L.T. Meade (continued 2)

“As a clergyman, my dears, your father must condemn the dress that makes a woman look pretty; and if you talk about it in his presence, I shall never be able to get your nice frocks for our seaside jaunt, for he will not give me the money.”

This was a terrible thought to the three Misses Amberley, and, in consequence, they seemed as innocent with regard to the muslins and chiffons and voile as though these materials did not exist.

The Reverend Josiah believed that dresses were divided into two categories: cotton dresses for the morning, and silk dresses for the afternoon. He had not the faintest idea that any other textures could be procured. It grieved him sometimes to think that his little daughters did not wear silk on those rare occasions when his parishioners came to visit him, but as he couldn’t afford it, he did not give the matter another thought. Brenda read her letter, folded it up, and put it into her pocket. The Reverend Mr Amberley, having eaten an excellent meal, rose to leave the room. As he was doing so, Brenda raised her voice:

“I am very sorry to interrupt you, Mr Amberley, but can I see you presently in your study?”

The rector signified his assent to this proposition. He was always glad to have an interview with Miss Carlton, for he considered himself in rare luck to have such a nice stylish girl with his little orphans—as he was fond of calling them.

“I shall be in my study at eleven o’clock,” he said, “and quite at your service, Miss Carlton.”

Brenda smiled, showing her brilliant teeth and starry blue eyes, and the rector went away thinking what a dazzling creature she was, and how lucky it was for Fanchon and Josephine and Nina to have such a nice governess to instruct them.

“How my sainted wife—could she speak—would bless that girl!” was his thought. “How happy she makes my dear little ones, and how nice she always manages to look herself!”

“Now, please—please, Brenda!” said Nina, catching her governess by the sleeve the moment the door had closed behind the rector. “That letter—we want to know all about it.”

“Yes, of course we do,” said Josephine.

“Out with the news!” exclaimed Fanchon.

“There isn’t a great deal of news to relate,” replied Brenda. “I am invited to spend the eighth of July with my dear sister at that celebrated school, Hazlitt Chase. She has simply written me an itinerary of trains. I fear I shall have to leave here very early in the morning, and you—my dear petites—will be deprived of your governess for the entire day, for I shall not be home until midnight.”

“Oh dear!” cried Nina. “We thought you were going to spend the night away!”

She looked slightly disappointed and glanced at her sisters.

“Any little fun on?” asked Brenda, interpreting the glances between the three according to her own sweet will.

“No, no—nothing in particular—nothing at all in particular; only we thought you would have so much to tell us when you came back again.”

“I shall have a good deal to tell you. Do you know; that my wonderful young sister is to be Helen of Troy?”

“Whoever is she?” yawned Fanchon.

“Never heard of her, and never want to,” cried Nina.

“Is she one of the dead-and-gones?” exclaimed Josephine. “I hate all dead-and-gones, don’t you, girls?”

“Yes—loathe them!” exclaimed the other sisters.

Brenda laughed.

“Look here,” she said. “I must have a special dress, and a very, very pretty one to go to Hazlitt Chase. I was thinking of getting a pale blue silk—”

“Blue—silk!” exclaimed all three.

“Silk, Brenda? But surely your money—I mean your salary, poor darling, doesn’t run to that!” cried Nina, who had a more caressing way than her sisters.

“Whether my salary runs to it or not, I mean to get it,” said Brenda—“a very pale shade and plenty of white lace with it, and a white lace scarf, such as is worn so much now, on my shoulders. Ah, your governess will look one of the prettiest girls at the fête, and won’t you be pleased, mes enfants?”

Brenda scarcely knew a word of French, but was fond of interlarding her conversation with a few simple sentences. These had an excellent effect as far as the Reverend Josiah was concerned, but the girls had no respect for them, being well aware of the shallowness of their darling Brenda’s pretensions with regard to the French tongue.

“Well,” said Nina—“and how are you going to get the dress?”

“I am going now—in a few minutes—to see your father, and will ask him to let us have the pony and trap. Then we can all drive to Rocheford, where there is a very good draper’s shop. There I will buy a silk and get Madame Declassé, in the High Street, to make it for me in time.”

“But father won’t know you in blue silk.”

“I don’t want him to. Do you suppose, for a minute, you little geese, that I am going to tell him it is on my account I want the pony and trap? Is it likely he would accede to the wishes of a poor little governess? Not I, mes enfants—not I. You three dear things are to be the innocent cause of our drive to Rocheford. Don’t you suppose that you want any cotton frocks for the seaside?”

“Oh, yes—yes!” said Nina, “we want frocks, but not cotton ones.”

“Muslins are quite as cheap,” said Brenda. “I shall call them cotton to your father, and will buy muslin dresses for you—a pale pink muslin each—how will they look, chéries?”

“Sweet, sweet!” said Josephine.

“Entrancing!” exclaimed Nina; while Fanchon smacked her lips in anticipation of her own appearance in pink muslin.

Now Brenda knew quite well that these sandy-haired young people with freckled faces and flat features would by no means look their best in pink, be it muslin or cotton, but as she meant them to be foils to herself, she decided to leave them in crass ignorance on this point. The very name, pink muslin, had a delicious sound, and, as there was little time to waste, she told the girls that she would excuse lessons that morning and go upstairs to the school-room to make some mental calculations. Then, having estimated the exact amount of money which the different dresses would cost, she would invade the Reverend Josiah at the hour named.

That good man was busy preparing his sermon when Brenda’s gentle but distinct knock was heard at the door.

“I am so sorry to disturb you, sir,” she said on entering, and she dropped the prettiest imaginable little curtsey. It was quite old-fashioned, and delighted the rector.

“Please don’t apologise, Miss Carlton,” he said. “You want to speak to me, and I am prepared to listen. What is it all about? I hope my dear girl is not dissatisfied in any way. I know your life here must be a little—a little—dull; but I trust that you are not thinking of leaving us.”

“Leaving you—my dear kind sir?” replied Brenda. “Far indeed are such ideas from my thoughts. I am nothing but a dependent, and lonely at that. Dear Mr Amberley, have I not heard you talk of your sweet children as orphans? Well, am I not an orphan, too?”

“Alas—that it should be the case!” said Mr Amberley.

“It is the case. My darling sister and I were left without parents when she was a very little child and I was a young girl. She has been fortunate enough to be admitted into one of the best schools anywhere in this part of England, or indeed, I may say in England at all. I allude to Hazlitt Chase. You must have heard of the name, sir.”

“Hazlitt Chase?” said Mr Amberley. “Of course I know the name. Lady Sophia L’Estrange has two daughters there—Mary and Juliet. Sweet young girls. Lady Sophia lives about four miles from here. I had not the slightest idea that you had a sister at such a distinguished school, Miss Carlton.”

“I have that privilege,” said Brenda, dropping her eyelids so that her long, curly, black eyelashes could rest in the most becoming manner against her peach-bloomy cheeks.

The rector looked at her with admiration.

“She certainly is a very sweet creature,” he thought.

“What is the name of your sister?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.

“She is called Penelope.”

“How quaint and old-fashioned!”

“She is about to take a somewhat old-fashioned part,” continued Brenda. “I don’t pretend to know the old stories as I ought to; you, sir, who are such a good Greek scholar, must have heard of the character of Helen of Troy.”

“Beautiful Helen!” whispered Mr Amberley, under his breath.

“My sister is to take part in some tableaux which Mrs Hazlitt is presenting of Tennyson’s ‘Dream of Fair Women.’ She wants me to see it, and I am anxious to go. I think that if I leave here by an early train, I can spend the greater part of the day at Hazlitt Chase and return here soon after midnight.”

“That will be a late hour to ask the servants to sit up.”

“But if you will entrust me with a latch-key—”

“No, no, my dear girl: I will sit up for you myself with pleasure. Of course you shall go.”

“Thank you,” said Brenda: “you are more than kind.” She fidgeted a little, then continued: “It will be a very gay party, and people from many parts of England will assemble there to witness the different events of the day. Tennyson’s ‘Dream of Fair Women’ is, I believe, to take the most distinguished place in the day’s proceedings and, in short, sir—I want to be suitably dressed.”

“Of course—of course,” said Mr Amberley, looking a little confused, as he always was when the subject of money was even approached. “Eh—a neat cotton, eh?”

“Well, sir—it must be something rather better on this occasion; but if I might ask for my quarter’s salary, I have no doubt I can manage.”

“My poor, dear girl! have I forgotten it? How long is it due?”

“It won’t be due for a fortnight, sir; but I thought, under the circumstances, that you might—I mean that you would be so kind—”

“You shall have a cheque immediately. Let me see—your salary is thirty pounds a year, that means seven pounds ten a quarter. I will write you a cheque for the amount; you can cash it at the bank. Get a pretty cool-looking cotton, my dear Miss Carlton—something with rosebuds on it: you are—so like a rosebud yourself.”

“One minute please, sir. I cannot get the sort of dress I want at Harroway. I must go to Rocheford to make my purchase and I think it would be a good opportunity to get the girls’ dresses for the seaside at the same time.”

“Oh dear, dear, dear!” said Mr Amberley. “Haven’t they got enough dresses from last year?”

“Oh, no!” said Brenda, shaking her head. “They are growing so quickly; you quite forget that.”

“I only know that my funds are very low and that there are a great many sick people in the parish,” said the rector.

“Still your children must be clothed,” said Brenda, putting on a severe air. “You have taken lodgings for them at the sea, and I can’t walk about with girls who are not presentable. I would rather, painful as it seems, resign my post—though of course I don’t really mean to do it, but—”

The rector looked really terrified.

“You must not neglect my poor orphans! What would my children do without you? But what is necessary? What do you think each will require?”

“I can manage with three pounds for each: that is, nine pounds for the three and seven pounds ten for myself. I know it seems a great deal of money, but you cannot imagine how careful I will be.”

“I am sure—I am certain you will.”

Mr Amberley drew a cheque for the amount. He could not help sighing more than once as he did so. It represented a very large sum to him, and would preclude the possibility of his taking any holiday himself; for little Joe Hoskins and Mary Miller must go to the seaside at any cost. Nevertheless, the picture of his home without Brenda Carlton, and his three orphans neglected and forsaken, was greater than his patience could abide; and he made up his mind to do what Brenda wished, let the consequences be what they might. She had her way also with regard to the horse and trap and returned to her pupils with a cheque in her hand for sixteen pounds ten and a most triumphant expression on her pretty face.

Not the most remote idea had she of spending three pounds on each girl; but she could get them a flimsy muslin each, some brown shoes to wear on the sands, and a cheap hat for each sandy-covered head, which would delight their small minds. The rest of the money would be her own. Thus she would be able to make herself look distinguished, and yet not touch the twenty pounds which Penelope had sent her from school.

“Hurrah!” she cried, as she joined her pupils. “The good little papa has come up to the scratch. You shall have your pink muslins, and hats, and gloves, and shoes besides. Only the muslins must be made at home, and I myself will trim the hats. Now then—prepare for a happy holiday. The pony trap will be at the door by twelve o’clock. Nina, run to cook, and tell her to make up some sandwiches for us and a bottle of lemonade. We need not spend our precious fairings at the confectioner’s if we take home-made provisions with us.”

Nina, in rapture at the happy time which she felt was before her, flew off to obey Brenda’s behests and, sharp at twelve, the little party left the old rectory and drove down through the shady village street.

Brenda drove. She was a capital whip, and never looked better than when she was so employed. More than one person turned to gaze with admiration at the handsome showy girl, and her heart swelled within her with pride and satisfaction as she noticed this fact. At the bank she changed the cheque, taking care that her pupils did not see the amount which swelled her little purse.

They arrived at Rocheford in about an hour, and there a silk of the palest shade of blue was chosen with soft French lace for trimming. Nina was absolutely open-mouthed with admiration as she saw the exquisite fabric being told off in yards by the shopman. After the dress was bought, Brenda purchased very pretty pink muslins for her pupils, and white hats which she meant to trim with cheap white muslin.

They then went to a shoemaker’s where they got shoes, and to another shop for gloves, and finally to interview that modiste of great fame, as Madame Declassé described herself. But here disappointment awaited the little girls, for Brenda insisted on entering the apartment all alone.

“You, Fanchon,” she said, “must hold the pony’s reins. Don’t hold them too tight—just like this; see, mon enfant—do attend to my directions. Now then, I shan’t be very long.”

“But may not two of us come with you?” asked Josephine. “We should love to see the pretty things in Madame Declassé’s show-room.”

“No, no; I must see her alone; she will do it cheaper for me if I am alone.”

Brenda skipped away, and the girls were left in charge of the dull, over-worked little pony with the western sun beating down upon them. They had certainly passed an exciting day, but, on the whole, they were not quite satisfied. There was a mutinous feeling in each small breast which only needed the match of suspicion to set it on fire. It was Nina who, in the most casual voice, applied that match.

“I am looking at myself,” she said, “in the mirror let into the pony trap just facing us; and I am awfully red.”

“Of course you are, Nina,” laughed both her sisters.

“My face is red,” continued Nina, “and so is my hair; and my eyes are not at all big. Do you think I am really pretty, or am I ugly?”

She gave an anxious glance at Josephine and Fanchon.

“Ugly—of course,” laughed Fanchon.

“Very ugly—a little fright,” said Josephine.

“Then if I am a fright,” said Nina, becoming a more vivid crimson, “so are you, too, for you are red also, and your hair is sandy, and you have very small eyes.”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Fanchon.

Nina turned restlessly on her hot seat. “I wish I was like Brenda,” she said, after a minute’s pause.

“Well, you are not, and all the wishing in the world won’t make you so,” was Josephine’s answer.

“I suppose she is quite beautiful,” said Fanchon, with a sigh.

“Oh, yes—there isn’t a doubt of it,” continued Nina. “How the men do stare at her.”

“It’s very rude of men to stare,” said Josephine. “It is not at all to be admired.”

“But Brenda likes it, all the same,” said Nina. “I know she does, for she nudges me sometimes as we are on the way to church. What a long time she is with Madame Declassé!”

“Nina,” said Fanchon, “if you don’t sit still, you will startle Rob, and he may take it into his head to run away.”

“Rob run away! He knows better,” answered Nina. “Why, he has hardly a kick in him—poor old dear! You wouldn’t run away, would you, Rob?”

Rob flicked his ears, and gave a slight movement to his tail. This he considered sufficient answer to Nina’s tender enquiry.

“I wish Brenda was not quite so long,” she said. “Why, of course she is a long time. She has got to have her lovely blue silk made up. Fancy Brenda in silk! How astonished father will be! Silk is the dream of his life. He said when he married mother, she wore silk. She never, never wore it since—he said—she could not afford it, only very rich people could. There was a time when I thought of keeping silkworms, and winding off the silk from the cocoons until I had enough to make a dress; but Brenda laughed me out of that.”

“Well—she’s got her deserts. She must have spent a lot of money on the dress,” said Fanchon.

“She didn’t spend much on ours, that I know,” said Nina. “Those pink muslins were only sixpence three farthings the yard, and she wouldn’t get an extra yard for me, although I did so want mine to have little flounces—I think little flounces are so stylish. Oh dear, dear! I wish she would come!”

Here Nina took up a carefully folded parcel which contained the material for the girls’ pink muslin dresses.

“Let’s look at it,” she said—“let’s see it in the broad light. It’ll be something to amuse us.”

“Oh, but we never can pack it up again,” exclaimed Josephine.

“Have you got your pocket knife with you, Fanchon?” asked Nina.

Fanchon declared that she had.

“Well, give it to me, and I will cut a wee hole in the paper, just enough for us to see our darling gowns.”

This was too fascinating a proposal to be lightly refused, and in the end the girls had removed enough of the brown paper wrapping to disclose a certain portion of the delicate pink muslin which lay folded beneath.

“I wonder now,” said Nina—she raised her flushed face and looked at her red little person in the tiny square of glass—“I wonder why she makes us wear pink. Do you think, Fanchon—do you think, Josephine, that it suits us?”

The two elder girls were quite silent, but a horrified expression crept over Fanchon’s face. She was older than the others, and had once heard it said that a girl with red hair—however pretty she might be—ought not to wear pink. A sense of revolt filled her soul.

“Why don’t you speak?” said Nina.

“I—I am thinking,” she said, crossly. “Don’t worry me.”

She was thinking to good purpose. The other two seemed to divine her thoughts. They all sat silent and moody.

“I shall do a sum in arithmetic to-night,” thought Josephine. “I know exactly how many yards of that horrid pink muslin she bought and what the hats cost, and those little cheap shoes, and those gloves.”

But Josephine did not say the words aloud. After a little time Nina said:

“I saw a quantity of gold in Brenda’s purse. It seems so odd that she should spend a lot of father’s money on herself, and so very, very little on us—doesn’t it? I don’t understand it—do you, girls?”

But before the girls could reply, Brenda, looking fresh and captivating, as usual, appeared by their side.

“Now, then,”—she said—“home we go. Oh, I am glad to get out of this heat. I think we’ll have supper in the garden to-night. It will be lovely under the mulberry tree. What do you say, petites? What dear, pretty little darlings you are!”

But the pretty little darlings were not in the best of tempers, and Brenda had some trouble in getting them back to good humour. She herself was in excellent spirits, for she had employed Madame Declassé not only to make the dress in a way so sweet as to take the hearts of all who saw her by storm, but was she not also to make her a long white serge dust coat, very fashionable looking and very, very smart, and a little white hat, which would exactly finish off the pale blue costume? and was not Madame Declassé to supply a parasol and gloves, all suited to that distinguished looking young lady, Miss Brenda Carlton?

But these small matters Brenda kept to herself. It would never do for the sandy-haired daughters of the Reverend Josiah Amberley to know about them. Her object was to humour them to the very top of their bent until she got them away with her to the seaside, and then—behold! what twenty pounds still quite unspent might not achieve! For the blue silk dress was paid for, and Madame Declassé would not charge for the making up, nor for the parasol, nor the white serge coat, nor the pretty white hat, for a long, long time. It really did not matter to Madame when her little bills were paid. She was quite willing and ready to accommodate her customers.

As the little party were driving in by the tumble-down gates, Nina, however, made a remark. She raised her light blue eyes and looked full at Brenda and said, in a tone of question and some alarm:

“Do you really, really think, Brenda, that pink muslin is the most suitable sort of dress for red girls like us?”

“Of course she doesn’t,” said Fanchon.

Josephine was silent. Brenda looked hastily from one of her pupils to the other.

“Listen,” she said, “I have considered the subject of your toilettes with the utmost care. Your good father can allow very little for your clothes. He imagines that you will wear stout cotton dresses during your sojourn at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, but I do not intend you to appear in anything so gauche. I have, therefore, bought delicate muslin, which will be made up to suit you. Of course pink muslin will suit you; it is the colour for blondes like yourselves.”

“Blondes, are we?” said Nina—“I thought we were reds!”

“You little goose!” exclaimed Brenda, bending forward and kissing Nina with affection. “Haven’t you just the darlingest little face, and who loves you if your own Brenda does not? But talk to your father on the subject if you wish, and I will change the pink muslins for cottons to-morrow—I can easily do so.”

“Oh, no—no,” said Fanchon.

Josephine shut her lips. Nina nestled up to her governess in an ecstasy of love and affection. If indeed she was a blonde—that lovely word—why, the pink muslin must suit her!

Chapter Seven.

Light Blue Silk.

During the days that elapsed between the purchase of the pale blue silk and the grand fête at Mrs Hazlitt’s school, it may well be supposed that Brenda Carlton was very busy. Not Penelope at school, not any of those girls who were to take the characters of Tennyson’s “Dream of Fair Women,” were as much occupied as this young woman. She had so much to think of and to do; for she had not only to see about her own toilette, which meant frequent visits to Madame Declassé’s, at Rocheford, and therefore frequent demands for the pony trap, but she had also to help the girls to make up their pink muslins.

She was sorry to have to dress her pupils in a colour she knew in her heart of hearts could not possibly suit them, but she argued with her own conscience that no possible dress that she could devise would make the Misses Amberley look well and, that being the case, they might just as soon be frightful as not. She had no pricks of conscience with regard to this matter. The little red-haired girls were useful to her for the time being. She intended to have a delightful outing at the seaside and, in order to effect this, she must keep the Reverend Josiah in the best of humours until her grand month was over.

This was quite easy to accomplish as long as the girls themselves were pleased. But Brenda was by no means a fool, and she judged by certain remarks of Nina’s, who was the most innocent of the confiding three, that already a few ugly little suspicions with regard to their governess were animating their small breasts. In short, they were the sort of girls who would very soon discover for themselves the wickedness of this wicked world. They were not specially amiable; there was nothing whatever attractive about them. When once they discovered Brenda, as Brenda really was, her position in the Reverend Josiah’s establishment would come to an end.

Well, she intended to secure another home before then. There was a certain rich young man whom she hoped to attract while at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. When once engaged to him, it mattered little to her what any of the Amberleys thought about her. Still, the present fortnight must be used to the best advantage, and Brenda took great care how she trimmed the white hate. She made them look exceedingly pretty and stylish, for she had wonderful fingers which could contrive and arrange the very simplest materials as though by magic. The pink muslin frocks were also made to suit each girl. It did not matter if they were a little skimpy; the girls were all young, and Nina, in particular, ought still to wear very short skirts.

“No, Nina,” said her governess, “I am not going to give you flounces, but I shall put a couple of false tucks upon the muslin skirt.”

“I’d much rather have flounces,” said Nina, who was nearly in tears. “I like little tiny frills, they are so pretty, and you have given them to Fanchon and to Josephine.”

“That is the very reason, chérie, why you must not have them,” was Brenda’s remark. “The washing will be altogether too expensive. Your poor, dear papa, who is taking no holiday himself, cannot possibly afford the laundry bills which I shall have to send him if all your dresses are flounced.”

This argument seemed conclusive, and Nina had to be satisfied—that is, she pretended to be, but there was her little scheme of vengeance working up in her small brain, and she intended to talk it over with her sisters on the eighth of July, that long, long, wonderful day when beautiful Brenda would not be with them, and when they could do exactly as they liked.

Clever as she was, Brenda could not guess the thoughts which filled her little pupil’s brain, and she was too much interested in her own affairs just then to trouble herself much about so insignificant a young person.

Meanwhile, time flew as it always does when one is busy, and Brenda’s own delicate and beautiful dress arrived at the rectory two days before she was to wear it. Now, Brenda did not want any of her pupils to see her in this dress, and above all things, she did not wish the Reverend Josiah to perceive that she—that absolutely dependent orphan—could leave his establishment attired in pale blue silk. She trusted much to the white serge coat, which she had ordered, to cover the silk. Nevertheless, she knew she must run some dangers. As a matter of fact, she had only spent about thirty shillings on each of her pupils, and had, therefore, purloined from the sum which had been given her for their clothes four pounds ten wherewith to line her own pockets. This she hoped would never be discovered, nor would it have been, had Nina not been quite so sharp, and Fanchon so really discontented with the quality of the muslin dress she was to wear at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.

“Please, please, Brenda,” said Fanchon, on the day before the great fête, “won’t you put on your pale blue silk, and let us see you in it? It has come, I know, for I was in the garden when the carrier arrived with that great box from Madame Declassé’s. Father was with us, and he asked what could be in the box.”

“And what did you say, dear?”

“I said it was a box full of pots for making jam—that you had bought the pots the day we were at Rocheford, as you thought it would be such a good thing for cook to turn all the gooseberries into jam while we were at the seaside.”

“What a very clever little Fanchon you are!” said Brenda, looking very attentively at her pupil. “And what did papa say—dear innocent papa?”

“Oh, he was ever so pleased—he loves gooseberry jam, and said that we must on no account strip the trees beforehand, so as to leave plenty for cook to boil down to put into the pots.”

“What a mercy he didn’t feel the box!” was Brenda’s remark. “I do think, Fanchon, you are very clever—very wicked, of course, and I suppose you ought to be punished. But there—you meant well, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did,” said Fanchon, raising her pale blue eyes and fixing them on her governess’ face.

Brenda looked back at the girl. She heartily wished that Fanchon was two years younger and five years stupider, and even a little more ugly; but, such as she was, she must make the best of her.

“Of course,” continued Fanchon, who seemed to divine her governess’ thoughts, “if you really think that I told a wicked story, I can go to father now and tell him that I made a mistake, and that the box contained your blue silk dress, and—and—other things of yours—and not the jam pots. Shall I, Brenda? shall I?”

“You goosey! you goosey!” said Brenda. She squeezed Fanchon’s arm and began to pace up and down the terrace walk with her pupil by her side. “You know,” she said, lowering her voice and speaking in the most confiding and enthralling way, “you are older than the others, and I can confide in you. It is wrong to tell lies—very, very wrong—and whatever possessed you, you silly girl, to think of jam pots? I am sure nothing was further from our heads on that auspicious day. But I don’t want your dear father to see the dress that I am going to the fête in, and I will tell you why.”

“Please do,” said Fanchon, “for to tell the truth, Brenda, neither Nina, nor Josephine, nor I understand you always.”

“Well, dears, is it likely that you should? I am, let me see, between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age, although I don’t look it by any means.”

“I don’t know what that age looks like, so can’t say,” was Fanchon’s remark.

“Well, dear—it is a very beautiful age, and very young. It is the age when a girl comes—so to speak—to her prime, and when she thinks of—of,”—Brenda lowered her voice—“getting married.”

“Oh!” said Fanchon, colouring crimson. “You don’t mean to say—”

“I don’t mean to say anything at all, I have nothing to confide, so don’t imagine it for a single moment. But at the seaside, where the gay people will be, and the band will play, and there’ll be no end of tea out of doors and all sorts of fun of one sort and another, it may happen that—that—somebody may see your Brenda and—oh, Fanchon, need I say any more!”

“I don’t suppose you need,” was Fanchon’s answer. She felt immensely flattered.

“Think what it would mean to me,” continued Brenda. “A prince might come along, who would fall in love with the beggar maid.”

“But you—with your blue silk dress, to be called a beggar maid! That name might suit poor Nina, who can’t have flounces, even, to her pink muslin dress that only cost sixpence three farthings a yard.”

Brenda was startled at Fanchon’s memory with regard to the price of the muslin.

“No,” continued that young lady, “you’re not a bit like the beggar maid.”

“Ah, but—my dear girl—I am the beggar maid, and I am waiting for the king to come along who will raise me to sit on his throne, and—in fact—I am going to whisper a great secret to you, Fanchon—”

“What is it?” said Fanchon, who was at once fretful and disgusted, overpowered with curiosity, and yet heartily wishing that Brenda would not confide in her.

“Well—I will tell you,” said Brenda. “I have been left a little money—just the merest little trifle, and I am spending a little of it on my blue silk, and I don’t want any one to know but just my own darling Fanchon; my eldest pupil—who loves me so well! Perhaps, my chérie, I may buy you a pretty gift out of some of the money. What do you say to a little gold bracelet—a bangle, I mean?”

Brenda remembered that she could get a silver gilt bracelet for a couple of shillings at a shop she knew of at Rocheford, and that it would be worth her while to purchase Fanchon’s sympathy at that price.

“Oh—but I should love it!” said the young lady, looking at her sunburnt and badly formed wrist.

“The bangle would give you good style,” said Brenda. “Well, we’ll say nothing about it now—but—well, as I have given you my confidence, you won’t repeat it.”

“I suppose not, but I do want to see your blue silk.”

“All right, you shall, but not the others—I draw the line at the others. You can slip out of bed to-night and come to me, and I will put it on and show myself. I am going away early in the morning before any of you are up.”

“But I am certain father will be up, for he said so, and he’s going to let you in afterwards.”

Brenda considered for a moment—

“I can’t help his letting me in, but he shan’t see me off,” she said—“no one need do that. Well, now—go and join your sisters. Go to bed at the usual hour, and come to me at ten o’clock; then I will put on the dress and you shall judge of the effect.”

The thought of seeing the wonderful dress and of possessing a real gold bangle were two circumstances enough to turn the slight brain of Fanchon Amberley. She did not confide to her sisters what her conversation had been, and managed that evening to elude them and to present herself at Brenda’s door as the clock struck ten. The other two were sound asleep, so she had little difficulty in getting away from them, and, as Brenda was on the watch, she let her pupil in at once, immediately locking the door as soon as Fanchon got inside.

“Now then,” she said, “you just hop on to my bed, for I don’t want you to catch cold. See—here’s the dress.”

Madame Declassé was really an excellent dressmaker, and the pale blue silk would have looked lovely to any eyes, but the unaccustomed ones of Fanchon Amberley fairly blinked as they gazed at it.

“I never imagined anything so lovely!” she cried. “But you must put it on—you promised.”

Brenda obeyed. She was gratified by the curious mixture of vanity and greed, envy and admiration which filled poor Fanchon’s face, and she attired herself, not only in the dress, which gave her little figure such a “chic” appearance, but also put on the white hat and the dainty white lace scarf, and drew the long white gloves upon her slender arms. Finally, she slipped into the white serge coat which was to cover the finery, lest the Reverend Josiah should catch sight of it.

“He won’t see me to-morrow morning,” she said, “and when I come back in the evening, he’ll think that I am wearing a cotton dress underneath the serge. There now, Fanchon, you have seen everything, and you may rest satisfied that I shall have plenty to tell you when I return.”

“I am bewildered,” said Fanchon. “Of course you look beautiful; of course the prince or the king, whenever either of them comes along, will fall in love with you, for you look like a princess or a queen yourself! I wish I were beautiful too. I hate—yes—I hate being ugly!” and the poor child gave a sob of pain and disappointment.

“Now listen, Fanchon. You won’t be ugly when you are grown up. It doesn’t matter a bit how you look now, for you are only a little girl. What you have to do now is to help me all you can, and then, when you come to be eighteen or nineteen years of age—I will help you, petite, and get you a good husband, and drew you in the colours that will make you look—oh—marvellous! Keep me as your friend and you will be a wise little girl: do the reverse, and you will rue it.”

Fanchon shed a few more tears, but finally yielded to Brenda’s seductions and clasped her arms round her neck and kissed that young person’s cool cheek with her own hot lips; then went to bed to dream of that wonderful vision in blue silk and the prince who was surely going to find her.

The next morning, at a very early hour, Brenda took her departure, having successfully avoided the Reverend Josiah, who had gone to bed with the full intention of getting up to see his dear young governess off and to tell her that he would assuredly sit up and have something hot for supper when she came back in the evening. He had not yet thanked her for her consideration in buying the jam pots.

“The dear girl must have got them out of her own money,” he said to himself. “She really is a treasure, and I am so fond of gooseberry jam. One can have so few indulgences—what with the sick of the parish and my very small stipend. But when I think of that poor young creature, and of what she is doing for me and my children, I cannot be too thankful. I will certainly thank her in suitable words when she returns, and I will see her off in the morning.”

But, alack and alas! the Reverend Josiah was tired, for he had had a very long and fatiguing day, and Brenda’s footsteps were light as the falling of snow, and she had left the house and gone out to the stables and got the pony put to the cart. She had also awakened Jock—universally known as “the boy,” and had given him fourpence to drive her to Harroway station. All these things had been done, and Brenda was away—yes, away for her day’s holiday before the Reverend Josiah opened his eyes on that summer morning.

Chapter Eight.

Break-Up Day.

Nothing at all happened to Brenda of the least importance during her journey to Hazlitt Chase. She went second-class as far as Rocheford. There she changed for first-class, for she had every intention of doing the thing in style.

When she arrived at the little station, she saw several smart-looking carriages waiting to take guests up to The Chase and, going up to the driver of one, requested him immediately to convey her there. He looked at the very smart lady, admired her blue eyes and the radiant and truly natural colour in her cheeks, and signified to her that if she would enter the low victoria, he would take her to The Chase. She did so, wrapping her white serge cloak daintily round her, and leaning back in her seat with evident enjoyment.

She was reaching her goal—the goal she had been aspiring to for so many long weeks now; and that twenty pounds—yes, and a little more besides, some of the Reverend Josiah Amberley’s money (that money which he had given her to clothe his own little daughters)—reposed snugly in her purse at home. Her conscience did not trouble her, for Brenda had never cultivated that excellent monitor. It lay quiet and asleep within her breast. Her whole nature was full of anticipation and ripe for mischief. She was anxious to see her sister and the school, and to make a first-rate impression there.

As she sat leaning back in the little victoria, her white and dainty parasol unfurled, her white gloves gleaming in the summer sunshine, a lady, considerably older than herself, came out of the station and, going up to the driver, asked if she could have a seat also up to The Chase. This lady’s name was Mrs Hungerford, and she had two young daughters at the school. She was a fashionable woman, beautifully dressed, and when she took her seat by Brenda’s side, Brenda felt that she could not do better than make her her friend. Accordingly, she entered into what she considered a very delightful conversation. She talked simply, and yet suitably, with regard to herself, and did what she could to add to Mrs Hungerford’s comfort. For instance, the astute young woman proposed that her white parasol should shade both of them from the sun. Mrs Hungerford was a dark-complexioned woman and she immediately agreed to the offer. As a matter of fact, she did not much mind whether the sun’s rays fell on her face and neck or not. She noticed, although she made no remark at the time, that Brenda did not greatly care either; for she was absorbed in shading herself from the slightest fleck of undue light.

At last they reached The Chase. The little carriage drew up daintily at the front door, where a number of pupils were assembled and where Mrs Hazlitt herself stood to welcome her visitors. The girls in the school were all dressed in white—some in white washing silk, some in white lace, some only in white muslin. But whatever the dress, they looked neat and fresh and, in Brenda’s eyes, were elegant.

She looked anxiously around for Penelope, who was not immediately in sight. Mrs Hungerford got quickly out of the carriage, for she saw her own two little girls, who rushed to her with cries of delight. As she did so, something glittered at Brenda’s feet. She was stepping out when she saw it. It was a little gold bangle with a blue turquoise clasp. It was very pretty and dainty, and altogether the sort of thing which a girl like Brenda would covet. She had no immediate idea, however, of stealing it. She stooped to pick it up immediately, to avoid its being stepped upon, and was about to give it to Mrs Hungerford, whose property she supposed it to be, when that lady went straight into the house, without taking the slightest notice of her. With trembling fingers, Brenda slipped the gold bangle into her pocket. She longed most earnestly to be able to wear it. It was of beautiful workmanship, and the turquoise which clasped it together was of unusual size and purity of colour. It was quite a girlish-looking thing and would be, Brenda felt sure, most unsuitable for dark, stately Mrs Hungerford.

All these thoughts with regard to it rushed through her mind as she stood for a minute, unnoticed, on the green sward which swept up to the house at each side of the principal entrance.

Other carriages had immediately followed the little victoria, which rolled swiftly away out of sight, and, for a minute, no one spoke to Brenda. Then Mrs Hazlitt herself came up to her.

“Ah, how do you do, my dear?” she said. “You are—”

“I am Brenda Carlton,” said Brenda, raising those lovely melting blue eyes to the good lady’s face. “It is so kind of you to invite me here. And where is Penelope?”

Mrs Hazlitt looked around. She was annoyed at Penelope not being in sight, and immediately called Honora Beverley to take her place.

“Honora,” she said—“this is Miss Carlton. I suppose Penelope has not finished dressing; will you kindly take Miss Carlton to her sister’s room? I am sorry, my dear, that I have not a corner to offer you to sleep in to-night; but on break-up days we are always overfull.”

Brenda made a becoming reply, and followed in the wake of beautiful, fair Honora. Her own dress, it seemed to her, was most stylish—most absolutely all that any girl could desire, until she noticed Honora’s white lace robe. It clung softly to her lissom young figure, and had an indescribable air about it which not even Madame Declassé could achieve. In short, it bore the hall-mark of Paris, for Honora Beverley was one of the richest girls in the school. She had always been accustomed to being well dressed, and had, therefore, never given the matter a thought.

She was a most kind-hearted, high-principled girl, and was anxious to do what she could for Brenda, whom she, in her heart of hearts, could not help dubbing as second-class, notwithstanding the girl’s real beauty.

“I am so sorry,” she said, “that Penelope was not present when you arrived; but she always does take a long time over her toilette. We must all assemble in the hall, however, in a quarter of an hour, so you will probably find her fully dressed. That is the way to her room. Have you come from a distance, Miss Carlton?”

Brenda mentioned the obscure village where the Reverend Josiah lived. Honora had never heard of it, neither was she deeply interested. She chatted in a pleasant voice of the different events of the day, and said how delightful everything was, and how singularly kind she thought it of Penelope to take the part of Helen of Troy.

“For I couldn’t do it,” she said. “It is just a case of conscience.”

There was something in her tone and in her gentle look which made Brenda gaze at her, not only with envy, but with dislike.

“Why should your conscience be more tender than my sister’s?” was her answer. “And who was Helen of Troy? I never heard of her.”

Honora opened her brown eyes. She had not believed that any one existed in the wide world who had not, at one time or another, made the acquaintance of this celebrated woman.

“Penelope will tell you about her,” she said gently. “Of course you know, Miss Carlton, what is wrong for one need not be necessarily wrong for another. We have each to answer for our own conscience, have we not? Ah, and this is Penelope’s room.” She knocked at the door. “Penelope, your sister has come.”

Hurried steps were heard inside the chamber. The door was flung open and Penelope, all in white and looking almost pretty, stood on the threshold. Honora immediately withdrew, and the two sisters found themselves for a few minutes alone.

“Do take off your cloak and let me look at you,” said Penelope. “I have been telling the girls so much about you, and most of them are all agog to see you. Dear, dear! pale blue silk! Well, it is rather pretty, only I wish you had been in white; but you look very nice all the same, dear.”

“You ate highly dissatisfied, Penelope; and I’m sure I’ve done all that mortal could to oblige you,” said Brenda.

“And I to oblige you,” retorted Penelope. “I can tell you, I had trouble about those five-pound notes, but you got them safely, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course I did: I only wish you could have managed more. This dress is much prettier than your insipid white. White is all very well for schoolgirls, but I am grown up, remember.”

“Yes, yea—and you look very nice,” said Penelope. “It’s more than you do, Penelope; you’re not a bit pretty,” said frank Brenda.

“I know it—and it seems so highly ridiculous that I should be forced to take the part of Helen of Troy. Of course, Honora was the girl absolutely made on the very model, but she refused.”

“Who is Honora?” asked Brenda.

“Why, that lovely girl in the white lace—(it’s all real, I can tell you, and was sent to her from Paris)—who brought you to my door.”

“Oh—that girl!” said Brenda. “I don’t think her at all remarkable.”

“Don’t you? Well, most people do—she’s quite the belle of the school.”

“And what does the belle of the school signify?” said Brenda, who was feeling decidedly cross. “If a girl could be called the belle of the season, that might be something to aspire to—but the belle of a school! Who cares about that?”

“Well, the schoolgirls do, and while we are at school, it is our world,” said Penelope. “But now I must bring you downstairs, and put you into your place. You must get a seat on one of the benches near the front, or you won’t see one half that is going on. Come along, you may be sure I will fly to you whenever I have a second, but I shall be very busy all day.”

“Will there be gentlemen present?” asked Brenda.

“Oh—certainly. The brothers and cousins and fathers and uncles of the pupils.”

“I don’t care anything at all about the fathers and uncles, but I should like to be introduced to some of the brothers and cousins.”

“Well, I daresay that can be managed—”

“Penelope—do come!” called Cara’s voice in the distance, and Penelope, accompanied by her sister, had to fly downstairs.

A few minutes later, Brenda found herself in the wide, open court. She was partly sheltered by a great awning. Here the prizes were to be given away, a few speeches were to be made, and a few recitations given by some of the most accomplished girls and teachers.

No one took any special notice of her, and this acute young person discovered that if she did not play her own cards well and immediately, she would be out of the fun. Now, this was the last thing she wished. The slight feeling of discomfort which had arisen in her breast when she saw Honora Beverley in her simple and exquisite dress had vanished: the colour brightened in her cheeks; she felt assured that she looked well, and assuredly she was pretty, although second-class.

She deliberately took a seat near two young men who were brothers of two of the older girls. She asked one of them quite an innocent question, to which he replied. She decided that he was good-looking and that she could have a pleasant day in his company, and immediately requested him, in that simple and pathetic voice which always so strongly appealed to the Reverend Josiah, to tell her all about the company—who was who, and what was what. She said that she herself was a lonely girl who had come from a distance to behold her dear sister in that exquisite creation, Helen of Troy. She talked of Helen as though she had been that good woman’s intimate friend from her youth up, and managed to impress both young men with a lively sense of her pleasantness and her frank, daring sort of beauty.

Presently, one of the little Hungerford girls came along. She belonged to the smaller girls of the school. She came straight up to the young man who was talking to Brenda, and, leaning against him, said in a disconsolate voice:

“It is quite lost; mother did promise that I should have it. Pauline has got hers—hers has a ruby clasp, but mine with the blue turquoise can’t be found anywhere!”

“Why, what is it, Nelly?” said the young man. “Nelly, may I introduce you to this young lady.”

“My name is Carlton—Brenda Carlton. I am the sister of your friend Penelope, who is to be Helen of Troy,” said Brenda. “Is anything wrong, dear?” she continued, speaking kindly, and bending forward so as almost to caress the child by her manner.

Young Hungerford’s dark face quite flushed, and he made room for his little sister to sit between him and Brenda for a minute.

“Tell her—perhaps she will know. Now that I remember, she drove up in the victoria with mother from the station.”

“It is my bangle!” said Nelly. “Mother brought one for me, and the other for Pauline. Mine had a turquoise clasp. She got them from Paris and they are so very, very, very pretty; and Pauline is wearing hers, and mine is gone!”

“Oh, but—how provoking! It must be found, of course,” said Brenda, putting on an air of great sympathy, and wondering how she could get it out of her own pocket without suspicion being directed to her.

Her first impulse was simply to say to the child: “I wonder if I know anything about it,” and then to tell how she had picked it up. But Nellie Hungerford’s next remark prevented her doing so.

“Mother is quite certain that she lost it in the train, for she remembers taking the parcel out when she was looking for some sandwiches in her bag; she noticed then that the string was loose. Mother is convinced that she lost it in the train. Oh dear! oh dear! I should not mind quite so badly if Pauline was not wearing hers. There, Fred—do you see her?” continued the little girl. “It is shining on her arm, and that horrid ruby is gleaming like a bit of fire. I am miserable without mine and, although mother will get me another, it won’t be at all the same thing not wearing it on break-up day.”

“Well, dear—it cannot be helped now,” said the brother, “and I see one of the teachers calling you. I suppose you must take your place. You look very nice indeed, Nellie, and no one will miss the bangle.”

“Do I really look nice?” asked Nellie, fixing her pretty eyes on her brother’s face.

“Of course you do,” he answered.

“You look charming, Miss Hungerford,” suddenly interposed Brenda, “and if I may venture to give an opinion, I prefer little girls without bangles.”

This was a remark which at once pleased young Hungerford and displeased his sister.

“I suppose my mamma knows what little girls ought to wear,” she said with great dignity, and then she moved off to take her seat amid the other girls.

When she was gone, Brenda felt a curious flutter at her heart. If Mrs Hungerford was sure that she had lost her bangle in the train, why need wicked Brenda ever return it to her? Surely, she might keep it as her own delightful possession. She might wear it at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, and attract the attention of that most desirable youth whom she hoped to secure as her future husband.

“Do you know—I quite agree with you,” said a voice in her ear.

She turned to confront the dark eyes of Fred Hungerford.

“What about?” she asked, forgetting herself for the moment.

“I would rather my little sisters did not wear ornaments while they are so young, but mother was specially anxious to please them, and insisted on buying the bangles when we were in Paris a fortnight ago. They were very pretty and simple of their kind, and, I know, good too. The turquoise one, strange to say, was the more expensive of the two. Mother would have liked to get a turquoise for each, but they are such an untidy pair she felt certain one would get lost, and so decided that Pauline should be responsible for the ruby, and dear little Nellie for the turquoise. Then, I wanted her to have them sent to the children by registered post, instead of bringing them to-day, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even bring them in boxes, but just slipped them into a piece of tissue paper the last moment, and, of course, one of them has got lost!”

“Do you think it is likely to be found?” asked Brenda.

“I should say most unlikely; unless one of the officials happened to see it before somebody else got into the carriage. It is exactly the sort of thing which an unscrupulous person would pick up and keep.”

“An unscrupulous person!” echoed Brenda.

“Well—yes. Of course you look so innocent and so—so—young, that of course you cannot be a bit aware of the fact that there are lots of dishonest persons in the world. Poor, dear little Nell! Well, she will cheer up in a minute, and forget all about it.”

Brenda leaned back in her seat. She had now quite made up her mind to keep the bracelet. All she had to do was never to wear it in the presence of the Hungerfords, whom she was scarcely likely to see again, or in the presence of her sister, Penelope. But she could make good use of it at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.

The events of the day began and continued, and Brenda enjoyed herself vastly. Young Mr Hungerford introduced her to one or two friends of his, and during the entire day she hardly spoke to a schoolgirl or to a woman of any sort. The ladies who were present by no means admired her. The schoolgirls themselves had no time to give her a thought. The crowning scene of the day was to be “A Dream of Fair Women,” which was put on with exquisite effect; the scene being a dusky wood, with the moonlight shining through. Even Brenda felt moved as she watched the curtain rise over the little act, and observed, for the first time, with particular attention Mrs Hazlitt’s noble face and figure as she stood in the shadowy part of the background and began to recite Tennyson’s words:

“At last methought that I had wandered far In an old wood: fresh wash’d in coolest dew The maiden splendours of the morning star Shook in the steadfast blue. ”... “And from within a clear undertone Thrilled through mine ears in that unblissful clime, ‘Pass freely thro’: the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time.’ “At length I saw a lady within call, Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing there; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.”

There was a stir of surprise from the audience, as the girlish figure was dimly discernible: the hair glittering in its fairness, the eyes soft, and yet full of hidden fire, the whole attitude one of extreme grace. For Penelope’s soul had been fired with the music of that great song of songs; and the arrangement of the stage, the simplicity of the dress, the marvellous effects of light and shade had produced what—in very truth—seemed to be that very Helen who had driven men mad with love and longing so many centuries ago. Even Brenda held her breath. Wonder filled her soul, an emotion quite new to her stirred in her breast. She could not take her eyes from the figure at once so stately, so serene, so unlike that little Penelope whom she had always somewhat despised. Great, indeed, was Penelope’s success when Brenda, the most matter-of-fact person in the world, forgot that she was her sister at that moment and realised within her breast and through that frail and fickle heart of hers something of the greatness of immortal love.

The other figures dimly moved forward in their order: Cleopatra in her swarthy greatness; Jephtha’s daughter, who so gladly obeyed her father’s behest and died for the cause of Jehovah; Fair Rosamond, Iphigenia, the rest of that great group. But Brenda could only think of Helen.

At last, the mistress’ voice died away. The passionate words no longer filled the air. The young actors rushed out of sight, some to change their dresses, some to be congratulated by their friends. The last event of all the events was over. Congratulation and enthusiasm rose to a great height. Mrs Hazlitt was surrounded by friends who assured her that they had seldom seen anything finer in its way. Helen of Troy stood for a minute apart. There was a swelling lump in her throat. She had been the success of the evening. But for her, the tableaux might almost have been ridiculous. It was just because she forgot, and did the thing; just because for the time she was no longer Penelope—poor, plain, a girl who had to earn her bread by-and-by—but some other soul had inspired her—that Tennyson’s “Dream of Fair Women” had become something to talk of in all the future days of the old school. But the enthusiasm which had filled her breast faded now. She was puzzled and frightened at her own emotions. She wandered a little way into the wood and, leaning her head against the trunk of a tree, burst into tears.

It was there that Honora Beverley found her.

“Why, surely, Helen—I mean Penelope,” she said—

“Oh, leave me,” said Penelope, turning swiftly. “Something is hurt in my heart—I don’t know what it is, and yet—yes—I do know.”

“You did it splendidly! I couldn’t have believed it of you—no one could.”

“It wasn’t me,” replied Penelope. “I did it because I couldn’t help myself. Just for a minute I was raised into something else. Perhaps it was Mrs Hazlitt’s voice; wasn’t she wonderful?”

“Yes,” said Honora, “but I am thinking of you as you are. Come and be congratulated: you are the heroine of the evening.”

“No, I cannot: I don’t want them to see me; I would rather just creep away and put on my plain dress and say good-bye to Brenda; I have hardly seen her all day.”

“Oh, but your sister has been quite happy: she has not been neglected, I can assure you.”

“Still, I must talk to her for a minute or two, and she has to catch her train. Let me go, Honora. Don’t tell any one that I cried. I am rather ashamed of myself: I don’t—I don’t quite know why.”

Honora bent down. She was taller than Penelope, and much more slim. She kissed the girl on her forehead. Penelope suddenly clung to her.

“Why didn’t you do it—you who could?”

“That is just it: I couldn’t. I don’t pretend that I am not more beautiful than you in face, but that has nothing to do with one’s personating the part. If you really feel it, you take the character of the part until it grows into your face. I could never have been Helen. You did it splendidly, no one could have looked more lovely. Just remember that you have had a great triumph and be happy and, Penelope—one minute—”

“Yes,” said Penelope, pausing.

“I want to have a talk with you to-morrow.”

“Very well.”

“We shall all leave during the course of the day, but you are staying at the school.”

“I am.”

“Come to my room at ten o’clock. Good-bye for the present.”

Penelope flew out of sight. She rushed upstairs, changed her Greek dress for a pretty, simple white one, in which she had been apparelled during the early part of the day and, after considerable searching, found her sister. Brenda was refreshing herself with cake and claret cup when Penelope came up to her.

“Oh—good gracious!” she said, when she saw Penelope’s face very pale now, with her eyes looking lighter and more faded than usual because of the sudden tears she had shed. “I do wish to goodness I had not seen you again to-night.”

“What a fearfully unkind thing to say, Brenda, when I have been just longing to be with you.”

“I could have gone home and dreamt all night that I had a beautiful sister,” continued Brenda—“but now—”

Just then young Mr Hungerford appeared.

“Ah,”—he said to Brenda—“you have found your sister. May I congratulate you!” he said; and he looked at poor, dowdy little Penelope with that wonder which his honest eyes could not but reflect. For how was it possible that she had ever been got to present one of the most majestic figures in ancient story!

Penelope murmured something and then turned to her sister.

“I must get out of this,” she said. “I simply can’t stand their congratulations. I ought never to have done it—I only wish I hadn’t.”

“Well, come with me to the station; I don’t suppose Mrs Hazlitt will mind. You should have worn your Greek costume for the rest of the evening; these people would have gone on admiring you.”

“No, they wouldn’t. Helen with the limelight and the dark wood and the voice talking above her was not me. She was something quite foreign to me: somebody else got into me just for a minute.”

“Oh, how wildly and impossibly you do talk, Penelope! I see you’re going to be queer as well as plain. Well, unless you wish to say good-bye at once, come to the station with me.”

“I will—I should like to,” said Penelope.

She rushed upstairs and came down in her hat and jacket. The same little victoria which had brought Brenda from the station was waiting to convey her back. Penelope was feeling dead tired.

“I shall have a sickening time,” she said, “during the holidays all alone with Mademoiselle in this great place and nothing whatever to do. I don’t love books and I don’t care for work and—oh dear—I envy you; you can go to the seaside and have a good time. I hope you will get use out of your twenty pounds.”

“I should think so, indeed.”

“But you must have spent a lot of it over that dress, and I don’t think I admire it.”

“Never mind what use I have made of the money. When I write to tell you that I am engaged, and can, perhaps, offer you a home in the future, then you will understand how useful it has been.”

Penelope was silent for a minute or two. Then, just as they were approaching the station, she said to her sister:

“Did you hear about the lost bangle?—it does seem so queer. The Hungerfords will make a great fuss about it, that I am sure of.”

“Oh, no, they won’t,” said Brenda.

“Why—have you heard anything?”

“I was talking to that nice boy who came here with his mother. They seemed quite certain that it slipped out of her hand in the train. They can’t blame anybody at the school.”

“Of course not,” said Penelope. “What do you mean?”

Brenda was glad that the night was dark enough to prevent her sister seeing the colour which flew to her cheeks.

“I meant nothing at all,” she said. “Only of course when things are lost, everybody gets suspected. In this case, suspicion falls upon the passengers on the line and the railway officials, so we are well out of it. Good night, Helen of Troy. Oh, to think that you—you little insignificant creature—should ever have represented her!”

The whistle of the train was heard as it approached the station. Brenda sprang from the carriage, waved a kiss to her sister, and hurried on to the platform. A minute later, she was borne out of sight, the gold bangle with its turquoise clasp lying securely in the pocket of her dress.

Chapter Nine.

Three Sisters Consult Together.

Meanwhile, at the old rectory at Harroway, the girls who were left behind were passing a day not without a certain interest. It was Nina who began all the excitement. Their father, having been disappointed at not seeing Brenda off, had gone early on a long round of parochial visits, and the three girls had the breakfast table to themselves.

Josephine insisted on pouring out tea. Fanchon quarrelled with her over this privilege and managed, in the dispute, to spill the contents of the milk jug. Nina sat quiet and thoughtful, making up a little plan in her small brain. She was really a very precocious child for her ten years.

“First come, first served!” cried Josephine in her somewhat rasping voice. “I was down first, and I took possession of the tea tray. If you don’t behave yourself, Fanchon, I shall put so much water in your tea that you won’t be able to drink it. See what a horrid mess you have made! Nina—get up and ring the bell this minute.”

“No, I won’t,” said Nina. “Get up and ring it yourself.”

“Well—how horrid!” cried Josephine, who knew that if she left her coveted post of tea-maker, it would be immediately secured by Fanchon. “I suppose we must stand this mess, and there’s only a little milk in the other jug.”

“You’re quite detestable!” said Fanchon, snapping her fingers with passion. “What a mercy it is that dear Brenda is with us on other days, or what a frightful mess we’d get into!”

“Dear Brenda, indeed!” cried Nina, in a scornful tone.

“Yes, you do make a fuss about her at times,” said Josephine. “But she is gone for a day—and a good thing, too. You know how cross you are often with her dictatorial ways and the silly manner in which she manages to take in poor papa.”

“I know something that you don’t know,” said Fanchon, resigning herself as passively as she could to a humble seat at the side of the breakfast table.

“What do you know, Fanchon? Oh, do tell us!” cried Nina.

“Well—I saw the dress last night!”

“What—the dress that Brenda went away in?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t see it—she positively refused to let any of us look at it—and I thought it so beastly churlish of her!” said Nina.

“Well, she showed it to me,” said Fanchon carelessly, helping herself to a piece of bread and jam as she spoke, “and it was—oh, I tell you, girls, it was just ripping! I never saw such a beautiful creature as Brenda looked in it. I will describe it to you presently, outside in the garden, but not now. When I have a bit of fun, and a secret to tell, I like to make as much of it as possible. I suppose we’ll have a good time ourselves some day, although not at present.”

“I have something to talk about too in the garden,” said Nina; “but first I want to have a little chat with papa.”

She looked very mysterious and the other girls glanced at her, not particularly, however, troubling themselves with regard to her appearance. It was Nina’s rôle to be sometimes the mere baby—the most kittenish, babyish thing on earth—and at other times to be inscrutable like the Sphinx. But these things did not really matter to her sisters, who, as they expressed it, saw through her little games. On this occasion, she suddenly darted from her seat and ran out of the room. She had caught sight of the somewhat greasy coat of the Reverend Josiah, who had returned unexpectedly and was passing the window on his way to his study.

“There’s papa!” screamed Nina—“the very man I want. I’ll be back by-and-by.”

“What can she be up to now? Little minx!” said Fanchon. “Dear, dear! do you like those pink muslins, Josie? I can’t say that I do.”

“I don’t think about them,” said Josephine. “Whatever we wear, we look frights.”

“Well, sometimes—sometimes I think that dear Brenda rather likes us to look frights,” said Fanchon. “I ought not to say it, for she really has been very good to me—particularly last night—and I believe our best policy at present is to humour her up to the top of her bent. Then if she could get engaged, and were married—”

“Engaged! and married!” cried Josephine. “What do you mean, Fanchon?”

“Well—that is what she expects. There’s a he somewhere in the world who seems to want her, and she thinks he’ll be at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, and—and—it will be fun to watch them together. Little Nina shall creep into the bushes behind them in the evening and listen to what they are saying—what a joke that’ll be!”

“Yes, of course,” said Josephine, brightening up very much, “it’ll tell us the sort of thing that goes on and prepare us for our own turns,” she added.

Fanchon laughed.

“Girls like us sometimes have no turns,” she continued, “that’s the worst of it. Red hair and freckles are so hopeless—you can never dress up to them; everything depends on how you dress, and somehow, it can’t be done—at least, that is what Brenda says.”

“Would you really be glad if Brenda were to leave us?” asked Josephine.

“I think I should—I should be mistress here then, and of course papa, who is so devoted to her, would give her a good wedding and that would be sport—and we’d have to have nice frocks for that, and that would be sport too!”

“Oh, yes—on the whole it would be nice for Brenda to go, only some one else horrid might take her place.”

“Well, don’t let’s sit here any longer in this choking hot room. Let us go into the garden: we have no lessons of any sort to-day. We can get out the frills of our muslins and continue hemming them.”

“I do wonder what is keeping Nina,” said Josephine. But Nina herself had forgotten her sisters, so great was the interest of this important occasion. To begin with—she had caught dear papa. She took dear papa by the button-hole and, slipping her hand through his arm, led him into his study. The Reverend Josiah was very hot, and the study was cool. Nina was well aware which was dearest papa’s most comfortable chair, and she placed him in it, put a pillow to his head and brought him some cold water to drink, and then sat down by him without talking.

She had a little shock head of very carroty hair. That hair neither waved nor curled. It stood in stubborn awkwardness round her small face; for it was thick and short and decidedly jagged. Her face was pale, except for its freckles, and her features had the appearance of being put on by the wide palm of a very flat hand. Her eyes were minute, and she was nearly destitute of eyelashes and eyebrows. Her mouth was a little slit without much colour, but, notwithstanding her decided plainness, there was a great deal of knowingness in Nina, and she might be as dangerous a woman by-and-by as was pretty Brenda herself at the present moment.

“Father,”—she said now—“why did you come back? I thought you were going out for the whole livelong day.”

“So I did, my dear; but I had not gone a mile before I discovered that Bess had cast a shoe and I was obliged to take her to the forge to be put right. The day is uncommonly hot, and I doubt if I shall begin to call on my parishioners until the evening.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you, papa darling,” said Nina. “The parishioners don’t care to be bothered in the morning—do they, papa?”

“That is not the question, my dear,” said the Reverend Josiah. “A clergyman’s visits ought not to be spoken of as bothers. The people ought to be truly glad to have spiritual ministrations offered to them.”

“I do not understand what that means,” said Nina, patting the devoted Josiah’s decidedly fat leg. “But I do know that, if I were cooking dinner, or gardening, or any of the sort of things that poor folks do, I would be frightfully flustered if you came to see me; and I suppose, papa, what I feel, the parishioners feel.”

“No, they don’t. They hold me in much too great respect,” said Mr Amberley, looking with some displeasure at his little daughter.

“Well—p’r’aps so,” said Nina, who really didn’t care a pin about the parishioners, and whose object in sitting with her father at that moment was not concerned in the very least with them. “Papa,” she said, after a pause, “I thought when I saw you passing the window how glad you would be to have your little Nina with you.”

“And so I am, child—so I am. You are having a holiday to-day on account of—of Miss Carlton’s being away—Brenda, I mean. You must miss her terribly, my dear.”

“Oh, no, papa—I don’t miss her at all.”

“Nina—I am shocked to hear you speak in that tone! When I consider the expense I go to, to give you the luxury of such an excellent governess—such a friend—such a companion, I am amazed at your remarks!”

“Oh, well,”—said Nina, who did not wish to speak against Miss Carlton, for that would not do at present—“a holiday is a change to any girl, and we’re going to sit out in the garden and hem the flounces of those little cheap frocks you gave us to wear at the seaside.”

“What little cheap frocks, my dear? I am not aware that I gave you any frocks.”

“But that precious Brenda bought them for us out of your money.”

“Oh, you mean your nice cottons that you are to wear at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. Well, child, I did the best I could, and I think it is unkind of you to talk to me about cheap frocks; for when I allowed the sum of three pounds for each of my daughters, I could not afford more. It was a great, great deal of money, Nina, and so you will find yourself when you come to earn it.” Nina had just got the information she desired. But all she said was—raising solemn eyes to her father’s face:

“The frocks are cheap—they cost sixpence three farthings a yard!”

Mr Amberley got up impatiently.

“I have got to study a passage from Josephus,” he said, “which has puzzled me for some little time; and I don’t care a penny piece whether your frocks cost six-and-sixpence or sixpence halfpenny a yard. I don’t know what a yard means. Leave me now, Nina. I am quite cool, and shall set to work to write a specially good sermon for Sunday. The parishioners want a new sermon, for I have given them the old ones for over a year and I am in the mood to-day. Dear Brenda sometimes helps me with my sermons, but of late I have not found her amenable in that respect. She has a most lively imagination and often throws a fresh light on a text which I myself do not perceive. But go away and hem your frills, and be thankful that you have a good father who can allow you a nice sum each to buy clothes, and an excellent—most excellent governess, who devotes herself to you.”

“She will be home at twelve to-night: are you going to sit up for her?” said Nina.

“Of course I am—poor girl. Do you think I wouldn’t do what I could to show how I appreciate her—how we all appreciate her? I am going to make her a Welsh rabbit for her supper: it is the one dainty that I can make to perfection.”

“Oh, papa!” said Nina, bursting out laughing; “I don’t believe there’s a scrap of cheese in the house!”

The Reverend Josiah made no response to this, but a slightly knowing expression crossed his sandy face, and Nina had to leave him. In truth, she did not want to stay any longer, for she had got the information she desired.

The rectory at Harroway was by no means well furnished. It was a large, rambling old house. What carpets there were bore traces of wear and tear. The sofas were covered with untidy and torn chintzes. The landings had many of them bare boards destitute of any covering whatsoever; the bedrooms were en suite with the rest of the house. But the garden, neglected as it was, was nevertheless a source of unfailing delight. It was an old garden, and had once been dearly loved and carefully tended by a rector who cared more for his flowers than for the souls committed to his care. In his day, roses had bloomed to perfection in this old-world garden, and all sorts of plants and flowers and shrubs had adorned the alleys and had cast their shade over the walks.

This was some time ago, and the Reverend Josiah only employed a man once a week to give the garden just a sort of outside semblance of order. Nevertheless, Nature did not quite forsake the old spot. The unpruned roses still threw out luxuriant blossom, and the shrubs still bloomed and every sort of perennial flower—poppies, sweet peas, jasmine, mignonette sowed themselves and blossomed again and yet again.

Now, the children cared nothing about flowers; they regarded them as little better than weeds, for anything that could be secured without money was to them simply worthless. Neither did they care for pets. There was no dog, nor even a cat, at the rectory. But they liked to sit under the shade of the old trees and, in particular, to invade the summerhouse, which stood back in deepest shade at the far corner of the grounds.

Here, on this hot day, Nina found her two sisters with their pink muslin frills in a cloud about them, while they themselves were bending over the work. Nina appeared, severely armed with a pencil and paper. “Now,”—she said—“here I am.”

“Well, that is very evident,” remarked Fanchon. “Why don’t you sit down and do some work?” said Josephine.

“My frock hasn’t got any flounces.”

“Oh—how you will harp on that tiresome theme again!”

“I won’t—at least not for much longer,” remarked the tiresome child; “but I’ve got something to say—I mean to do a little sum.”

“A sum!—you?”

“Yes—and if I am wrong, Fanchon can help me—or you can, Josephine.”

“Not I,” said Josephine, “my head aches too badly.”

“Well, well,” said Nina, “let’s begin—I know you will help me when I ask you. We were all with Brenda, were we not, when she bought the pink muslins?”

“Why, of course we were, you stupid,” said Fanchon. “Pass me that reel of cotton, please, Josephine.” Josephine did so. Nina placed herself on a low stool and put her sheet of paper and pencil cosily on her knee.

“I know exactly,” she said, “how much muslin was bought: five yards for me, because I was not to have flounces; and seven yards for Josephine and eight yards for you, Fanchon, because you are the tallest.”

“Well, yes—I suppose that is all right,” said Fanchon; but she began, as she said afterwards, to see some method in her sister’s present madness.

“Now,” continued Nina, “I want to cast up a sum. Five—and seven—and eight. Fanchon, do tell me how much five and seven and eight make.”

“Twenty,” was Fanchon’s immediate reply. “Dear, dear! now I can’t find my thimble!”

“Oh, Fanchon—it’s rolled away into that corner.”

“Pick it up, Nina.”

“No,” said Nina—“not yet. How much, please, does twenty yards of muslin, at sixpence halfpenny a yard, come to?”

The sum was made up by Fanchon, who was quite quick at arithmetic.

“Ten shillings and ten-pence,” she replied.

“Yes, I thought so—and there were no linings of any kind got; for dear Brenda said that we could use up some of the frocks we had outgrown, for that purpose. So our three muslin frocks cost exactly ten shillings and ten-pence. It doesn’t seem much for three girls, does it, Fanchon?”

“I don’t know,” said Fanchon, crossly. “Why will you bother us in this queer way, Nina?”

“Well—I am thinking,” said Nina; “you will see my meaning after a bit. After Brenda had got the frocks and paid for them—only she did it so quickly, I can’t make out how much money she put down—she bought the hats. The hats untrimmed were one shilling each, she bought a yard of white muslin to trim each and the white muslin was eight-pence a yard. She grumbled at the price. Three times eight is—”

“Oh—two shillings, two shillings!” said Josephine.

“Well, yes—that is quite right,” said Nina. “Our three hats, trimmed, came to five shillings. Add five shillings to ten and ten-pence—that makes fifteen and ten-pence. Then there were our sand shoes—one and eleven-pence each—they came to five and nine-pence; and our gloves;—white washing gloves—don’t you remember what a fuss Brenda made about them, and said that she would wash them herself for us at night, so that they would be clean every day? and I know they were only sixpence. Now then—let us count up the whole sum.”

The other two girls were now immensely interested. They did count the sum, doing it wrong once or twice, but finally producing a total which could not be gainsaid, and which came out precisely at one pound, three shillings, and a penny. Nina’s little white face was flushed when this great task had been accomplished.

“Can you remember any other single thing?” she asked of her sisters.

“No, there was nothing else,” said Josephine.

“And did Brenda say, or did she not, that she had spent a lot of money on us, and that we must do with it, whether we liked it or not, because there was not a farthing more that could be produced?”

“Well, yes, she did,” said Fanchon, “and it seemed a lot at the time—at least, I thought so.”

Nina rose solemnly now from her little stool. “Girls,”—she said—“I have something to say to you. I have found Brenda out. She spent one pound—three shillings—and one penny—on us, and do you know how much money father gave her to spend upon us?”

“No,” said Fanchon.

“No,” echoed Josephine. “What do you mean, Nina? you extraordinary child!”

“Well—he told me this morning quite simply; I didn’t ask him, he just mentioned it. You won’t guess—it is really awful—it will put you out—it gives me a sort of lumpy, throaty feeling. He gave Brenda nine pounds! three pounds for each of us! and she must have kept back—oh, I can’t make it out—it makes my head turn round—she must have bought her own lovely blue silk, and all her own lovely clothes out of our money! Oh dear! oh dear! I wouldn’t have thought it of her. And to think that I am not even to have frills to my muslin frock!”

“And to think that the frocks must be pink for us!” said Fanchon. “Oh, I can’t believe it.”

“It is true, though,” said Josephine. “She has kept back—oh dear, oh dear—how much is it? I wonder!”

Again three puzzled heads bent over the piece of paper, and at last the full enormity of the beloved Brenda’s conduct was revealed to the children. She had, of their money—yes, their own money—given to them by their own father—seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence to account for!

“We might have been dressed like duchesses,” said Nina. She burst out crying. “Oh—this horrid frock!” she said, and she kicked the offending pink muslin to the opposite side of the summerhouse. “I’ll never wear it—that I won’t!” she cried. “I’ll disgrace her, that I will—horrid thief of a thing!”

As to Fanchon—she walked deliberately out of the summerhouse. With steady steps this young lady, who was very wise for her years, approached her father’s study. The Reverend Josiah was supposed to be busy with his sermon. At such times, it was considered exceedingly ill-advised to molest him. Brenda would never do it. She said that all muses ought to be respected—the sacred muse most of all. But there was no respect in Fanchon’s heart just then. She opened the door with violence and—alas!—it must be owned—aroused Josiah out of a profound sleep. His head had been bent down on the historic pages of old Josephus, and sweet slumber had there visited him.

He started up angrily when detected in his nap by his eldest daughter. He would have forgiven Brenda, but Fanchon had not at all charming ways.

“My dear,” he said, “you know when I am busy with my sermon that I will not be disturbed.”

“Yes, papa—of course, papa,” said Fanchon. “I just wanted to ask you a question, and I will go away again. How much money do you give Brenda every year to spend on clothes for us?”

“What a funny question to ask me, my dear. I have no stated sum; I give just what I can afford.”

“And are you satisfied with the way your daughters are clothed, papa?” said Fanchon, kicking out a long leg as she spoke and showing an untidily shod and very large foot.

“Oh, my dear—my dear! I know nothing about ladies’ dress. I can’t afford silk—I wish I could; I should love to see you in silk; but in my present state, and with my poor stipend, it has to be cotton. I told dear Brenda so, and she agreed with me. Cotton in summer, and a sort of thick stuff—I think they call it linsey-woolsey, but I am not sure—for the cold days. I cannot do better, Fanchon—there is no use in your scolding me.”

“I am not scolding you, papa. You gave Brenda three pounds for each of us—didn’t you—the other day, to get our things for the seaside?”

“Yes, of course I did: that was the very least she said she could possibly have. I gave it to her with her own quarter’s salary, which the dear girl required a fortnight in advance; there was nothing in that. Her quarter’s salary was seven pounds ten, and the money for you three—nine pounds. Brenda said it was very little, but it really seemed a great lot to me, and I regret it when I think of my poor parishioners. But there’s nothing cheaper than cotton—at least, I have never heard of it; of course, if there were, it would be my duty to clothe you in it.”

“Did you ever hear of art muslin, papa?” asked Fanchon. “That is cheaper, but I won’t disturb you any more.” She went up to him and gave him a kiss. Then she left the room.

Having obtained her information, Fanchon went deliberately into the filbert walk. There she paced about for some time, her eyes fixed on the ground, her hands locked tightly together in front of her. She was not exactly depressed, but she was troubled. She was old enough to see the advantage of the revelation being arrived at which little Nina had so cleverly accomplished, and she was determined to make it in every way available for her own purposes. But to do this, she must put her sisters off the scent. At dinner time, she ate a very scanty meal. She hardly spoke to them, but, after dinner, she had a long conference with them both.

“Now, look here, Nina,” she said.

“Yes,” said Nina.

“I want you to make me a promise.”

“Oh, I do hate promises,” said Nina.

“I don’t,” said Josephine, “they’re rather interesting; nothing cheerful ever comes in our way, and even to make a promise seems better than nothing.”

“Well, the promise I want you two to make to me is this: that you won’t breathe a word of what I have said to you, either to father or Brenda—that you will keep it entirely to yourselves and allow me to manage Miss Brenda. I think I can promise that if you do this you will both have rather pretty frocks at the seaside, and that Nina shall have her flounces. Go on finishing the pink muslins, girls, for they’ll be a help, and certainly better than nothing, and let me approach Brenda to-morrow morning.”

“Oh dear!” said Nina, “how clever you are! I am sure I, for my part, will be only too delighted. But how dare you?” she added. “Does it mean that you would go—and—put her in prison?”

“I put her in prison—you little goose! What do you mean? No, no! But she’ll buy our clothes for us out of father’s own money or—there! don’t let’s talk any more about it.”

Josephine hesitated for a moment, then she flew to her sister’s side, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her heartily.

“I think we ought to be awfully pleased with Nina,” was Fanchon’s response, “for she’s quite a little brick, and I tell you what it is, girls—we’ll go and pick some fruit for tea and I shall send Molly for two-pennyworth of cream to eat with it; we may as well enjoy ourselves. Brenda has left a few pence with me in case of necessities. She warned me to be awfully careful, but I think she won’t scold us much about the cream when I have said a few things to her I mean to say.”

“Mightn’t we have some currant buns?” said Nina. “I was so hungry at lunch—there didn’t seem to be a scrap of meat on that bone.”

“Yes—we’ll have currant buns, too. She left me eleven-pence. You can run to the village, Nina, if you like, and get the buns. Mrs Simpson must have them out of the oven by now.”

Off scampered Nina. Josephine and Fanchon had a little further conversation, and, by the time Nina returned, the whole matter with regard to Brenda and her shortcoming: was left in the elder sister’s hands.

Chapter Ten.

A Cosy Little Supper.

Mr Amberley was one of the most unsuspicious of men, but he, too, had his own slightly cunning ways. He allowed Brenda so much money each week for housekeeping, and it must be said that she kept the family on short commons. There were even times when the Reverend Josiah was slightly hungry. This being the case, and as he, in reality, held the purse-strings, he was wont to provide himself with bread, butter, and cheese and some bottles of ale which he kept in a private cupboard in his study. By the aid of these, he managed to quell his rising appetite and to sleep soundly at nights.

But Brenda knew nothing of the delicate cheese supply by this reverend gentleman, of the butter which he himself brought home from the nearest dairy, nor of the dainty bread which he slipped into his pocket on his way home from his parochial rounds. Now, however, his intention was to give the pretty little governess a charming surprise when she returned that evening. She should have that rarest of all dainties—in his opinion—Welsh rabbit, made from a receipt handed down to him by his grandmother. Accordingly, by his own clever hands, as the hour approached midnight, he put everything into preparation—the little stove on which the dainty was to be prepared (he regretted much that they must eat it on bread, not on toast), a bottle of the very best ale that could be purchased: in short, a charming little meal for two.