Front matter (continued 2)

Isobel's flow of conversation was suddenly checked by the entrance of Caroline.

"I thought I heard some one in here," said Caroline slowly.

"Hullo! Have you finished unpacking yet?" asked Isobel, in a laughing, sarcastic way.

"Yes, I've practically finished," replied Caroline composedly, seating herself in a chair by the fire, and bringing some needlework out of a bag she carried on her arm.

"Oh, you industrious creature! What are you going to do now?" exclaimed Isobel despairingly.

"I'm just working my initials on some new handkerchiefs," said Caroline solemnly.

There was no mystery about Caroline, and consequently no incentive to Isobel's curiosity. She had already found out, while they were waiting for dinner, where Caroline had been to school, what her father's occupation was, where she lived, and who made her clothes; and everything was plain and satisfactory and stolid, and if not exactly aristocratic, at any rate eminently respectable—like Caroline herself.

Isobel's glance wandered from Caroline, with her smooth plait of hair, and her long-sleeved, tidy, unbecoming blouse, to Beryl, with her pale, sensitive face, and white silk blouse with the elbow sleeves that made her arms look thin and cold this chilly January day. Why didn't she wear a more suitable blouse, Isobel wondered—and looked down at her own sensible dark blue crêpe de Chine shirt blouse with a sigh of satisfaction.

"What became of those papers Pamela and I bought this morning?" Isobel yawned. "I quite forgot—I was going to look in the local rag to see what was going on in this place—and to see if there is any information about dancing classes——"

"I think the papers were left in the dining-room," said Beryl. "I'll get them for you." And she was out of the room before Isobel could say another word. She felt that if she had sat still on the piano-stool a minute longer she would have had to do something desperate; pounce on Isobel and shake her, or snatch the serenely complacent Caroline's needlework out of her hands and tear it in half. People had no right to be so complacent; people had no right to be so horribly inquisitive. Then she shivered at the thought of the scene she might have created—and dashed out of the room for the newspapers.

She was quickly back with the papers, for which Isobel yawned her thanks and then proposed to read out some 'tit-bits' for Caroline's benefit. "For I really do think your mind must want a little recreation, my dear Caroline," she remarked, "after the fatiguing work it has had in deciding whether you shall embroider C.W. upon your handkerchiefs or just plain C."

"I am embroidering C.A.W. upon all of them," said Caroline seriously, and not in the least offended, stopping to look over the top of her round spectacles for a moment at the crown of Isobel's fluffy head bending over the newspaper.

At the first opportunity to slip away unobserved Beryl made her way up to her bedroom. As soon as she was inside she locked the door, and throwing herself on the bed she began to cry, her face buried in the pillow to stifle the sound of her sobs.

CHAPTER VIII

WHICH CONCERNS A VISIT TO INCHMOOR AND A WOMAN WITH A LIMP

The following day was dry, with a hint of sunshine in the air, which tempted the four girls to plan a four-mile walk over the hills to Inchmoor, the nearest market town. They each wanted to do some shopping, and Isobel wanted to make inquiries about a 'Dancing Academy' advertised in the local paper.

So, with great enthusiasm, the girls set about their morning tasks before they started out—each making her own bed and tidying her room.

Old Martha shook her head and smiled as she crossed the landing, duster in hand.

"Too good to last," she thought to herself.

True, the enthusiasm did not last longer than a week, but the girls stuck to their plan nevertheless, and whether they felt enthusiastic or not they made their beds and tidied their rooms each day without fail; it became, after a time, a matter of habit.

As Martha crossed the landing and was passing Pamela's bedroom door the door sprang open and Pamela ran out, almost colliding with Martha, whom she grasped by the arm.

"Oh, Martha, I'm so sorry. I didn't hurt you, did I?" she cried. "But you're the very person I wanted. Do come and look out of my window for a second, and tell me who this is!"

She hurried old Martha across to the window, and pointed out to her a woman dressed in grey, who was walking briskly away along the green.

"I can't see very well without my glasses," said Martha, peering intently through the window, while Pamela added a few words of description of the woman in grey to help Martha to recognize her. "Oh—that young person," Martha exclaimed suddenly; "well, she isn't exactly what you might call young—but still— That's Elizabeth Bagg, Miss Pamela. Old Tom Bagg's sister."

"Tom Bagg?" queried Pamela, who had not heard the name yet.

"The old cabman what brought your luggage up here the other night, Miss Pamela."

"Oh! That is whom she reminds me of then," Pamela said. "I knew I'd seen some one like her recently, but do you know, I couldn't think for the life of me who it was. But tell me—is she an artist? I saw her carrying an easel—and she dresses very artistically."

"Yes, she do go in for painting a bit, Miss Pamela," said Martha. "But, poor creature, she don't get much time to herself. She keeps house for her brother—and him a widderer with six little children—so you may depend she's got her hands full. How she manages to keep the children and everything so nice, and yet get her painting done and all, is more'n I can understand. She gives lessons over at a young ladies' school at Inchmoor too—twice a week."

"I'd like to get to know her, and see some of her pictures," said Pamela, watching the figure in grey as it disappeared in the distance.

"She's rather difficult to get to know—keeps herself to herself, if you know what I mean, Miss Pamela," said Martha.

"I know," Pamela replied. "But people who paint always interest me so much——"

"I daresay she'd be glad of some one to take an interest in her work—it isn't much encouragement she gets from her brother, I know—not that she ever says anything about it; he seems to expect her to be always cooking and baking and sewing and cleaning for him and the children—and he don't set any value on her pictures at all. Yet what is nicer, I always say, than a nice picture to hang on the walls! It makes a place look furnished at once, don't it?"

Pamela nodded. "Where does she live?" she inquired.

"You know the blacksmith's place, Miss Pamela?—well, half-way up that lane that runs beside the blacksmith's—a little house on the right-hand side as you go up is Tom Bagg's, called 'Alice Maud Villa'—out of compliment to old Tom's aunt what they thought was going to leave them some money—but she didn't."

"'Alice Maud Villa,'" mused Pamela. "I thought perhaps she lived at that little white cottage opposite, as I saw her go in there."

"Oh, no, she don't live there," said Martha. "She was probably only leaving some new-laid eggs or a plaster for Mrs Gresham's rheumatics—she do have rheumatics something chronic, poor dear. That's what it was, most likely, Miss Pamela. Elizabeth Bagg is a very kind-hearted creature."

"I shall do my best to get to know her," said Pamela.

Half an hour later—after a slight delay caused by Caroline being unable to make up her mind whether she should take her mackintosh as well as her goloshes and umbrella, and finally deciding to take it in spite of Isobel's unconcealed mirth—the four girls started off on their walk to Inchmoor. Beryl and Caroline were introduced to the village by the other two girls, before they all turned up the lane that led through the fields, and over the hill, to the market town.

This was the lane that led past the picturesque old windmill that Millicent Jackson had told Pamela about in the paper-shop; and knowing this, Pamela had brought a notebook and pencil with her in case she felt tempted to stop and make a sketch of it while the others went on to Inchmoor. There was nothing she wanted to get particularly at the shops in the little town, and a fine day in January was a thing to seize for sketching—there were so few fine days; and one could always do shopping in the rain.

The lane that ran between the fields was very pretty even in January, and Pamela found herself wishing that her brother Michael was with her; he always appreciated the same scenery as she did, and her thoughts were with him and those at home while she joined in, more or less at random, the animated conversation that was going on around her. She dared not let herself think too much about her home, or such a wave of homesickness would have engulfed her that she would have wanted to go straight off to the station and take a through ticket to Oldminster at once. She felt she could not possibly endure six whole months without a sight of her mother or any of them.

"But I've got to see this thing through now," she told herself. "I mustn't be silly. And six months will pass quickly if I've got plenty to do."

Pamela had thought over her duties as hostess carefully, and was convinced that it was necessary to have some kind of work for each of them to do, day by day, if they were not to become bored or irritable with each other, and if their six months' stay in Barrowfield was to be a success. Of course, it was too early to be bored with anything yet—everything was so fresh; but presently, when they had got used to each other and Barrowfield, she feared things might not run so easily—unless there was plenty of interesting work to be done. Cut off from their home interests, they were left with many blank spaces in their lives which needed filling—and Pamela meant to see that these spaces were filled; she was a great believer in keeping busy.

Enthusiasm is generally catching. And Pamela's enthusiasm had been communicated to the other three—which explains Isobel's desire to interview the principal of the Dancing Academy; and Caroline's determination to inquire about dress-making lessons in Inchmoor, though unfortunately she had not been able to find anything about the matter in the local paper. Beryl was in quest of some musical studies which she meant to buy out of her three pounds. But enthusiasm can keep at white heat with but few people; and those who are naturally enthusiastic must keep the others going—as Pamela was to find out.

The four girls soon began to ascend a steep incline in the lane, with tall hedges bordering each side now, and separating them from the fields. Whenever they came to a gate set in a gap between the hedges, and leading into one or other of the fields, they would stop for a moment and look over the bars of the gate at the fine view of hills and woods that unfolded itself before them. They were certainly in the midst of charming country; even Isobel admitted this involuntarily, and she rarely if ever expressed any appreciation of scenery.

At length, as they turned a bend in the lane, the old windmill came in sight.

"What a fine picture it makes!" thought Pamela; then she exclaimed aloud, "Oh, and there's a pond beside it—Millicent Jackson never mentioned the pond. It's just exactly what it wants to complete the picture."

So attracted was Pamela by the windmill, which proved on nearer inspection to be even more picturesque than it had appeared from a distance, that she arranged at once to stay behind and make a sketch of it while the other three went on to Inchmoor.

"And if I've finished before you return I'll come on to the town and meet you. But if you don't see me wandering round Inchmoor, look for me here as you come back. You don't mind me staying behind, do you? But I feel just in the mood to try sketching this old place to-day," Pamela said.

The others said that of course they did not mind, and after refreshing each other's memory with the reminder, that five o'clock was the hour they had told Martha they would be home for 'high tea,' they left Pamela beside the old mill on the hill-top and started to wend their way down the lane on the other side, toward the distant spires of Inchmoor, two miles away.

"Do you know, I've been thinking quite a lot about that locked-up room next to mine," said Isobel to the other two, as they went along. "Oh, yes, I know Pamela thinks it wiser not to talk too much about it for fear of adding 'fuel to the flames' of curiosity! But one can't help thinking about it! It's so frightfully strange. Now what do you think—in your own mind, Caroline—what do you think is inside that room?"

"Well," replied Caroline slowly, "I shouldn't be surprised if Miss Crabingway kept all her private papers and possessions that she treasures, and does not want us to use or spoil, locked up inside the room. I know that's what I'd have done if I'd been Miss Crabingway."

"You think it's only things then?" Beryl broke in. "Not—not a person?"

"What do you mean?" cried Isobel instantly, turning to Beryl with great interest.

Seeing that the other two were waiting eagerly for her reply, Beryl felt a momentary thrill of importance, and let her imagination run away with her.

"I mean," she said nervously, "supposing there was a secret entrance leading into that room—so that a person could get in and out without us knowing anything about it. And supposing some one occasionally crept into the room and—and spied on us through the keyhole—just to see what we were doing."

"Oh, Beryl, what an idea!" gasped Isobel in delight. "Whatever made you think of that?"

"I don't know—it—it just came into my head," stammered Beryl.

"I don't think it's at all a likely idea," Caroline deliberated. "Surely one of us would have heard some little sound coming from the room if there had been anyone inside there! I haven't heard anything myself. Besides, who would want to spy on us?"

"There's only one person, of course—and that's Miss Crabingway," said Beryl.

Caroline's eyes grew wide and round with surprise; but Isobel narrowed hers, and looked at Beryl through the fringe of her eyelashes.

"You don't mean to say," Isobel said incredulously, "that Miss Crabingway would spend her time ... well, I never! What an idea!"

"But Miss Crabingway's in Scotland, isn't she?" asked Caroline in mild astonishment. She had been told that Miss Crabingway had gone to Scotland and had never questioned the matter—of course having no reason to do so.

"Well—so we're told," said Isobel; then she gave an exaggerated shiver. "Ugh! I don't like the idea of an eye watching me through the keyhole!"

"We might ask Martha to hang a curtain in front of the door—say we feel a draught coming through on to the landing," suggested Beryl. "But really, please don't take this seriously—I only made it all up—in fun, you know—it isn't a bit possible. I—p'r'aps we ought not to have talked about it. Pamela said 'fuel for the flames.' ... And it does make you more curious when you discuss it, doesn't it?"

"I don't know," said Isobel. "I certainly shan't be tempted to look through the keyhole myself—in case there's anything in your idea, and Miss Crabingway sees me, and I lose my fifty pounds. But I shall listen, and if I hear any sounds coming from the room——"

Isobel was evidently rather taken with Beryl's suggestion, for she referred to it more than once before they reached Inchmoor.

When they at last arrived in the busy little market town they decided that it would probably be quicker for each of them to go about her own affairs, and then all to meet in an hour's time at a certain tea-shop in the High Street, where they would have some hot chocolate and sandwiches to keep them going until they got home again.

"P'r'aps Pamela will have joined us by then," said Beryl hopefully.

Inchmoor was a bustling, cheerful little place, with very broad streets, plenty of shops, a town hall, and a picture palace.

Beryl quickly discovered a music shop, and here she spent an enjoyable half-hour turning over a pile of new and second-hand music, and picking out several pieces that she had long wanted to buy. When she at length tore herself reluctantly away from the music-seller's, it occurred to her that perhaps she might buy a new and warmer blouse if she could see one in a draper's window; but she was not used to buying clothes for herself and rather dreaded the ordeal of entering a big drapery establishment when she was not sure what kind of material she preferred, nor how much she ought to pay for it. She passed and re-passed one draper's shop, but catching sight of the Wellington-nosed shop-walker, and a fashionably dressed lady assistant, eyeing her through the glass door, her courage failed her and she passed on down the street to another draper's. Here the exasperated tones of a girl serving at the blouse counter came to Beryl's ears, and she hesitated, lingered for a few moments looking in the window, and then decided not to bother about a blouse to-day—there was not much time left before she would have to meet the others at the tea-shop. She looked about for a clock, and spying one, found that there was no time left at all, and, inwardly relieved, she walked briskly away down the street.

In the meantime Isobel had found Madame Clarence's Dancing Academy, and was now occupied in interviewing no less a personage than Madame Clarence herself.

The Academy was in a side-street, and was a tall, flat-fronted old house with a basement and an area; it did not look as if it belonged to Inchmoor at all, being quite unlike the other houses in its neighbourhood, which were frankly cottages, or really old-fashioned country residences. The Academy was an alien; it looked so obviously the sort of house that is seen in dozens on the outskirts of London. It gave one the feeling that at some time or other it really must have been a town house, and that one night it must have stolen away from the London streets and come down here for a breath of the fresh country air. And once having reached Inchmoor it had stayed on, lengthening its holiday indefinitely, until every one had forgotten that it was only to have been a holiday, and had accepted the Academy as a permanent resident.

Madame Clarence, who received Isobel in a drawing-room which seemed to be mostly blue plush, long lace curtains, and ferns, was a small, bright-eyed woman, dressed in a black and white striped dress. Madame walked in a springy, dancing manner, and when she was not talking she was humming softly to herself. She wore a number of rings on her short white fingers—fingers which were never for a moment still, but were either playing an imaginary piano on Madame's knee, drumming on the table, toying with the large yellow beads round Madame's neck, or doing appropriate actions to illustrate the words Madame said. Madame had grey hair, though her skin was soft and unwrinkled, except for a certain bagginess under the eyes.

To all appearances Madame must have been inside the house when it came down from London, for she gave an impression of being town-bred, and, judging by her conversation, of having conferred a favour on Inchmoor by consenting to reside in so unimportant a spot. She said she would be charmed to have Miss Prior as a pupil, and ran over, for Isobel's benefit, a long list of names of Society people to whom she claimed to have given dancing lessons. Isobel was duly impressed and inquired her fees. After ascertaining what kind of dancing Isobel wished to be instructed in, Madame said the fee would be three guineas a term; and as Miss Prior had come when the term was already well advanced, Madame said she would give her extra private lessons until she caught up with the rest of the class. This seemed so generous of Madame that Isobel closed with the offer at once, although the appearance of the Academy was not quite what she had expected; but still, Isobel reminded herself, Inchmoor was only a little country town, and it was a marvellous and fortunate thing to find anyone so exclusive as Madame in such a backwater. And Isobel wondered how the little dancing-mistress had drifted here.

Isobel's thoughts were interrupted by Madame rising and offering personally to conduct her over the dancing-hall, which she proceeded to do, humming as she led the way into a large room with polished floor, seats round the walls, and a baby-grand piano; around the piano were clustered bamboo fern-stands and pedestals, which supported large ferns growing in pots.

"This floor is a perfect dweam to dance on," Madame informed Isobel. "I'm sure you will enjoy it."

After exchanging one or two polite and complimentary remarks with Madame, and having arranged to come over to the Academy every Tuesday morning and every Friday afternoon, Isobel was about to depart when Madame said:

"It is a long way for you to come fwom Bawwowfield alone—have you not a fwiend who would care to come with you and take lessons also?"

Isobel had not thought of this before, but told Madame Clarence she would see if she could arrange for a friend to come with her, admitting that she would certainly prefer it to coming alone.

On her way to the tea-shop she turned the idea over in her mind, and speculated on the likelihood of one of the other girls joining her. She had not much hope of Pamela (whom she would have preferred), because she did not seem to be interested in dancing and wanted all her spare time for her sketching and reading. Beryl was a doubtful person—no, Isobel thought it unlikely that Beryl would join. Caroline—Isobel smiled to herself at the idea of slow, clumsy Caroline dancing. "It would do her a world of good though," she thought to herself. "And, anyway, though I'm not frightfully keen on her company, she'd be better than no one." She would put the matter to all three, Isobel decided, and see if any of them seemed inclined to join her.

She found Caroline and Beryl waiting at the tea-shop for her, and the three of them went in and ordered hot chocolate and sandwiches. They chose a table near the window so that they were able to watch all that went on in the street outside.

Caroline was rather sulky over the meal because she had failed to find out anything at all about dressmaking classes in Inchmoor, and was consequently disappointed. Such classes did not seem to exist, and she had spent her hour in fruitless inquiries, and in trying to get a certain kind of embroidery silk to match some that she already had. The silk had been unobtainable also, and Caroline's time had been wasted on disappointing quests. This was not the time to talk about dancing; Isobel had the wisdom to know this, but nevertheless she was dying to talk about it. She forbore, however, in her own future interests.

"I suppose nobody's seen Pamela yet?" Isobel observed. "We shall find her still sketching those few old bricks, I expect—unless she's found it too cold to sit still! And my goodness! won't she be hungry by this time!"

"Could we take a couple of sandwiches along with us, do you think?" suggested Beryl. "In case she would like to have them."

"Not a bad idea," said Isobel.

So that is what they did. The short January day was already well advanced, and a chilly little breeze had sprung up by the time they emerged from the tea-shop. Isobel and Caroline fastened their furs snugly round their throats, and Beryl buttoned up her coat collar. Then the three girls started briskly off toward Barrowfield.

Meanwhile, Pamela, when the other three left her, had first of all explored the mill and then settled down to her work. That the mill was partly ruined and wholly deserted made matters perfect, according to Pamela's ideas. She wandered up to the open doorway and looked inside. Bricks and dust and broken timber within—nothing else. It was quite light inside, owing to the many holes in the walls. Pamela stepped cautiously in, picking her way through the dust and dried leaves that had drifted in, and over the loose bricks and wooden laths, and clambering on to a small mound of accumulated dust and rubbish she looked through one of the holes in the wall at the magnificent sweep of country stretching away downhill to the little cup in the hill-side where Barrowfield lay. She could see the smoke rising up from the houses in the village; and beyond this, on the farthest side of the cup, a range of tree-clad hills closed the view. Barrowfield was not in a valley, but in a little hollow among the hills.

On the other hand, Inchmoor, which could be located from a hole in the other side of the windmill, was certainly down in a valley; the road leading to the market town was only visible for a short distance beyond the mill; it twisted and curved and then dived out of sight—to become visible again far in the distance when about to enter Inchmoor. Pamela, gazing from the hill-top, could not see anything of the three girls on their way to Inchmoor, as they were already hidden from her sight by a bend in the road.

But when she went back to her former position and took a final look over Barrowfield way before starting work, her eye caught sight of a figure coming rapidly up the hill, along the lane which the girls had just traversed. Being the only living thing in sight at the moment, Pamela watched the figure until it was hidden from her sight for a few minutes by the tall hedges that grew at the sides of the lane. She was not particularly interested in the figure, but had noticed casually that it was a woman, and that the woman appeared to have a slight limp. When she lost sight of her Pamela came out of the old windmill, and taking up the position she had chosen for making her sketch, she got everything ready and set to, and was soon absorbed in her work.

How long she had been sketching before she became aware that some one was standing watching her Pamela did not know. It was probably a considerable time, but she was so engrossed in what she was doing that she had not heard footsteps passing in the lane behind her—footsteps that ceased suddenly, while a woman dressed all in black and wearing a black hat with a heavy veil over her face, and a thick silk muffler wound round her neck and shoulders, stopped and stood gazing with a strange and curiously vindictive look at the unconscious Pamela.

Suddenly, without any other reason except that queer, sub-conscious feeling that one is being watched, Pamela shivered and looked quickly round over her shoulder—and saw the woman in the lane.

As soon as Pamela stirred the woman turned her head away and moved on, hastily limping forward up the hill.

Pamela, in accordance with the usual country custom, called out in a friendly tone, "Good-day."

The woman made no reply, but continued her limping walk, and was quickly out of sight.

"I suppose she didn't hear. P'r'aps she's deaf," said Pamela to herself, and thought no more about it.

Could she have seen the expression on the woman's face as she stood in the lane a few minutes earlier, watching, Pamela would not have resumed her work with a mind as free from curiosity as she did.

CHAPTER IX

ISOBEL MAKES TROUBLE

Pamela had just finished her sketch, and had begun to be aware that a chilly breeze was blowing down her neck, and that her hands were cold, when the sound of voices came floating toward her; she suddenly realized that it must have been a long time ago when the other girls had left her. And then she heard Isobel's voice exclaiming:

"Why, she's still here! Good gracious, Pamela, you don't mean to say you're still drawing those old bits of wood and bricks! ... Well!" The voice ended on a note of despair that was meant to signify Isobel's conviction that Pamela was qualifying for an asylum. "You must be frightfully hungry," Isobel continued, as the three girls came up to Pamela.

Then it was that Pamela woke up to the fact that she was hungry—very hungry, and very glad of the sandwiches which Beryl now produced and handed over to her.

"I say, that was thoughtful of you. Thanks so much," she smiled at Beryl.

"Did you finish your sketch? May I see it?" asked Beryl shyly.

Pamela brought the drawing out. "But I'm not a bit satisfied with it," she said.

"Oh, I think it's splendid," said Beryl, gazing admiringly at Pamela's picture of the old windmill and the pond.

It was certainly well done; Pamela's style was uncommon, and her treatment of the subject bold and decided. She had talent, undoubtedly, but how far this talent would take her, time alone would show. Pamela was very ambitious, but very critical of her own work, and though full of enthusiasm over a picture while at work upon it, was rarely satisfied with it when finished, which was a very good thing, as it always spurred her on to try to do better. However, Beryl, who was no judge of pictures, thought Pamela's sketch was perfect.

Not until they reached home and were sitting round the fire after 'high tea' did Isobel remember that she had meant to buy a camera in Inchmoor.

"I must get it when I go over to Madame Clarence's for my first lesson," she said. "It will be amusing to keep a photographic record of my visit here."

She had told them all about Madame during the walk home, and now tried to persuade one of them to join her in having dancing-lessons. Nothing definite was settled that night, and Isobel left them to think the matter over.

The following day the girls made an attempt to start on their programme of work. Caroline put in a couple of hours sewing. Beryl practised and copied out some music. And Pamela got out her sketch-book. But what was poor Isobel to do without a Madame Clarence, or a camera at hand? She wandered round the garden for a time, and then she went indoors and talked to Caroline; but finding this too dull, she roamed round the house—keeping a safe distance from the locked door—and went in and out of various rooms, and stood looking out of windows and yawning, until she was almost bored to tears. It was curious, she thought to herself, that the very sight of other people working made her restless and disinclined to settle down to read or write or sew or do anything at all.

Unfortunately this seemed to be the case throughout her stay at Chequertrees; she never wanted to work when other people were working, and consequently there were frequent interruptions from her. Pamela found that the only time she could work indoors undisturbed was when Isobel was over in Inchmoor at her dancing-lessons. Isobel was one of those unhappy people who cannot entertain themselves, but who always want somebody else to be entertaining them.

On this first occasion, when the other three were working and Isobel yawning, Pamela bore it as long as she could, then, packing her sketching materials away with a sigh of regret, she invited Isobel to come out and do a bit of gardening with her. Isobel hated gardening, but it meant some one to talk to, and so she jumped at the idea eagerly. Pamela was not over-fond of gardening, she knew very little about it, but anything was better than hearing Isobel's restless feet wandering about and listening to her audible sighs and yawns.

Out of doors it was rather cold, so they wrapped up warmly, and set to work to 'tidy up a bit' in the garden at the back of the house.

For a while all went well and Isobel chatted away to her heart's content, while Pamela tied up some withered-looking plants (whose name she did not know) with a length of twine she had found in the kitchen. Martha was upstairs getting dressed for the afternoon when the two girls started on their new occupation, and Ellen was out shopping in the village, otherwise Pamela and Isobel might have been warned about old Silas Sluff. As it was, they continued their gardening, blissfully unconscious that old Silas was just round the corner of the gravel path, behind the privet hedge that separated the vegetable garden from the lawn and flowers.

"I think," said Pamela, "this old bush ought to be trimmed a bit—I wonder if there's a pair of shears handy.... Is this the right time of year to cut it though? ... What do you think?"

"Oh, I expect so," said Isobel at random, knowing nothing about it. "Any time would be all right with those sturdy old bushes—I don't know where the shears are, but here's a pair of old scissors I brought out from the kitchen—they'd do, wouldn't they? Here, let me do a bit of trimming. And, do you know, mater had promised me and Gerald that in any case we should..." She continued a lengthy story that she had started to recount for Pamela's benefit.

And then old Silas came round the privet hedge to fetch his wheelbarrow. He came to an abrupt standstill when he caught sight of the two girls, and stared, open-mouthed, his hat pushed back on his head and his watery blue eyes wide with astonishment. He had had no idea that there was anyone in the garden; he had not heard any talking, as he was afflicted with deafness.

"'Ere!" was all he said, when he recovered from his surprise.

Pamela and Isobel started, and turned round at once.

They beheld a very wrinkled little old man, with a ruddy complexion and a tuft of white beard under his chin; he wore a green baize apron, to protect his clothes from the soil, and had a vivid pink shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. As the girls returned his gaze steadily, they saw his face begin to work and twitch with indignation.

"'Ere!" he said again.

"I beg your pardon," said Pamela.

"What do you want, my good man?" inquired Isobel, haughtily.

"'Ere! Wot yer doin' to that there bush? You leave it be, my gels!" called Silas.

Isobel's eyebrows were raised in indignant surprise.

"Why—we're only doing a little gardening! What is it? Who are you?" asked Pamela, unaware that old Silas was deaf.

"'Ere's me—done this gardin—man and boy—for forty year—and I don't 'ave no interference," cried Silas.

"Oh, I suppose you are Miss Crabingway's gardener?" said Pamela.

"Leave it be, my gels," was all Silas replied. "If you'd arxed me I'd a-given you summat to do—but not that bush—you oughter arxed me first."

"How dare you speak to us like that—" began Isobel, angrily.

But Pamela interrupted with, "It's no good, Isobel, I think he's deaf. He doesn't seem to hear anything we say."

"I don't care whether he's deaf or not deaf—I won't be spoken to like that by a servant. Such impertinence!" cried Isobel.

Silas meanwhile had continued talking without a pause, while he advanced slowly down the path toward them.

Pamela moved forward to meet him, and raising her voice tried to make him understand what they were doing and who they were.

"I'm sorry if you think we've done any harm to the garden—but I don't think we have, you know," she cried. "And we didn't know Miss Crabingway had a gardener."

Silas caught the last sentence. This indeed was adding insult to injury, though Pamela had not meant to be in the least insulting.

"Didn't—know—Miss—Crabingway—had a gardener," repeated Silas, amazed. "Why—I done this gardin——man and boy—forty year, I 'ave. Don't it look like it?" he demanded.

"Yes, it does—of course it does," answered Pamela, trying to appease him.

"Well then—" he began, then caught sight of Isobel treading on the side of the garden bed. "'Ere! Get orf that, my gel," he cried. "You're crushin' them li'l plants."

This was too much for Isobel. The gruff, disrespectful tones, the ordering manner, and the 'my gel,' made her suddenly enraged, and her temper got beyond her control.

"How—how dare you!" she flared up. "This is no more your garden than it is—than it is mine, and I won't be spoken to like this!"

As her words seemed to be making no impression on Silas, she deliberately stamped on the little plants; then, her temper being properly roused, she turned and snatching at a branch of the bush behind her she twisted and bent it and snapped it off, and flung it on to the pathway.

"There!" she panted. "Now perhaps you will understand that I will not tolerate your insolent manner."

With her head high in the air, and her cheeks burning, she walked haughtily away into the house.

Old Silas was dumbfounded.

"Oh, how silly!" cried Pamela, ashamed for Isobel. "I'm so sorry she did that."

Old Silas's watery blue eyes were still more watery as he stooped down and tried with gentle hands to remedy the mischief that Isobel had done to the little plants. Pamela knelt down on the path to help him, and was bending over the garden bed when all at once she heard the old gardener give a chuckle. She glanced round in surprise. Silas was wagging his head from side to side and chuckling to himself. The plants were not very much damaged, and the bush—well, it would grow again. But it was not these discoveries that filled old Silas's soul with glee.

"Who'd a thought it!" he chuckled. "There's a high sperrit for yer! 'Oighty-toighty is it, my gel? Ho! Hall right! We shall see. Ole Silas Sluff'll learn yer to darnse on 'is gardin. You wait!"

He took no more notice of Pamela, but seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, and when Pamela left him and went indoors he was still giving occasional chuckles and muttering to himself.

"What made you do it?" Pamela said to Isobel afterward. "It didn't do any good——"

"But the man was preposterous!" said Isobel.

"I know he spoke gruffly, but I don't think he meant to be rude," said Pamela. "It's just his manner."

"Then it's time he learnt better," Isobel replied. "I don't know what the world's coming to, I'm sure, with all these inferior creatures setting up to teach——"

"If you count Silas Sluff your inferior, you should be sorry for him and set to work to show him how to behave, instead of——"

"If he were my gardener I'd dismiss him on the spot," Isobel said.

Pamela realized the uselessness of continuing the discussion any further at present, and so the subject was dropped for the time being.

"I ought to have warned you, Miss Isobel," said Martha, when she heard the story. "Old Silas is that touchy-like—but no one takes no notice of what he says. He's worked about these parts for years as a jobbing gardener. But no one takes no notice of him. At present he comes and works two days a week for Miss Crabingway, and the other four days he gives a extra hand up at the Manor House. He lodges down in the village—next door but three to the blacksmith—nice little house—overlooks the stables of the 'Blue Boar' from the back windows."

But when Martha recounted the incident to Ellen, over supper that night, Ellen remembered previous occasions when Silas had been put out with people, and, thinking of his subsequent revenges, her only comment on the story was, "Oo-er!"

The first dinner of Pamela's choosing was voted a great success by Isobel and Beryl. Caroline, who always liked to be as accurate as possible in her remarks, said she would have liked the pudding to have been a little more 'substantial'; chocolate soufflé was very tasty, but there was no inside to it. Caroline had a strong preference for solid puddings—as the other three were to learn when Caroline's turn for arranging meals came round. Meal-times had been fixed so as to give everybody at Chequertrees as much freedom as possible. Breakfast was at 8 a.m. and dinner was at 6.30 p.m., and between those hours there was sometimes lunch at 12.30—and sometimes there was not. If the girls were going out for the day they would get lunch out, or take some sandwiches with them. A tea-tray, daintily set for four, with milk, sugar, tea-pot, spirit kettle, and a plate of cakes, was always to be found in the drawing-room in the afternoons, so that the girls could make a cup of tea when they fancied it; and Martha and Ellen were thus left free in the afternoons. This had been one of Pamela's ideas, and had astonished Martha, who had protested that it was no trouble for her to get them a cup of tea; but Pamela had insisted, and when Martha got used to the arrangement she appreciated it very much. It was good to know that the whole afternoon was her own, and that she would not be disturbed. A glass of hot milk just before bedtime was the last meal of the day.

By the end of January the four girls had settled down fairly comfortably in their new surroundings. Isobel had had her first dancing-lessons at the Academy, which she enjoyed immensely, although she had not been able to persuade one of the other girls to join her yet. Pamela had started an ambitious piece of work—a picture of Chequertrees, as seen from the front garden—which she meant to work on from time to time whenever the weather did not tempt her to go farther afield than the garden; she wanted to take a picture of Chequertrees home with her, so that Mother and Michael could see what the house was like—the house where she had spent six months away from them. Beryl had kept up her practice each day, and spent a good deal of time studying books on theory, composition, and the biographies of great musicians. And Caroline had finished her handkerchiefs and had started on a linen brush and comb bag.

One evening after dinner the four girls were in the drawing-room, Pamela deeply engrossed in a historical story, Beryl copying some music into a manuscript music-book, Caroline sewing as usual, and Isobel reclining on the couch by the crackling fire and dividing her time between yawning and glancing at the Barrowfield Observer; presently she gave an exclamation of surprise, and sat up, rustling the paper.

"Listen to this, girls!" she cried. "The local newsrag informs its readers that Sir Henry and Lady Prior and family return to the Manor House next week, and that Lady Prior wishes it stated that the annual bazaar and garden fête (in aid of the Barrowfield Cottage Hospital) will be held as usual at the end of May, and that those who intend making gifts for the stalls at the bazaar should send in their names to her ladyship's secretary, Miss Daleham, as soon as possible. That's where I come in!" Isobel continued. "That will be the best way to introduce myself to their notice.... So they'll be coming back to the Manor House next week, will they? Isn't it ripping?"

"I love bazaars," said Caroline, slowly and with relish; she saw in her mind's eye a vista of neatly hemmed handkerchiefs, with initials worked in the corners; plump pin-cushions, dorothy bags, hair-tidies, cushion covers with frills, tea-cosies, all worked by hand. Already she could see these things spread alluringly out on a stall for sale, with neat little tickets stuck on them. "I'll send in my name to make something," she added.

She did not see Isobel frown as she picked up her newspaper again.

"Bazaars," said Pamela over the top of her book, "I don't like bazaars. They are places where you get the least value for the greatest amount of money spent. I'd always rather give my money willingly to any good cause or fund—rather than buy something I didn't want at a price it wasn't worth—just so that I could see something for the money I was giving in this roundabout way to a deserving object."

Caroline gazed at her in astonishment.

"I think bazaars are splendid things for helping charities," she said slowly. "I don't think of them as you do——"

"Oh, what does it matter about the bazaar," broke in Isobel. "What really matters to me is that it's a chance to make the acquaintance of my probable relatives. I wonder if there are any daughters in the family about my age?"

But Caroline, who was not attending to Isobel for the moment, threaded another needle, and went steadily on with her line of argument.

"People buy much more at a bazaar than they would in the usual way," she informed Pamela.

"And they pay much more than they would in the usual way," laughed Pamela.

"And so more money is collected for the charity," urged Caroline.

"I doubt it," said Pamela. "You think of all the time and money spent in the making of the articles for the stalls—and the arrangements and correspondence in connection with the bazaar. Now if the cost of all that were put into one side of the scales, and the amount of money taken at the bazaar put into the other side of the scales, I think I know which side would weigh heavier."

"No," Caroline shook her head; "I don't think you do. Each person who helps gives a little time and money to the making of the things, which are afterward sold all together for a substantial sum. It seems to me a very good way to raise money."

"But it's such a wasteful system," objected Pamela. "If people gave what money they could spare straight to the good cause they wished to benefit, and then spent their time on doing more useful work than stuffing pin-cushions and writing out tickets for bazaars, I'm sure it would be more practical."

"But people won't do things that way," said Beryl, joining in for the first time. "Though I quite agree with you, Pamela, in disliking bazaars."

"Anyway," said Isobel, impatiently, because she had again lost the reins of the conversation, "although I don't care 'tuppence' about bazaars, one way or the other, I'm going to this one for reasons I've already stated. You see I'm quite honest about it—I only want an excuse for meeting my long-lost, or perhaps I should say new-found, relations."

Pamela, looking across at Isobel, suddenly realized something, and marvelled that it had not occurred to her before; maybe it was because she had not paid much attention to Isobel's chatter about Lady Prior—had not taken it seriously; but now that she heard the Priors were returning, and that Isobel was going to take the first opportunity of meeting them, she cried impulsively,

"Why, Isobel, you can't! Don't you remember that we all had to promise Miss Crabingway not to visit or invite to this house 'any relations whatsoever'!"

A look of dismay flashed across Isobel's face.

"Oh," her voice dropped in quick disappointment; but the next moment she recovered. "But perhaps they're not my relatives after all," she said, hardly knowing whether she wished they were or were not. "Oh, bother those silly old restrictions!" she cried irritably. "But what can I do? How can I find out if they are my relatives or not unless I meet them?"

Pamela thought awhile. "Well—appoint a deputy—some one to go and find out for you," she suggested, half sorry for Isobel on account of her obvious disappointment, and half amused at her keenness to claim relationship with these titled folk of the neighbourhood. Pamela felt sure that Isobel would not dream of trying to claim kinship with the village bootmaker, or grocer, if his name happened to be Prior.

But Pamela's suggestion did not suit Isobel at all; half the excitement would be lost if some one else had all the introductory moves to do. "Oh, I don't think Miss Crabingway's silly old rule could possibly apply to Lady Prior," said Isobel.

"Why not?" asked Pamela.

"Well—you see—it's different somehow—you see they are strangers to me at present, even if they are my relatives. And I can't see how it would matter if I get to know them. Miss Crabingway must mean relatives one already knows."

"Not necessarily, I'm afraid," said Pamela.

"Well, what shall I do?" asked Isobel, blankly.

"If you are really anxious to settle the matter, I'm afraid a deputy is the only course open to you. Of course, if they are your relations you must simply ignore them; if they're not, you can cultivate their acquaintance or not, just as you like," Pamela said, trying her best to be helpful to Isobel, as she could see the problem appeared to be of great moment to her.

"Oh, but I couldn't ignore Lady Prior in any case, could I?" said Isobel.

"You must settle that matter yourself," replied Pamela, quietly. "But I think it would be breaking your word to Miss Crabingway if you visit 'any relations whatsoever.'"

Isobel was quiet for a while, thinking the matter over.

"Um! Well, I'll have to see," she said presently, and fell silent again, making plans for the future.

The other three resumed their occupations, and for a while there were no sounds in the room but the rustle of paper, the scratching of a pen, and the little plucking noise of Caroline's needle as it moved in and out of the stiff linen she was sewing.

By and by Beryl got up and went out of the room to fetch another sheet of music from her box upstairs. This interruption caused Isobel to break silence again by making several remarks to Caroline concerning Beryl's attire.

"And why ever she wears such short-sleeved blouses this cold weather, I'm sure I don't know," she ended.

"They don't look like new ones. Perhaps she's had them some time," suggested Caroline.

"Yes. Certainly the style looks a bit out of date," said Isobel, laughing. "I wonder her people didn't get her some new ones when they knew she was coming here, instead of sending her in old-fashioned things like that."

Pamela, deep in her book, became suddenly aware of the turn the conversation had taken, and fearing Beryl might return and overhear (because Isobel was thoughtlessly talking in her usual clear, penetrating voice), she clapped her book to, and jumped up, saying:

"What do you say to a tune—and, oh, I know—a little dance—to tire us out before we go to bed. May I have the pleasure, mam'selle? Get up, Isobel, I want to push the couch out of the way to make more room. Come and show us what you learnt at Madame Clarence's on Friday?"

Isobel, welcoming any diversion for a change, willingly helped to push the furniture out of the way, and very soon she was waltzing round the room to the strains of a haunting melody that Pamela was playing on the piano. Caroline, although she protested that she could not dance, was made to join in by Isobel.

"I'll show you, come on!" Isobel insisted; and to the accompaniment of Pamela's tune and much laughter and joking from Isobel (all of which Caroline took very good-temperedly), Caroline was piloted round the room, moving ponderously and ungracefully in the mazes of a waltz.

"Of course you're not obliged to dance on my feet, dear child," groaned Isobel, laughingly. "It would make a little variety for you if you danced on the carpet just occasionally, you know. Take care, you'll knock that chair over! Look out, Pamela, we're coming past you!"

It was to this laughing, animated scene that Beryl returned. Pamela, looking over her shoulder, took a hurried glance at Beryl's face, and was satisfied. "I'm so glad. She didn't overhear Isobel then," she thought. But Pamela was wrong.

However, Beryl, having had time to cool her tell-tale cheeks before she came in, joined in now as if quite unconscious; and when, presently, Ellen appeared with four glasses of hot milk on a tray (followed by Martha, who was curious to see what was going on), Beryl was playing a lively Irish jig on the piano, and Pamela and Isobel were dancing furiously in the middle of the room; while Caroline sat gasping on the couch, fanning herself with the Barrowfield Observer, and recovering from the polka Isobel had just been trying to teach her.

"I like to see young things dance and enjoy theirselves," observed Martha, as she and Ellen stood in the doorway for a few minutes, watching.

"It's a long time since there was any dancing in this house," said Ellen.

"Yet what's nicer!" replied Martha, beaming into the room.

CHAPTER X

PAMELA BEFRIENDS BERYL AND MEETS ELIZABETH BAGG

On looking back at the first months' happenings at Barrowfield, there were two incidents that always stood out clearly from all the rest in Pamela's mind; they made a deep impression on her at the time, and afterward influenced her actions considerably. The first of these incidents was the confession Beryl made to her; and the second, the beginning of her friendship with Elizabeth Bagg.

Passing Beryl's door on her way to bed one night Pamela caught the sound of sobbing. She stood still, listening; the sounds were faint, but unmistakable. What should she do? She hesitated for a moment, then tapped on the door; then, as no one answered, and the sobbing continued without a break, Pamela turned the handle and went in.

A candle on the dressing-table lighted up the figure of Beryl, still fully dressed, stretched on the bed, her face buried in the pillows.

"Why, Beryl! Beryl! What's the matter? Can I help you, dear?" Pamela closed the door, and, crossing the room, laid her hand on Beryl's shaking shoulders.

Beryl sprang up as if she had been shot.

"Oh! I didn't hear anybody—Oh! Pamela!" and she burst out crying again—not noisily, but in an intense, quiet way, that frightened Pamela.

"Are you ill, Beryl? Shall I go and fetch Martha?" she asked anxiously.

Beryl shook her head. "No, no," she sobbed. "I—I'll be all right—in a—in a minute. Wait a minute."

Pamela waited patiently, sitting on the edge of the bed, her arm round Beryl's shoulders. "Poor old girl," she said once.

Presently Beryl became calmer, and began to murmur apologetically,

"It's so silly of me. I'm so sorry if I gave you a start—I didn't hear you come in—I thought I'd locked the door—and I couldn't help crying again when I saw you—I was all worked up so. Please forgive me—being so silly—only—only I was so miserable." And here the tears began afresh.

"Don't, Beryl, you'll make yourself ill if you cry like that. I wish I could help you— What is it? Won't you tell me? Do trust me, if it's anything I can help you in—I would be so glad to help you. Do tell me what it is," urged Pamela.

For a moment Beryl felt inclined to prevaricate, and say that she was merely overtired, or depressed, and so account for the fit of crying; but the longing to share her troubles with some one—and that some one the most sympathetic person she knew at present—conquered her usual reticence. She feared losing Pamela's respect, and yet she felt as if Pamela would somehow understand her.

"Is it that you're longing to go home?" asked Pamela kindly, quite unprepared for the emphasis with which Beryl replied:

"Oh, no."

"I believe I know," said Pamela, remembering one or two occasions recently in which Isobel figured as the cause of discomfiture to Beryl. "Some one has been bothering you about things that don't concern them in the least.... I shouldn't mind about that if I were you."

"You must think it silly of me—I wish I didn't care—and I don't really," Beryl explained in a confused way. "I care much more what you think about me than I do what Isobel thinks about me. It's what I do, when she keeps questioning me, that upsets me." Beryl paused, and rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then said suddenly, "When she bothers me with questions I—it makes me tell lies! ... And, oh, Pamela," she sobbed, "I do hate myself for doing it." She went on to explain more fully, pausing every now and again to dab her eyes, or blow her nose, or cry a little bit more; and Pamela, piecing the broken sentences together, began to understand what had been taking place.

"She's always asking me about my school—and I haven't told her the truth about that," said Beryl. "When father and mother died, and left me in the charge of my aunt, aunt was not able to afford much for me, so she sent me to a council school. That's where I was educated! And I haven't the courage to tell Isobel this, because she might despise me, as she seems to despise all people who have been to such schools. I know it's stupid of me, and I despise myself for being afraid to tell her. But having once said I'd been to another sort of school I have to keep on inventing things about it—about a place I've never been to—and I feel so horrid all the time.... And then, she ridicules my clothes—I know she does—and I can't help it—I haven't any others at present; some that I wear are my cousin's left-off ones—I'd never have chosen them myself.... Then she's always asking about my—my father and mother—and the aunt I lived with, after they died.... Aunt Laura keeps a little shop in Enfield, where her daughter—Cousin Laura—helps her to serve behind the counter. And I haven't told Isobel this because she always speaks of 'shop-people' with such contempt.... We lived very roughly at Enfield, and Aunt Laura was always shouting, and I couldn't bear the slovenly way we had meals. Oh, I've hated it all, and hated having it always thrust before my mind by Isobel's questions, and hated myself for deceiving everybody. I've felt all the time as if I've been out of place—pretending to be used to a nicely-kept household, when I'm not.... I've sometimes almost wished that Miss Crabingway had never invited me here—and yet, I love being here.... Oh, I'm sure you'll think I'm ridiculous for making such a fuss about these things, but you can't think what a lot I've felt them—and how I've dreaded Isobel finding out."

Beryl paused. "But most of all I've dreaded—" she began, and then stopped, "I've dreaded—" she was having great difficulty in getting her words out now, "I've—dreaded—her knowing—about my father. He—he died—in prison." She was not crying now, but gazing with wide, frightened eyes into Pamela's face. "I must tell you—I must tell you the rest—it wouldn't be fair not to. Wait a minute."

Beryl put her hand inside her blouse and drew out a little key attached to a long black cord; scrambling hurriedly to her feet she went across to a drawer in the dressing-table and brought out a small black box; she unlocked this, and quickly found what she wanted. It was a letter, written in faint, thin writing, which she brought over and placed in Pamela's hands.

"Read it," said Beryl, and stood holding the lighted candle just behind Pamela's shoulder so that she could see to read the following letter:

MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER,

Some day, in the distant future, you may hear cruel things said about your father—things that may not only be cruel, but false as well, and which will cause you much suffering. The truth is cruel, but I am going to tell you the truth now, so that you will know all there is to know, and will not suffer unnecessarily. I wish for your sake that my life could be spared until you had grown to years of understanding, but this I know cannot be.

As I write this you are playing happily on the rug at my feet—such a little thing you are—my poor little daughter. And you are laughing.... It makes my heart ache to think that when you are old enough to read this letter, and understand, you may be crying—and I shall not be near to comfort you.

But we must face things bravely, my dear.... Your father is dead. He died two months ago in prison. They told me it was pneumonia, but I know that it was because his heart was broken. (People can die of broken hearts, you know, Beryl.) When he died he was serving a term of imprisonment for embezzlement; he stole a large sum of money from his employers—hoping to be able to pay it back before it was missed, he said; but he was not able to do this. Never believe that he was a wicked man, your father; he was tempted—and he could not resist. He had been with the same firm for many years, and large sums of money passed through his hands each month. At home there were debts to pay—I was ill, and you had been ill—and illness uses up so much money; and your father's salary was not over-high, although his position was a responsible one. You can see how it happened—how, when an opportunity occurred when he could easily borrow the money, the temptation was too much for him....

His employers were very hard on him, in spite of his long and honourable years of service with them—and he died in prison.

That is all. And if, in the future, you hear additions to this story, do not believe them, little daughter—they are not true.

Your father was a good man, in my eyes, in spite of everything. Remember, he did it for us—so that you and I might live and get well and strong. For me, it was useless.... I know I am dying now. For you—I am praying for you....

Pamela read the signature of Beryl's mother through a blur of tears. She was not a girl who cried easily, and she bit her underlip in an effort to stop it quivering; but the tears forced their way into her eyes so that she dared not look up at Beryl for a moment. She stared instead at the old letter in her hands—the letter written over fourteen years ago, seeing nothing but the white sheet of paper glimmering through her tears. She did not realize that Beryl was waiting in an agony of suspense for her to speak, until she looked up at length and saw Beryl's face.

"Oh, Beryl," was all she could say. And the next moment she had flung her arms round Beryl, and both girls were crying together.

"You see," said Beryl, after a while, "it isn't that I'm ashamed of my father—oh, it isn't that, but I couldn't ever explain to Isobel—I couldn't talk to her about him at all—she'd be all out of sympathy, and she wouldn't understand a bit.... you understand how I mean, Pamela, don't you? ... I've never shown this letter to anyone but you. It was left to me—locked up in an old box with some other things from my mother, with instructions that I was to open it on my fourteenth birthday.... I can't tell you how I felt when I first read it—it came just at a time when I was needing it badly.... But I wouldn't show it to Isobel for anything—you do understand, Pamela?"

"I think I understand," said Pamela gently. "But, Beryl, dear, about your school, and the other things, you've let the thought of Isobel's opinion gain an unreasonable power over you—and you said just now you didn't really mind what she thought of you?"

"Yes, I know," said Beryl, tearfully. "It's all been so silly, and it seems sillier when it's talked of even than when I only thought about it.... Pamela, do you—do you despise me?"

"Of course I don't," replied Pamela promptly.

"Not for anything?"

"Not for anything, you old silly," said Pamela. "And now, look here, I want us to make a plan together. I was just wondering—what would be the best thing for you to do about Isobel!"

"How do you mean?"

"Why, we've all got to go on living under this roof together for five more months, and you can't go on being worried and miserable and dreading things all that time! Besides, there's no need. We might just as well all be comfortable together."

"What do you think I'd better do?" asked Beryl. "You see, I can't let Isobel know that I've been telling her stories all the time—I can't tell her the truth now. Besides," Beryl's voice was indignant, "what business is it of hers? She shouldn't question me like she does."

"Of course she shouldn't," agreed Pamela. "But I'm sure it's done thoughtlessly. She doesn't understand a bit; if she did, she'd be a deal more kindly. She's not a bad sort really, you know, Beryl. I've met several girls like her—I think it's the fault of her upbringing."

"She can make people feel so small sometimes, just by the tone of her voice," said Beryl. "Oh, it's hateful! I—I couldn't bear it."

"Look here," said Pamela, "I'll speak to her, if you like—just give her a hint not to bother you with questions. I won't tell her anything you don't want me to. Will you leave it to me—and trust me not to say too much?"

"Oh, Pamela, it is kind of you. If only you would— Of course I trust you— Just tell her what you think best.... Only I can't help feeling a coward for not facing things myself...."

"That's all right. It's easier to do it for another person than it is for oneself," said Pamela. "And now you must go to sleep—you'll look all washed out in the morning if you don't. And, remember, we've got to enjoy our stay in this house—let's get all the fun out of it we can, shall we? ... Don't worry any more about Isobel—it'll be all right, you just see! ... Good-night, Beryl. And—Beryl—thank you for showing me your mother's letter."

When Pamela had gone Beryl cried a little more, but they were a different kind of tears this time, because she had found a friend, and her heart was full of gratitude.

After this Pamela took the first opportunity that occurred to speak with Isobel alone. She was not quite sure of the best way to deal with Isobel, but decided on the whole it would be best to tell her quite straightforwardly as much as she meant to tell her—arouse her sympathy and interest, but not her suspicions.

"I say, Isobel," she began, "I know something that I think you will be interested to hear—about Beryl."

Isobel pricked up her ears immediately.

"What is it?" she asked.

"You know you were wondering why she wore that short-sleeved silk blouse?"

"Yes," replied Isobel, smiling.

"You remember it amused you because it was unsuitable?"

"Yes," Isobel assented, and laughed.

"Well, Beryl only possesses two blouses in the world, at present—that silk one and another one; she wears them in turn, poor kiddy—and hates them both.... Her aunt, with whom she lived, chose them for her. She hasn't got any others, though she's going to buy some with her pocket-money now. She's very sensitive about her clothes."

"Oh," said Isobel, looking puzzled; she wondered how Pamela meant her to take the information.

"Well," said Pamela, looking straight into Isobel's eyes, so that Isobel presently began to feel vaguely uncomfortable, "I believe she has an idea that you laugh at them—and it hurts her. So I thought I'd tell you, because I know you wouldn't want to purposely hurt her."

"No, of course not. I didn't know—" began Isobel.

"She's had rather a rough time on the whole—losing her mother and father, and being brought up by an aunt with whom she is obviously not in sympathy——"

"Why, from what she's told me, I don't think she's had a particularly rough time," Isobel interrupted.

"She makes light of it, no doubt," Pamela replied. "But all the same she's not had a particularly happy time, and I would like her to be happy while she is here with us, wouldn't you?"

"Why, of course," agreed Isobel. "Why shouldn't she?"

"She tries to put her unhappy life behind her, but—well, you know, Isobel, you keep reminding her of it!"

"I keep reminding her! What do you mean?"

"I found her crying last night because you kept worrying her with questions," said Pamela bluntly.

Isobel flushed.

"Good gracious! How ridiculous! But I only ask her ordinary questions. Why should she mind that?"

"They're questions about the past unhappy life with her aunt—a time she wants to forget. You keep reviving it. And if she wants to forget—we have no right to force her to remember, have we?"

"Of course not," said Isobel, haughtily.

"I didn't mean to tell you about her crying, at first—but I guessed if you knew you wouldn't let it happen again. It was only because you didn't know. Where she went to school, what she did at her aunt's, where she bought her clothes—things like that don't really concern any of us——"

"Not if there's nothing to hide," said Isobel suddenly. "But it seems as if there is something in Beryl's case—and so she won't talk about it."

"Why on earth should there be anything to hide! If she's been unhappy—why should she wish to talk about it? Let her forget it. Come, Isobel, I know you'll be a good sport, and not bother her with any more questions. Let's give her a happy time while she's here, shan't we? Shake hands on it."

Isobel took Pamela's outstretched hand, but her dignity was still a little ruffled.

"Beryl seems to have made a lot of fuss—if there's nothing to hide," she said in a slightly offended tone.

"Oh, she's only extra sensitive.... Why ever should there be anything to hide!" repeated Pamela, feeling as if she had not been quite successful in convincing Isobel. "It's only that she's been unhappy—and she's been poor. Lack of money makes such a difference in one's confidence in one's self. It oughtn't to—but it does," she ruminated. "Anyway, you won't ask her any more questions, will you?"

"I shouldn't think of doing so—after what you've told me," Isobel replied coldly.

"Thanks so much," said Pamela, with genuine warmth. "We'll give her a real happy time while she's here."

And if Beryl's happiness had lain in the hands of these two girls, it would have been assured during the next few months. But, unfortunately, there was a third person in Barrowfield whose hands were to play an unexpected part in the future happiness of Beryl.

A black kitten was responsible for introducing Pamela to Elizabeth Bagg. Pamela found the kitten crying in a field—a soft, purry, rather frightened little kitten, that had lost its way. Pamela picked it up, and made inquiries about it in the village. No one seemed to own it, nor recognize it, at first; and then Aggie Jones, who was leaning out of her door as usual, said she believed it belonged to the Baggs.

So Pamela went up the little lane by the blacksmith's to inquire. She soon became aware of the vicinity of 'Alice Maud Villa.' As she walked along the lane her ears caught the sound of laughter and the shouting of children's voices, which proceeded from a small house on the right-hand side; also Pamela's nose informed her that a delicious smell of boiling toffee came from the same quarter. Then she came to the house, and saw the name painted over the doorway. It was a very clean-looking little house, with brightly polished door-knocker and letter-box, and the curtains were fresh and dainty.

Pamela knocked several times before anyone heard her, the noise inside the house being so great. Then the door was flung open and a swarm of little Baggs and a strong smell of cooked toffee came out to greet her.

The return of the kitten was hailed with joy, and Pamela, though glad to find its home, watched anxiously to see that the children did not pull the kitten about nor tease it. Pamela was very fond of animals, and had found the absence of a cat or a dog at Chequertrees very strange. She watched the little black kitten, and saw that it did not seem at all afraid of the children, and that, on the other hand, the children handled it very carefully, in the way that only children who have a real love for animals can handle a kitten. Pamela was relieved to notice this; she knew too many cases where a kitten had been thoughtlessly kept "for the children to play with," a practice she thought most bad for the children, who were not taught to treat animals kindly, and most cruel for the little teased kittens. However, there was nothing to worry over in this case, and when, a moment later, Elizabeth Bagg, in a holland overall, appeared in the doorway, Pamela, glancing at her pale, strong face, felt she understood why the children behaved gently to the kitten. There would be no thoughtless cruelty in the house Elizabeth Bagg ruled over.

She had a kindly face, with clear grey eyes and a frank expression. It was strange that with such different features, and with so pale a complexion, she yet had a strong resemblance to her ruddy-faced brother, the cabman. Her voice and manners, though, were entirely unlike his. Her hair, which was jet black, was parted in the centre and brushed smoothly down each side of her face, and coiled in one thick plait round her head; it was a quaint style, rather severe, but it suited Elizabeth Bagg.

Pamela explained about the kitten, and then introduced herself, mentioning that she was staying at Chequertrees, and then, as was her usual way, plunged straight to the point that interested her most.

"I have been wanting very much to meet you," Pamela said, "because I hear that you are an artist. I do a little sketching myself, and I'm awfully interested in anyone who paints. Would you—would you think it very impertinent on my part if I asked to see some of your pictures. I should love to, if you don't mind—but only when it suits you, of course—not now, if you're busy."

A faint pink had crept into Elizabeth Bagg's cheeks.

"I should be pleased to show you some of my work," she said courteously. She spoke in a queer, stiff little way, so that until one knew her it was hard to understand exactly how she felt about anything.

Pamela, for instance, was not at all sure whether Elizabeth Bagg was pleased by her request or resented it. Whereas Elizabeth Bagg was really more astonished than anything else, though certainly pleased.

"Would you please come in," Elizabeth continued. "I'm not busy at present. The children and I have just finished making some toffee. I promised them last week that we should make some to-day."

"If they were very good, I suppose?" Pamela smiled down at the six little Baggs, who were standing round, gazing with open-mouthed interest at her.

"No," replied Elizabeth, to Pamela's surprise; "I had promised it them in any case."

"It smells delicious, anyway," said Pamela, not knowing quite what to reply.

"Would you like some when it's cool?" asked the little Bagg girl, who was least shy and most generous.

"If you can spare a little bit—yes, I would," laughed Pamela.

"The nutty kind—or the un-nutty kind?" anxiously inquired the elder Bagg boy, in a thick voice. He was rather greedy, and hoped Pamela would say the un-nutty, as he liked the nutty sort best himself. Fortunately she did choose the kind he liked least, and he eyed her with more favour than he had hitherto done.

The eldest of the children, a girl, was about eleven years old, and the youngest was about five. There were four girls and two boys, and Pamela noticed that they were all dressed in sensible linen overalls—things that were strongly made and easily washed. The children seemed to be a healthy, noisy, happy-go-lucky little crowd; but although Pamela was fond of children, she did not pay so much attention to the six little Baggs on this first visit as she did on subsequent occasions. Her attention was centred on their aunt, and her pictures.

While Elizabeth Bagg took Pamela upstairs to her 'studio' the little Baggs disappeared into the kitchen to watch the toffee cooling, and with permission to break some of the toffee that had already set into small pieces; during which operation long and excited arguments seemed to occur with great frequency—arguments that more often than not ended in a scream or a howl. Hearing which, Elizabeth Bagg would put down the picture she was showing Pamela, and with a muttered apology would vanish downstairs, and restore peace.

Elizabeth Bagg's 'studio' was really her bedroom, but in the daytime, when the camp-bedstead was covered with a piece of flowered chintz, and the rest of the bedroom furniture made as inconspicuous as possible, the room served very well as a workroom. The walls were whitewashed, making a good background for Elizabeth's pictures, which were hung thickly all around. A few had frames—but only a few. Most of them were without. She seemed to do all kinds of subjects, from landscapes to quaint studies of children, painted in a bold, unusual style. On an easel by the window stood Elizabeth's latest study, half finished; Pamela was surprised to see that it was a painting of the old windmill that she herself had tried to sketch. As Pamela stood looking at it, she realized that there was something in Elizabeth Bagg's work that she herself would never be able to get. "I'm only a dabbler," thought Pamela to herself. "This is the real thing."

"It's splendid," said Pamela aloud, gazing at the picture with admiration. "Do you know"—she turned impulsively to Elizabeth, who was standing behind her—"it makes me feel as if I want to go home, and tear up all my drawings and start afresh. Your pictures are so—so alive. If only I could get that living touch into my work. But I feel I'll never be able to do it—when I think of my own things—and then look at this."

"I am more than double your age," said Elizabeth Bagg steadily, though her heart was beating rapidly at these, the first words of genuine praise and encouragement that she had had for a long time. "I have been working for many years past."

"That's not it," said Pamela, shaking her head. "There's something in your pictures, that if you had not got it in you, no amount of practice would produce. I can't explain any better than that—but you know what I mean, don't you? I think your work's fine.... Have you ever exhibited any of your pictures anywhere?"

Elizabeth Bagg shook her head.

"No," she replied, and a tinge of colour crept into her cheeks again.

"Oh, but you should," said Pamela, enthusiastically, looking at a charming study of a little girl in a red tam-o'-shanter.

Pamela's enthusiasm affected Elizabeth Bagg strangely. She felt suddenly much younger than she had felt for years past. It was so long since anyone had noticed her pictures. Her days were spent in household duties for her brother and the children (just as Martha had told Pamela), with every spare half hour snatched for her painting. Some days, when she knew there would be no half hour to spare, Elizabeth would get up very early in the morning to continue a picture, and would feel all the fresher to face the work afterward, knowing that her picture was progressing, surely if slowly. Twice a week she gave painting lessons at a 'School for the Daughters of Gentlemen' in Inchmoor, a practice at which her brother had ceased to grumble when he found it brought her in a few shillings a week. He considered her 'daubing' a fearful waste of time; she had far better be employed in making a tasty apple-pie or mending the children's stockings, he thought—work for which Elizabeth received her 'board and lodging.' Old Tom Bagg flattered himself that he was good-naturedly indulgent to Elizabeth's little hobby, nevertheless Pamela noticed that there were no pictures of Elizabeth's anywhere about the house—they were all packed away in her own room.

Pamela did not know of the gratitude Elizabeth felt toward her; she only knew that she admired Elizabeth's pictures immensely, and felt a keen interest in the painter of them.

As Elizabeth said she would like very much to see some of Pamela's work, Pamela arranged to bring some round the following day.

And so the friendship began.

When Pamela reached Chequertrees that evening she wrote a long post-card home—for the first month was just ended. Surely there was never a card with so much written on it before—unless it was the card she received from home the following day, telling her that all was well at Oldminster.

CHAPTER XI

THE WISHING WELL

For a while things settled down into smoothly running order. Now that the first month had passed the days seemed to slip by in an amazing fashion—as they generally do after the newness of strange surroundings has worn off. The four girls got on very well together on the whole; of course, there were occasional little breezes—which was only natural considering that four such different temperaments were thrown constantly into each other's society; but the breezes never gathered into a tempest, and always, before long, the sun was out again.

One of the breezes sprang up during the sixth week on account of a protest Isobel made regarding Caroline's choice of puddings. It was Caroline's turn again to arrange the week's meals, and it must certainly be admitted that to choose suet roly-poly on Monday and Thursday, apple dumplings on Tuesday, and boiled treacle roll on Wednesday and Friday, was, to say the least of it, asking for trouble. But when on the Saturday a solidly substantial Christmas pudding appeared, it was too much for Isobel, and she protested vigorously at the stodginess of Caroline's puddings.

Caroline, looking up from the solid slice of pudding on her plate, took the remarks badly, and after a few sullen replies got decidedly annoyed. She was making the most of her week, she said, because she knew she would not get another pudding worth calling a pudding until her turn came round again. Even the glories of Isobel's elaborate puddings—with cream and crystallized cherries on top—had failed to rouse any enthusiasm in Caroline. Those kinds of pudding were all right to look at, but they had 'no insides' to them, commented Caroline, as she passed her plate for a third helping of Christmas pudding.

Martha's patience and willingness in making the various kinds of pudding chosen were things to be marvelled at; but she seemed to take great pride and pleasure in showing her skill at cooking whatever the girls required. To be sure, there was no lack of praise for her from the four girls, who thoroughly appreciated her efforts to do her best for them.

"It always does me good to go and have a talk with Martha," Pamela would say. "She's so cheerful—and so willing and unselfish. Nothing is any trouble to her."

Martha never demurred at nor criticized any of the puddings chosen—not even Caroline's recurring choice of roly-polies, though she looked a trifle anxious and made them as light as possible.

"And on Friday we'll have boiled treacle roll," Caroline had informed her.

"And what's nicer!" Martha had replied, unaware of the chorus of muffled groans on the other side of the kitchen door, as three girls, rolling their eyes in an exaggerated manner, crept stealthily away along the passage.

Then on the Saturday had come Isobel's protest. Caroline maintained that she had a right to choose any puddings she liked during her week, and while quite agreeing with her as to this point, Pamela mentioned that she thought it would be more considerate of Caroline if she would make her choice a little less 'suety.' They discussed the matter thoroughly, and finally came to an agreement, Caroline undertaking to vary her choice if the others promised to have the kind of pudding that was really a pudding on one day in each week. And so matters were arranged and the breeze blew over.

In spite of lack of encouragement or interest from the others, Caroline had sent in her name to Lady Prior's secretary as one who was willing to make things for the bazaar. And there had followed a day when two ladies of the organizing committee had called to see Caroline to talk about the articles that were most needed for the various stalls. It was a blissfully important day for Caroline, and she had dreams that night of crocheted cosy-covers, and little pink silk pin-cushions, and afterward, until the bazaar took place, was scarcely ever seen without knitting-needles or sewing of some kind or other in her hands.

The two committee ladies were both very large ladies, and were so well wrapped up in cloaks and scarves for motoring that they looked even larger than they really were. They drove up to the front gate in a very large motor car, and being ushered into the drawing-room by the respectful Ellen, both sat down on the small couch, which they succeeded in completely obscuring. They were both exceedingly amiable, and discussed matters in rather loud and assured voices with the bashful Caroline, who not only promised to make a number of things for the bazaar, but was eventually persuaded to preside at one of the stalls.

"All the stall-holders are to wear Japanese costumes. A charming idea, don't you think so?" smiled one of the ladies.

"A very, very sweet idea," said the other. "Of course, there will be no bother of getting the costumes ready; we are arranging to hire a number for the day. You'll have to come up and choose which one you like when the time draws near."

Caroline smiled, and said she thought it a nice idea. Fortunately, the fact that the Japanese style, with chrysanthemums in her hair, would not suit her in the least did not occur to Caroline. She was not a vain girl with regard to her appearance, though she was rather proud of her accomplishments in the sewing line.

But when Isobel heard about the Japanese costume for Caroline she nearly suffocated herself with laughter at the picture her mind's eye presented her with of solemn Caroline in a butterfly kimono and chrysanthemums pinned coquettishly above each ear. However, Caroline was not within hearing when Isobel learnt the news from Beryl, so no harm was done.

Isobel would have liked to join in the bazaar herself, but until she knew for certain about her relationship with the family at the Manor House, she decided that it was better not to lay herself open to the chance of meeting Lady Prior. Of course she had questioned Martha about the Priors, but nothing Martha could tell her shed any light on the Priors' connexions, as Sir Henry was practically a new-comer to Barrowfield, having bought the Manor House on the death of the late owner a few years ago.

As a rule Martha was a useful mine of information on people and places in Barrowfield, and many an interesting morsel of gossip had come to the girls through Martha.

It was through her, for instance, that they first heard of the Wishing Well.

One evening when Pamela was showing Martha a sketch she had made of an old barn and some pine trees, Martha said:

"Why, that's near the top of Long Lane, isn't it?—near where the Wishing Well is! And a very handsome picture it makes, to be sure."

"The Wishing Well!" said Pamela. "Where's that? It sounds exciting."

"Well, you know as you gets near the top of Long Lane," said Martha, busily stoning raisins into a basin that stood on the kitchen table, "on your right hand, as you're going up, you pass a white gate that leads into a field and an old disused chalk quarry—there's poppies and long grass growing all about in the summer—and there's a few trees at the top of the field, at the head of the scooped-out chalk-pit.... Well, a few yards inside the gate, on your left, and almost hidden by an overhanging hedge, is the well. You probably wouldn't notice it if you wasn't looking for it! But there it is, as sure as I'm sitting here, stoning these raisins—and Ellen will tell you the same as it's the truth I'm speaking."

"And why is it called a Wishing Well?" inquired Pamela.

"Oh, there's some old story that if you was to write a wish on a piece of paper and throw it into the well on a moonlight night, whatever you wished would come true," Martha chuckled. "But I don't know as I believes it—though I did have a wish that way once—in my young days, mind you——"

"And did it come true?" asked Pamela, eagerly.

"Well, no—I can't say it did," replied Martha, "but then, according to the story it was my fault. I ought to have kept it secret, and I went and spoke it out to some one, not thinking like—and so it didn't come true."

"Didn't you wish again ever?"

Martha shook her head. "You can only wish once—according to the story ... but mind you, I don't say there's any truth in it, one way or the other."

"But don't you know anyone else who has wished and who has had their wish granted?" asked Pamela, to whom the idea appealed strongly.

"I can't truthfully say I do—not for certain," said Martha. "Though I knows several what have said such and such a thing has happened because they wished it to—down the well—and it's their wish come true.... But how do I know they're speaking the truth? Eh? They mustn't tell what they've wished till it does come true, or else it won't come true at all. And when a thing happens, it's easy enough to say you wished it to, isn't it? ... So you see you can't rely on no one—not knowing how honest they are—but can only try for yourself and see."

"I should love to have a wish," said Pamela, gazing thoughtfully into the glowing kitchen fire. "I like to believe I believe in Wishing Wells, and goblins and spells and enchantments and things like that, but I'm not really sure that I do.... Anyway, I think we might all go up Long Lane on a moonlight night, and have a wish—just in case it really is a Wishing Well.... I'm sure Beryl will love the idea—they all will, I think. You'll tell us just what to do, won't you, Martha?"

Martha laughed. "Yes, indeed," she said. "But, mind you, I don't say there's anything in it."

The outcome of this conversation was an excursion up Long Lane a few nights later when the moon was at the full. All four girls entered into the spirit of the adventure in high spirits, though Caroline rather spoilt the romantic glamour that Pamela had conjured up by insisting on wearing her goloshes in case she got her feet wet in the damp grass.

"Oh, Caroline, how can you! We ought not to speak of such things as goloshes—practical, matter-of-fact, everyday goloshes—in the same breath as Wishing Wells," said Pamela, in a mock tragic voice. "But still, I suppose it's very sensible of you," she added, laughing.

The four girls started off up Long Lane, chatting and laughing, each with a piece of paper and pencil to write her wish when the well was reached. It would be so much more romantic, Pamela said, to write it beside the well in the moonlight, rather than beside the dining-room table in the gaslight.

"I hope you each know what you're going to wish," said Isobel. "It'll be too chilly to stand about making up our minds when we get there."

Long Lane stretched from the blacksmith's forge, that stood on the same side of Barrowfield Green as Chequertrees, past Tom Bagg's house, and up the hill to a small inn, and a handful of scattered cottages a mile and a half away. The lane was set with high hedges on either side, and was a gradual ascent all the way.

As the girls drew near the top end, and the gate leading to the chalk quarry came in sight, they fell silent, each trying to put into shape the wish she was going to write in a few minutes.

The well was much as Martha had described, though even more hidden and overgrown with trails of creeper from a high bank of shrubs above it than they had expected to find. Pamela was obliged to draw the trails aside before they could see the dark, still water.

"Can you see the moon reflected in the water? We must make sure of that," reminded Beryl.

Long white clouds were drifting slowly across the face of the moon, but as they passed, and the moon emerged again, her reflection could be seen in the well.

"Yes," said Pamela. "So—now—quick—let's write our wishes and wrap a stone inside the papers so that they'll sink—and drop them in the water while the moon's out." She looked up overhead. "It'll be clear for a few minutes now, but there are more clouds coming slowly—a long way off—and if they reach her we shall have to wait some minutes for them to pass."

A hurried search for convenient-sized stones was made; and then, silence, while they wrote down their wishes, using the top bar of the white gate as a writing-desk.

Pamela was the first to finish. At first Pamela had thought of wishing something for Michael; then she had thought of wishing that she could paint as well as Elizabeth Bagg; but "Michael and I are young," she had told herself, "and we've plenty of years to work in—but Elizabeth Bagg is getting old, and she's losing heart—I'll wish something for her.... I'll wish that somebody with influence, who can appreciate Elizabeth Bagg's artistic talent, may see some of her pictures, and that she may soon obtain the recognition which she well deserves." This was the gist of Pamela's wish. Wrapping a stone inside her paper, she threw it into the well—the moon's reflection scattering into a hundred shimmers and ripples as the stone splashed into the dark water and sank.