L.T. Meade (continued 3)

He had missed Brenda sorely during the day. In her presence the girls were quite delightful, but without her they were tiresome, plain, rather disagreeable girls. It was too late to take the pony to the station, but he himself would walk there in order that Brenda should come home under his safe convoy. This plan of his Brenda had not counted on. He took the precaution, indeed, not to appear on the platform, but met her just as she was emerging out of the shade of a thick wood just beyond the village. He thought how charming she looked in her white serge coat—how different from his own unruly girls. But Brenda herself was snappish and by no means inclined to respond to his kind attentions.

“I wish you had not come out, Mr Amberley. It really is ridiculous to suppose that a woman of my age,”—(Brenda was very fond of making herself appear old when she spoke to Josiah)—“a woman of my age,” she continued, “cannot walk the short distance from the station to your house.”

“But at midnight—my dear girl,” protested Josiah, “I really could not hear of it. I hope I know what is due to any girl whom I respect, and it is only a pleasure to serve you—you know that.”

“Dreadful old goose!” thought Brenda to herself.

But she saw that she must humour him. She had had, on the whole, a good day and, although she had not excited the admiration she had expected, she was the richer by a very valuable gold bangle. So she chatted as lightly and airily as she could and, when they entered the house, she even assisted to cat a tiny portion of the Welsh rabbit and to sip a little of the sparkling beer. She asked no questions, too, with regard to the manner in which Josiah got these dainties into the house. But although she said nothing, she thought a good deal and resolved to feed the good clergyman slightly better in future and not to save quite so much of the housekeeping money for her own purposes.

When she had finished supper, she yawned profoundly, protested that she could not keep her eyes open a minute longer, and, giving Josiah a scant “good-night,” ran off to bed.

When she left him, he sat for a little time musing. Brenda had managed that he should not even get a glimpse of her blue silk dress, but he had noticed the dainty hat with its perfect trimmings, the white serge coat which covered the governess’ pretty person from head to foot, and the neat and lovely white gloves. He had thought how wonderful it was that she could wear such nice things. That coat, in particular, took his fancy. It was of a wonderful material which he did not think that he recognised. Silk it was not; cotton it was not; linsey-woolsey it was not. What was it made of? It must be cheap, or poor little Brenda could not afford it. Brenda had so often and so pathetically told him how necessary it was that she should save almost every penny of her income. She used to say to him with those sweet blue eyes of hers, so different from the eyes of his own daughters, looking into his face:

“It is my duty to prepare for the rainy day. It may come, you know, and if I have not saved money, where shall I be?”

He had smiled at her on these occasions and once had even gone the length of patting her little white hand and had said that he wished all other girls were so wise. Yes, dear Brenda was saving up her poor little salary; and that nicely made white coat—of course she must have made it herself—must be composed of a very cheap material. He wondered if dresses of the same material could be got for his poor orphans. He always spoke of his children to himself as his poor orphans. They had been very tiresome orphans on the day that had just gone by—Nina in the morning, Fanchon later on. They had, it seemed to him, almost complained with regard to their clothes—those clothes which he so laboured to get them. It was annoying, very; but if they might have coats, or frocks, or whatever the article of dress was called, of the material which Brenda wore, he would feel that he had done his duty by them.

He went to bed at last, resolved to speak to the governess on the subject by-and-by. When Brenda reached her room, she first of all proceeded to lock her door. She then carefully removed her white serge coat, shook it, brushed it over tenderly, and folded it up, with tissue paper between the folds. She then laid this elegant garment in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. It must not be seen again until she was safe at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. Having removed the coat, she stood for a time surveying her own reflection in the cracked mirror, which, after all, was the best looking-glass the rectory could afford. She moved her head slightly to right, slightly to left; she pushed her hat in different positions, and contemplated herself with great admiration. Then, putting her hand into her pocket, she took out the beautiful little bangle and clasped it on her wrist. The bangle really gave her great finish. It seemed to raise her in the social scale. It was so absolutely good—not the least bit jim-crack. That gold was at least eighteen carat, and that exquisite turquoise must have cost a mint of money; it was just the right size for her, too. She held up her arm, and contemplated the effect of the bangle in this position. She laid her hand across her knee, and looked at it from that point of view. She arranged it and rearranged it, and loved it more and worshipped it more deeply the longer she looked at it.

At last, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, she took it off, folded it softly in some tissue paper, and, opening her purse, took from it the key of a drawer which she always kept locked. The people who surrounded the rectory, the few domestics who worked there, were all honest as the day. Had this not been the case, Brenda’s drawer in her wardrobe might have been found worth robbing before now. For in it were those savings which she had secured from the housekeeping money, and that seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence which still belonged to the girls’ wardrobes and the four five-pound notes which Penelope had sent her. In short, Brenda felt that she was quite a wealthy girl. She had not an idea of any Nemesis at hand.

She laid the stolen bracelet in a little box which had held hitherto some mock jewellery, and having locked her drawer, proceeded to take off her pale blue dress, to fold it up, put it away, to do ditto with her hat and gloves, and finally to undress and get into bed.

Brenda Carlton slept soundly that night, for she was really very tired. She was also quite hopeful and happy. But towards morning, she was disturbed by a dream. The dream was a curious mixture of Helen of Troy as she had appeared—silent and stately in the dusky wood—of Penelope, with her eyes red from crying, of her pupils and their clothes, and, last but not least, the Reverend Josiah.

It seemed to her in her dream that Josiah was exceedingly angry, that all that gentleness and suavity of manner which, as a rule, characterised him, had departed; that he was looking at her—yes, at her—with little angry eyes, and that he was accusing her of something which was very terrible and, which, try as she would, she could not disprove. She awoke from this dream trembling and with the dews of perspiration on her forehead. She started up in bed to wipe them away and, as she did so, she was aware of the fact that some one was thumping at her bedroom door.

“Yes—what is it?” she called out crossly.

“It is only me,” answered the voice of her eldest pupil. “I thought you would be tired and have brought you your breakfast.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” said Brenda, relieved and gratified, for she really was intensely thirsty.

She sprang out of bed, unlocked the door, then, running across the room, got into bed once more and sat up, looking exceedingly pretty with her slightly flushed cheeks and befrilled nightdress of fine lawn. Fanchon entered with the breakfast tray, which was quite common, being made of iron that had once been japanned; but this decorative process had gradually been removed by the fingers of time, and Brenda was far too careful with regard to the laundry to allow extra cloths for breakfast trays or any such little dainties.

Fanchon placed the tray on a table close to Brenda’s bed; then having, as she considered, performed her duty, she jumped up on the side of the bed and sat gazing at her governess. Fanchon had made all her preparations. Brenda should have food before the thunder clap fell on her devoted head. Accordingly, Fanchon Amberley began by making friendly enquiries with regard to the governess’ success on the previous day.

“Drink your tea and eat your toast,” she said. “There’s no butter in the house—you didn’t leave us money to buy any, and that egg is, I am afraid, stale. But it is the last one left from your purchases of last week. You must make the best of it, I am afraid. But never mind,” continued the young lady, swinging her foot backwards and forwards, “you must have gorged so on the good things of life yesterday, that I don’t suppose you are overpowered with an appetite.”

“I didn’t gorge,” said Brenda gently. “I never gorge, as you know, Fanchon. But I am thirsty, and it is very thoughtful and kind of you, dear, to bring me up my breakfast.”

Fanchon made no reply to this. Brenda poured herself out a cup of tea. She drank it off thirstily and then looked at her pupil.

“How untidy you are, my dear child.”

“Am I? That doesn’t matter,” said Fanchon. “Tell me, Brenda, how you enjoyed yourself. Was it quite as wonderful as you expected?”

“Oh, quite, quite,” said Brenda, who had no idea but of making the very best of things to her pupil.

“It was really worth your pale blue silk dress and your serge coat, and your hat, and your gloves, and your new parasol?” pursued Fanchon.

“I wish, Fanchon,” said the governess, “that you would not give me an inventory of my clothes whenever you speak to me. I suppose I must be dressed like other people, mustn’t I?”

“Of course,” said Fanchon. “Well, let us leave the dress alone. How did you get on with your sister? was she as nice as that dead-and-gone body—whatever her name is?”

“Oh, she was wonderful!” said Brenda, with real enthusiasm. “She has a real gift for acting, there’s no doubt of that.”

“I suppose you’ll tell us about it sometime, won’t you?”

“I am telling you now—what do you mean by sometime?”

“I mean,” said Fanchon, “that Nina and Joey and I want all the particulars, not just a few bare facts, but every little tiny incident made as full as possible; and in especial, we are anxious to know if you met any he’s, and if you did meet one special he; and in that case, what he said to you, and what you said to him—a sort of ‘consequence’ game, you understand. And in particular, we want to learn the compliments he paid you; for some day, when we three are dressed like you in pale blue silk, etc, we may have similar compliments ourselves. That is what we want to know.”

“What is the matter with you, Fanchon?” said her governess.

“Do you like your breakfast, Brenda?” was Fanchon’s response.

“Not much,” answered Brenda crossly. “The bread is stale; there is no butter, and the egg is uneatable. I must jump up at once in order to attend to the housekeeping.”

“You needn’t, really, Brenda. Joey went round to the shops this morning and ordered things in. We’re going to have a couple of ducks for dinner, and green peas—”

“What do you mean?” said Brenda, her eyes flashing. “A couple of ducks and green peas! You know how expensive ducks are.”

“I don’t,” said Fanchon calmly—“all I know about them is that they are good to eat and Joey has ordered them. Oh—and we’re going to have raspberry and currant pie too, and a lot of cream with it—”

“And you expect me to pay for these luxuries out of the housekeeping money?”

“Of course we do, Brenda—who else would pay for them?”

“But I tell you I can’t—you don’t understand how little your father gives me; it is absolutely impossible—you must countermand that order at once, Fanchon—go and do it this minute while I get up. I shall send cook out presently for a bit of steak, and potatoes from the garden will do; there are no peas, and it is the height of extravagance to buy them.”

“You’ll be a great deal too late, for they are all in the house; and I think cook has put the ducks in the oven. Anyhow,” continued Fanchon, suddenly changing her tone, “I don’t mean to stop either Joey or Nina. They’re buying food—proper food—for us, and you’ve got to pay for it.”

“I don’t understand you—you are exceedingly impertinent. I must speak to your father.”

“You can of course, if you like,” answered Fanchon, with great calmness, “but all the same, I don’t think you will; I’ve got something to say to you, Brenda, and it is something rather dreadful.”

“What?” said Brenda.

She longed to rouse herself into a towering passion, but she had the memory of her dream still over her, and the thought of Mr Amberley’s face with its changed and quite awful expression. She was more tired, too, than she cared to own. She found her eyes fixed upon those of her eldest pupil. What a dreadful-looking girl she was—so singularly plain and ungainly—all legs and arms, and with that truly disagreeable face! Brenda contrasted her with a girl she had seen at Hazlitt Chase, and wondered how she had endured her own position so long. And now this girl was actually bullying her—a girl not fifteen years of age!

Fanchon seemed to read some of her governess’ discomfiture and amazement; in short, she was enjoying herself mightily. It was delightful to turn the tables; it was delicious for the slave to be, even for a short time, the master. She, therefore, continued in a calm voice:

“I’d best tell you everything, and then you will know what is to be done. To begin with: I think you partly owe the discovery we have made to the fact that you, in your spirit of parsimony, would not give poor little Nina flounces to her dress.”

Brenda gasped, but was speechless.

“And,” continued Fanchon, “Nina, although she is not yet eleven years of age, is no fool, and so yesterday, when you were out of the way—you know the old proverb, ‘When the cat’s away, the mice will play,’—well, that poor little mouse, Nina, thought she would have a gambol on her own account yesterday, and Joey and I joined in. We quizzed father with great dexterity and—in short, Madam Cat!—we found you out!”

These last words were quite terrible. From Fanchon’s pale eyes a steely fire shot forth. It seemed to scorch the miserable Brenda, who shrank lower on her pillows and longed for the ceiling to fall on her.

“I,”—she began tremblingly—“I think you are quite the most impertinent—and I wish—I wish—you would go. I shall speak—to—to your dear father. I’ll just get dressed and go to him.”

Here Brenda burst into tears.

“Your tears won’t do any good, Madam Cat,” said Fanchon, “and I am not a bit impertinent, and as to telling father, why, you can tell him anything you like, after you have listened to me. The girls know that I am talking to you, so we won’t be disturbed. Now then—stop crying—you’re in my power, and you’re in Joey’s power, and you’re in Nina’s power, and the sooner you realise that fact, the better for you.” Brenda uttered a deep sigh. She thought she saw a loop-hole of hope. The girls, after all, did not matter—not greatly—whatever those impertinent little creatures had discovered. It was the Reverend Josiah whom she really dreaded, and if she were in his power, he would not have given her Welsh rabbit on the previous night, nor been so very, very kind, nor have looked at her so admiringly. If Fanchon had not gone too far, there was still hope. She, therefore, wiped her eyes and sat up.

“What is it?” she said meekly. “I am a poor prisoner at your bar, Fanchon—out with the indictment—tell the prisoner of what offence she is guilty.”

“I’ll tell you first of all what we suspect, and afterwards I will tell you what we know,” said Fanchon.

“You terrible, impertinent child—how dare you suspect me of anything!”

“We three suspect that you don’t spend all the money papa gives you for housekeeping, on the housekeeping. Cause why: We are always so dreadfully hungry and the meals are so shocking poor—and—cause why: We know that you save money for yourself in other quarters—”

“Do you think I would steal a farthing—of your dear papa’s money, you dreadful, dreadful—horrible child!” said Brenda.

“I don’t think about what I know,” replied Fanchon. “Now listen. Look at that sum.” Here she thrust a carefully made out account into Brenda’s hand. Brenda read the items, tears rushing back to her eyes and her heart palpitating wildly. The grand total of one pound, three shillings, and a penny stared her in the face. “And now,” continued Fanchon, “having discovered that this was exactly what you spent on our poor little clothes, we should like to know what you propose to do with the balance.”

“The balance, child!” said Brenda. “I haven’t a penny—not a penny over. In fact, although I wouldn’t trouble your father, you are a little bit in debt to me—I mean the gloves—I couldn’t tell you, and you had to have gloves—but I paid for the gloves.”

“Oh—you wicked Brenda!” said Fanchon—“you intolerably wicked woman! Nina talked to father yesterday, and father told her that he gave you three pounds for each of us, in order to clothe us for the seaside. So you have still in your possession seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our money. It’s my belief that you have spent it on your own clothes! There—you can’t deny it—we know what the things you bought cost—the miserable—horrid—mean things you bought! and we know what poor papa gave you, for he told Nina and afterwards I went and asked him and he told me too.”

“And does he—does he know—anything else?” asked Brenda.

“Nothing else at present, but he will soon.”

Brenda lay very still and thoughtful on her bed. After a minute she said:

“Fanchon—you are quite mistaken in me.”

“I know you thoroughly,” said Fanchon; “I always believed you to be intensely conceited, frightfully—appallingly vain, and—not too honourable. But now I also know that you are nothing more nor less than a common thief! How long do you think father would keep you in the house if he knew?”

“But—he doesn’t know, dear, dear Fanchon!”

“Not yet. We thought we’d tell you first—it seemed only fair to give you that chance.”

“How sweet of you, Fanchon.”

“But I have told you now, and I shall go straight to him this very minute and show him this little sum unless you confess the truth to me.”

“I—I—” said Brenda—“what truth?”

“Have you got seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our money in your possession? If you say no—I go immediately to father. If you say yes—why, perhaps I will wait an hour or so.”

Brenda almost smiled when Fanchon made use of the last words.

“Then,” she said in a gentle tone, “I have still got the money, for you—for you. I thought we could spend it best at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t,” said Fanchon—“those sort of lies won’t go down any longer with us. But as you have made a sort of confession, you may dress yourself. You won’t grumble, I think, when you come downstairs and enjoy our good dinner, and after dinner I’ll have another talk with you. It is my turn to dictate terms now, and I mean to enjoy myself.”

With this last remark Fanchon marched out of the room, wrenching the door open noisily and banging it after her. Her two little sisters were waiting on the landing.

“The cat has confessed,” she said, “and so the poor little mice may play as much as they like. Not a word to dad—we’d have no fun if he knew—we can do exactly what we like with her now.”

Josephine clapped her hands. Nina enquired if the ducks and green peas and raspberry and currant tart, with unlimited cream, had been mentioned.

“Oh, yes; and we shall enjoy our dinner—poor starved creatures,” said Fanchon.

The three girls tripped downstairs. The old rectory was already full of the odorous smell of roast duck. Mr Amberley perceived it in his study. He slightly sniffed, and thought of toasted cheese. He felt pangs of hunger which, as a rule, he was not accustomed to. The girls were flying about: they seemed in high spirits.

“What a delightful day it is,” thought the rector to himself, and he shut up the musty old Josephus with a bang and decided to give an old sermon for the sixth time of hearing to his parishioners on Sunday, and not to worry any more about a new one until the hot weather was over. He even went to the length of standing by the open study window and looking across the sun-flecked garden.

Presently, he saw his daughters entering the house with trailing flowers of all sorts and descriptions in their arms. He wondered what could be up. Josephine, who had a certain knack for the arrangement of dinner tables, was laying a white cloth on the board. In the centre she placed billowy piles of green art muslin which she had bought that morning in the village—or rather, put down to the housekeeping account. Rows of sweet peas and carnations were then placed in bowls in the centre of the table and, this handiwork having been completed, Josie rushed up to her room to put on the best dress she possessed. In short, the entire place wore a festive air.

“It’s because dear Brenda has returned,” thought the rector.

He felt the difference without observing it. But when sharp little Fanchon appeared and led him into the dining-room and he beheld with his own eyes two plump birds waiting to be carved, and saw the green peas, and the new potatoes, and the apple sauce, and the different accompaniments of young ducks, he forgot everything in the joy of gratifying his appetite.

The three girls were waiting—no servant ever attended at meals,—their faces were flushed with delight. The rector did not even ask, “Where is Brenda?” He flopped down into his seat, said grace, and began to carve the birds.

Brenda entered in a pale green cotton dress, which suited her lissom young figure to perfection. She took her seat meekly. The girls did not speak to her, but the rector addressed her with enthusiasm.

“My dear,”—he said—“what a delicious feast we are having, and how very good of you to manage it out of the housekeeping money. I know—my dear Brenda—that I give you far too little; but my stipend, my dear, is so small, and the needs of my poor so considerable—”

“There’s raspberry tart and cream coming on,” said Nina, “so let’s hurry up with the ducks.”

The rector placed the first delicious morsel between his lips. Brenda made a gentle remark to the effect that she was glad she had pleased him. Nina gave a groan; Joey kicked her sister’s foot; Fanchon tried to look stately, but failed. Notwithstanding all these things, however, the three girls and their father thoroughly enjoyed the excellent dinner.

“I feel a new man,” said Mr Amberley, when it was over. “It is wonderful how supporting really tasty food is. My dear Brenda, I thank you.”

She bowed to him—a mocking light in her eyes which he did not observe.

Chapter Eleven.

Reaction.

It was after dinner that Fanchon approached her governess.

“I hope you enjoyed your dinner,” she said.

“Yes; it was very good,” said Brenda.

“When do you feel inclined to have a chat with me?” pursued Fanchon.

“Not just at present,” answered Brenda.

“But you’d better be quick about it, for we mean always to live well in the future. Joey and I think that we might order a crab for supper to-night—papa loves crabs.”

Brenda was silent.

“When can we have our talk?” continued Fanchon.

“Well, I don’t think just at present; will you give me until evening? Order what you wish to-day, but don’t be too extravagant, you’ll only have an illness. I give you plain food, for it is really best from every point of view, and your father’s allowance of housekeeping money is very limited.”

“I can ask him, of course, what he does give,” said Fanchon.

“No, no; don’t do that—”

“And,” continued Fanchon, as though she had not heard the last remark, “I can find out what the butcher’s bills, and the green grocer’s, and the grocer’s come to per week. I shall be rather clever about these things in future.”

Brenda made no reply. After a minute’s pause, she said:

“Would you really like me to leave you?”

“I think, on the whole, I should very much.”

“You would wish to give up going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea?”

“No—that would be a disappointment.”

“You can’t go there without me.”

“Oh—I suppose we could get some one else.”

“There is no one else whom your father would trust.”

Fanchon was silent and a little thoughtful.

“I have a plan to propose to you, Fanchon,” said her governess suddenly; “but I shall not propose it now—I will keep it until to-night. To-night, at ten o’clock, come to my room and I will talk to you. In the meantime, tell the other girls that for to-day, just for to-day, they may do as they please. Now let me be alone; I have a headache.”

Fanchon danced off to communicate this news to her sisters.

“The cat’s caving in like anything,” she said. “We shall have a jolly, jolly time in future!”

“What can we have to eat at tea-time?” was Nina’s remark.

“Oh—you little goose,” exclaimed Fanchon, “you can’t possibly be hungry yet.”

“But I shall be hungry when tea-time comes.”

“Well, get what you like, both of you.”

“Let’s go to the shops this blessed minute,” said Nina, turning to Josephine.

They started off arm in arm. They did not mind the fact that they were wearing their only white frocks—their Sunday-go-to-meeting frocks, and that Nina’s was already sadly stained with some juice from the raspberry tart. They did not mind the fact also that they had outgrown these frocks, and that the people stared at the rector’s daughters when they were at all respectably attired. They were too excited to think of anything but the victory they were having over old pussy-cat—which was their present name for their hitherto beloved Brenda.

They went to the shops where Brenda dealt, and ordered rich plum cake for tea, two sorts of jam, some more fruit and some more cream; and for supper they ordered crabs—two crabs to be sent up dressed, from the fishmonger’s, also a lobster, and also a large plate of prawns. Having thus wilfully expended money which might have kept the rectory on its ordinary régime for weeks, they returned home in the best of spirits.

’Tis a little sad to relate that even mice, in their moments of triumph over their legendary foe—the domestic cat—may sometimes overdo things. For two of these little mice felt decidedly ill that night from the direful effects of overeating. Nina spent that night, which she had felt would be of such triumph, rolling from side to side in bed and crying out with pain, and Josephine had the most appalling succession of nightmares. But Fanchon was more moderate in her eating and, therefore, did not suffer. She had her work cut out for her; and that evening, at the appointed hour—regardless of Nina’s cries and Josephine’s frightened exclamations in her sleep—she went off to interview her governess in her bedroom.

Brenda was waiting for her, and was quite ready. She had been frightened, terribly frightened, in the morning, but she was alarmed no longer. She had been given time to think, to consider, to form her plans. The discovery which those tiresome children had made was altogether most unpleasant. Had it been made by older people, it would almost have been dangerous. But Brenda felt that she could manage the children. She must sacrifice something, it is true, but she need not sacrifice everything.

The girls had never been trained in high principles. They had been brought up anyhow. The rector was not a specially admirable man. It is true, he lived according to his lights, but these did not carry him far. His children were motherless, and it did not occur to him to suspect the girl into whose care he placed them. He was devoted to his poorer parishioners, and was kindness itself to them, denying himself many things for their benefit. But it was his object in life to do what he could for his orphans, and he thought he had done so when he put such a pretty, charming girl as Brenda Carlton over their heads. He believed fully in Brenda, and admired her immensely. He thought her a truly Christian young woman; for she was regular in her attendance at church, and always looked—he considered—so sweet and interested when he preached to her. It was wonderful how he found himself preaching directly to her, Sunday after Sunday, suiting his words to her need and thinking of her as he addressed, or was supposed to address, his congregation.

As to the children’s education, he expected them to go to Sunday school; but as their teacher there was no other than Brenda herself, it cannot be said that they gained much by this special instruction.

Brenda looked very pretty when she taught her class. Most of the time she told them good little stories, which they listened to when they were not too restless, and when Brenda herself was not too charmingly attired. On the whole, the girls were ripe for a fall, and Brenda had no compunction in saving herself at their expense. These three girls had, however, a considerable amount of character, and, strange as it may seem, the one the governess most dreaded was the youngest. For Nina was exceedingly fearless, and also rather cunning, and Brenda was not quite certain that if she gave her word she would keep it. The governess felt pretty sure that she could manage Fanchon and Josephine, but Nina was different. All things considered, however, she had to make the best of a bad job, and if she could only get through that happy time at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, she felt convinced that all would be well with her in the future. She, accordingly, welcomed Fanchon now with a smile, and immediately took the lead.

“Just for all the world,” repeated Fanchon afterwards when she gave her sisters a partial account of this interview, “as if she were in the right and I was her little culprit at the bar!”

“Sit down, dear Fanchon,” said Brenda. “Take this cosy seat by the open window—isn’t the night very warm?”

“Yes—very,” said Fanchon.

She took the proffered seat and the governess placed herself on the window ledge near by.

“We shall enjoy our time at the sea,” said Brenda, “shall we not?”

Fanchon did not answer. She was gazing in surprise at Brenda, who, prettily dressed in soft white muslin, looked more charming even than usual.

“The cool sea breezes will be so refreshing,” continued the governess—“I am picturing the whole scene. I am going to be, of course, very particular with regard to Josie and Nina; but you, Fanchon, who are so tall for your age, can come out with me in the evening and listen to the band and—and—partake of any sort of fun that is going on.”

“Can I really?” said Fanchon, her eyes sparkling, and, for a minute, she forgot that she was really the judge and Brenda the criminal.

“Of course you can, dear; I mean you to have a good time.”

“But can’t we settle that afterwards?” said Fanchon. “The other thing has to be arranged first, hasn’t it?”

“What other thing, my dear?”

“Oh, Brenda—you know—don’t pretend that you forget. I gave you a fright—a big fright—this morning, and you—you cried. What are you going to do about the money? you have it—you know, and it isn’t yours, it’s ours.”

“I have it, of course,” said Brenda, “I have not denied it. I told you that I thought of spending it at Marshlands; there’ll be sure to be nice shops there, and we can see the things that’ll be suitable. You don’t suppose, you poor children, that you can manage with only those pink muslin dresses—that would never, never do—I had no such thought, I assure you.”

“But,” persisted Fanchon, “you said this morning that you had spent all the money on us, and that we owed you for the gloves. Oh, how knowing you are, Brenda, but you have overstepped the mark this time, and poor papa, if he knew—”

Brenda lowered her eyes. She had very thick and very curling jet-black lashes, and they looked sweet as they rested against her blooming cheeks. Fanchon could not help noticing them and, further, she could not help observing the gentle smile that played round her lips.

“Now, listen,” said Brenda. “I want to confide in you. You can believe in me or not—just as you please. I cannot possibly force your belief, nor can I force you to do anything but what you wish. I am, to a certain extent, in your power, and in the power of the other two girls. You can tell your father, and he will dismiss me, and—I shall be ruined—”

“Oh, I don’t suppose papa will be so very hard with you. He’s quite fond of you, you know,” said Fanchon.

“He would be terribly severe,” said Brenda. “He is a dear good man, but he would be terrible, fearful, if you told him—you three—what you have found out. I tell you, Fanchon, why he would be so fearful. Because I have done what I have done entirely for the sake of deceiving him.”

“Oh dear! dear! Then you are even more wicked than I thought,” said Fanchon.

“Listen—the position is a very strange one. I seem to forget, as I am talking to you, that I am your governess, and that you and your sisters are my little pupils, but the facts are those: I look upon you, Fanchon, as very much older than your years. You have, in many ways, the mind of a grown-up woman. Of course you are very young, quite unformed, but you will be grown up sooner than most girls; and you have an understanding way, and I think you will follow me now if I try hard to explain myself.”

“I wish you would begin,” said Fanchon then, restlessly, “you do so beat about the bush. You said this morning that you hadn’t a penny over, and that we owed you for the gloves; and then, afterwards, you confessed that you had something over—an awful lot over—and that you meant to spend it at Marshlands. You told one lie, anyway.”

“Yes, I told one lie, anyway,” responded Brenda, intense sadness in her tone. “I told one dreadful, wicked lie, and I am very, very sorry—”

“Oh, I wonder if you are!”

“Yes, I am—I am; that was why I cried that time.”

“It wasn’t—you cried because you were in a funk.”

“Fanchon, my dear child, your blunt words hurt me exceedingly.”

“Well, well,” said Fanchon, kicking one leg against the wainscoting as she spoke—“do go on, hurry up—won’t you? We’ll forget about the lie number one, and remember that you have confessed to having the money. We’ll even try to believe that you meant to spend it on us at Marshlands. Go on from that point, do.”

“I will explain things to you,” said Brenda. “You know your dear father is very ignorant with regard to dress. His simplicity on these matters is most sweet, but at times it almost provokes a smile. Now, if I had spent three pounds on each of you in the little shops at Rocheford; and if Nina, and Josephine, and you—my dear Fanchon, in your silly way—had lost your heads over the pretty things I had bought, he would have been dreadfully startled and would have accused himself of great extravagance in giving you so much money, and when the next occasion came when my dear little pupils wanted pretty clothes, I should have had nothing like as much to spend on you. So your Brenda was—well—cunning, if you choose to call it so, and determined to outwit dear papa; and quite resolved that her little pupils should be charmingly attired at a place where he was not likely to see them.” Fanchon did not speak at all for a minute. After a pause, she said:

“And that was your reason for keeping back the money?”

“Certainly—just to deceive your poor papa; for his good, dear—for his good, and for yours.”

“You’re awfully clever, Brenda,” was Fanchon’s next remark.

Brenda coloured.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Because—because—I know it. You made up that story to-day when you were by yourself, and it’s wonderfully clever—it really is. I suppose you think that we girls believe you.”

“You’ll believe in your pretty frocks, and nice hats, and nice shoes and charming gloves, and also in the little treats at the different tea shops which I mean to give you all out of dear papa’s money—”

“That is, of course, if we don’t tell,” said Fanchon. “Oh, you can please yourself about that,” said Brenda. “You can tell, and everything will be at an end. I shall go away from here; I will give him back the money—I have it in that drawer—and he will take my poor little character as well, and I’ll wander forth into the world, a desolate and ruined girl. You won’t go to the sea—you’ll stay at home. You’ll have your victory. In a few weeks a horrid, elderly governess with spectacles, and perhaps with a squint, will come here. I’m sure your father will be afraid to get any one young and—and—pretty—again. When she comes, she will give you—”

“Beans!” said Fanchon. “I know the sort—I—I don’t want a horrible thing like that in the house.”

“No—poor Brenda is better than that, isn’t she?”

“Oh, Brenda, you are so clever,” laughed Fanchon. When Brenda heard that laugh, she knew that her victory was assured.

“My dear girl,” she said, “believe me or not; that was my real reason for keeping back the money, and your terrible little Nina can keep an account of all that I spend at Marshlands, and satisfy her wise, odious little head with the fact that I am not holding back one penny for myself. She can do that, and you can all have a good time. Now—what do you say?”

“It sounds—if you had not told that first lie—it sounds almost as if it could just be believed,” said Fanchon.

“It can be acted on, whether it is believed or not,” remarked Brenda.

Fanchon was silent. Brenda watched her narrowly. “I have something to say to you,” she remarked, all of a sudden. “Of course you won’t speak to your papa and get me dismissed, and lose all your own fun—no three girls would be so mad. But I have something more to say. I want you, Fanchon, to be my friend.”

“Oh—I!” said Fanchon—“but mice are never friendly with cats, are they?”

“You mustn’t think of me as a cat, dear, nor of yourself as a mouse. The simile is very painful, and you know how I have talked to you about the pleasant time I trust to have at Marshlands; and you shall help me, and look very, very smart when you come out with me in the evenings. Do you remember my telling you that if you are my friend, I might get you a little bangle to wear?”

“Oh, yes—but I am certain it would be a horrid gilt thing not worth anything.”

“Fanchon—you are unkind! I told you in the utmost confidence that I had been left a tiny legacy—a little, little sum of money, very precious to poor me, but very small. Well, I did not forget my pupil, and I have bought her a bangle.”

“Oh, Brenda, have you?”

“Yes, dear; and it is made of the best gold for the purpose—eighteen carat gold! You must on no account tell the others a single word about it; but I will give it you sometimes to wear when you and I go out by ourselves in the evenings. It shall shine on your little wrist then, Fanchon, and—how sweet you will look in it!”

“Oh—but may I see it?” said Fanchon, her lips trembling as she spoke.

“Not until you most faithfully promise that you will not say a word about it to the other girls. There are, occasionally, times when I may even want to wear it myself. But it will belong to you—it will be your property, and when we come back from the sea, I will present it to you absolutely. Make me a faithful promise that you will say nothing about the bangle, and you shall constantly wear it when the others are not looking on—and—when we return, it shall be yours!”

“Oh, I promise,” said Fanchon. “I expect I was a sort of a brute this morning—I didn’t understand you could be so kind. Are you making a fool of me, Brenda—do you mean what you say?”

“Of course I mean what I say. You faithfully promise?”

“I do—indeed—indeed; and I will explain things to the others, and I’ll force them to believe me—they generally do everything that I wish. You will buy us all the lovely clothes, won’t you, darling Brenda!”

“I have said so, Fanchon.”

“And you will take me out in the evenings when the other two are in bed?”

“Most certainly I will.”

“Then I will promise everything—I will be your friend through thick and thin, and I’m awfully sorry I was cross to you and—and disbelieved you. Of course, I see that dear papa has to be managed; he is so funny about our dress—so different from other men.”

“Your father is a most saint-like man, and you must never say that he is funny, for that is not right. But saint-like men have to be managed in this unsaintlike world, that is all, dear—every woman understands that, she wouldn’t be worth her salt if she didn’t.”

“Please, please show me the bracelet,” said Fanchon. Then Brenda went to the drawer where her treasures were and took out the little old box where her false jewellery had reposed, and where now the beautiful bangle lay in all its pristine freshness. She hated beyond words to see Fanchon even touch it, but she felt that she had to pay this price to secure her own safety, and she even permitted the girl to clasp it round her wrist, and to look at it with the colour flaming into her cheeks and the light of longing in her dull eyes.

“Oh—isn’t it just—too perfect!” said Fanchon.

“Be my friend and it shall be yours when we return from the sea. I bought it for you—for you; real, real gold too, of the best quality—and such an exquisite turquoise! You needn’t be ashamed to wear this wherever you appear—even when, by-and-by, you are married to some rich, great man, you can still wear the little bracelet—the very best of its kind. See, I will write your name now before your eyes on the little box.” Brenda took up a pencil and hastily wrote the following words on the back of the box: “Fanchon Amberley’s gold and turquoise bracelet.”

“Why don’t you say that you have given it to me?” said Fanchon.

“No, no—I can add that by-and-by. If people happen to ask you the story about it, it may not be wise for it to appear that such a beautiful thing was given to you by a poor governess. Well now, here it is back again in the drawer, and you can go to bed, Fanchon. You are a very rich girl, and I am not quite as bad as you painted me, am I?”

“No, no!” said Fanchon, who was completely won over, “you’re a darling!”

“Not a cat,” whispered Brenda—“not a horrid pussy-cat?”

“No—a darling, and my friend,” said Fanchon and then she left the room a little giddily, for the thought of the bracelet seemed to weigh her down with uncontrollable bliss; she scarcely understood her own sensations.

Chapter Twelve.

A Terrible Alternative.

Nina was very poorly the next day and was forced to stay in bed. She could not eat any of the good things which had been provided for breakfast, and thought of herself as a much abused little martyr.

Brenda’s conduct to this naughty, greedy child was all that was exemplary. She gave her proper medicines and saw that her bedroom was made comfortable, and came in and out of the room like a ministering angel—as Mr Amberley said.

Soon after noon, Nina was better, and as she had not the slightest idea what had taken place between Fanchon and her governess the night before, she said somewhat rudely to that pretty young woman, who was hemming some of the Reverend Josiah’s handkerchiefs as she sat by the bedside:

“Do go away please, Brenda, and send Fanchon to me.”

Brenda gave an angelic smile and immediately complied. A few minutes later Fanchon entered the room accompanied by Josephine.

“Oh, you are better, are you?” said Fanchon, regarding her younger sister with small favour. “Well—I hope you have received your lesson and won’t eat unlimited plum cake again, and finish off with lobster and crabs.”

“I hate l-lobsters and crabs!” moaned the victim. “They make me so s-sick—horrid things!”

“Well, you’re better now, so forget about them,” said Fanchon.

“Yes—I am better; she—the cat—she says that I am to have gruel for dinner! I don’t want it—horrid thing!”

“Serves you right, say I!” cried Fanchon.

“Oh, please, Fanchon,” said Nina, whose tears had trickled weakly forth, for she had really been rather bad, “don’t scold me, but tell me what you have arranged with Cat last night.”

“She’s not a cat—we made a mistake about that,” said Fanchon.

“What on earth do you mean now, Fanchon?” exclaimed Josie.

“She explained things to me. She’s very good-natured, and very wise.”

“Very ill-natured and only self-wise!” exclaimed Josie.

“No, no—you don’t know!” and then Fanchon proceeded to explain to both her sisters all about that wonderful point of view which Brenda, in her cleverness, had managed to impress on her mind. The money was kept back on purpose. It was on account of dear papa and dear papa’s eccentricity. The money would be spent at Marshlands, and Nina, if she liked, could keep accounts.

“She cried about it, poor thing!” said Fanchon. “She admits, of course, that the money is there for us, and she will buy us just what we want and give us a good time, and some treats besides in the different tea shops. She really was awfully nice about it.”

“Oh, Fanchon,” said Josephine, “you are taken in easily.”

“No, I’m not—I didn’t believe her myself at first.”

“You mean to say you do now?” said Nina.

“Y-yes, I do now.”

Notwithstanding her weakness, Nina laughed.

“Well, then—I don’t—do you, Joey?”

“I?” said Josephine. “I believe her less than ever. She is found out, and she means to save herself by spending the money on us. She’s a worse old cat than ever—that’s what I call her.”

“Well—of course,” said Fanchon, “you can tell papa—she told me last night that I could.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” said Nina.

“Well, I don’t think so. I believe her—I really and truly do. She confesses she told that lie about not having money, for she wished to have the thing a secret until we got to the seaside; but that is the whole of her offending. Of course you, girls, can tell papa, but it’ll be very serious, particularly as that awful Miss Juggins has come home to live with her mother.”

“What in the wide world has Miss Juggins to do with it?” exclaimed both sisters.

“Well—she’s out of a situation, and papa is safe and certain to get her to come to us. It was Brenda herself who spoke of her last night. She did not mention her name, but she must have had her in her mind. She is between forty and fifty if she’s a day, and she wears spectacles and has a cast in her eye and she’s a perfect terror. If we get poor Brenda away, we don’t go to the sea, and Juggins comes. It’s because of Juggins that I believe in Brenda—it is really.”

This frank avowal of the cause of her belief had a great influence on the other girls. Josephine sat quite still, evidently in deep thought. Nina lay back against her pillows.

“It would be awful to have Juggins!” she said, after a pause, “she would be worse than Brenda.”

“She would be honest, though,” said Josephine.

“Oh, yes—that she would. But think of our fun and—and—we know enough about Brenda now to force her to give us a good time.”

“I think, girls, we had best accept the situation,” was Fanchon’s final judgment.

Whatever the other girls might have remarked, and whatever their resolve would have been, must be left partly to conjecture. But something occurred at that moment to cause them to come altogether to Fanchon’s point of view; for, just at that instant, there was a tap at Nina’s door, and who should walk in but—Miss Jemima Juggins herself!

She came close up to Nina’s bedside, and asked abruptly where the Reverend Josiah was.

“Why are you lying in bed, you lazy child?” she said. “What is the matter?”

Now certainly Miss Juggins made a great contrast to pretty Brenda, and, when she removed her blue glasses and fixed her rather crooked eyes on Nina, Nina made up her mind on the spot to believe in Brenda, in Marshlands, in the pretty clothes which were yet to be bought, in a good time by the sea.

“I will go and find papa,” said Fanchon. “I know he’ll be glad to see you, Miss Juggins.”

“I hope he will, indeed,” said Miss Juggins. “I have come to speak to him on business. I want a new situation. How untidy your room is, girls! Shameful, I call it—three great hulking lasses like you not to be able to keep your own bedroom straight! But get your father at once, please, Fanny.”

“My name is Fanchon,” said that young lady. “Fanny—I prefer to call you; I hate French names.” Fanchon withdrew. The Reverend Josiah was discovered, and was borne up to little Nina’s room. Miss Juggins was seated by the bed.

“How do you do!” she said when the rector entered. “You don’t mind my finding my way about this house, I hope, Mr Amberley, seeing that I knew your sainted wife so well. I came to ask you if you could find me a situation. This child is a little ill from overeating, and ought to get up and take a good walk. I will go down with you to your study, Mr Amberley, for I must have a private talk. Good-bye, children. Take my advice, and tidy up your room. Really, Rector, you don’t bring your girls up at all in the way their dear mother would have liked.”

The door slammed behind Miss Juggins. The girls looked at each other.

“We mustn’t get rid of Pussy-cat,” said Nina then. “She would be fifty times worse. Well, I’ll keep the sums awfully carefully, and I’ll—”

“You’ll have to believe in her, you know, and try to be agreeable,” said Fanchon.

“Oh—any fate in preference to Juggins!” was Josephine’s remark.

Chapter Thirteen.

A Surprise Invitation.

On the morning after the prize-giving day at Hazlitt Chase, Penelope rose with a headache. There was a great deal of bustle and excitement in the school, for nearly all the girls were going to their several homes on that special morning. Penelope and Mademoiselle d’Etienne would have the beautiful old house to themselves before twenty-four hours were over.

Penelope did not in the least care for Mademoiselle; she was not especially fond of her school life, but she detested those long and endless holidays which she spent invariably at Hazlitt Chase.

To-day all was in disorder. The usual routine of school life was over. The children were some of them beside themselves with the thought of the railway journey and the home-coming in the evening. Somebody shouted to Penelope to hurry with her dressing, in order to help to get off the little ones. The smaller children, including the two little Hungerfords, were to go in a great omnibus to the station and be conducted by a governess to their different homes in various parts of England.

Pauline Hungerford suddenly rushed into the room where Penelope was standing.

“Helen of Troy,” she said.

“Oh, please don’t!” said Penelope. “I am not Helen of Troy—I don’t wish to be called by that odious name.”

“But you were so beautiful!” said little Pauline. “Do you know that while we were looking at you, even Nellie forgot about her bracelet; but she’s crying like anything over the loss of it this morning. It is quite too bad.”

“Yes, indeed it is,” said Penelope. “I do trust your mother will take steps to get it back. I hear that some of the railway officials were supposed to have stolen it.”

“Oh dear,” said Pauline, “how wicked of them! What awful people they must be! Who told you that, Penelope?”

“Well, it was mentioned to me by my sister, who came here yesterday. You saw her, of course?”

“Yes—she was talking a lot to my brother. She is very pretty; of course—of course I saw her. And she says it was the railway people who stole it? I will tell mother that the very instant I get back. But oh, please, Penelope, Honora wants you; she said you promised to go to her room before ten, and she would be so glad if you would go at once—will you?”

“Yes, I will go,” said Penelope.

She had forgotten Honora’s words, being absorbed in her own melancholy thoughts. It now occurred to her, however, that she might as well keep her promise to the pretty girl who ought to have been Helen of Troy. She went slowly down the passage, tapped at Honora’s door, and entered her bedroom. The young lady was just dressed for her journey. She wore dainty white piqué and a pretty hat to match. She looked fair and fresh and charming.

“I am just off—I have hardly a minute,” she said. “I want to ask a great favour of you, Penelope.”

“What is that?” said Penelope.

She spoke ill-naturedly. She felt the contrast between them. She almost disliked Honora for her beauty on this occasion.

“It is this,” said Honora. “I have been asking mamma—and she says I may do it. Will you come and stay with us for part of the holidays?”

“I!” said Penelope—amazement in her face.

“Yes. We live at Castle Beverley: it is not very far from Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Penelope, clasping her hands. “Why, it is there my sister is going.”

“Then of course you can see her; that will be nice. But will you come? I will write to fix the day after I get home. I should like you to have a good time with us. We shall be quite a big party—boys and girls, oh,—a lot of us, and I think there’ll be no end of fun. The little Hungerfords are coming, and Fred. Fred is such a nice boy. Will you come, Penelope? Do say ‘Yes.’”

Penelope’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“Will I come!” she said. “Why, I’d just love it beyond anything. Oh, you are good! Do you ask me because you pity me?”

“Well—yes, perhaps a little,” said Honora, colouring at this direct question—“but also because I want to like you. I know you are worth liking. No one who could look as you did last night could be unworthy. It was after I saw you that I asked mamma; and she said: most certainly you should come. It will probably be next week: I will write you fixing the day as soon as ever I get home. And now, I must be off. Good-bye, dear. You may be certain I will do my very utmost to give you a really happy time.”

Honora bent her stately head, pressed a little kiss on Penelope’s forehead, and the next minute had left her. Penelope’s first impulse had been to rush downstairs; but she restrained herself. She sat down on Honora’s vacant bed and pressed her hand to her forehead.

“Fun for me,”—she thought—“for me! I shan’t have lonely holidays. I shall go to one of the nicest houses in England, and be with nice people, good people, true people. There’s Brenda—of course I wish—I do wish Brenda were not at Marshlands; but I suppose I can’t have everything. I wish—I wish I could understand Brenda. Why did she force me to get all that money for her? I wonder if any of the girls who gave it me will be there. Well, well—I won’t be disagreeable—I am going to have a jolly time—I, who never have any fun. Oh, I am glad—I am very glad!”

About an hour later, the great house of Hazlitt Chase seemed quite silent and empty. Except for some housemaids who went to the different rooms in order to fold up the sheets and put away the blankets and take the curtains down from the windows and generally reduce the spotless, dainty chambers to the immaculate order of holiday times, Penelope did not see any one. She was glad that Mademoiselle d’Etienne was not in sight. She thought she could endure her holiday now that she had something to look forward to, if only Mademoiselle were not with her. But she could not stand the housemaids: they were so full of gossip and noise. Their accustomed reverence for the young ladies was not extended to the lonely girl who always spent vacation at Hazlitt Chase.

Penelope put on her hat, seized the first book she could find, and went out into the open air. The grounds still bore traces of yesterday’s revels. There was the wood—dark, cool, and beautiful—which had been used for that scene in which she took so distinguished a part. Penelope’s first desire was to get within the shade of the wood; but then she remembered how many things had happened there; how it was there that she had made terms with the girls with regard to the conditions on which she would act Helen of Troy. It was there, too, that Honora Beverley had found her when the play was over—when she was feeling so wrought up, so desolate, and, somehow, so ashamed of herself. She did not want to go into the wood. She walked, therefore, down one of the sunny garden paths, and at last came to a grassy sward with a huge elm-tree in the middle. There was shade under the elm. She eat down on the grass and opened her book. But she was not inclined to read. Penelope was never a reader. She had no special nor strong tastes. She could have been made a very nice, all-round sort of girl; her brain could have been well developed, but she would never be a genius or a specialist of any sort. Nevertheless, she had one thing which some of those girls who despised her did not possess; that was, a real, vibrating, suffering, longing, and passionate soul. She longed intensely for love, and she would rather be good than bad—that was about all.

She sat with her book open and her eyes fixed on the flickering sunlight and shade of the lawn just in front of her. After all she, Penelope, would have a good time—just like the other girls. She would come back to school able, like the other girls, to talk of her holidays, to describe where she went and what companions she found and what friends she made; to talk as the others talked of this delightful day and that delightful day. Oh, yes—she would have a good time! She pressed her hand to her eyes and her eyelids smarted with tears. It had been a very long time since Penelope had cried. Now, notwithstanding her sudden and unlooked-for bliss, there was a pain within her breast. She was terribly—most terribly disappointed in Brenda. She had not seen Brenda for a long time, and she had always rather worshipped her sister. When a little child, she had thoroughly revelled in Brenda’s beauty. When the time came that she and Brenda must part, little Penelope had sobbed hard in her elder sister’s arms—had implored and implored her not to leave her, and afterwards, when the separation had taken place, had been sullen and truly miserable for a long time.

Then she had been admitted to Mrs Hazlitt’s school on those special conditions which came to a few girls and had been arranged by those governors who put a certain number on the foundation terms of the school. The foundation girls were never known to be such by any of their companions. They were treated exactly like the others. In fact, if anything, they had a few more indulgences. Not for worlds would Mrs Hazlitt have given these children of poverty so cruel a time as to make their estate known to their companions.

But, it so happened that Penelope was obliged always to spend her holidays at the school. That was the only difference made between her and the others. She had not seen Brenda for years. But Brenda had written to her little sister and had made all use possible of that sister’s affection. She had worked up her feelings with regard to her own dreadful poverty and, in short, had got Penelope to blackmail four girls of the school for her sake.

“It was a dreadful thing to do,” thought Penelope to herself, as she sat now under the shade of the elm-tree. “I don’t think I’d have done it if I’d known. I wonder if she really wanted the money so very badly. There’s some one who loves her, and she must look nice for his sake. But all the same—I wish I hadn’t done it, and I wish she were not going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea. For she is just the sort to make it unpleasant for me, and to expect the Beverleys to ask her to Beverley Castle; and oh—I am disappointed in her!”

Again Penelope cried, not hard or much, for this was not her nature, but sufficiently to relieve some of the load at her heart. Then, all of a sudden, she started to her feet. Mademoiselle d’Etienne was coming down the central lawn to meet her. Mademoiselle was in many respects an excellent French governess, but had the usual faults of the proverbial Frenchwoman. She was both ugly and vain. She could not in the least read character, but she had the knack of discovering which was the girl whose acquaintance was most worth cultivating.

Mrs Hazlitt had made a mistake in introducing this woman into the school. She had not interviewed her in advance, and was altogether disappointed when she arrived. It was her intention to get another French governess to take her place at the beginning of next term. Mademoiselle had, in fact, received notice to this effect and was exceedingly annoyed. She was in that state when she must vent her spleen on some one, and, as Penelope was the only girl now at Hazlitt Chase, she went up to her crossly.

“What are you doing here, mon enfant?” she cried. “You leave the poor French mademoiselle all alone—it is sad—it is strange—it is wrong. Come this minute into the house. I have my woes to relate, and I want even a petite like you to listen. Come at once, and sit no longer under this shade, but make of yourself a use.”

Penelope rose, looking more grim and forbidding than usual. She followed Mademoiselle up the garden, past the wood, and into the house.

“Behold the desolation!” cried Mademoiselle, when they got indoors. She spread out her two fat, short arms and looked around her. “Not a petite in sight—not a sound—the whole mansion empty, and Madame gone—gone with venom! She have left me my dismissal; she say, ‘You teach no more les enfants in this school.’ She gave no reason, but say, ‘I find another and you teach no more!’ Who was that spiteful and most méchant enfant who reveals secrets of poor Mademoiselle to Madame?”

“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “I hadn’t an idea you were going. I know nothing about it,” she continued. “Aren’t we going to have any lunch? I am so hungry.”

“And so am I,” cried Mademoiselle, who was exceedingly greedy. “I starve—I ache from within. Sonnez, mon enfant—I entreat; let us have our déjeuner—my vitals can stand the strain no longer.”

Penelope rang the bell, and presently a towsled-looking housemaid appeared, to whom Mademoiselle spoke in a volley of bad English and excellent French.

“Get us something to eat,” said Penelope, “that is what we want. Isn’t Patience here to wait on us as usual?”

Patience was one of the immaculate parlour maids.

“No,” said the girl; “Patience has gone on her holiday.”

She withdrew, however, quickly after making this remark, for Mademoiselle’s eyes flashed fire.

“I suffer not these tortures,” she cried, “and the insolence of English domestiques! I return to my own adorable land and partake of the ragoûts so delicate and the bouillon so fragrant and the omelettes so adorable. I turn my back on your cold England. It loves not the stranger—and the stranger loves it not!”

A meal was hastily prepared in another room, and Penelope and the governess went there together.

“What I dread,” said Mademoiselle, “what I consider so triste and execrable—is that I should remain here in this so gloomy climate, far, far from my beloved land, with you—the most ennuyeuse of all my pupils during the time of holiday. I call it shameful! I rebel!”

“Then why do you stay?” said Penelope.

Again Mademoiselle extended her fat hands and arms.

“Would I lose that little character which is to me the breath of existence?” she enquired. “Were Madame to know that I had left you, my triste pupil, all alone during these long days and weeks, would she give me a paper with those essential qualifications written on it which secure for me employment elsewhere?”

“I am going away myself next week,” said Penelope, bluntly.

“Next week!” cried Mademoiselle, much startled and delighted at this news. “But is that indeed so? for Madame say nothing of it. She say to me this morning: ‘You take excellent care of my pupil, Penelope Carlton, and give her of the food sufficient, and of the mental food also, that she will digest.’”

“I won’t digest any of it,” said Penelope, bluntly.

“That was my thought, but I dared not express it. I knew well the dulness of your intellect, and although last night you did soar into a different world—ma foi, you did take me by surprise!—you are yourself a very triste little girl—an enfant indistinguishable, with neither the gifts of beauty nor of genius.”

“Well—I am going—it is arranged. Mrs Hazlitt will doubtless be written to.”

“And where do you go, pauvre petite?” asked the governess.

“I am going to stay with Honora Beverley, at Castle Beverley,” replied Penelope, with even a touch of arrogance in her small voice.

Mademoiselle opened her eyes wide.

“With her!—my pupil magnifique, and so beautiful! She has the air distinguished and the manner noble. She belongs to the rich and to the great. She takes you up—but pourquoi?”

“Kindness—I suppose,” said Penelope. “I am lonely, and they have a big house; I am going there.”

“It is wonderful,” said Mademoiselle, “you of all people. Honora is one with thoughts the most lofty, and she signifies a preference for you! It is strange—it gives me mal à la tête even to think of it!”

“Why should it?” asked Penelope.

“Do I not know some of your ways, mon enfant—and that little, little transaction in the wood?”

“What in the world do you mean?” said Penelope, turning ghastly white.

“Ah! I mean no wrong. I have eaten enough of your odious English cookery; let us rise from table. I am glad to feel that you are going to that friend so unsuitable—to that lady so supérieure. Would she ask you if she knew what I know?—”

“I can’t tell, I am sure, what you do know,” said Penelope; “but what I feel at present is that I want rest—you’re not obliged to follow me about all the afternoon—may I stay by myself until supper time?”

“Ungrateful!” cried Mademoiselle. “But I shall go—I need you not. I have myself to attend to, and my affairs so sombre to settle. I will meet you again at the hour of supper, when I have put matters in train for myself.”

Penelope left her. How much did Mademoiselle know? She disliked her heartily, and did not want to trouble her head too much over the circumstance. She felt certain that the four girls who had given her the money would not confide their secrets to any one, far less to Mademoiselle, whom they distrusted. Nevertheless, the governess was scarcely likely to speak as she had done without reason. She was evidently jealous of Penelope’s invitation to Beverley Castle, and was very angry at being dismissed from Hazlitt Chase.

“She can’t by any possibility know the truth,” thought the girl, “and I won’t fret about it. I will just humour her as best I can until next week arrives, and then say good-bye to her for ever. I am heartily glad she is leaving the school; I never liked her so little as I do now.”

Now, Mademoiselle D’Etienne and Brenda Carlton would have made their fortunes by ways that deceived. There was a great deal of affinity in their insincere natures. With Mademoiselle, it was truly bred in the bone; but she was not altogether ill-natured, and, after considering matters for a short time, decided that, unless special circumstances turned up, she would not disturb Penelope’s chance of having a good time at Castle Beverley. Her jealousy of the girl died down and she thought of herself and her own circumstances. Then it occurred to her that she would perhaps make some use of her pupil’s unexpected absence from Hazlitt Chase. If Penelope went to Castle Beverley for several weeks of the holidays, it would surely not be necessary for Mademoiselle to stay in that mansion so triste, so desolate. Mrs Hazlitt was the soul of kindness. Mademoiselle was in her employ, and earning a considerable salary until the middle of September. It might be possible that Mrs Hazlitt could find some amusement for the poor lonely girl who was banished from her native land. Where could she go? what could she do to relieve the heavy air of England, to take the oppression from her heart? It would be more than delightful if she, too, could have an invitation to Castle Beverley, and, just for a minute, it entered her head that she might manage this by means of that little secret which she held over Penelope.

But, after all, the secret was not so intensely valuable. What she knew was simply this. She had observed Cara Burt opening a letter on a certain morning and taking an unexpected five-pound note out of it. Mademoiselle was avaricious. The sight of the money had awakened desires within her. What could a girl like Cara want with anything so precious as a five-pound note in term time? She resolved to question her.

“How good your people are to you!” she said.

Cara had asked the governess what she meant, and the governess had prettily replied in her broken English that she had seen the “note so valuable” in Cara’s hand when she opened the letter.

“Oh, that is for a purpose—an important one,” answered Cara. Then she bit her lips, for she was sorry she had said so much. But other girls had received their money on the very same day and Mademoiselle, alert and auspicious, had crept to the rendezvous where they all met. Poor Penelope! When Penelope received the five-pound Bank of England notes, Mademoiselle’s dark, wicked face was peering from behind the shade of a magnificent oak tree. The girls themselves did not perceive her. She was much elated with her discovery and resolved to enfold it, as she said, within her breast for future use.

Now, it occurred to her that she might simply relate to Penelope what she had done, or rather tell her pupil enough to show her that she was in the secret. That very evening, when the two had finished their supper she began her confidence. She told the girl that she had not wished to injure her, but at the same time that she knew for a fact that she had received four five-pound notes from four different girls of the school.

“To me it is extraordinary,” she said, “why they should give to you the precious money, but that they have done so is beyond doubt. I go by the evidence of these eyes at once piercing and true! Do you deny it, mon enfant? Do you dare to be so méchante?”

“I admit nothing and deny nothing,” said Penelope, as calmly as she could speak.

Mademoiselle laughed. After a long pause, she said:

“I am a nature the most generous, and I would not hurt a hair of the head of my pupil. You will go and enjoy the festival and the time so gay and the friends so kind at Castle Beverley, and that enfant so magnifique, Honora Beverley, will be your companion. I could prevent it, for she is, with all her nobleness, fanatical in her views, and of principles the most severe.”

“I will never ask you to keep anything back,” said Penelope. “You can write to Honora if you wish: I don’t know how you can say anything about me without maligning yourself.”

“Ah—mademoiselle I do you think I could so injure you?” said the governess. “That would indeed be far from my thoughts. But if I have the consideration the very deepest for you, will you not assist me to have a less triste time than in this lonely house with even you away?”

“What can I do?” asked Penelope, in surprise. “I am a rather friendless girl, how can I possibly assist you to have a gay time? I never yet had a gay time myself, this is the first occasion.”

“And it fills you with so great delight?”

“I am very glad,” said Penelope.

“I write this evening,” said Mademoiselle, “to Madame, and I mention to her the fact that my one pupil departs on the quest of pleasure, and I ask her to liberate me from my solitaire position here and to perhaps do me a little kindness by assisting me to spend the holiday by the gay, bright, and charming sea. A little word thrown in from you, too, mademoiselle, might do much to influence Madame to think of the poor governess. Will you not write that word?”

Penelope hesitated for a minute. Then she said, bluntly:

“I will mention the fact that you will be quite alone, and I will write myself to Mrs Hazlitt to-night.”

As she spoke, she got up, and left the room. Penelope hated herself for having to write the letter. She longed more than ever for the moment when she would be free to go to Castle Beverley. She was not really afraid of Mademoiselle. She would rather all the girls in the school knew what she had done than be, in any respect, in Mademoiselle’s power. In fact, such a strange revulsion of feeling had come over her, that she would have told the truth but for Brenda. But, although she was deeply disappointed in Brenda, it was the last wish in her heart to do anything to injure or to provoke her.

Accordingly, she wrote a careful and really nice letter to her headmistress, telling her what Honora had said, and begging of her to allow her to accept the invitation, when it arrived. She also said that Mademoiselle d’Etienne would be quite alone, and seemed put out at the fact of her going. At the same time, she begged that the thought of Mademoiselle would not prevent Mrs Hazlitt’s allowing her to accept the invitation.

Penelope’s letter was duly put into the post, accompanied by one of much persuasiveness from the French governess. The result of these two letters was, that as soon as the post could bring replies, replies came. Mrs Hazlitt said that she would be delighted to allow Penelope to go to Castle Beverley, and that as she knew the house would be full of gay young people, she enclosed her a five-pound note out of a fund which she specially possessed for the purpose, to allow the girl to get a few nice things.

“Mademoiselle will help you to purchase these,” she said, “and you can have all your school frocks nicely washed and done up in the school laundry. I am afraid I cannot spend more on your dress, Penelope, but I think you can manage with the money I send you.”

Mademoiselle’s cheeks were flushed when she devoured the contents of her own letter; for enclosed in it was a cheque so generous that her eyes blazed with pleasure.

“Madame is of the most mean, and yet of the most generous!” she cried. “She allows me to go when you go, petite, and she gives me a little sum to spend on myself, so that I make a holiday the best that I can. I knew where I will reside. I will go to that place near Castle Beverley—I forget its long name—but it is gay, sad on the sea.”

“You’re not going to Marshlands?” cried Penelope, in some alarm.

“That is the place that I will go to,” said Mademoiselle. “I have looked it out on the map, and it is far off, but not too far off. There I can watch over you, although it is the distant view that I will obtain, and I can, from time to time, see my other most beloved pupil, and perhaps go to Castle Beverley, and wish them adieu before I depart to that land of sun—la belle France.”

Penelope did not at all like the idea of Mademoiselle’s going to Marshlands. She hoped she would not come across Brenda, and she trusted sincerely that she would not be invited to Castle Beverley. But, as Mademoiselle was determined to have her own way, Penelope resolved to take the good which lay at hand, and not to trouble herself too much about the future.

Mademoiselle was now extremely good-natured, and helped Penelope to renovate her very simple wardrobe and, in short, made herself as charming as a Frenchwoman of her character knew how. All in good time, Honora’s delightful letter of invitation arrived, and Mademoiselle resolved to travel with her pupil as far as Marshlands.

“I part from you,” she said, “at the railway station where you will meet your friends so distinguished; and I, the governess, the foreigner, will go to search for appartements that are cheap. You will bid me farewell, and permit me to shake the hand once again of my pupil Honora. Ah! but I am kind to you—am I not?”

“Yes,” murmured Penelope, feeling all the time that Mademoiselle was unbearably trying. The joys, however, of going to Castle Beverley should not be damped even by this incident.

The girl and the Frenchwoman travelled second-class together, and arrived at the somewhat noisy station of Marshlands-on-the-Sea between six and seven o’clock on a glorious evening in August Penelope had not beheld the blue, blue sea since she was quite a little girl, and her eyes sparkled now with delight. She looked quite different from the limp and somewhat uninteresting girl she had appeared to every one at Hazlitt Chase. The anticipation of happiness was working marvels in her character. Penelope had taken good care not to inform Brenda of the day of her arrival. She was quite sure she would have to meet her sister; but she would at least give herself a little rest before the encounter took place. She rejoiced, too, in the knowledge that up to the present Mademoiselle d’Etienne and Brenda did not know each other.

As soon as the train drew up to the platform, Mademoiselle poked out her head and uttered a little shriek when she beheld Pauline and Nellie Hungerford, as well as Honora herself and a tall footman waiting on the platform. Mademoiselle rushed up to Honora, taking both her hands and shaking them up and down while she burst into an eager volley of French, in which she informed that “pupil best beloved” that the desire to be near her had brought her to Marshlands-on-the-Sea, and that she was even now going with her humble belongings to seek apartments appropriate to her means.

“I meet you, my pupil,” she said, “with a joy which almost ravishes my breast, for sincere and true are my feelings towards you. And now I stay not, but perhaps some day you will think of the governess in her humble appartements by the lone sea, and allow her to pay you a little visit.”

Honora murmured something which scarcely amounted to an invitation. Mademoiselle turned to the little girls, and Honora ran to Penelope’s side.

“I am so glad to see you! I hope you are not frightfully tired. Oh, you do look hot and dusty, but we shall have a delicious drive up to the Castle. My home is quite outside the town, which is somewhat noisy. Ah, I see Dan has collected your luggage; shall we come at once? Good-bye, Mademoiselle. I hope you will secure nice rooms.”

Mademoiselle was flattering, and full of charm to the end. She insisted on marching down the platform with Pauline’s hand clasped in one of hers, and her humble little bag in the other. She did not part from her pupils until she saw them all ensconced in the luxurious carriage which was to bear them rapidly into the pleasant country. But, when that same carriage had turned the corner and she found herself alone, an ugly expression crossed her face.

“It is not good to have these feelings,” she murmured to herself. “I like not the jealousies when they come to devour; but why should Penelope with her schemes and her behaviour the most strange be taken to the very heart of the best of all my pupils? I will see into this by-and-by. Meanwhile—ma foi—how hot it is!”

Chapter Fourteen.

The Castle.

Castle Beverley was even a more delightful place than Penelope had the least idea of before she arrived at it. She had her own vivid imagination, and had pictured the old castle, its suites of apartments, its crowds of servants, its stately guests, many and many a time before the blissful hour of her arrival. But when she did get to Castle Beverley, she found that all her pictures had been wrong.

It is true, there was an old castle, and a tower at one end of an irregular pile of building; but the modern part of the house, while it was large, was also unpretentious and simple.

The children who ran to meet the carriage were many of them Penelope’s schoolfellows. Mrs Beverley had a charming and placid face and a kindly manner. Mr Beverley was a round-faced, rubicund country squire, who made jokes about every one, and was as little alarming as human being could be. In short, it was impossible for Penelope not to feel herself at home. Her old schoolfellows welcomed her almost with enthusiasm. They had not cared for her greatly when at Hazlitt Chase, but they were just in the mood to be in the best temper with everything, and had been in raptures with her rendering of Helen of Troy. Honora, too, had pictured, very pathetically, the scene of the lonely girl afterwards weeping by herself in the wood, and the delightful inspiration which had come over her to give her some weeks’ holiday at Castle Beverley. Perhaps Cara Burt would have preferred her not being there, but Mary L’Estrange, who was also a visitor at the Castle, had quite forgiven Penelope for her desire to obtain five pounds. She put it down altogether, now, to the poor thing’s poverty, and hoped that the transaction would never be known. Annie Leicester had not yet arrived, but was expected. Susanna, the most to be feared, perhaps, of the four girls who had given Penelope the money, had gone abroad for the holidays.

Thus, all was sunshine on this first evening, and when Penelope found herself joking and repeating little bits of school news and some of the funny things which had occurred between herself and Mademoiselle, the others laughed heartily. Yes, that first evening was a golden one, long to be remembered by the somewhat lonely girl.

When she went to bed that night, she was so tired that she slept soundly until the morning. When the morning did arrive, and she was greeted by a smiling housemaid and a delicious cup of tea, she felt that, for the time at least, she was in the land of luxury.

“I’ll enjoy myself for once,” she thought, “I’ll forget about school and that I am very poor and that I am disappointed with Brenda, and that Brenda is staying at Marshlands, and Mademoiselle, too, is staying at Marshlands. I will forget everything but just that it is very, very good to be here.”

So she arose and dressed herself in one of the new white linen dresses which Mademoiselle had purchased for her out of Mrs Hazlitt’s money, and she came down to breakfast looking fresh and almost pretty.

“You do seem rested—I am so glad!” said Honora. “Oh, no, we are not breakfasting in that room. Father and mother and the grown-ups use the front hall for breakfast in the summer, and we children have the big old school-room to ourselves. You didn’t see it last night; we had so much to show you, but it is—oh—such a jolly room. Come now this way, you will be surprised at such a crowd of us.”

As Honora spoke, she took Penelope’s hand, and, pushing open a heavy oak door, led the way through a sort of ante-chamber and then down a corridor to a long, low room with latticed windows, over which many creepers cast just now a most grateful shade. There were several boys and girls in the room, and a long table was laid, with all sorts of good things for breakfast. Amongst the boys was Fred Hungerford and a younger brother called Dick, and there were three or four boys, brothers and cousins of Honora herself. There were altogether at least thirteen or fourteen girls. The two little Hungerfords flew up to Penelope when they saw her. They seemed to regard her as their special friend.

“Honora,” said Pauline, “may we sit one at each side of Penelope and tell her who every one is and all about everything? Then she’ll feel quite one of us and be—oh—so happy!”

“That’s an excellent idea, Pauline,” said Honora. “Here, Penelope, come up to this end of the table, and I’ll jog the children’s memories if they forget any one.”

So Penelope enjoyed her first breakfast at Castle Beverley, and could not help looking at Honora with a wonderful, new sensation of love in her eyes. Honora, whose dazzling fairness and stately young figure had made her appear at first sight such an admirable representative of the fair Helen of the past, had never looked more beautiful than this morning.

She wore a dress of the palest shade of blue cambric and had a great bunch of forget-me-nots in her belt. Her face was like sunshine itself, and her wealth of golden hair was quite marvellous in its fairness. Her placid blue eyes seemed to be as mirrors in which one could see into her steadfast and noble mind. All her thoughts were those of kindness, and she was absolutely unselfish. In fact, as one girl said: “Honora is selfless: she almost forgets that she exists, so little does she think of herself in her thought for others.”

Now, Honora’s one desire was to make Penelope happy, and Penelope responded to the sympathetic manner and kindly words as a poor little sickly flower will revel in sunshine. But Pauline presently spoke in that rather shrill little voice of hers:

“We are happy here: even Nellie’s better, aren’t you, Nellie?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Nellie. She looked across the table at Pauline, and gave half a sigh and half a smile.

“Of course you are happy, Nellie,” said Honora. “You’re not thinking any more about that bracelet, are you?”

“I do wish I could get it back,” said Nellie, “but, all the same I am happy.”

“But please, Penelope, tell us about your sister,” said Pauline. “Oh, do you know—”

“Yes—do tell us that!” interrupted Nellie.

“Why, Fred saw her yesterday at Marshlands-on-the-Sea,” continued Pauline. “She’s quite close to us—isn’t it fun? Fred came back quite interested in her—he thinks her so very pretty!”

“Whom do I think pretty, Miss?” called out Fred from a little way down the table. “No taking of my name in vain—if you please.”

“You know, Fred,” said Pauline, in her somewhat solemn little voice, “that you think dear Penelope’s sister sweetly pretty.”

“I should think so, indeed!” said Fred, “and, by the way, she is at Marshlands. She had three of the funniest little girls out walking with her yesterday that you ever saw in your life. Did you know she was going to be at Marshlands, Miss Carlton?”

“Yes,” said Penelope, feeling not quite so happy as she did a few minutes ago.

“We’ll ask her up here some day to have a good time with us, dear, if you like,” said Honora.

“Thank you,” replied Penelope, but without enthusiasm.

“I spoke to her yesterday,” said Fred. “She really did look awfully nice; only they were the rummest little coves you ever saw in all your life—the children who are there.”

“They are her pupils; they’re the daughters of a clergyman,” said Penelope.

“I don’t care whose daughters they are, but they go about with your sister, and they do look so funny. I told her you were coming and she gave me her address. Would you like to go in to see her this morning?” Penelope trembled.

“Not this morning, please,” she said.

She felt herself turning pale. She felt she must have one happy day before she began to meet Brenda. She had a curious feeling that when that event took place, her peace, and delight in her present surroundings would somehow be clouded. Brenda was so much cleverer than she was, so gay, so determined, so strange in many ways. Oh, no; she would not go to see her to-day.

“If you like,” said Honora, observing Penelope’s confusion, and rather wondering at it, “I could send a note to your sister to come up to-morrow to spend the day here. We’re not going to do anything special to-morrow, and mother always allows me to ask any friends we like to the Castle. We have heaps of croquet courts and tennis courts, and the little girls could come with her, for of course she couldn’t leave them behind. How would that do, Penelope? Would that please you?”

“I don’t know,” said Penelope. Then she said, somewhat awkwardly:

“Oh, yes—yes—if you like—”

Honora had a curious sensation of some surprise at Penelope’s manner; but it quickly passed. She accounted for it by saying to herself that her friend was tired and of course must greatly long to see her only sister.

“She’s not absolutely and altogether to my taste,” thought Honora, “but I am just determined to give her the best of times, and we can have the sister up and the funny children for at least one day. What’s the good of having a big place if one doesn’t get people to enjoy it?”

It was just then that Nellie said:

“I do wish, Penelope, you had not done one thing.”

“What is that?” asked Penelope, who had hardly got over the shock of having Brenda so soon with her.

“Why did you bring Mademoiselle to Marshlands? We don’t care for Mademoiselle, do we, Pauline?”

“No, indeed,” said Pauline, “and she took my hand yesterday and clutched it so tight and wouldn’t let it go before I pulled two or three times, and oh! I’m quite positive sure that she’ll find us out, and I wish she wouldn’t!”

“Frankly, I wish she wouldn’t too,” said Honora, “but I do not see,” she added, “why Penelope should be disturbed on that account—it isn’t her fault.”

“No, indeed it isn’t,” said Penelope, “and I wish with all my heart she hadn’t come with me to Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”

When breakfast was over, all the young people streamed out into the gardens with the exception of Honora and Penelope.

“One minute, Penelope dear,” said Honora. “Just write a little line to your sister and I will enclose one, in mother’s name and mine, inviting her to come up with the children to-morrow. Here are writing materials—you needn’t take a minute.”

Penelope sat down and wrote a few words to Brenda. For the life of her, she could not make these words cordial. She hardly knew her own sensations. Was she addressing the same Brenda whom she had worshipped and suffered for and loved so frantically when she was a little girl? Was it jealousy that was stealing into her heart? What could be her motives in wishing to keep this sister from the nice boys and girls who made Castle Beverley so charming? Or was she—was she so mean—so small—as to be ashamed of Brenda? No, no—it could not be that, and yet—and yet—it was that: she was ashamed of Brenda! The children she was now with belonged to the best of their kind. Penelope had lived with people of the better class for several months now and was discerning enough to perceive the difference between gold and tinsel. Oh, was Brenda tinsel; Brenda—her only sister? Penelope could have sobbed, but she must hide all emotion.