L.T. Meade (continued 3)

“Father’s awful at his jokes,” interrupted Ralph at that moment. “You is silly, father; you know that you is never cross.”

“Perhaps,” said Mr Durrant, “you had better, girls, take Ralph’s estimate of my character. Anyhow, come those of you who wish to try me, and stay away, those of you who are afraid. The house will be ready to receive you in a fortnight from now. During that time, Ralph and I will enjoy ourselves together. This day fortnight, we shall both be prepared to welcome you at Sunshine Lodge. I am calling the house by that name in advance, for I mean to have the sunshine in it day and night; and by the special sort of sun that I allude to, I mean Kindness, Charity, Unselfishness, Forbearance; and last, but not least, Love. I mean, too, that Pleasure should enter the house—nice, jolly Pleasure—and that Care should keep her wrinkled old face out-of-doors. I mean, in order to secure these things, to have a certain amount of discipline in the house, but that I shall exercise myself, and in my own way. Now, all those who wish to come to Sunshine Lodge, have the kindness to hold up their hands. Those who do not wish to come can keep their hands down.”

“In course you will all come!” said Ralph. “It’s Father’s way to talk like that; but he’s awfu’ jolly, is Father!”

“Yes: I believe I am jolly,” said Mr Durrant. “You had best take Ralph’s estimate of me: it is fair, on the whole. Now girls: who’ll come? who’ll stay?”

Was there an instant’s hesitation? Every hand was raised: every eye said “Yes.” Every mouth shouted, “I am going!” Every little heart quivered with excitement.

“Then you will all come: you will all trust me,” said Mr Durrant. “Now you need not trouble any more about the matter. Get ready for the fun; for fun it will be, I assure you—fun, fast and furious; fun from morning till night, and in a certain sense from night till morning. I will get the addresses of your parents from Mrs Burton, and will write to them individually, and I think I can promise that there won’t be one refusal. The eight little mothers shall join Ralph and me at Sunshine Lodge in a fortnight. And now, my dears, good-bye for the present.”

Mr Durrant took Ralph’s hand as he spoke. Ralph turned, however, as they were leaving that sunny part of the grounds where this animated and exciting scene had just taken place.

“Good-bye, mothers: good-bye, all of you!” shouted Ralph, kissing his hand frantically to the eight little girls.

He disappeared round the corner, a proud little figure in his pretty costume, and the school-girls looked one at the other.

Book Two—Chapter Two.

Robina at Home.

The next day, the different girls went to their several homes. Robina had to make a longer journey than the others; but she arrived at length at the somewhat solitary house on the borders of Wales where she lived with her father and mother, and two little sisters.

Robina’s mother was one of those rather trying invalids who without ever being in any danger yet manage to make all those around them uncomfortable. Now, Robina loved her mother, but she never managed to be an hour in her presence without rubbing the poor invalid the wrong way. Mrs Starling said that this big, firm, almost manly sort of child was too much for her. She did not mind the two little girls sitting in her shaded room and playing quietly with their toys. Now and then, she even permitted them to climb up on her sofa and pat her pale cheeks, and kiss her hands. But Robina was too lively and too full of vitality for this sort of existence; and, as Mrs Starling was fond of remarking, she tired her out without meaning to do so.

Now poor little Robina loved her mother passionately, and it was one of her secret troubles that she could not manage to make that mother happy. Mrs Starling had been an invalid for so long that her sister, Miss Felicia Jennings, had charge of the house; and Miss Felicia was also the sort of person who had the power of rubbing Robina the wrong way.

She was a very fussy woman who was so fond of saying ‘Don’t’ that Robina wondered if she had any other word in her vocabulary.

“Now, Robina,” she said on the present occasion, the moment the little girl entered the house—“don’t make so much noise: walk quietly; go up to your room, and don’t slam the door; also—don’t neglect to put your boots outside on the mat, so that Fanny may take them down in good time to get them cleaned. And, Robina—don’t forget to wash your hands and brush your hair, and don’t on any account fail to remember that your mother has a bad headache and cannot have noise or excitement in her room.”

“I am not going to make any noise; and I will try not to be excited,” said Robina. “I have been very happy at school, Aunt Felice, and people haven’t said such a lot of ‘don’ts’ to me. I think it is ‘don’t’ makes me so naughty when I am at home.”

“Well—don’t oblige me to say ‘Don’t,’” was Aunt Felicia’s remark.

Robina ran upstairs. She was never cross at school. Why did she feel irritation the very moment she got home? She had looked forward very much to her holidays. She had all sorts of schemes in her practical little brain for improving and rendering life agreeable to little Violet and little Rose, her two small sisters.

She had quite expected that Violet and Rose would be waiting to welcome her. She had pictured them to herself all during the long, hot journey to Wales.

Violet was five years old, and a very pretty little girl. Curly Pate had always more or less reminded Robina of Violet. And then there was Rose, who was not yet four years old, and who was a very delicate little child and rather fractious. Rose in some sort of intangible manner recalled Harriet to Robina’s memory; for she was lanky, and thin, and had poor little weak legs, and a weak sort of crying voice, and people said that she took after her mother, and would never be specially good for anything.

Before she went to school, Robina had much preferred to play with Violet, and had often left Rose more or less out in the cold. But now she resolved to correct all this, and to try to get to understand little Rose, and to add to the happiness of her life.

“For if I don’t,” thought Robina, “she may grow up like Harriet: she may even learn to be deceitful, and that would never do. Oh, I know—I know quite well the person who is better than all the rest of us put together at the school, and that person is Ralph. Who else would have changed Harriet, and made her so that she could even bear to allow me to be Ralph’s school-mother, and yet to love little Ralph all the time? I must own that I do not love Harriet even now; but I suppose it is wrong of me; anyhow, I see that there are possibilities of good in her; and I will be very good to little Rose during the fortnight that I am at home because of Harriet.”

But Violet and Rose were both in bed, although they had pleaded very hard indeed to be let stay up, and Mrs Starling was not considered well enough to be disturbed by Robina that evening. Robina’s father was not at home, and there was no one, therefore, to welcome the little girl except Aunt Felicia.

“It is dull,” thought Robina. “I am glad that I am going to Sunshine Lodge in a fortnight: I wonder if the invitation has come yet. How jolly we shall all be when we are there! If mother were really glad to see me, and if Rose and Violet were up, I should be a very happy girl this evening; but as it is—”

Robina entered her rather bare and decidedly ugly bedroom, tossed her hat on the bed, went to the small cracked looking-glass in order to see how to put her thick hair straight, and then was preparing to run downstairs again, when she saw the nursery room door very softly opened, and a little figure peeped out.

“I am in my nighty, and so is Rose; but we’re both ’ide awake,” said Violet’s voice. “Oo’s come back, Wobbin. Come and kiss us; do, do!”

“Oh, you darlings! you pets!” said Robina.

She went noisily into the nursery, and alack! and alas! the next minute the door slammed after her. Violet’s little rosy face turned pale, and the real Rose began to cry.

“Aunt Felice will come up and scold!” said Violet. “Oh, put us into bed, do! and don’t go away—please, please, Wobina!”

“No, I won’t,” said Robina. “I don’t mind a bit whether I’m scolded or not. Of course, I didn’t mean to slam the door. You little darlings, both of you! You sweet pets! Here I am back again, and won’t we have good times! I have some chocolates for you in a corner of my school trunk: I bought it out of the savings of my pocket-money; and it is right good, I can tell you.”

“All keemy in middle?” enquired Rose, in a voice of great eagerness.

“Yes,” said Robina, “and browny outside.”

“Can’t us have some now?” asked Violet.

“I will try,” said Robina. “You lie quite still, and pretend to be asleep, and I’ll bring you some in a minute or two. Aunt Felice couldn’t have heard the door slam, or she would be up here on the landing by now. Oh dear! oh dear! I’ll creep out ever so quietly. Now, mum’s the word. Stay as still as mice, you two, until I return.”

Two eager pairs of eyes in the midst of two small wide awake faces followed Robina as she went to the nursery door. She opened it softly, and shut it behind her. In a minute or two, she was back with the chocolates, and each little child was made intensely happy. Robina promised all sorts of good things on the morrow—pick-a-back was one; and oh! there was a wonderful secret: something amazing was going to happen: for of course Robina knew well that the pony with the side-saddle and the habit would arrive early the next day. He could not be objected to, for part of the prize was that all his expenses were to be paid.

There was an old stable at the back of the house where he could lodge, and the services of a special man were to be secured to look after him. The thought of the pony comforted Robina immensely on that first evening at home. When she sat opposite to Aunt Felicia at supper, it occurred to her to mention it.

“Aunt Felice,” she said, “I have got a great piece of news for you.”

“What is that, my dear Robina? Don’t put your elbow on the table; it is so unladylike; and I wish, my dear, you would not have that habit of opening your mouth when you are not speaking. You ought to say the old phrase, ‘Papa, potatoes, prunes and prism’ constantly to yourself. There is nothing for keeping the mouth in a nice shape like uttering the word ‘prism.’”

“I can’t, really, Aunt Felice. I am not made that way,” said Robina. “I can’t be worried about my mouth.”

“There you are,” said Aunt Felice, “always so headstrong, rough, and disagreeable. Now, don’t frown! It really makes you look like a fright. Your poor mother quite dreads the thought of having you in the house; you are so undisciplined and wayward.”

“I was thought quite a good girl at school,” said Robina.

“Then that was because none of them really knew you.”

“I think they knew me very well. You have to be your real self at school, Aunt Felice.”

“Then may I ask, miss, if that is the case, why you are not your real self at home?”

“I am afraid I have got two selves, and I am my worst self at home, because I am rubbed the wrong way.”

“Indeed!” said Miss Jennings. “That is nice hearing. And who rubs you the wrong way?”

“I know you will be very angry with me, Aunt Felicia; but you do.”

“Robina: this is really more than I can stand. You don’t speak in that impertinent way to me any more: you have no respect for those older and better than yourself, Robina. I don’t say for a moment that you have not your good points. You are a clever, strong, intelligent child, but you are too independent: that is what is the matter with you.”

Robina fidgetted.

“Don’t push your things about on your plate like that!” said Miss Felicia: “and oh! don’t kick me with your long legs under the table! You really are most objectionable in your manners—such a rough sort of girl.”

“Come, Auntie,” said Robina suddenly, “I have been thinking a lot of my return home. I have never been to school before, and these are my very first holidays, and anyhow, there is jolly good news—”

“Don’t say jolly! It is a most unladylike expression.”

“Oh, I must talk a little slang. I can’t be too proper. Besides, ‘jolly’ is accepted now as the most correct English. ‘Awfully jolly’ is a lovely phrase.”

“It is a misnomer, and abominable. Don’t ever say ‘awfully jolly’ in my presence.”

“I will try not to,” said Robina aloud. To herself, she whispered: “I won’t be tempted: things never are awfully jolly when she is about.”

“May I tell you the nice thing that has happened?” she said, after a pause.

“Don’t spill that jam, Robina. See, you are dropping the juice on the table-cloth. Now then, what is your news? I don’t suppose it is worth anything.”

“To begin with: I am going away on a visit in a fortnight.”

“Indeed?” said Miss Jennings. “That is so likely: little girls do go away on visits without the permission of their elders. That is the modern tendency, I am well aware, but it has not taken root in this house so far.”

“Mr Durrant has invited me,” said Robina, “and I know father and mother will let me go: I am not a bit afraid on that point. Mr Durrant will manage it.”

“Who is Mr Durrant?”

“He is the Durrant, you know: everyone speaks of him. He is one of the greatest men in England at the present day.”

Miss Jennings stared hard at her niece.

“Up to the present,” she said, “I always did think you were truthful: but I cannot quite believe that the great African explorer, whose thrilling book I could scarcely lay down when once I began to read it, would take any notice of an inconsequent, silly little girl like yourself.”

“Oh, but he has,” said Robina, in a careless tone. “He is very fond of me. I am his little boy’s mother, you know.”

“Robina: don’t open your lips for the remainder of this meal. Lies I will not stand.”

Robina whispered ‘prism’ under her breath, and sat mute with her hands folded. After a time, Miss Jennings asked if she wished for anything more. She shook her head.

“Are you satisfied? Are you no longer hungry?” Robina nodded.

“Then leave the room.”

Robina did so. The next minute she was out of the house, and had rushed round to the stables.

“Jim!” she said to the man who had charge of the old grey horse and the very humble chaise which was the only conveyance known at Heather House—the name of Robina’s home. “Jim: there is a very beautiful pony coming here to-morrow; or he may not arrive till the next day. He is mine; and I want him to have a stable all to himself, and I want to hire a proper groom to see after him. Do you know any nice boy in the village who can be trained to look after my pony?”

Jim, who had always a secret admiration for Miss Robina as a fine, manly sort of young lady who could ride old Dobbin bareback from the time she could walk, and whom he had secretly provided with many a less safe seat on neighbours’ horses, now answered with alacrity:

“You don’t mean, miss, as Mr Starling has gone and bought you a pony of your own?”

“No, Jim; nothing of the sort. It is such a comfort to confide in you, Jim: I won the pony as a prize at school.”

“Lawk-a-mercy!” said Jim: “what queer prizes they do have at that school, now!”

“Shall I tell you how I won it? I was good to a child.”

“Lor! miss.”

“A dear little boy. I am his school-mother. He chose me—or rather, he didn’t choose me first, but I became his school-mother afterwards; and the prize was a pony and a side-saddle. You will have me skimming all over the country now when I am at home, Jim. I’ll be worse to manage than ever.”

“But miss, there is the master. How do you know as he’ll let you keep a pony?”

“Oh, that is all right,” said Robina. “The gentleman who has given him is going to pay all his expenses. He is quite a rich gentleman, and he doesn’t mind what he spends. So I want a very nice groom indeed.”

“I wish I could do for him, miss,” said Jim. “I would with a heart and a half, but the master wouldn’t spare a minute of my time; and even if he would. Miss Jennings wouldn’t hear of it. She is very particular, miss, and works a man real hard.”

“Robina, come in this minute!” called a shrill voice at that moment, “and don’t stand talking with Jim. Jim; how dare you idle your time! Have you cleaned out the hen’s roost? and have you put down fresh straw for the laying hen? and what about the ducks, Jim? and don’t forget that you are to go to the village early in the morning to get some fresh corn for the young turkeys. Robina, come here this minute: don’t dawdle: come quickly.”

“I was talking to Jim,” said Robina, “about my pony.”

“Your what?” asked Miss Felicia.

“My pony: you would not let me tell you at supper time: you snapped me up so short. I have got such a lovely pony as a prize!”

“You dare to tell me such things!”

“But, Aunt Felicia, it is true. I have got a pony. I haven’t seen him yet, but I know he is going to be a perfect darling, and there’s a side-saddle coming too, and a habit made from my own measurements. My measurements were taken before I left school, so the habit will fit me perfectly, and will allow room for growing.”

“The pony may come,” said Miss Felicia: “but if it comes, it goes. Do you suppose for a single moment—you silly, selfish, thoughtless child—that your poor father, who has such expenses owing to your dear mother’s sad condition of health, can afford to keep a pony for you? If anyone is fool enough to send the animal here it goes back again.”

“I am certain father won’t send it away,” said Robina, “for it will cost no one anything. Mr Durrant—the Durrant—for I have told no lies, Aunt Felicia—is going to provide for all the expenses of my pony. He spoke to me about it; and there is to be a groom engaged to look after my darling; and when I go away in a fortnight’s time to Sunshine Lodge, my pony comes with me, and father will never be one penny out of pocket as far as my pony is concerned.”

“Dear, dear! Tut, tut!” said Miss Felicia. “Go into the house, Robina. You are either telling the most shocking lies, or something too marvellous has happened. I am inclined to believe in your want of truth, Robina, and if this is proved to be the case, your punishment will be exceedingly heavy.”

Book Two—Chapter Three.

A Surprise.

Late that night, Mr Starling returned home. He was a heavily built, rather dull looking man. He was a gentleman living on his private means, and as these means were small, and he was far too lazy to add to them, the young Starlings had to do without the good things of life.

His house was decidedly ramshackle; his grounds neglected; his stables in shocking disorder, and his one groom and factotum, Jim, sadly overworked.

Nevertheless, Edward Starling managed on the whole to enjoy life. He was fond of golf, and spent nearly all his time over this fascinating and absorbing amusement. Had Robina been willing to take up golf, he would scarcely have induced himself to send her to school; but as it was, he did so for the sake of peace of mind.

Robina was troublesome at home. She was too large and strong and determined for the invalid mother, and she was always rubbing the excellent, indefatigable aunt the wrong way. Mr Starling was, however, fond of Robina. He liked her bold, free, frank manners. He enjoyed her little tiffs with Aunt Felicia, and rather encouraged them than otherwise, and the very first thing he asked now when he entered the house was if his daughter had returned.

“Yes;” said Miss Jennings, who made it an invariable rule to sit up for her brother-in-law, however late he returned home. “Yes,” she said, yawning, “Oh, dear me, Edward! Don’t leave that muddy mark in the hall; I have such trouble getting those flags kept in order: and oh—don’t put your pipe down there! I can’t endure the smell of smoke. I am very sorry that I am so sensitive, but neither I nor my dear sister can abide tobacco.”

Mr Starling slipped the pipe back into his pocket. “There!” said his sister-in-law, springing up. “It isn’t properly out, and will burn a hole, and then I shall have the trouble of mending it. You won’t consider things, Edward. You are so thoughtless. Oh, I am the very last person to complain, but what was I saying?”

“Talking about Robina. Is she home?”

“Home?” said Miss Jennings. “Yes; thank goodness, hours ago, and in bed and asleep.”

“I can’t take a peep at her, I suppose? How is the young monkey looking?”

“Whatever you do, Edward—don’t disturb her! She is such a queer, excitable creature.”

“She is well, I suppose?”

“Yes; that is—her body is; I am by no means sure about her mind.”

“Her mind?” said Starling. “Has anything gone wrong with that?”

“You will find out for yourself when you talk to her. She certainly has the most frightful cock-and-bull stories to tell us. What an extraordinary school it must be! Robina is full of an invitation she has received from some impostor who has taken the name of the great Mr Durrant, and she also speaks of a pony arriving here to-morrow. Of course the child is dreaming, but if her lies are proved to be lies, I shall punish her severely. I am, however, just, before all things, and wait before I administer the rod. On the whole, Edward, I do not congratulate you on Robina’s return: we shall have a sorry time with her during these holidays, and so far, school has the reverse of improved her.”

“You always were doleful, Felicia,” said her brother-in-law: “but as it is close on one o’clock, I will go to my room, and consider Robina’s iniquities in the morning—that is, if you have no objection.”

“Objection?” cried Miss Jennings—“when I am just dying for my bed! You men have no heart and no consideration. Here have I been sitting up waiting for you all this long, weary time, with my eyes weighted as though there was lead on the lids, and my back bowed with aching. But much you care.”

“I wish to goodness you would go to bed, and leave me alone,” said the irate man.

“Not I;” she replied, “to have the house burgled in your absence, or set on fire when you return, with the careless way you manage that pipe of yours.”

“Well: I’m off to bed now, Felicia. If you do choose to sit up, it isn’t my fault.” And the master of the house ran upstairs three steps at a time. Even his sister-in-law’s “Don’t make so much noise” failed to impress him in any way.

He reached his bedroom, got rapidly into bed, and fell asleep chuckling over “that monkey Robina,” as he called her.

By the first post the next morning, there arrived two letters, both of immense interest to Robina. She had got up early and was, if the truth must be known, eagerly watching for the post. She saw the letters when they arrived, and had a sort of intuition that they contained news which would be of vital interest to her. But as they were addressed to her father, she could do nothing towards gratifying her curiosity until he appeared.

She was dressed that morning in one of her neat school frocks, and looked very bonny, and strong, and self-reliant. The two little sisters were eagerly clamouring round her.

“Take my hand, Wobbin. Wobbin, let’s wun acwoss garden!” cried little Rose.

“Oh, Robin! I don’t talk as badly as that,” said the more important Violet.

Robina sat down on the window-sill, and played to her heart’s content with the two. In this attitude Miss Jennings found them.

“Now, Robina—I forbid you to spoil those children. Violet don’t attempt to cry, or you shall leave the room. Rose, put on your pinafore at once, miss. Now come to the table, all three of you, and let us begin breakfast.”

Miss Jennings seated herself by the tea-tray. She littered a short grace, and then porridge was dispensed. Little Rose could not bear porridge, and at once began to whimper.

“Don’t cry!” said Miss Jennings. “If you do, you leave the room.”

“Eat up just a little bit, darling,” whispered Robina. “I have such jolly things to tell you afterwards. Has father come home?” continued Robina, fixing her eyes on her aunt’s face.

“Of course he has come home, my dear: why shouldn’t he come home? Don’t, I beg of you, Robina, ask silly questions. Your father has no other house to sleep in, therefore when he is sleepy, he comes home. He is in bed at the present moment, and goodness only knows when he will come down to breakfast.”

“Oh, I hope he will come down soon!” said Robina, “for I want him to open his letters.”

“Very impertinent and forward of you! Your father’s letters are not your concern.”

“Not always,” replied Robina, calmly, and helping herself to strawberry jam: “but those two happen to be.”

“Have you been trying to read them through the envelopes?”

“No: but I looked at the postmarks.”

Miss Jennings was silent for an awful moment. Then she said, impressively:

“Little girls; listen to me.”

The two children looked up expectantly.

“Never at any time copy the ways of your elder sister unless you wish to be whipped.”

Violet smiled rather vaguely. Rose’s little pale face grew paler. She nestled close to Robina.

“I ’uv oo, Wobbin,” she said then, in a low, tremulous whisper.

“Bravely spoken, darling,” whispered Robina back to her; and at that moment, to the relief of every one, Mr Starling entered the room.

His big presence and bright personality made a pleasing diversion.

“Hullo, monkey!” he said, the minute he saw Robina. “So you are back once more—the proverbial bad penny, eh?”

He pinched her cheek. “’Pon my word, you are looking fine! And how do you like school, monkey? and how is every bit of you? Glad to have you back: expect we’ll have some fun now.”

“Sit down, Edward, and don’t keep Robina standing any longer,” said Miss Jennings.

Mr Starling winked solemnly at his daughter, and took his seat.

“Hallo! What are these?” he said, as he saw his letters.

“They are for you, father,” said Robina, eagerly: “but I think they are about me.”

“About you, monkey! How can you know?”

“Don’t encourage her. Edward, don’t read those letters at present,” said Miss Jennings.

“Oh, please do, father,” said Robina.

“Peese, farzer, peese!” said little Rose. And “Please, father!” came in a more pronounced voice from Violet.

To the relief of everyone at that moment Miss Jennings received a hasty summons to run upstairs to her invalid sister. The moment she left the room, Mr Starling seized the first letter.

“Here goes!” he said. “When the cat’s away—now then, monkey, and you two, listen to me.”

He tore open Mr Durrant’s letter, glanced through the contents, uttered a hasty exclamation, and then proceeded to read it aloud.

“My dear Sir:—I have a very great favour to ask of you. I want to know if you will spare your dear girl, Robina, to me for the greater part of these holidays. I have just secured a charming house at Eastbourne, quite above the town, and in a comparatively country place. I don’t know what its real name is, and what is more, I don’t care; but while Robina is with us, it is to be called Sunshine Lodge. I am expecting also a number of her young school-companions to visit me. Mine will be a bachelor’s establishment, but it will be enlivened by the presence of my little boy, who is Robina’s very great friend, and whom she has managed to be uncommonly kind to. She will doubtless herself tell you the story of her friendship for my little son. In consequence of that, I have the very great pleasure of awarding to her a prize which she has most justly won. It was open to the competition of all her form, and she out of the eight girls came first in the list. My little son, Ralph, himself decided the matter. This prize is a pony which I am forwarding to your residence, Heather House. I bought it at Tattersall’s yesterday, and believe that it is a thoroughly sound and well-trained animal, accustomed to carrying a lady in the saddle. It has no tricks, and is altogether safe, and also spirited. The animal is not too large, and at the same time, not too small, so that it can be made use of not only when your little girl is still a child, but by and by, when she reaches woman’s estate. A habit has been made for her, of the newest design, and safety pattern, and was forwarded yesterday from Poole’s, in London. It ought to reach her about the time when you receive this letter. A side-saddle, of the most comfortable make, accompanies the pony. I am sending the pony and saddle by a man of my own, whom I hope you will make arrangements to quarter either in your establishment or in rooms near. The man is part of the prize. He undertakes all the care of the pony, and is, of course, paid by me. His wages need not trouble you in any manner, for you, my dear sir, have nothing to do with them. I am well aware, that, delightful as ponies are, they may sometimes arrive at country houses where they are not welcome for reasons which need not be described. It would be a shabby present on my part, if I put you to any expense with regard to it. My man will provide the pony with all necessary provender, and will send me the bill monthly. “All these things, my dear sir, your daughter has earned by her most admirable conduct; and believe me, I am very much her debtor, and shall always remain so, for she has done for the dearest being on earth to me, more than money can ever repay. “Believe me, Dear Sir,— “Yours faithfully,— “Malcolm Durrant.”

“Oh!” said Robina, when the long letter had come to an end.

“Upon my word?” exclaimed her father.

He took up the other letter. It was merely an announcement that a horse of the name of “Bo-peep” was about to be forwarded by rail from Paddington that evening, and would arrive with his groom at the nearest station to Heather House at eleven o’clock the following morning.

“Why, the pony will be here in an hour!” said Mr Starling. “Dear! dear! dear! What a truly exciting, remarkable thing! Robina, monkey: what am I to make of you?”

Just then, Miss Jennings came into the room.

“Haven’t you done breakfast yet?” she said. “Oh, don’t make such confusion in the room, and don’t talk all of you at once.”

“We have something to talk about,” said her brother-in-law. “This child—this monkey of mine, has made her mark in the world already. She has got a pony of her own.”

“I have heard of it,” said Miss Jennings. “You do not intend to be such a fool as to keep it, Edward.”

“Keep it? I have nothing to do with it. The pony, Bo-peep by name, arrives with his own special groom, and the groom is found food and lodging and paid wages by Mr Durrant—Malcolm Durrant, the great traveller and explorer. I have no expense whatever with the pony. He belongs to Robina, and she has won him by doing some extraordinarily kind action—what, I cannot make out. For goodness’ sake, my dear Felicia, don’t get so excited. It is my turn to say ‘don’t’ to you now. Keep out of the way, if the news is not welcome to you. The pony is coming, and we can’t prevent its coming; it will be here in no time, and the children and Robina will, if I am not greatly mistaken, spend a small part of to-day trying his paces.”

“Then your two young children will be killed!” said Miss Felicia, folding her hands and standing stock-still for a minute and then preparing to leave the room.

A timid laugh from Violet, and a shriek of dismay from Rose greeted this utterance. But Robina clasped Rose in her arms.

“Oh, my pretty sweet!” she said. “Bo-peep won’t kill you. I will get into the side-saddle, and you shall sit in front of me, and I will put my arm round your waist, and you’ll be as steady and safe as old Time.”

“As Ole Time!” echoed Rose, the tears arrested in her eyes.

“There is another bit of news, and you may as well have it first as last,” said Miss Jennings’ brother-in-law. “Robina leaves us in less than a fortnight, to spend the rest of her holidays at a place called Sunshine Lodge.”

“And you permit this?” said Miss Felicia.

“Am I likely to refuse Malcolm Durrant?” was the response.

Miss Felicia felt vanquished; for even she respected Malcolm Durrant. She left the room.

Book Two—Chapter Four.

The Pony Conquers.

The pony was a beauty. He was a glossy chestnut, with a white star on his forehead. He had gentle and wonderful eyes, and a way of raising his feet from the ground, which showed his high breeding. His different points were pronounced first-rate. In short, Bo-peep was a success. He took not only Robina herself, but the entire family of Starlings by storm. The very moment he arrived, he walked straight into their hearts. But his most marvellous conquest was that of Miss Felicia Jennings. That lady would not admit it for the world, but the fact was, that Malcolm Durrant was her hero of heroes. For years she had followed his career with the deepest and most absorbing interest. She had lived in his adventures; she had read every word he ever wrote; her maiden heart had thrilled through and through over his dangers and wild adventures, and, in short, she could deny nothing to the person who had so captivated her fancy.

She pretended, it is true, to be snappish and disagreeable about Bo-peep; but when alone with this captivating little animal, she fed him on apples, carrots, and stroked his nose, and even said foolish nothings into his ear. Bo-peep also look a fancy to her, and trotted up to her when she came in view, and thrust his nose into her hand.

Robina was not more tolerated than usual, but that was of small consequence; for Bo-peep could do what he liked with the household. The first day of his arrival passed in a sort of universal rejoicing. Robina rode him with much majesty, and a lofty expression of face. Her little sisters in turn sat before her on the side-saddle. Her friends from the nearest house came to see, wonder, and congratulate.

The groom, Peter by name, was very nearly as much admired as was Bo-peep himself. Mr Starling openly announced that he had never enjoyed himself so much before. Peter was likely to prove a most valuable acquisition to the family, and the only thing that was regretted was the groom’s determination never to eat food in the kitchen.

“Your tea will be always ready for you in case you wish for it,” Miss Felicia was heard to say.

But Peter replied stoutly that he had his orders, and that, in fact, he had already secured for himself a room over the saddler’s shop in the village.

“But suppose Bo-peep should be ill in the night,” said Miss Felicia.

At this the man smiled.

“’Tain’t likely, madam,” he said. “The ’oss is a strong ’oss, and when I leave him, after grooming him down and giving him his mash, he won’t want no one else to interfere with him until the morning.”

Thus the arrival of Bo-peep was one of the happiest things that could have happened to Robina. The horse had, however, been two days at Heather House before Mrs Starling heard of the event. It was Robina who broke the news to her. She was busily engaged now getting ready her wardrobe for her delightful visit to Sunshine Lodge. Mrs Starling sent her a message to come to see her. The good lady was lying on a conch by the window.

“Come in very gently, Robina,” she said, “and try to make as little noise as possible.”

Robina advanced as quietly as she could. She sank down by her mother’s sofa, put one firm hand over the invalid’s tremulous one, and said, in a broken sort of voice:

“Oh, mummy!”

“Don’t be so intense, my dear; it makes my heart flutter.”

“But aren’t you better, mummy dear? I have such a lot of things to talk over with you.”

“I cannot bear them, Robina; that is, if they are exciting. Since you came, I don’t know how it is, but I have felt as though the whole house was in a flutter. This state of things is exceedingly bad for me, and my palpitations are much worse in consequence.”

“That is because you don’t know,” said Robina. She leaned out of the window. There was a struggle in her heart. If there was one thing more than another that she pined and longed for, it was to take possession of that poor, weak, suffering, nervous mother of hers, and give her some of her own strength, some of her own life. It was one of Robina’s hidden, unspoken griefs that her mother never understood her, and that she turned away from her child to Aunt Felicia for sympathy. Now Robina thought and wondered.

“Mummy,” she said, “I am going to speak in a very low voice, and you need not get a bit excited. But you see I am very happy.”

“Ah, yes;” said Mrs Starling, still speaking almost in a whisper. “I understand, and I am not envious. Happiness is very far from me, but I am glad my children enjoy it—my children and my husband.”

“But we want you to have it too.”

“It is the will of Providence that I should lie here very weak and suffering. I must submit without a murmur,” said the invalid.

“Mummy, let me talk to you. I know you sent me away to school—”

“I cannot go into those things now, Robina. I did not manage it; it was your aunt.”

“If Aunt Felicia were not here, you would depend on me; you know you would, mummy.”

“If your aunt were not here, I should die—if I had not her to comfort me.”

“Well, darling; she is here, and she does comfort you, I know; and we are glad—father and I and Violet and Rose.”

“Oh, the dear little children, they are quite sweet,” said Mrs Starling: “they are never strong and individual like you, Robin.”

“But I can’t help being individual, as you call it, mummy; and I am so much older than the others.”

“Yes; that is it: if you could only alway’s stay a baby.”

“Well, I cannot;” said Robina, losing some of her patience; “and what is more, I don’t wish to. God meant me to be strong and to have, as you call it, a personality. Now listen. I have got a pony—oh! I have such a pretty story to tell you about it, and how I won it.”

“I can’t listen to any story to-day.”

“Well, anyhow, it is here; and even Aunt Felicia loves Bo-peep and I want you to see him.”

“Really, this is most extraordinary,” said Mrs Starling. “You have got a pony? Such a very great expense! Who bought it for you?”

“Not father, mother. I won him as a prize at school. He has been sent here by a good gentleman who gave the prize, but he costs nobody else anything at all, and his name is Bo-peep: and what father and I think is this: that we might presently have a basket chair got and Bo-peep could draw you about the grounds. Then you would get better, my own mummy; and—and—I should be so happy!”

Robina waited tremblingly. She wondered how her mother would take her proposal.

“I am much too weak,” said the invalid, after a pause, “even to go downstairs, much less to venture outside to be drawn about by your pony. But I always was interested in horses; we had a great many at my old home; and if the pony could be brought where I could see him from this window, it would—well—gratify me. Can we manage it?”

“Oh yes, yes; I will go this minute.”

“Don’t rush wildly across the room and slam the door after you, I beg of you.”

“Oh, no, no. I won’t leave you at all. I mean, I will just go downstairs and give directions, and come back again myself.”

“Do, my dear: I am really interested in horses.” Robina came back after a minute or two, and by and by, there was a little commotion on the badly kept lawn outside the house, for Bo-peep was led forward by Peter the groom. He wore his side-saddle, and perched on his back were both little girls, who looked perfectly radiant, and who waved their hands frantically to their mother. Mr Starling stood by, so that the poor nervous woman was not afraid of any accident happening; and lo! and behold! also belonging to the group was Miss Jennings, and she held a bunch of carrots in her hand. This tempting bonne bouche was far too much for the greedy Bo-peep, who marched boldly up to the lady, rubbing his nose against her, and requesting, as clearly as pony could speak, more and more of his favourite dainties.

“What a pretty creature!” exclaimed Mrs Starling. “Really, he reminds me of my old favourite horse, Prince. How happy and strong I was—as strong as you are now, Robina—when I rode Prince.”

“Shall we open the window, mummy? You will see him better then.”

Robina did so, and Mrs Starling came quite close, and bent a little out of the window, and called Bo-peep once or twice in her faint voice.

“Oh, don’t catch cold, dear!” screamed Miss Jennings from below.

“Don’t interfere, dear?” responded Mrs Starling from above.

“Isn’t he a beauty, mummy? Isn’t he a darling?” called Violet.

“He’s Wobbin’s and mine too!” cried Rose, bending her little body forward, and clasping her arms round the pony’s neck.

“Robina,” said her mother, turning to her, “put on your habit, go downstairs at once, and let me see you mount Bo-peep. I do hope you know how to spring properly into your saddle: I should like to see how you manage it.”

Robina did manage it, and to her mother’s satisfaction. The invalid was better that evening, and the next day requested once again that Bo-peep should be brought round for inspection.

And now an extraordinary thing happened: for from seeing the horse at a distance, the good lady took an unreasonable desire—at least so it seemed to Miss Jennings—to see him near: and as this could only be accomplished by coming downstairs: downstairs she came, Bo-peep was then led up to the dining-room window, and graciously received a carrot from Mrs Starling’s own hand. By and by, she too was stroking his face, and looking into his eyes, and murmuring his name in tones of the deepest affection. In short, Bo-peep was bidding fair to cure Mrs Starling.

But the fortnight which Robina was to spend at home was drawing to an end, and the day was approaching when she, Bo-peep, and Peter, were to leave Heather House en route for Sunshine Lodge. Mrs Starling was unreasonable about this. She wanted Bo-peep to remain behind, and Robina was quite willing that it should be so.

“I have got so much,” she said; “and mother loves my little horse, and I can think of him as a delightful creature to return to before I go back to school.”

But on this occasion, it was no less a person than Miss Felicia Jennings who interfered.

“No, Robina,” she said: “you don’t do anything of the sort. That great man, Malcolm Durrant, has given his orders, and I for one should be the very last person to have them disregarded. He wishes you to go to him. A command from him is like a command from Royalty, my child, and must not for a moment be disregarded. He wishes that precious little animal, Bo-peep, to accompany you, and the animal is to go. Your mother did without the pony for years, and can do so still. If indeed we could afford to have a little carriage made for her, I believe we could induce her to drive out daily with Bo-peep as her steed. But as your father can barely afford to pay your school expenses, that is not to be thought of. Now, my dear, you go in the morning: I trust you will behave well. By the way, you have offered to you, Robina, a marvellous chance in life. You have won the goodwill and esteem of no less a person than Malcolm Durrant. Oh! if only the chance were mine! If sometime you have the opportunity, tell him, my dear, how a dull old maid in a country house in England revels in his work, and admires his character. Tell him that, if you like; and endeavour, Robina, to keep down those faults which will very naturally, if he perceives them, turn him against you. For you are headstrong, and rough, and self-reliant, and above all things, you need the grace of humility.”

“Thank you, Aunt Felicia,” said Robina. “I know you are exceedingly kind, and you mean well, but perhaps Mr Durrant understands me a little better than you do.”

“Now, there you are!” said her aunt; “as impertinent as ever! Don’t—I beseech of you—make speeches of that sort to Malcolm Durrant. Now go up to your mother: she wants to see you. She thinks you are improved. I don’t; but the opinion of an old maid never signifies.”

“Oh, Aunt Felicia!”

Book Two—Chapter Five.

Harriet’s Jealousy is Rekindled.

It is all very well for a little girl to repent as Harriet Lane repented on that night when she followed Ralph to the gipsies’ hiding-place. Such repentances make a deep impression in life. They are never, as a rule, forgotten. They influence the character, and if they are followed by earnest resolve and patient determination to conquer in the battle, they in the end lead to victory. But let no one suppose who reads this story that a girl with such a nature as Harriet possessed could easily overcome her various faults. It is true she was now really attached to Ralph. She had never cared for a little child before; but there was something about Ralph that won her heart. At the same time this very affection of hers for the little boy added to her feelings of dislike and envy towards Robina. In her first agony of remorse for what she had done; in her terror with regard to little Ralph, and her fear that he was lost to her and to all her friends forever, she even thought gently and kindly of Robina. When Robina was made Ralph’s school-mother, and when she obtained the pony as her prize, Harriet submitted to her fate. Nevertheless, the thought of Robina rankled in her mind, and when the little girls met at Sunshine Lodge, it was Robina who was the first thorn in Harriet’s side.

Outwardly, it would have been impossible to find a merrier group than those eight girls when they arrived in a waggonette at Sunshine Lodge. Ample preparations had been made for their welcome. Arches of evergreen and flowers were put up over the gates and along the avenue; and over the front door “Welcome, Welcome” appeared in letters of flowers. In every direction smiling faces were to be seen—smiling faces at the lodge gates, smiling faces at the front door; and Mr Durrant, strong, self-reliant, holding Ralph by the hand, was the most delightful sight of all.

“Now, my children, you have come,” he said. “Ralph, greet all your little mothers. Ralph, my son, do the honours of the occasion. There are servants, my children, to show you to your rooms. We shall meet at tea-time. You will be best alone with Ralph for the time being.”

“Oh, my naughty, naughty, darling school-mother!” cried Ralph, flinging himself into Harriet’s arms. He did go to her first, he did cling round her neck, he did press his kisses to her thin cheek. Before anyone else, he was hers; her heart swelled with triumph. But the next minute, it sank with a feeling of ugly jealousy; for was not his clasp still tighter round Robina’s neck, and did he not whisper something into Robina’s ear, and did not Robina flush with pleasure? The other mothers also came in for a share of his rapture: but Harriet, keen to notice and observe, felt that notwithstanding the fact that he had come to her first of all, Robina must be his favourite.

The first couple of hours, however, spent at Sunshine Lodge were too brilliantly, intoxicatingly happy for even jealousy to find much scope. Harriet was hurried along with her companions from one room to another, from one point of enjoyment to another.

When they had examined the house and expressed themselves satisfied with their sweet little bedrooms, and when they had glanced at the tea-table, and observed the numbers of cakes which it contained, and the vast piles of bread and butter and the dishes full of jam and the plates of fruit and the combs of honey, and all the other imaginable good things that go to make up that meal of all meals—an English nursery tea, they were hurried off to the stables.

Here were donkeys; donkeys enough for each girl to select one as her special property; and here was Bo-peep, and Ralph’s own lovely little pony, Bluefeather. Bluefeather was black as ink, and was only called blue because Ralph liked the colour, and because the pony’s mane was so thick and strong and waved so in the wind.

Now at the sight of Bo-peep and Bluefeather standing side by side and eyeing each other with considerable appreciation, Harriet’s smouldering jealousy woke into a fierce flame. She felt a sudden sense almost of sickness stealing over her. Jane Bush was standing not far off.

“Come, Janie,” she said, all of a sudden, speaking harshly and with something of her old tone. “I am tired of looking at stupid donkeys; I don’t want to choose my donkey this evening; come and let us take a walk all by ourselves before we have to go in to tea.”

“I say,” called Ralph, “naughty school-mother, we are going to tea almost immediately.”

“Well, you can call me when you are ready for me,” said Harriet, “I shan’t be far away.”

She tugged at Jane’s arm. Now Jane was not in the least jealous; she was charmed to possess a donkey. A pony was, of course, preferable, but to have a donkey all her own to call any name she liked for the whole of the rest of the holidays was quite enough to fill her heart with rejoicing.

“I shall call mine Thistle,” she said. “Don’t you think that is a good name, Harriet?”

“Oh, I am sure I don’t care,” said Harriet. “Call it Thistle or Nettle, or anything else you fancy; I am not interested in donkeys.”

“Well, I am,” said Jane, a little stoutly. “Why should we go away, Harriet?”

“Aren’t you going to be friends with me any more, Jane?”

“Of course, only I thought—”

“Oh, your thoughts! as if they signified,” said Harriet. “Look here, Jane; do let’s walk up and down in front of the house. Of course we’re going to have a jolly time; but I want to have a little chat with you, with you—my old, my oldest friend—all by ourselves.”

“Oh, well,” said Jane, mollified at once, “if you are going to make me your friend, like we used to be before that dreadful day when Ralph ran away, of course I shall be glad. But I thought you were quite changed, that you were the good-girl-for-evermore sort. You know you did repent—everyone in the school knew it, and on the whole, I was glad, although you gave me up.”

While Jane was speaking, the two girls had left the yard, and had entered a little bowery path which led round to the left side of the house. Here they could be seen from the house, but could not be heard. Harriet looked full at Jane when they found themselves in this bowery retreat.

“Look here,” she said, “I must out with it.”

“Well?” said Jane, expectantly. Jane looked stouter and rounder and broader than ever. “Well?” she repeated, fixing her black eyes on Harriet’s face.

“I am not a good-for-evermore sort of girl,” said Harriet. Then she stood very still, and waited for Jane to reply.

Jane could not tell at that moment whether she was most glad or sorry. Harriet had always rather frightened her, and since the date of Harriet’s repentance she, Jane, had had what might be expressed as a very good and comfortable time. She had got into no scrapes, she had had of course no adventures; but then she had worked at her studies, and had made such admirable progress that she even won a small prize at the break-up.

Nevertheless, Jane had her own little jealousies, and although they were not so marked as Harriet’s—for her character was nothing like as strong as the character of her friend—they did rankle in her breast. To be even the one confidante of the naughty girl of the third form was better than to be no one’s confidante at all; and from the moment of Harriet’s repentance, Jane had been feeling very safe, but just a little dull, and just a tiny bit forsaken. Now, therefore, to receive the old confidence back again, to notice the daring look in Harriet’s light blue eyes, and to hear the old ring in her voice, awoke a certain very naughty pleasure in Jane.

“Oh well,” she said; “I thought your good fit couldn’t last forever. But what is it now?”

“I am just madly jealous of that Robina,” whispered Harriet.

“Oh,” said Jane; “it’s the old thing! But why can’t you leave poor Robina alone?”

“I can’t: she has got Bo-peep.”

“Well; of course she has,” said Jane. “You knew quite well she would get Bo-peep from the moment that you made such a mess of things with poor little Ralph, and he was handed over to Robina to mother him. That is no news, surely you ought to have got over that by now.”

“I ought; but I haven’t,” said Harriet; “so where’s the good of ‘oughting’ me about it?”

“I see you are the same as ever,” said Jane in a low tone in which satisfaction and perplexity were mingled.

“I am,” said Harriet, “and what is more, if they think I am going to ride one of those horrid donkeys, they are very much mistaken. You can mount on your Thistle, or your Nettle all by yourself, as far as I am concerned. If I can’t have a pony like Bo-peep or Bluefeather, I shan’t ride at all.”

“Oh, Harriet; you will make us all so unhappy, and it will look so bad, and dear Mr Durrant won’t like it.”

“Dear Mr Durrant!” echoed Harriet in a tone of great contempt. “He ought not to expect a girl like me to ride a donkey; it is a sort of reproach to me, that it is!”

“Oh, Harriet! I never knew anyone quite so kind as Mr Durrant; and then you will vex little Ralph; think of that; you do love Ralph.”

“Yes,” said Harriet, thoughtfully. “On the whole, I love him very much. I never cared for a little boy before; he is quite the nicest child I have ever come across, but there are some things even about him that I cannot bear. I want him to stop calling me his naughty school-mother. It is like for ever and for ever bringing up my little adventure with him. I am going to speak to him about that. He shan’t go on with it; I mean to put a stop to it.”

“Oh, but he does it so innocently,” said Jane.

“It vexes me,” interrupted Harriet, “and he shan’t go on with it. Then I do want him not to show such a marked preference for Robina when I am by. I wish—I do wish—”

“What?” said Jane.

“That I could yet get him really to love me best. The fact is this, Janie. I don’t like Robina one little scrap more than I ever liked her; and if I could open Ralph’s eyes, and get him to see that she is not a bit nice really; why—that would be something worth living for.”

“I don’t know how you are to manage it,” said Jane; “and I think,” she added, “even if you could do it, it would be a very horrid thing to do.”

“Oh! what a goody you are turning into!” was Harriet’s response. “Well, I am going to put my wits in soak; I generally think out a way when I have pondered it long enough. Oh, trust me, Janie; and all I want from you is this—”

“What?” asked Janie.

“Your help when the time comes.”

“Oh, dear!” said Jane. “That means something wicked!”

“You have a nice opinion of me, Jane.”

“But it does, doesn’t it?” said Jane. “I cannot tell you how mean I felt when I had to praise you all day long that day when I was Ralph’s school-mother. I got positively sick of the feeling: I don’t want to have to do that again.”

“You won’t,” said Harriet. “It will be something quite different now. But there’s the tea-bell, and I am hungry. I am so thankful that we need not stand any longer in that yard looking at those hideous donkeys. Let us run to the house; let’s see who’ll be there first!”

The tea was quite as delightful as healthy appetites and cheerful faces round the board, and merry laughter and gay young voices could make it. Mr Durrant himself was present at the tea-table, but he did not preside. It was Robina who on this occasion was given the position of tea-maker.

“I am going to be fed and petted and fussed over,” said Mr Durrant. “I say, you eight little mothers, you have got to mother me a bit; you have got to keep my plate well supplied. I have a ravening wolf inside me, and he must be well fed. I am good for any amount of cakes, and jam, and bread and butter; so see you feed me. Don’t keep me waiting an instant when my plate gets empty; and I am a whale on tea, I can tell you; cup after cup I shall want. The little mothers must keep me going with fresh cups of tea. Yes, Robina shall preside to-day—she is the good school-mother—and Harriet to-morrow, and so on, and so on. Now then, let us fall into place. Ralph, my son, take the lead; you are the gentleman of the house on this occasion.”

Book Two—Chapter Six.

An Eventful Morning.

The tea came to an end without any special adventure and afterwards the children disported themselves to their hearts’ content in the gardens.

The gardens were very extensive. There were paddocks and lawns, and running streams where some of the little mothers declared they could see tiny minnows and other minute fish darting about; and there was a round pond with water-lilies on it and there were many swings, and hammocks in the trees. Besides these delights, there were walled-in fruit gardens, and great glass-houses inside which grew those rarest and most fascinating flowers, orchids.

The children were allowed to explore all the houses on condition that they picked nothing and invariably shut the doors behind them. They all had a great deal to see and to talk over, and even Harriet forgot her jealousy and laughed and joked with the others. Bed-time came all too soon. Eight sleepy little girls went up to their different rooms and laid their heads on their pillow’s, and fell sound asleep, and eight very happy little girls, thoroughly refreshed and full of joyful anticipation, awoke on the following morning.

They awoke to the fact that the sun was shining, that the sky was blue, and that the sea in the distance was one dazzling blaze of sparkling waves and exquisite colour.

At breakfast-time, Mr Durrant arranged that the entire party should ride down to the beach, where those who wished could bathe, and those who did not could play on the sands until it was time for early dinner. Dinner was to be at one o’clock, and this was to be followed by a long drive, which was to terminate in a vast picnic tea, where real tea was to be made, and cakes, bread and butter and other things consumed. The party were to return to Sunshine Lodge rather late, and then Mr Durrant would amuse them with a marvellous magic lantern which he possessed, and would show them, as he expressed it, some of his adventures in South Africa.

“Father doesn’t often do that sort of thing,” whispered Ralph to his school-mother Robina. “He doesn’t even like to talk ’bout his ’ventures, ’cept when he’s special pleased. So you’re all in good luck, I can tell you.”

“Oh, we are just too happy for anything!” said Robina.

“Now then, children,” called Mr Durrant’s voice from the other end of the table; “if you have had sufficient breakfast, will you disperse, please, and shall we all meet in the porch in a quarter of an hour? Our different steeds will be waiting for us, and we can each mount and ride away.”

It was at this moment that Jane cast a fearful, half-admiring, half-beseeching glance at Harriet. Now but for this glance of Jane’s it is quite possible that Harriet might have thought better of her conversation of the previous day, and might have even mounted on her donkey’s back and ridden off, a happy, laughing child to the sea-shore. Harriet adored the sea, having been brought up there when quite a little child. She could bathe; and swim like a little fish; and it did dart through her mind how very superior she would be to her companions when she was swimming about and they had to content themselves with simply ducking up and down in the water. Mr Durrant would be sure to admire her when he saw what a good swimmer she was. Harriet craved more for admiration than for anything else in the world. But now that look of Jane’s recalled her to her remark of the previous evening.

She had vowed that nothing would induce her to mount a donkey. At any sacrifice, therefore, she must keep her word. If Jane thought little of her, the world would indeed be coming to an end.

Accordingly, she sat very still, munching her bread and butter slowly, and looking straight before her. Robina, on the other hand, was in great excitement. She talked openly and, as Harriet said to herself, in the most abominable taste, of the delicious ride she would have on Bo-peep’s back to the sea-shore.

“You will ride with me on Bluefeather; won’t you, Ralph?” she said to the little boy.

“In course I will!” he said.

In his white drill sailor-suit Ralph made the most lovely little picture. Harriet looked up at that moment, and caught his eye. Ralph, quick to perceive when anyone was in trouble, immediately left Robina, and flew to Harriet’s side.

“What can I do for you, naughty school-mother?” he said.

“Look here, Ralph; I won’t be called by that name,” said Harriet. “I dislike it very much. If you think me naughty, you ought not to speak to me.”

“Oh—I—I love you!” said Ralph.

“Then show it in some less unpleasant way,” said Harriet, who now that she had given tongue to some of her grievance, flew in a regular passion; “and,” she added, rising as she spoke, “I don’t know what the rest of you mean to do, but I shan’t ride this morning. I don’t like riding donkeys, so that’s all about it.” She got up and marched from the room. Mr Durrant had already gone. The eyes of the rest of the school-mothers followed her, and Jane’s face grew first white and then pink.

“Oh Jane,” said Robina, the minute Harriet had gone, “what is the matter now? I am sure I don’t mind riding one of the donkeys and Harriet can have Bo-peep. Do run after her and tell her so; do, please, Jane. It’ll spoil all our fun if she doesn’t come down; please get her to come.”

“But,” said Ralph, “I know father will want you to ride Bo-peep, Robina; for he said so last night. He said he had not seen you yet on Bo-peep, and he was ever so anxious to, and ’sides—your habit wouldn’t fit Harriet: Harriet is much thinner than you.”

“Yes; I never thought of that,” replied Robina. “Well, I do wish she wouldn’t be so troublesome. Shall I go and find her, and try and bring her round to a proper sense of things; it is too hard that she should spoil all the fun.”

“No, don’t; there is no use in it,” said Jane.

“But I will,” said Robina; “she must not be so inconsiderate. Think what dear Mr Durrant will say. Ralph, my darling, come with me and coax poor Harriet. You know she loves you very much.”

“Yes; let’s coax her,” said Ralph.

He took Robina’s hand and they left the dining-room. As they were going upstairs Ralph said, still clinging hard to Robina’s hand:

“I love Harriet, but I love you much, much, much the best.”

“Love us both,” said Robina, “and don’t say which of us you love best.”

“Oh, I can’t help it,” said Ralph. “Harriet’s nice sometimes, but you are nice always, and I am very glad you have got Bo-peep.”

“Well, we must do our very best to make Harriet come with us to-day,” said Robina, and she knocked as she spoke at that young lady’s door.

A sulky voice from within murmured something, and Robina opened the door. Harriet was standing with her back to the door. She was pretending to gaze out of the window. When the knock came, she imagined that it was Jane, coming to expostulate with her. Had this happened, she would probably have given vent to her feelings in no measured language; but when she turned and saw Robina, the smouldering fire in her breast rose to white heat.

“Go away!” she said, just glancing at Robina and Ralph and then resuming her position with her back to them. “I am busy at present: go away.”

“You aren’t busy, Harriet,” said Ralph, laughing; “why, you’re doing nothing at all.”

“Yes I am; I am thinking; go away, both of you, I don’t wish to talk to you.”

“Oh, Harriet!” said Ralph. There was a cry of pain in his voice, and just for a minute Harriet’s resolve to be intensely disagreeable wavered; but Robina’s voice recalled her to her worst self.

“Ralph, I must!” she whispered. Then she said aloud: “I do want you to ride Bo-peep this morning, Harriet. And you can easily wear my habit, although it may be a little big for you. Please, Harriet, do come downstairs and be nice and jolly with us all. You shall ride Bo-peep, and I will ride whichever donkey you have selected. I love riding a donkey, it is such fun.”

“Oh!” said Harriet; “oh!—before I’d demean myself to tell such lies! You love to ride on a donkey, do you? Then ride one, I am sure I don’t care. But as to my demeaning myself by getting on your pony’s back—I may be small, but I’m not as small as all that! No: go, both of you; I hate and detest you both. Ralph, you need not consider me your mother any more. I am not your school-mother—I am nothing at all to you. I am just a very cross, angry girl and oh, do go away, please!”

“Come, Ralph,” said Robina.

She took the little boy to the door. She opened the door; she pushed Ralph outside.

“You are just angry, Harriet,” she said then; “but I know you will be sorry by and by; and indeed, indeed, neither Ralph nor I are what you think us.”

“Oh go—go!” said Harriet; and Robina went.

The moment this happened, Harriet flew to the door, and locked it.

“Now am I to be left in peace?” she thought. She was in a white heat of rage. At that moment, there was no bitter, angry, nor desperate thing she would not say. She knew perfectly well that she had injured her own cause; that now Ralph could never love her. Had she not told him to his face that she hated him?—little Ralph, who had never from his birth had one harsh word addressed to him. Had she not said—oh, with such vehemence, such hot, angry rage, that she detested him, that she could not bear him in her presence? Well, she did not care. She was in too great a fury at present to regret her own words. Robina and Ralph had taken her at her word: they had gone away. There was absolute stillness upstairs. Sunshine Lodge was a big house, and to Harriet’s bedroom not a sound penetrated. She could not even hear the merry voices of the gay cavalcade that must even now be starting for the sea-shore.

They would have to ride quite three miles to that part of Eastbourne where Mr Durrant had arranged that bathing tents were to be erected on the beach. Harriet sat down on the low window-sill, clasped her hands and looked out. Why was she here? She might have been as jolly as the others. Oh, no; of course she could not possibly be merry and gay like the rest of the children; it was not in her nature. Nevertheless, she had looked forward to her time at Sunshine Lodge. She had made a great boast to her brothers and sisters and to her home companions, of the gay and delightful time she was about to have. Well, why was not she having it? The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the distant sea looked, oh! so inviting. The crisp waves were even now coming up on the sands and retreating again with their everlasting ‘I wish, I wish’ sort of sound. There were the donkeys for the contented children to ride, and there was the kindest of all hosts to give them every happiness. Why was she out of it?

“Because I am so mad, and bad!” she thought; and then she covered her face with her hands and burst into angry tears.

Harriet was neither sorry nor repentant, as she had been on that occasion when little Ralph was lost. She was furious at once with herself and with Robina, and even with Ralph. Why did Robina come prying and spying to her room? and why did she dare to bring Ralph with her? and then why did she make that detestable, hypocritical offer to her? Harriet, indeed, to be seen riding Robina’s pony!—the pony given to Robina by Mr Durrant because she had been so kind to his little son! What a martyr Robina would look on one of the donkeys! and what a monster of selfishness she, Harriet, would appear riding on Bo-peep’s back! Oh, yes: Robina wanted to serve her own ends when she would bestow on Harriet the favour of letting her ride her pony.

“She thinks she is not sure of Ralph: she thinks she is not quite sure of Mr Durrant. She meant to clinch matters with both of them by her pretended unselfishness this morning,” thought the furious girl.

“But I have circumvented her: I am glad I have.” However angry one may be; however furious one’s passions may become, it is difficult to keep up the anger and the commotion and the fierce storm within the breast when there is no one to listen, no one to watch, no one, either, to sympathise or to blame. In the stillness of her little room Harriet’s angry heart cooled down. Her cheeks no longer blazed with fury, her eyes no longer flashed. After her time of storm, she felt a sort of reaction which made her cold and dull and miserable. She was not a bit repentant, except in as far as regarded her own pleasure. But she was weary, and came to the conclusion that her life at Sunshine Lodge would not be such a happy one after all.

When she had reached this stage of discomfort and depression, there came a tap at her room door, and one of the maids tried to turn the handle. Harriet then remembered that she had locked the door. She went and opened it. The girl asked with a smiling face if she could arrange the young lady’s room.

“Certainly,” said Harriet. “I am going out.”

She took a big straw hat from a peg on the door and put it on her head.

“I made sure, miss, that you were away to the shore with the others.”

“I did not go with them,” said Harriet.

“I hope, miss,” said the girl, glancing at Harriet, and observing the red rims round her eyes, “I hope that you ain’t ill, miss.”

“No, I am quite well, thank you; but the fact is, I don’t care for donkey rides. I am going out now, so you can arrange my room as soon as you like.”

“Thank you, miss,” replied the girl.

Harriet ran downstairs. The hall door stood wide open: a little gentle breeze came in and fluttered the leaves of some books on the hall table. The air was sun-laden, and Harriet was glad to get out-of-doors. The little place seemed still and undisturbed; but by and by she came to a gardener’s boy, and then to the gardener himself. They both touched their hats to her. She wandered on and on. Presently, she reached the round pond. Here the water-lilies grew in profusion—great yellow cups, and still larger white ones. Harriet felt that desire which comes to almost every child to possess herself of some of the great waxen blossoms. She bent forward and tried to pick one. She could not manage it, however, for the flowers with their thick stems were hard to gather, and she knew that were she to try any harder she might fall into the pond. This she had no wish to do, and contented herself with standing by the bank.

As she was thus standing, wondering what she should do next, she heard a clear little voice say:

“Hallo there!” and Ralph bounded out of a thick undergrowth close by.

“Ralph?” said Harriet. She felt herself colouring. Shame absolutely filled her eyes. She did not want to look at the boy, and yet, in spite of every effort, her heart bounded with delight at seeing him.

“Did you want some of those?” said Ralph, eagerly.

“I will pick them for you. I know quite well how I can manage. See,” he added eagerly, “do you notice that willow tree growing right over the pond? I will climb along that branch, just where it dips so near the water, and I’ll put my hand out, and cut off some of the beautiful blossoms for you. Aren’t they just lovely?”

“Yes,” said Harriet, “but I don’t want them. Don’t endanger your precious life for me, Ralph, it isn’t worth while.”

As Harriet spoke, she turned away, marching with her head in the air in the opposite direction. She heard a cry, or fancied she heard one; and a minute afterwards, eager steps followed her.

“Harriet,” said Ralph’s little voice. He slipped his hand inside her arm. “What has I done? Why do you hate me, Harriet? What has I done?”

Harriet looked round. Then for a minute she stood quite still. Then, all of a sudden, her eyes fell; they fell until they reached the brown beseeching eyes of Ralph. Over her whole heart there rushed such a sensation of love for the boy that she could not restrain herself another moment.

“Oh, Ralph!” she said, with a sob. “I am about the nastiest girl in all the world. But I do, I do love you! Oh Ralph, Ralph!”

She flung her arms around him, dropping on her knees to come nearer to him. Just for a minute, she gave him a fierce kiss; then she let him go.

“It is Robina I hate,” she said; “it is not you.” Ralph gave a sigh.

“I am glad you don’t hate me,” he said, “’cause you see I love you.”

“And why aren’t you with the others?” said Harriet, suddenly.

“Couldn’t,” said Ralph, shaking his head. “Stayed a-hint ’cause of you; wanted to be with you—couldn’t go.”

“Then you do really love me?”

“I has said so,” answered Ralph.

A warm glow such as a fire might make entered Harriet’s heart. She sank down on the mossy turf and drew Ralph to sit near her.

“You are very nice,” she said. “I am very, very glad you stayed. But what did your father—what did he do?”

“Father?” said Ralph, in a surprised tone. “Nothing, in course.”

“But he wanted you to go, surely?”

“I said to father I must stay home this morning ’cause of one of my school-mothers.”

“And then?” said Harriet.

“Father—he said, ‘Send Bluefeather back to the stables.’”

“Then, Ralph?—and was that all?” asked Harriet.

“’Course,” said Ralph. “Father don’t question ’less at something very naughty.”

“Oh,” answered Harriet. After a pause, she said: “He didn’t ask you which of your school-mothers?”

“No,” said Ralph. “Think he guessed, though.”

“Did your father go with the others to the sea-shore?”

“Oh, yes: he went in the governess cart. He drove the donkey that drew the governess cart his own self.”

“You must have been very sorry to give up your fun,” said Harriet.

“’Course,” said Ralph.

“But you did it for me?”

“’Course,” said Ralph again. He concealed nothing, denied nothing. He looked full now into Harriet’s face.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“You said you hated Robina and me; then you said afterwards that you did not hate me—you loved me, but you hated Robina. I want you to love us both. By the time Robina comes back, I want you to be a-loving of her as hard as you’re a-loving of me.”

“Well, I can’t do that,” said Harriet, “so there is no use wishing it.”

Ralph sighed. “She is very, very good,” he said. “Ralph,” said Harriet, suddenly; “there are some things I cannot bear.”

“What?” asked the little boy.

“I love you, and I can’t bear you to be fondest of Robina.”

“Very sorry,” said Ralph, shaking his curly head.

“Don’t you think,” said Harriet, drawing him close to her and fondling his chubby hand, “that you could manage to love me best? I want your love more than Robina does.”

“Sorry,” said Ralph again.

“Then you do love her best?”

“’Course,” said Ralph, “much best.”

Harriet pushed him away.

“Then I don’t want to sit with you,” she said, “nor talk to you. Go to Robina altogether. I—I suppose I am jealous; it is a horrid thing to be, but I suppose I am. You needn’t have stayed at home for me this morning. I don’t hate you; I was in a passion when I said I did; I love you very much but—I can’t stand a love like yours, the greater part of which is given to Robina.”

“Shall I tell you why I love her?” said Ralph. “’Cause she is strong and good and brave, and she teaches I lots of things; and she lets I look into her face; and she tells stories—wonderful stories!”

“Yes,” said Harriet. She was gazing intently at the child.

“Now you doesn’t,” said Ralph. “You did one day when I was with you, one day when you gave me picnic breakfast and we went to town and bought things for a picnic tea. But Robina does it every day; and I feel that she is strong, and—and—I can’t help it—I have to love her best.”

“I will tell you what I am,” said Harriet; “you had best know me for what I really am. I don’t like Robina just for the simple reason that she is stronger than me, and she can tell better stories, and she has got Bo-peep and I have not; and she is cleverer than me and has taken my place in the form. I was happy enough before she came to school, but I am not happy now.”

“I am so sorry,” said Ralph. “It seems an awfu’ pity, ’cause she can’t help being clever. My father’s clever: he can’t help it. Does you hate him ’cause of his big, big brains?”

“Oh, no, no—it’s quite different. You don’t understand what friendship means, Ralph.”

“Yes, I do: Robina tells me. When your friend isn’t happy, you’re not happy; that’s one thing ’bout friendship. And you would do anything for your friend—anything: that’s another. I heard father once speak of that. He did a wonderful big thing for a friend of his. I am always wanting to do a big thing for Robina, and a big thing for you. I know it isn’t much, but I did stay home for you this morning.”

“So you did; and you are a dear little boy; and I wish I wasn’t such a horror myself,” said Harriet suddenly. “Leave me, now. Ralph: after all, there is nothing you can do for me. I am cross, I suppose, but I’ll be better by-and-by.”

Ralph went away very sadly. He could not understand Harriet. His beautiful morning was wasted. Suddenly, he found himself back again by the round pond. The lilies were looking more lovely than ever in the sun. A dragon fly had just got out of his chrysalis, and Ralph watched him for a moment as he poised for flight.

All of a sudden, the wish to pick some water-lilies for Harriet returned to him. He would show her by this means how truly he loved her. She did want the lilies, he knew it, for he had seen her tugging so hard at one. “And she just lost her balance,” he said to himself. “Poor, poor Harriet: It would have been horrid if she had falled into the pond!”

The thought of getting some lilies for Harriet restored the little boy’s sense of happiness. He was his father’s own son, and knew no fear. Harriet was one of his school-mothers—the school-mother he loved second best. He made up his mind quickly to pluck three yellow lilies for her, and four white ones. That would be seven in all. Someone had told him that seven made a perfect number. He could easily reach the lilies if he climbed the willow tree, and gently pushed himself along that branch which bent over the pond.

No sooner did the thought come than he proceeded to put it into action. The supple bough, however, bent very low beneath his weight. Ralph was but a little boy, however, and the bough would undoubtedly hold him if he did not go too far along its slender stem. He had plucked one lily, and his little hand had grasped a second, when all of a sudden there was an ominous crack at the further end of the bough. It bent so low into the water now that Ralph’s balance was upset, and he found himself struggling in the deep pond. Ralph was not a minute in the water before Harriet, who was really not far off, rushed to the spot. Into the pond she plunged, seized the boy by his collar and dragged him with some slight difficulty to the shore. They were both very wet, but neither of them in the least hurt. Harriet stood by, dripping from head to foot.

“Oh, Ralph, Ralph!” she cried. “Did you do that to show that you loved me?”

“Yes; oh yes;” said Ralph. “Why, I nearly died for you, and you nearly died for me!”

“We must be the best and greatest of friends now,” said Harriet, quick to seize the opportunity. “But come into the house at once; you must get all your things off, or you will catch cold. Oh, and Ralph; promise me one thing—this shall be a secret between you and me. You will never tell anybody that you risked your life to get me the flowers, and I will never tell a soul that I risked mine to save you.”

“Oh—but you are splendid!” said Ralph. “Why, I should be dead now but for you, Harriet.”

“Of course you would, Ralph,” she answered; but she took care not to tell him that she was an excellent swimmer and had not risked her life in the very least when she sprang into the pond to save the little boy.

Book Two—Chapter Seven.

Mr Durrant’s New Plan.

Harriet took Ralph to her own room. There she changed all his things and made him get into her bed until she could fetch some fresh ones for him. He was cold, and shivering a great deal, but Harriet, quite unacquainted with the illnesses of young children, was not in the least alarmed. She ransacked Ralph’s wardrobe for another little drill suit, and he was dressed in new, dry clothes, and all trace of his ducking in the pond was removed before the party returned from their picnic.

Harriet herself had remained much longer than Ralph in her wet things, but she also was in fresh garments when they stood holding each other’s hands ready to welcome the others on their return.

Somehow, that ducking in the pond had quite managed to restore Harriet’s good humour. She and Ralph now held a secret between them, and she was firmly convinced that his friendship for Robina must be seriously weakened thereby.

“Why, Ralph, my little man,” said his father, “you do look well.”

He was pleased to see how bright his little son’s eyes were and what a high colour he had in his cheeks, and never guessed that the brightness of the eyes was caused by slight fever, and that the pretty cheeks were flushed for the same reason. At dinner time. Ralph, of his own accord elected to sit near Harriet, and at intervals during the meal he whispered in her ear:

“None of them knew ’cept you and me I risked my life for you, and you risked your life for me.”

“Yes, yes,” whispered Harriet back; “but none of the others must know. Don’t say those words so loud, Ralph, or they will hear us.”

Ralph snuggled close to Harriet, now in an ecstasy at the thought which the great secret they held between them caused. The rest of the day’s programme was carried out in all its entirety. But towards evening, Ralph’s feverish symptoms had increased. During the picnic tea he was unable to eat anything, and Harriet when questioned had to confess that her throat was sore.

The next day both Harriet and Ralph were ill, but Harriet was much worse than Ralph. To be in bed, to be unable to get up and enjoy the fresh air and the sunshine was a trial very hard for so small a boy as Ralph to bear; but when he was told that Harriet was worse than he, and that the doctor had to be sent for, he submitted to his own illness with a good grace. It was Robina who brought him the tidings.

“Harriet is really ill,” she said; “but Dr Fergusson says that you will very soon be all right again; you have only caught a little cold: I wonder how you managed it.”

“Oh, I know quite well all about it,” said Ralph.

“Do you, dear? then you ought to tell us,” said Robina.

Ralph’s soft brown eyes flashed with anger.

“Does you think I’d be so mean?” he said.

Robina looked at him in surprise. After a long time he made the following remark:

“Harriet is quite the most noble girl in the world. If it was not for Harriet, there’d be no me at all.”

Robina burst into a merry laugh.

“Oh, Ralph; you funny little boy!” she said; “what are you talking about?”

“You don’t understand Harriet,” was Ralph’s next speech, and he looked at Robina without the favour he used to bestow upon her. She was his school-mother and, of course, the one he loved best; but still she had never saved his life.

“I wish I could see my darling Harriet,” he said, after a pause. “I wish I could see her all by my lone self. I want to talk to her. We has a great secret atween us.”

The doctor, however, had forbidden Ralph to leave his bed that day, and certainly Harriet could not leave hers. In consequence, the children did not meet for a few days, and then it was rather a pale little boy who rushed into the arms of a thin, pale girl who, weak from the somewhat severe attack she had gone through, was seated in an easy chair not far from an open window.

“Now go ’way, all of you,” said Ralph, “I want to talk to my ownest school-mother. I has a great secret to talk over with her.”

The others obeyed without any protest. Robina, when she left the room, turned to Jane.

“I am sure of one thing,” she said: “something must have happened that day when Ralph and Harriet were left alone together. They were both quite well even although Harriet was cross when we started on our expedition to the beach; but they both got ill that very night, and since then, Ralph has altered: he is devoted to Harriet.”

“Perhaps he has learned to love Harriet best,” said Jane.

In spite of herself, there was a tone of triumph in her voice, for was not Harriet her friend, and did not every one else adore Robina?

“Would you mind?” she asked, fixing her round black eyes now on Robina’s face.

“Mind?” replied Robina. “Yes,” she said, after a little pause, “I don’t like to own to such a horrid feeling, but I am proud of Ralph’s love.”

She turned away as she spoke. She was going to her own room. In order to reach it, she had to pass the tiny chamber where Ralph slept. She found one of the maid-servants coming out. The woman had in her hand a little white drill suit all soaked through and much stained with the green weed which grows on ponds.

“I have just found this, miss,” she said, “in the cupboard in Master Ralph’s room. I wonder how it came there. Surely, little Master Ralph has not had a ducking in the pond.”

Robina felt the colour rushing into her face. For a minute, a sense of triumph filled her. Then she said, gently:

“Send that suit to the wash, please, Maria; and,” she added, “do not say anything about it.”

“There are stockings too, miss, all sopping, and shoes.”

“You can have the shoes dried, can’t you?” said Robina.

“Oh, yes, miss, certainly.”

“Well, send all the other things to the wash.”

“Yes, miss,” said the girl. “Perhaps,” she added, after a pause, “these things account for little Master Ralph not being well for the last few days.”

“They may or may not, Maria: anyhow, we won’t talk about that,” said Robina.

She went downstairs. Her heart was beating fast. The fierce desire to drag the truth from Harriet at any cost, which had overpowered her for a minute, had passed away. Her face was pale. She sat down on the nearest chair.

“Are you tired, my dear?” said Mr Durrant, approaching her at this minute, and sitting down by her side.

“No; not really tired,” she answered.

“I am glad to find you all by yourself, Robina; there are many things I want to say to you.” Robina waited expectantly. “You and Ralph are capital friends, aren’t you?”

“I hope so, indeed—indeed I love him dearly,” said Robina.

“And so does he love you. I cannot tell you, Robina, how thankful I am that he has made a girl of your sort one of his greatest friends; he might so very easily have chosen otherwise. There is Harriet Lane, for instance. Poor Harriet, I don’t want to speak against her, but she is not your sort, my dear. Now I like an open mind, generous—if you will have it, a manly sort of girl, one with no nonsense in her: one, in short, who will help Ralph to be the sort of man I desire him to be by and by. You, my dear, as far as I can tell, are that sort of girl. You have no fear in you. You have, I think, an open mind and a generous disposition. Compared to Ralph, you are old, although of course in yourself you are very young. I shall have to leave my little boy immediately after the summer holidays. My wish was to send him to school—to Mrs Burton’s school—where he could have had a little discipline, school life, and the companionship of many young people. But I have received a letter from Mrs Burton which obliges me to alter my plans.”