, and we will live out of doors." Seizing the child as she spoke, she danced her round.

"When are we to go?" asked Lena.

"In a few days," said Mrs. Freeling. "I have written about the rooms, and we shall hear to-morrow."

"And how long shall we be away?" asked Lena nervously.

"About three weeks or a month, I hope. Will that be too long?" asked Mrs. Freeling of her mother.

"I am afraid you will miss Mrs. Clifford's visit, dear; perhaps she will stay longer than she says when once she is here."

Lena made no answer; and Mrs. Freeling then spoke on some other subject, and the girls wandered off together to another part of the garden.

The few days before they were to start passed away quietly. Lena was very glad to escape Mrs. Clifford, for she quite made up her mind that the subject of the spoilt hat would be brought forward again during her stay, and perhaps, in some way, her part in the proceeding might be brought to light. This she dreaded happening more than anything. It would be worse, far worse, than telling it herself, for in this case who would believe that it was an accident and not done intentionally? Oh, if she had only told it at first! Now each day made it more difficult. How true it is that "The wicked flee when no man pursueth." Lena was running away from an imaginary enemy. If she had remained she would have heard no word mentioned on the subject, for Mrs. Graham had written the whole story to Mrs. Clifford, saying, as she believed was the case, that little Lucy had done it in a sudden fit of passion, but without any real intention of destroying it, simply kicking it out of the way as it was the nearest thing on which to spend her anger. And an answer had come from Mrs. Clifford, regretting all that had happened, except the amiable and forgiving behaviour of her little friend Milly.