L.T. Meade (continued 4)

Her letter was finished. She knew how eagerly Brenda would accept and how cleverly she would get herself invited to the Castle again, and again, and again. Honora’s cordial little note was slipped into the same envelope. Penelope had to furnish the address, and, an hour later, Fred and his brothers, who were going to ride to Marshlands in order to bathe and to spend some hours afterwards on the beach, arranged to convey the invitation to Brenda which poor Penelope so dreaded.

“Now we have that off our minds,” said Honora, “and can have a real good time. What would you like to do, Penelope? You know you must make yourself absolutely and completely at home. You are one of us. Every girl who comes here by mother’s invitation is for the time mother’s own daughter and looked upon as such by her. She is also father’s own daughter and, I can tell you, he treats her as such, and the boys are exactly in the same position. We’re all brothers and sisters here, and we love each other, every one of us.”

“But would you love a girl, whatever happened?” asked Penelope, all of a sudden.

“Oh, I don’t know what you mean—whatever happened—what could happen?”

“Nothing—of course—nothing; only I wonder, Honora. I never seemed to know you at all when I was at school. I wonder if you could love a girl like me.”

“I love you already, dear,” said Honora. “And now, please, don’t be morbid; just let’s be jolly and laugh and joke; every one can do just what every one likes—this is Liberty Hall, of course. It’s a home of delight, of course. It’s the home of ‘Byegone dull Care’;—oh, it’s the nicest place in all the world, and I want you to remember it as long as you live. I am so glad mother allowed me to ask you! Now then, do see those youngsters, Pauline and Nellie, tumbling over the hay-cocks: how sunburnt they are! such a jolly little pair! I am sorry about Nellie’s bracelet; the loss of it makes her think too much of that sort of thing. I am quite afraid she will never find it now. What would you like to do, Penelope? You looked so happy when you came downstairs, but now you’re a little tired.”

“I think I am a little tired,” said Penelope. “I think for this morning I’d like a book best.”

“Then here we are—this is the school library: every jolly schoolgirl’s and schoolboy’s story that has ever been written finds its way into this room. Run in, and make your choice, and then come out. The grounds are all round you—shade everywhere, and pleasure, pleasure all day long.”

Chapter Fifteen.

The Seaside.

Brenda and her three pupils had arrived two or three days before at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. It cannot be said their lodgings were exactly “chic,” for the Reverend Josiah could not rise to apartments anything approaching to that term. He had given Brenda a certain sum which was to cover the expenses of their month’s pleasure, and had told her to make the best of it. Brenda had expostulated and begged hard for more; but no—for once the Reverend Josiah was firm. He said that his suffering parishioners required all his surplus money, and that the girls and their governess must stay at the seaside for five guineas a week. Brenda shook her head, and declared that it was impossible; but, seeing that no more was to be obtained, she made the best of things, and when she arrived at Marshlands just in the height of the summer season, she finally took up her abode at a fifth-rate boarding-house in a little street which certainly did not face the sea.

Here she and her pupils were taken for a guinea a week each, and Brenda had the surplus to spend on teas out and on little expeditions generally. She was careful on these occasions to be absolutely and thoroughly honest. She even consulted Nina on the subject. She was exceedingly polite to Nina just now and, at the same time, intensely sarcastic. She was fond of asking Nina, even in the middle of the table d’hôte dinner, if she had her pencil and notebook handy, and if she would then and there kindly enter the item of twopence three farthings spent on cherries,—quarter of a pound to eat on the beach,—or if she had absolutely forgotten the fact that she was obliged to provide a reel of white and a reel of black cotton for necessary repairs of the wardrobe. How Nina hated her pretty governess on these occasions! how her little eyes would flash with indignation and her small face looked pinched with the sense of tragedy which oppressed her, and which she could not understand.

The commonplace ladies who lived in the commonplace boarding-house were deeply interested in Nina’s extraordinary talent for accounts. They gently asked the exceedingly pretty and attractive Miss Carlton what it meant.

“Simply a little mania of hers,” said Brenda, with a shrug of her plump white shoulders, for she always wore décolletée dress at late dinner and her shoulders and arms were greatly admired by the other visitors at the boarding-house. Nina began to dread the subject of accounts. Once she forgot her notebook and pencil on purpose, but Brenda was a match for her. She asked her in a loud semi-whisper if she could tot up exactly what they had expended that day, and when Nina replied that she had left the notebook upstairs, she was desired immediately to go to fetch it. The little girl left the room on this occasion with a sense of almost hatred at her heart.

“Fetch that odious book! oh dear, oh dear!” She wished every account-book in the world at the bottom of the sea. She wished she had never interfered with Brenda. She wished she had never made that terrible little sum on the day when Brenda went to Hazlitt Chase. She was being severely punished for her anxiety and her sense of justice. Brenda had determined that this should be the case, and had given her small pupil a terrible time while she was spending that seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence on extra clothes for her pupils.

She took them into a fashionable shop, for, as the money had to be spent, she was determined that it should be done as quickly as possible. As she could not save it for herself, she wanted to get rid of it, it did not matter how quickly. Therefore, while Fanchon stood transfixed with admiration of her own figure in a muslin hat before a long glass, and eagerly demanded that it should be bought immediately, it was poor Nina who was brought forward to decide.

“It is becoming,” said Brenda, gazing at her pupil critically; “that pale shade of blue suits you to perfection; and that ‘chic’ little mauve bow at the side is so very, very comme il faut. But that is not the question in the very least, Fanchon—whether it becomes you or not. It is this: can we afford it—or rather, can Nina afford it? Nina, look. Can you afford to allow your sister to buy that hat?”

The serving-woman in the shop very nearly tittered when the plain, awkward little girl—the youngest of the party—was brought forward to make such a solemn decision. Nina herself was very sulky, and, without glancing at the hat, said:

“Yes, take it, I don’t care!”

“Very well, darling,” said Brenda. “You can send that hat to Palliser Gardens—9, Palliser Gardens,” she said to the attendant. “Nina, enter in your account-book twelve shillings and eleven-pence three farthings for Fanchon’s hat.”

“I want one like it!” cried Josie.

“Oh—I’m sure Nina won’t allow that!” exclaimed Brenda.

“I don’t care!” said Nina.

In the end each girl had a similar hat, and Nina had to enter the amounts in her horrible little book. The hats were fairly pretty, but were really not meant for little girls with their hair worn in pigtails. But the only thing Brenda cared about was the fact that a considerable sum of Mr Amberley’s money was got rid of.

“Now,” she said, “we’ll consider the dresses.” And the dresses were considered. They were quite expensive and not pretty. There were also several other things purchased, and Nina grew quite thin with her calculations. All these things happened during the first days of their stay at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. But now the toilets were complete.

It was on a scorching and beautiful morning after Brenda, becomingly dressed from head to foot in purest white, had taken her little pupils in check dresses and paper hats down to the seashore, had bathed there and swum most beautifully, to the delight of those who looked on, and had returned again in time for the mid-day meal, that she found Penelope’s letter awaiting her. It was laid by her plate on the dinner table. She opened it with her usual airy grace and then exclaimed—her eyes sparkling with excitement and delight:

“I say, girls—here’s a treat! Our dear friends, the Beverleys, have invited us all to spend to-morrow at the Castle. We must accept, of course, and must drive out. Mrs Dawson,”—here she turned to the lady who kept the boarding-house—“can you tell me what a drive will be from here to Castle Beverley?”

“Five shillings at the very least,” replied Mrs Dawson.

She spoke in an awe-struck voice. There were no people so respected in the neighbourhood as the Beverleys, and Mrs Dawson—a well-meaning and sensible woman—did not believe it possible that any guest of hers could know them.

“Really, Miss Carlton,” she said, “I am highly flattered to think that a young lady who stays here in my humble house—no offence, ladies, I am sure—but in my modest and inexpensive habitation, should know the Beverleys of Castle Beverley.”

“We don’t know them!” here called out Josie.

Brenda gave Josie a frown which augured ill for that young lady’s pleasure during the rest of the day. She paused for a minute, and then said modestly:

“It so happens that my dear sister is a special friend of the eldest Miss Beverley. They are at the same school. My sister is staying at the Castle at present, and I have had a letter inviting me to go there for to-morrow. It will be a very great pleasure.”

“Very great, indeed,”—replied Mrs Dawson—“a most distinguished thing to do. We shall all be interested to hear your experiences when you return in the evening, dear Miss Carlton. Hand Miss Carlton the peas,” continued the good woman, addressing the flushed and towsled parlour maid.

Brenda helped herself delicately to a few of these dainties and then continued:

“Yes, we shall enjoy it; my dear sister’s friends are very select. I naturally expected to go to Castle Beverley when I heard she was there; but I didn’t know that the Beverleys would be so good-natured as to extend their invitations to these dear children. Even the little accountant, Nina, is invited. Nina, you’ll be sure to take your book with you, dear, for you might make some little private notes with regard to the possible expense of housekeeping at Castle Beverley while you are there. You, dear, must be like the busy bee; you must improve each shining hour—eh, Nina? eh, my little arithmetician?”

“I am not your arithmetician; and I—I hate you!” said Nina.

These remarks were regarded by the other ladies present as simply those of a naughty child in a temper.

“Oh, fie, Miss Nina!” said a certain Miss Rachael Price. “You should not show those naughty little tempers. You should say, when you feel your angry passions rising, ‘Down, down, little temper; down, down!’ I have always done that, and I assure you it is most soothing in its effects.”

“But you wouldn’t if you were me,” said Nina, who was past all prudence at that instant. “If you had an odious—odious!” here she burst out crying and fled from the room.

“Poor child! What can be the matter with her?” said a fat matron who bore the name of Simpkins, and had several children under nine years of age in the house. “Aren’t you a little severe on her, Miss Carlton? Strikes me she don’t love ’rithmetic—as my Georgie calls it—so much as you seem to imagine.”

Brenda laughed.

“I am teaching my dear little pupil a lesson,” she said. “That is all. I have a unique way of doing it, but it will be for her good in the end.”

Soon afterwards, the young lady and her two remaining pupils left the dinner table and went up to their shabby bedroom, which they all shared together at the top of the house. Nina was lying on her own bed with her face turned to the wall. The moment Brenda came in she sat up and, taking the account-book, flung it in the face of her governess.

“There! you horrid, odious thing!” she said. “I will never put down another account—never—as long as I live! There—I won’t, I won’t, and you can’t make me!”

“I am afraid, most dear child,” said Brenda, “I should not feel safe otherwise. I might be accused of dishonesty by my clever little Nina when I return to the dear old rectory and to the presence of your sweetest papa. But come, now—let’s be sensible; let’s enjoy ourselves. We will drive out to Castle Beverley to-morrow, of that I am determined, even though it does cost five shillings. But we’ll walk back in the evening—that is, if they don’t offer us a carriage; but I have a kind of idea that I can even manage their extending their favour to that amount. It is all-important, however, that we should arrive looking fresh. Now, girls—this is a most important occasion, and how are we to be dressed?”

Nina said that she didn’t know and she didn’t care. But Josie and Fanchon were immensely interested.

“There are your muslin hats,” said Brenda—“quite fresh and most suitable; and your little blue check dresses. The check is very small, and they really look most neat. They’re not cotton, either—they’re ‘delaine.’ Dearest papa will be delighted with them, won’t he? He’ll be quite puzzled how to classify them, but I think we can teach him. You three dressed all alike will look sweet, and you may be thankful to your dear Brenda for not allowing you to racket through your clothes beforehand. Well, that is settled. You will look a very sweet little trio, and if Nina is good, and runs up to her own Brenda now, and kisses her, she needn’t take the account-book to Castle Beverley. Just for one day, she may resign her office as chartered accountant to this yere company.”

Brenda made her joke with a merry laugh and showed all her pearly teeth.

“Come, Nina,” said Josie, who was in high good humour, “you must kiss Brenda; you were horribly rude to her.”

“Oh, I forgive her—poor little thing,” said Brenda. “Little girls don’t like the rod, do they? but sometimes they have to bear it, haven’t they? Now then, you little thing, cheer up, and make friends. I have found a delightful shop where we can have tea, bread and butter and shrimps, and afterwards we’ll sit on the beach—it’s great fun, sitting on the beach—and we’ll see nearly all the fashionable folks.”

The thought of shrimps and bread and butter for tea was too much for Nina’s greedy little soul. She did condescend to get off the hot bed and kiss Brenda, who for her part was quite delightful, for the time being. She even took the account-book and pencil, and said that they should not be seen again until the day after to-morrow. Then she washed Nina’s flushed face, and made her wear the objectionable pink muslin with the folds across the bottom in lieu of flounces, and that little straw hat, which cost exactly one-and-sixpence, including its trimming.

Afterwards, they all went down on the beach, and presently they had tea. Then, in good time, they came back to supper, and after that, the delightful period of the day began for Fanchon, and the trying one for her two sisters—for Fanchon was now regularly established as Brenda’s companion when she went out to enjoy herself after supper, and the two younger girls, notwithstanding all their tears and protestations, were ordered off to bed. It was odious to go to bed on these hot, long evenings, but Brenda was most specious in her arguments, and Mrs Dawson and Miss Price and Mrs Simpkins all agreed with the governess—that there was nothing for young folks like early bed. Mrs Simpkins even repeated that odious proverb for Nina’s benefit, “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” In short, Brenda had broken in her pupils to her own satisfaction; and when she had seen them into their “nighties”—as she called those garments,—she and Fanchon, dressed in their very best, went out on pleasure intent.

It was a pretty sight to see the elegant-looking young governess and her somewhat gauche pupil wander down to that part of the pier where the band played; and it was truly edifying to perceive how Fanchon anxiously copied Brenda on these occasions. She imitated her step, her walk, her hand-shake—which was of the truly fashionable kind, stiff, and rising high in the air. Fanchon’s heart beat with pleasure when she perceived how very much Brenda was admired, and, as Brenda could do anything with her pupil by means of flattery, the young lady was by no means unhappy about herself. On this special night—the night before the visit to Beverley Castle—Fanchon felt even more delighted than usual, for she was allowed, at the last moment, in the close little hall of the boarding-house, to slip the precious, the most precious bangle on her sunburnt wrist.

“I always said you should wear it,” said Brenda, “and you shall to-night.”

Fanchon fairly trembled with happiness.

“It feels delightful,” she said. “It’s like a tonic, which gives me tone. I don’t think I should be afraid of anything if I could always wear this.”

“Some day you shall, if you remain faithful to your own Brenda.”

“You know, Brenda, I would do anything for you.”

“Well, it seems like it at present,” said Brenda, “but of course I have to think of the past. You were not so absolutely perfect on a certain occasion not very long ago, were you, dearie?”

Fanchon coloured.

“Don’t let’s think of that now,” she said. “If ever any one was unjustly suspected, you were that person, Brenda. Oh, how Nina hates herself for what she did! But aren’t you rather over-punishing the poor little thing?”

“I shall cease to punish her in a few days, but she must learn a lesson. Now then—I should not be the least surprised if Harry Jordan was at the band to-night. You know we saw him to-day, but we couldn’t take much notice with the other girls about. I have begged of him never to speak to me when Josie and Nina are present, for I can’t tell what a child like Nina may be up to. But I rather fancy he’ll be here on the promenade this evening, and I asked him to bring a friend for you to talk to, Fanchon; you don’t mind, do you?”

“A friend!” cried Fanchon. “Oh—I hope you don’t mean a man! I’d be terrified out of my seven senses even to address a word to a man.”

“Dear Fanchon,” said Brenda, “you’ll soon get over that. Well, here we are—and I do declare if that isn’t Harry himself coming to meet us, and—yes—he’s brought a very nice youth with him. Now, Fanchon, you will have a pleasant time too. Not a word, ever, to your sisters, or to dearest papa!”

“Oh, trust me,” said Fanchon, holding her head high, and feeling that she must survive the dreadful ordeal of talking to a man, whatever her sensations.

Now Harry Jordan happened to be a sleek, fat youth of about twenty years of age. He was well off, in fact he was doing a thriving trade in the draper’s business, but in a distant town. Brenda had not the least idea what his business was. He told her vaguely that he was in business, and she pictured him to herself as a merchant prince, and who in all the world could be more honourable than one of the merchant princes of England? But, be that as it may, she enjoyed Harry Jordan’s admiration, and if he were to like her well enough to ask her to marry him, why—she would probably say yes, for it would be infinitely better than remaining as governess at thirty pounds a year to Mr Amberley’s little daughters. Now, Harry was a youth who enjoyed a flirtation as much as anybody, and as Brenda had hinted that they could not be perfectly free and happy if Fanchon was listening, he brought a friend of his along—a certain Joe Burbery—to engage the attentions of that young lady. Accordingly, the four met, and Joe Burbery, a most sickly youth of seventeen, was introduced to both ladies, and after Brenda had said one or two words to him, quite enough to turn his head, he was deputed to his rightful place by Fanchon’s side, who racked her brains in her vain endeavour to say a word to him at all, and would have figuratively stuck in the mud altogether, but for his loud exclamation of delight when he saw her bracelet.

“I say!” exclaimed the youth, “what an elegant article—is it real?”

“Real!” said Fanchon, facing him with her little eyes flashing. “It’s eighteen carat.”

“Oh, is it?” said Joe. “I see. I never touched eighteen carat in my life—more likely to be nine carat.”

He winked hard at Fanchon as he spoke. Fanchon, in her rage, took the bracelet off and asked him to examine the hall-mark under the next lamp-post, which he accordingly proceeded to do. He discovered that she was right and handed it back to her with great respect. “How did you come by it?” was his next enquiry. “It is a present—I mustn’t say how I came by it.”

“Eighteen carat gold,”—murmured Joe Burbery. “Eighteen carat, and a very large and specially fine turquoise. Why, there’s a thing advertised for exactly like that. I remember it quite well; I saw it in the Standard and the Morning Post and even in some of the local papers here—a bangle just like this which was lost—supposed to be lost in a railway carriage. How funny that you should have one which so exactly answers to the description!”

“It is, isn’t it?” said Fanchon, laughing with the utmost unsuspicion. “Well,” she continued, “I am glad mine isn’t lost; I am frightfully proud of it; I shall love it all my days; I don’t mean ever to part from it. Even if I get a very rich husband some day, and he gives me lots of jewellery, I will always keep my beautiful bangle. Brenda says that it is the sort you need never be ashamed of.”

“It is that,” admitted Joe. “So she admires it—she knows a good thing when she sees it, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, yes—she is very clever—”

“And a stunner herself, ain’t she now?” said Joe Burbery.

“I suppose so,” replied Fanchon, who did not feel interested in praises of Brenda from the first young man who had come into her life. He ought to be too much devoted to her and her most elegant bangle.

The walk came to an end presently. It was necessary in Mrs Dawson’s establishment for the young ladies to come in not later than half-past ten, and at that hour the two girls appeared in the hall. Mrs Dawson herself was waiting for them. As she proceeded to lock and chain the front door, she also saw the flash of the bangle on Fanchon’s wrist. She immediately exclaimed at its beauty, and asked to have a nearer view of it.

“Why, I say,” she cried, “what a truly elegant thing! Does it belong to you, Miss Amberley?”

“Yes,” replied Fanchon. “It was given to me by a great friend.”

Here she looked meaningly at Brenda.

“Come up to bed, Fanchon, do!” said Brenda. “You look dead tired and won’t appear at your best to-morrow at the Castle. Good-night, Mrs Dawson.” Mrs Dawson said nothing further, but she thought for a minute or two and then went into her private sitting-room and opened a Standard of a few days old and read a certain advertisement in it without any comment. After a time, she put the Standard carefully away and went up to her own room, for she had doubtless earned her night’s repose.

As they were going upstairs, Brenda said in a somewhat fretful voice:

“Fanchon—I do wish you would not let people think that I gave you that bangle.”

“But why should you not let them think it?” asked the astonished girl.

“Well—of course people couldn’t expect a governess like me to give you such really expensive things.”

“Oh—but they don’t know what a darling you are,” said Fanchon, springing suddenly on Brenda with the sort of affection of a bear’s cub, and crushing that young lady’s immaculate evening toilet.

Now, Brenda was decidedly cross because Harry Jordan had not been as pointed as usual in his remarks, and she disliked—she could scarcely tell why—the expression in Mrs Dawson’s eyes when they had rested on the bangle. She was, therefore, not at all prepared for Fanchon’s rough caress, nor for Fanchon’s next words.

“I do wonder if you would be such a duck of a thing as to let me wear the bangle at Castle Beverley to-morrow.”

“Wear it there!” cried Brenda, real terror for a minute seizing her. “Of course not—could anything be more unsuitable! You must appear at Castle Beverley as the innocent little girl you are. You must not think of jewellery. You mustn’t allude to it, nor to your evening walks, nor to anything we do when you and I are enjoying ourselves together. Come, Fanchon, give me the bangle; I allowed you to wear it to-night as a great treat; but I want to put it away.”

Fanchon looked decidedly cross.

“I should so like to wear it to-morrow,” she said, “and I can’t make out why you won’t let me. If it is my bangle, mayn’t I wear it when I like?”

“But it isn’t your bangle—at least at present, and it won’t be yours ever if you make a fuss. Come, Fanchon, do you want to quarrel with me? and oh—I am so tired! My dear child, give it here—I will take it.” Brenda snatched the bangle from her pupil’s wrist. “It would be such a pity,” she said, “if anything destroyed our fun—and any one could see with half an eye that Mr Burbery was greatly struck with you. Harry told me as much. Mr Burbery is going to be exceedingly rich some day; he also is in the mercantile world: there’s no other world worth considering, I can tell you that, Fanchon.”

“He knows a lot about bangles, anyhow,” said Fanchon, “for he was greatly struck with mine; indeed, I was thankful he was, for I couldn’t utter a word, and didn’t know from Adam what to say until he began to talk of it. And he said—oh, Brenda! that there is one advertised for in all the papers just like mine. I told him I wasn’t a bit surprised, for mine was so very beautiful.”

Brenda’s heart sank down to her very boots. Her rosy, radiant face turned white.

“There!” she exclaimed, “I see you are nothing whatever but a gossip. I don’t know when I will be able to let you have the bangle again. But now let’s come to bed, and let’s tread softly—we can manage without a light of course; it wouldn’t do to wake Josephine and Nina.”

So the girls slipped into the darkened, hot bedroom and presently got into bed, Fanchon to sleep and dream of Joe Burbery and the lovely bangle, and the sad pity it was that she could not display its charms to-morrow—but Brenda to lie awake; fear—dull dreadful fear tapping at her heart.

Chapter Sixteen.

A Scrumptious Day.

Notwithstanding that fear, however, on the following morning the pretty governess looked gay enough. They were to have a delightful day; there was no real danger; no one could prove in all the world that the bangle was not her own, or at least, her pupil’s. But she would not allow Fanchon to wear it again. She must not be seen in it, that was plain. As the horrid, odious thing was being advertised for, it was highly dangerous that Fanchon should wear it. Brenda could not enough regret her imprudence in having allowed her pupil to appear in it on the previous night. But how could she guess that that uninteresting youth, Joe Burbery, would have noticed it and seen the advertisement—the advertisement! oh, how perfectly dreadful! Why did rich people bother when they lost such a simple thing as a little gold bangle with a blue stone in it? Why could not they allow poor folks to have their chances? And Joe Burbery had seen—had seen—this horrible advertisement! Well, of course that meant nothing at all. Brenda could not guess that a far worse enemy in the shape of Mrs Dawson had also observed it. All she could do at present was to lock the bangle carefully up in one of the drawers of the humble little chest of drawers which the four had to share between them in their horrible hot bedroom.

She whispered a word to Fanchon not to breathe the subject of the bangle at the Castle, promising her as a reward that it should be hers absolutely, all the sooner. She then proceeded to make a most careful toilet herself and to superintend those of her pupils. She was really anxious that the three little Amberleys should look their best on this occasion. So she took their red hair out of the tight plaits in which they generally wore it, and combed it out and caused it to ripple down their backs.

This delighted Fanchon, and also Josephine, but Nina was greatly bothered by the heat of her thick fleece of red hair and would have infinitely preferred its being plaited tightly and tied with the old brown ribbon which generally adorned it. Nevertheless, when Brenda assured her that she was most elegant and altogether superior to most girls in her appearance, she decided to endure the unwonted heat.

A carriage from the neighbouring livery stables was sent for, and the three drove off in state to Castle Beverley, just in time to arrive on the scene between twelve and one o’clock; and Mrs Dawson, Miss Price, Mrs Simpkins, and all the little Simpkinses saw them off and wished them well, and a happy day; and when the carriage had turned the corner, Mrs Dawson was congratulated by the other ladies on her distinguished visitors. Mrs Dawson, however, made few replies, for she was considerably occupied with the thought of that advertisement and what it meant, and how it was that a commonplace child like Fanchon Amberley should wear so handsome a bangle.

“For my poor husband was in the jewellery line when he lived,” thought the widow to herself, “and I know the best gold and real good stones when I see them.”

Mrs Dawson’s feelings, however, have little to do with the really interesting events of this wonderful July day. The colour rose becomingly into Brenda’s cheeks as she thought of all that lay before her, and when the hackney carriage drew up outside the Beverleys’ house, she stepped lightly to the ground, and her pupils, with extreme awkwardness, followed her example. Josephine managed, in her exit from the carriage, to tear her delaine frock, which was decidedly annoying; but nothing else untoward occurred.

Honora was there and so was Penelope, and so were several other of the girls; and they all swept Brenda and her little charges under their wings. Honora saw that the torn flounce was immediately mended, and then they went into the cool shady grounds. The three little Amberleys were introduced to girls corresponding to themselves in age, and were led away to enjoy several games. Fanchon for a time tried to observe the grown-up manners which Brenda had endeavoured to instil. She could not forget, either, that on the previous night she had worn a real gold bangle, and talked to a real man—for seventeen years of age seemed very old and grown-up to her fourteen summers.

But Josie and Nina had no intention of doing anything but enjoy themselves. After the first few minutes of shyness, Nina complained bitterly of the heat of her hair and said she wished Brenda had not taken it out of its plaits.

“Why,” asked little Nellie Hungerford—“don’t you always wear it like that down your back!”

“Oh, never,” answered Nina. “It’s screwed up into tight, tight plaits, and tied with some sort of string at the end. That’s how I like it,” she answered. “I am so hot with it falling all over my neck and shoulders—I wish I could cut it off.”

“Oh, no—it is so pretty,” said Nellie. “I tell you what,” she added, “I’ll plait it for you, if you like.”

“Will you!” answered Nina, “I wish you would.”

“All right—I’ll do it right away, this very minute. And, Pauline darling, you can run into the house for a piece of ribbon. What colour do you want, Nina?”

“Oh, anything will do,” said Nina—“a bit of grass, anything.”

“Well, I tell you what,” said Nellie; “we are a good way from the house at present, and I have some string in my pocket, so we’ll tie it with that, and afterwards you shall have a piece of ribbon before we go down to lunch.”

So Nina’s hot, red hair was very badly and unevenly plaited. It hung rather crooked, much more to the left shoulder than to the right, and the string was not becoming, but that did not matter at all to the emancipated little girl.

When Nellie had plaited Nina’s hair, she suggested that she should perform the same office for the other two girls. Josie longed to accept, but did not dare. Fanchon answered, “No, thank you, I prefer my hair down until I can put it up properly. I long for the day when I can put my hair up. Don’t you?” she added, looking round at the little group who were surveying her.

“Indeed, no,” answered both the little Hungerfords. “We should hate to be grown up. We love being children, don’t we, Pauline?”

“Yes, yes,” said Pauline. It was just then that her beautiful little bangle with its ruby heart flashed in the sun. Fanchon noticed it; it was so very like her own—so like, but with a marked difference. She could not help saying:

“What a very pretty bangle you have got!”

“Yes—isn’t it?” said Pauline, but she spoke in a low voice, and pulled Fanchon a little aside. “Don’t speak of it, please,” she said. “I often feel that I oughtn’t to wear it.”

“Do you, indeed?” said Fanchon, “I can’t understand why. It looks most elegant, and it gives such tone, doesn’t it, now?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” said Pauline; “it is just a pretty little ornament. Mother gave it to me.”

“Well, I’m sure you ought to wear what your mother gave you. It must be so sweet to get presents of that kind; why don’t you like to?”

“I will tell you, if you’ll not say anything about it, and at the same time, when I tell you, I want you to promise me something.”

Fanchon coloured with delight. Pauline belonged to the county, and there was quite a subtle difference between her and Miss Fanchon Amberley, which that young lady herself appreciated, struggled against, and detested, all at the same time.

“Of course I won’t tell,” she said, “it is very nice of you to trust me. Have you a secret? It seems to me that most people have.”

“Oh dear, no; I haven’t any secret in all the world,” said Pauline. “I wouldn’t; it’d be too horrid.”

“Then why mustn’t I tell what you say?”

“Because it would hurt my darling Nellie?”

“Your sister?”

“Yes.”

“And why ever would it hurt her? Is she jealous because you have got something—something so very, very pretty, and so—so—‘chic’?”

“I hate that word,” said Pauline, restlessly. “Well, I’ll just tell you the reason. I tell you because perhaps you will beg your sisters not to notice my bangle—I would so much rather they didn’t. The reason is this. Darlingest mother went to Paris not long ago and bought a bangle for each of us, one with a red stone—this ruby you see—for me, and one with the most lovely blue turquoise for Nellie, because Nellie’s birthday is in December, and that is the month for turquoises, and people who are born in December have the right to wear turquoises. And what do you think? Darling Nellie’s bangle is lost. We can’t imagine what’s become of it?”

“Is it being advertised in the paper?” asked Fanchon, opening her eyes very wide.

“Yes, of course it is. Have you seen the advertisement?”

“No, I haven’t, but I—I met a ma— a person last night and he—the person, I mean—saw the advertisement and—and—told me. I am so sorry, I hope you will get it back.”

“No—I am afraid we never will. The advertisement has been out some days now, and there has been no answer.”

“Who do you think took it?” asked Fanchon.

“Oh, one of the railway officials—it’s awful to think that those men should be so dishonest, but we’re certain it must be one of them, or, of course it might be a passenger in the train. Fred knows all about it. Fred thinks it must have been a passenger, but mother thinks it was an official. Anyhow, that doesn’t greatly matter, does it? Some one is a thief, and darling Nellie is without her bangle. I would much rather not wear mine—I really would—but mother insists, and I think she will get another for Nellie some day—that is, if Nellie is brave and doesn’t mind too much. But the loss of it has quite told upon her, and she isn’t half as good as she used to be, that’s why I don’t want you to speak of it.”

“Oh, of course I won’t. I am immensely interested,” said Fanchon. “I do hope they’ll find it; I should think they’ll be sure to. What was it like, exactly? do you mind telling me?”

“Exactly like this; do you notice the beautiful carving all round the gold? and the gold is the best that can be procured, and the stone was exactly the size of my ruby. I am July, you know, so the ruby is my stone. Well, well—we had better not say any more about it now—”

“I have a bangle of my own,” suddenly said Fanchon.

“Have you?”

“Yes—but I mustn’t tell you about it. I ought not even to have mentioned that I have one. It was given to me by—by—a great friend. I prize it dearly. I longed and longed to wear it to-day, but I was not allowed.”

“Who wouldn’t let you wear it?” asked Pauline.

“My governess—Miss Carlton. She said that little girls didn’t wear jewellery. But you are younger than me, and you have your bangle on. I do wish Miss Carlton would have let me wear mine! It is—oh—I should like to describe it!”

Pauline looked at her attentively.

“Well,” she said, “why don’t you—that is, if you want to.”

She was not really interested in Fanchon’s bangle.

“I oughtn’t to have said anything, even that I possessed it, and you must promise that you won’t mention it. I had no right to let it out—no right at all; my—my friend would be so dreadfully angry—you will promise you won’t tell?”

“Of course I won’t tell.”

Pauline spoke in an offended, off-hand manner. She was not at all taken with Fanchon.

“Come,” she said, “I won’t tell about your bangle, and you will ask your sisters not to mention mine. Now we must join the others. They’re going to have a game I know, under the trees.”

Fanchon followed her companion. She felt a queer sense of excitement, but not the most remote suspicion of the real truth entered her mind.

Meanwhile Honora, who wished to do everything in her power to make her visitors happy, arranged that Brenda and Penelope should be left quite undisturbed together. Penelope was not too happy at this idea, but as she could not possibly make any excuse for avoiding her dear Brenda, she was obliged to submit to it.

“Why are we to be left all alone?” said Brenda, whose restless eyes had roved over the entire company, and had evidently thought Penelope the person least worth conversing with.

“It is Honora,” replied Penelope at once. “She thinks that, as we are sisters, we ought to be glad to have a little time together all by ourselves. After lunch at one—we can join the others if you wish it.”

“Of course I wish it,” said Brenda. “I have nothing special to say to you, Penelope; have you anything special to say to me?”

“No, nothing at all,” said Penelope, a lump coming into her throat.

“Well, shall we join the others, then! There are such a lot of them talking under that oak tree.”

“It might look a little queer,” said Penelope, “and lunch will be quite soon. Let’s walk about under these trees; we shall be quite in the shade.”

“Well—if we are to appear devoted sisters, let us play the part,” said Brenda, crossly. “After all,” she added, after a moment’s reflection, “I am glad to have a few words with you, Pennie, for I want you to help me all you possibly can.”

“I can’t do anything more, I really can’t,” said Penelope, her eyes growing dark with alarm. “I got you that twenty pounds, and I don’t think I shall ever be happy again!”

“Oh—what a little goose you are! How you harp upon that trifle!—and how far do you think twenty pounds will go in the case of a girl who wants every single thing that a girl ought to have? I thought this dress,”—Brenda looked at her spotted white muslin—“was really quite ‘chic’ until I saw Honora Beverley’s. I must say I don’t like Honora Beverley—of course you won’t whisper it, darling—but she always manages to put me in the shade. On the day of your fête when I wore my pale blue silk, her real Parisian lace made me look commonplace. And now, to-day, her white muslin must have cost pounds more than mine. It is disgusting to be trammelled like this, and I am sure I am fifty times prettier.”

“Don’t, Brenda!” said Penelope, suddenly. As she spoke, she laid her hand on her sister’s arm.

“What do you mean by ‘don’t’? Why do you look at me in that queer way?”

“Because I can’t bear you to talk like that—what’s the good of fighting and struggling for the impossible? You are not born in Honora’s rank of life, and you can never aim at dressing like her. You look very—yes, very—”

“You needn’t say it!” said Brenda, her eyes flashing with passion. “I know what you think of me—I saw it in your face when I came up. You are ashamed of me! It’s a nice thing for one sister to be ashamed of another, and I do my best—my very best—and you know what I wanted that money for—you know it quite well. I could cry, but it would spoil my eyes, and my eyes are my best point I mustn’t shed a tear, though tears are choking me, and I could—oh—I could sob—at your treating me like this, when you know, too—”

“What do I know, Brenda? Brenda, what have I done?”

“You show it all in your voice, and in your eyes, and in your manner—you’re bitterly ashamed of me!”

“I should be very simple in my dress, if I were in your place,” said Penelope, “that is all.”

“What can be simpler in all the world than sprigged white muslin with blue ribbons and a blue straw hat with blue bows to match? If I could think for ever, I could not imagine anything simpler.”

“But all the blue ribbons—there are such a lot of them, Brenda. With a white hat, it would have been sweet. But, never mind—of course you’re very pretty.”

“Thank you for nothing, my dear—I don’t owe my face to you, and I wouldn’t change it for yours, I can tell you.”

“But tell me what you mean, for indeed, indeed I would help you, in the right way, all I could.”

“I hate that solemn, sanctimonious manner in which you are getting to speak. You used to be such a nice, loving little thing, and for you to reproach me for asking you to struggle to get me a miserable twenty pounds—why, you know I told you that I hoped to be engaged soon. If that comes off—and I see every likelihood of it, for he is very empressé—I shall have as many jewels and dresses and furbelows as your precious Honora, and perhaps more. And I’ll be able to help you, so you’d better not cast me aside.”

“Am I casting you off, Brenda? This is only my second day at Castle Beverley, and you and your pupils are spending it here.”

“Yes, I know that, and I suppose I ought not to complain. But the fact is, it does make me cross to see the difference between this place and the horrid den in which I have to live at Marshlands-on-the-Sea. I shall get Harry—his name is Harry, but you mustn’t breathe it—to buy a castle like this for me to live in when I am married. He can well afford it, for he is a—”

“Is his name Harry?” asked Penelope, impressed by what seemed to her the romance of a real love story.

“Yes—I told you so.”

“And his surname?”

“I had better not breathe that yet. You mustn’t know him really until we are properly engaged. He is exceedingly good-looking, of the blond type. He is—oh—somebody who will probably be a baronet. They make very rich City magnates—I think they are called—baronets now, and I shall be Lady—oh, I mustn’t breathe the name. But listen; I want him to come to the point.”

“Why—hasn’t he asked you yet?” exclaimed Penelope.

“Hush, child! don’t talk so loud! What an indelicate way you have of approaching the subject; you take the bloom off it—you really do. But you know, notwithstanding his enormous wealth, he has lofty ideas, and would be greatly impressed if he thought I was thick with the people here; so I want you to have me asked very often. And there’s another thing; I should so like you to have us sent back in one of the carriages this evening.”

“Oh, Brenda! Didn’t you desire the carriage you came in to call for you?”

“Of course I didn’t—you horrid little thing! Do you suppose I can run to the expense? Really, Penelope, you are too trying. I didn’t desire the carriage to call—certainly not. If these grand people will see their humble visitors walking back to Marshlands in the heat of a summer’s evening, why, they must—that’s all. I should have thought that my sister could have managed differently.”

“I can’t—I can’t,” said Penelope. “I hate asking favours. They’re so—just more than—kind. Couldn’t we send a message to Marshlands? I am sure a servant will be going in after lunch and I—I—would pay—I’ve got a few shillings.”

But this idea did not at all suit Brenda.

“No,” she said stoutly. “Nothing will induce me to take your money. If we’re not driven in, in one of the Beverley carriages—we’ll walk—we’ll arrive dusty and worn out, and wretched at Mrs Dawson’s—that is our landlady’s odious name. But what I really desire is to have one of the Beverley carriages, and for—for my Harry to see me in it. I do think it would have a most excellent effect on him; he is so wonderfully impressed by real style—I never knew anything like it.”

“Well,” said Penelope, “I really don’t know how it is to be done. There’s the gong for lunch. Shall we go into the house!”

Neither girl looked too happy during this meal; but Brenda contrived to get herself placed at table as far as possible from Penelope and as near to Fred as she could. She joked and laughed with Fred Hungerford, and he thought her a very pretty girl indeed. After lunch, however, he and his brother were obliged to go to Marshlands to see some friends. He mentioned this fact with regret to Brenda, who had hoped that he was going to be her partner in a game of tennis.

“I can’t,” he said—“it is a long engagement, and I can’t break it. I should like to awfully; but of course you’ll come another day; I know my aunt will be delighted to ask you. We’re so glad to have your sister with us—we think she is such a very nice girl.”

“So she is—a sweet girl—a noble girl,” said Brenda. She looked thoughtfully round her: there was no one exactly in sight.

“I made such an idiotic mistake this morning,” she said. “I wonder—if you would help me—I scarcely know how to manage.”

“Why—what did you do? and what can I do for you! I am sure I shall be quite pleased.”

“I forgot to desire the cab from town to return for us. Would you—or could you—send a message to the livery stables to tell them to come here at—oh, I don’t know what hour we’re expected to leave.”

“Not until dark—I’m certain, and of course you must have one of the carriages here. Wait a minute, and I’ll speak to my uncle.”

Young Hungerford crossed the hall. He met the squire, and said a few words to him. The squire slightly raised his brows.

“She ought not to have done it,” he said. “I don’t much admire that young lady; but of course, Fred, we’ll see her home—you just tell her so. And now get off, my dear lad, and enjoy yourself. The Calverts expect you and Jim quite early.”

“I’ll just mention it to Miss Carlton—it’ll relieve her, poor thing,” said the young fellow. “She only forgot, you know.”

“Not a bit of it,” muttered the squire.

But Fred did not hear this remark, and, going back to Brenda, he set her mind at rest on the subject of the carriage.

“It is all right,” he said. “And now I must be off, really. There is Pauline. Pauline, come along here. Will you take Miss Carlton out to the others?”

“Please, will you come?” said Pauline.

She did not look too pleased. Brenda was quick to recognise the fact, and, as the boys had all dispersed, she did not find the rest of the day so agreeable as she had hoped, although the girls did their very utmost for their visitors. The little Amberleys were really enjoying themselves. Even Fanchon forgot that she was anything but a small and ignorant girl. She shrieked with laughter when Josie did, and as to Nina, she romped round and round wildly with her red hair in its crooked plait and still tied at the end by the piece of string; for all the children had forgotten the piece of ribbon which was to have graced it at lunch. Brenda almost cried when she saw her pupil. Her first impulse was to call the child to her side, but she restrained herself. She was in too bad humour to care. Nothing that could be done would ever make the Amberleys look the least like the Hungerfords or the Beverleys, or the Beverleys’ friends. There was Mary L’Estrange, with her interesting face, and there was Cara Burt, who looked both haughty and distinguished. Even she herself was nobody in the midst of this group.

But the strange thing was that Penelope, whom no one took any trouble about, whose dress was of the very plainest imaginable, seemed quite at her ease and was perfectly friendly with all the other girls.

“But she’s such a plain little thing,” thought Brenda. “Of course she is wonderfully fair, but then she has no colour anywhere, nor any distinguished touches, and that white linen drew doesn’t suit her one bit. But all the same, she looks as I don’t look—I wish I could make it out—I hate being in this place, and yet, I must make myself agreeable, for I want them to ask me again and again.”

The long day came to an end, as the longest, brightest days will. There was early supper for the children, who did not partake of late dinner with their elders. This fact alone somewhat offended Brenda, who thought that there might have been an exception made in her favour; and after supper, when it was really cool and delightful, Honora came up to the young lady’s side and asked her what hour she would like the wagonette to come round.

“It is our small wagonette, but it’ll hold you four nicely,” she said. “Father tells me that you forgot to order your carriage to return, and of course we are delighted to send you back to Marshlands.”

“I should like your carriage at any time that suits yourself,” replied Brenda.

“Will eight o’clock do?” asked Honora.

Brenda made a careful calculation. Harry would probably be going on the Esplanade about eight or soon after. She was quite determined that the coachman should drive them round in that direction. She meant the coachman to draw up in order that she might speak to Harry. That, at least, she might achieve at the end of her long and unsatisfactory day.

So she said, in a meek voice, that she was very, very sorry to trouble the Beverleys, that it was very stupid of her to forget to order her own carriage to return, that her poor little head did often ache so badly with the care of her pupils—and so on, and so on, until Honora wondered when her regrets would end.

“It doesn’t matter at all,” she said, in her pleasant, well-bred voice; “we are delighted to send you back, of course, and I hope you have enjoyed your day.”

“Yes, thank you so much: your home is so delightful—so different from most places where I have the misfortune to live. And then to see my darling sister so perfectly happy—I am greatly obliged. I hope,” she added suddenly, “that you will permit Penelope to come to see us some day at Marshlands. We shan’t have much to offer her, but just a hearty welcome and the love of her sister.”

“You had best come out here again; it would be fifty times better,” said Honora. “However, you will let us know; and now I’ll just run and desire them to bring the wagonette round. Why, it’s five minutes to eight.”

Honora ran immediately out of the room and Penelope came in.

“Well, Pen—I’ve got my way. I managed the carriage, you see, although you, strange, callous little thing, would not ask for it for me. But I have a champion in that handsome Fred Hungerford, and I’ve been practically asked here again. But now, look here—you must help me whether you like it or not. Listen. I shall write to you in a day or two asking you to come to spend the day at Palliser Gardens, where we put up. You’ll just know what it is if you spend one day with us. You’ll know what it is to be stuffy and hot, and to have horrid food, and you’ll see our miserable attic bedroom where we sleep all four together. You dare not refuse: you wouldn’t be quite so mean as that; and after you’ve come to us, and have got back again, you’ve got to make the worst of it; and then I’ll ask you again, and when I ask you the second time, you’ve to see that we come here instead. Well, I think that is all. You know your duty. Whether you are ashamed of me or not, I am your only sister. Oh, here come my little charges: what frights, to be sure! Nina, do put your hat on straight and let me take that string from your hair—you utterly ridiculous child!”

Brenda pulled Nina with great firmness towards her, unplaited the shaggy mane, and let it fall once more over the child’s shoulders. Then the wagonette was heard approaching and Mrs Beverley said good-night to her visitors, and all the children of the Castle clustered around. Just at the last instant, Fanchon flew up to Pauline and whispered in her ear:

“I should like to describe my bangle to you, but I—I just—dare not. But thank you for having given us all such a scrumptious day!”

They got into the wagonette. The carriage rolled down the avenue and Brenda immediately enquired of Fanchon what secrets she had been pouring into little Miss Hungerford’s ears.

“Oh, something that concerns—a—a friend of mine,” said Fanchon, looking wicked and mysterious; and Brenda suddenly remembered the bangle and felt crosser than ever. But, after all, she had her consolation, for the band was playing its very best as they passed the Esplanade, and there was Harry standing talking and smoking with some other men. Brenda immediately pulled the check string and beckoned him. He came forward in delight and confusion.

“I shall be too tired to see you this evening, Mr Jordan,” said Brenda. “Drive on please, coachman. We have been having a delightful day,” she called out, as the man took her at her word, “at Castle Beverley.”

“She is a stunner!” said Joe Burbery to his friend. “And what swells she knows! I say, old man, I have seldom seen such a ripping girl!”

Chapter Seventeen.

Gathering Clouds.

Mrs Dawson was seated with that copy of the Standard which contained the advertisement for the gold bangle open on her knee. She had read the advertisement not only once, but twice. There was a reward offered for the recovery of the trinket of no less than three guineas. That seemed a very large sum of money to honest Mrs Dawson. She thought how acceptable it would be, and wished that the lost trinket might come in her way.

While she was ruminating, without quite knowing whether she would take any active steps, Jane, one of the house servants, entered and said that a lady wanted to know if there was a vacant room in the house.

“Oh, tell her there isn’t,” said Mrs Dawson rather crossly. “There’s nothing whatever except the back attic—the one just behind the large attic where Miss Carlton and the three Miss Amberleys sleep. We couldn’t put any one there, it’s so choky and hot these sultry days.”

Jane departed, but presently returned with the information that the lady did not mind what the room was like in the least and would be very glad to see the back attic.

“I don’t know that I want to let it,” said Mrs Dawson. “We’re chock full now and you and Mary Anne are worked off your legs.”

“That we are, ma’am; but we don’t mind if you should wish to fill the room,” answered the good-natured girl. “It’s the season, and every one should have their innings. She seems an easy-satisfied sort of body—a Frenchy, I should take it, from her style of talk.”

Here there came a clear, piercing voice at the very door of Mrs Dawson’s private sitting-room. This sitting-room was the smallest apartment imaginable. It faced west too, and was hot at the present moment with the afternoon sun.

“Pardonnez—pardonnez” said the voice; “I do so want that appartement that your domestique did mention. I mind not the heat—oh, not in the very least. I am from la belle France, where the days are hotter than your English days, and the sun more bright, and the world more gay.”

Here Mademoiselle boldly entered the room and came up to Mrs Dawson.

“I am a poor Frenchwoman, out for a little recreation. My funds are of the most petits, and I am satisfied with the very least that can content any mortal. May I see the appartement so minute, and judge for myself if it will suffice?”

Mrs Dawson eyed the visitor with scant favour. She disliked foreigners with all an Englishwoman’s prejudice, and wondered how Miss Price, and in particular Mrs Simpkins—who had the best rooms in the house, owing to the needs of her large family—would like to associate with the “Frenchy.” She was, therefore, distinctly cold.

“I told my servant to tell you, Mademoiselle,”—Mrs Dawson’s lips quivered over the name; she had not pronounced it for many a long day—“that my house was full.”

“But not replete,” said Mademoiselle with avidity. “She did let out, that faithful one, that there was one appartement triste in your beautiful villa. I feel that I should be at home here. It is wonderful when we feel that drawing of the heart towards certain of our fellow-creatures. I should love to be a member of your little family. I should make myself très-agréable: I should converse in the broken English which makes your folk laugh. We of the French tongue never laugh at your mistakes when you try to copy us. But I mind not that. I like you to laugh. May I see the chamber and decide for myself?”

“Well, if you are satisfied,” said Mrs Dawson, “I of course want to make as much money as I can. The room is at the very top of the house, and I have stowed away one or two boxes just under the roof. I hardly ever let it because it faces due west and the slates get so hot people complain that they can’t sleep in it of nights. It’s next door, also, to a large attic where three young ladies and their governess sleep. You mayn’t even find quiet in the little room.”

“I mind not,” said Mademoiselle, “I am accustomed to the vagaries of the youthful. I am indeed a teacher from that most distinguished school, Hazlitt Chase. My dear pupil, Penelope Carlton, and I, came to Marshlands two nights ago, she to visit my dear and most beloved pupil, Miss Honora Beverley, and I to search for a meagre appartement in the cheapest part of your gay and sparkling town. I find not what I want. I roam abroad to-day to seek for fresh quarters. I see your house so cool, so chaste, so—if I may use the word—refined. I say to myself—here is a home, here is a rest: I mind not the hot attic, for by day, at least, I shall be happy.”

“Oh, if you know Miss Beverley, that makes all the difference,” said Mrs Dawson. Her manner changed on the spot. “It is strange,” she continued, “that you should come from the school where Miss Beverley is being educated, and it is still stranger that the sister of one of your pupils should be at the present moment occupying the room next to the west attic. She is an exceedingly pretty young lady, and remarkably well off. She’s a governess to three little pupils, and they’re well supplied with not only the necessaries, but the luxuries of life. Even jewellery of the best sort isn’t denied them. But there—what a chatterbox I am! Jane, take this lady up to the western attic, and let her decide whether she will be satisfied to sleep there.” Jane and the voluble Mademoiselle climbed the weary stairs up to the attic which, at the present moment, must have registered ninety degrees in the shade. Even Mademoiselle gasped a trifle as she entered the tiny room; but she was too glad to be in the same house with Brenda Carlton not to put up with some personal discomforts. She, accordingly, decided to engage the apartment; told Jane that her luggage of the most modest would arrive within an hour and went down to interview Mrs Dawson.

“You do deprecate yourself, dear Madame,” she said. “Your room you so despise is to me a haven of rest. It is doubtless what might be called hot, but what of that? It belongs to a home, and I shall—I feel it—be happy under your roof.”

“My terms,” said Mrs Dawson, “are—”

Mademoiselle puckered her brows with anxiety. “You would not be hard on a poor French governess,” she said. “She would make herself très-agréable: she would tell stories of the most witty at your dinner table: she would make your visitors laugh and laugh again. She would instruct you in that cooking of la belle France which you English know so little about. She would offer herself to market for you in the land of these broiling July days. You will not be hard on one at once so poor and so useful.”

“I charge the ladies in the front attic a guinea a week each,” said Mrs Dawson.

“But that chamber is magnifique!” cried Mademoiselle. “I asked your most delightful Jane to show it to me, and I was struck by its size and the beautiful draught that blew through it. Indeed, it is cheap—very cheap—to live in such a room in the very height of the season for so small a sum. But the western attic, Madame, you will not charge the poor lonely foreigner as much for the western attic?”

After considerable chaffering on both sides, Mrs Dawson decided that she would give Mademoiselle the stifling western attic for eighteen and sixpence per week. This sum, of course, was to include her board. The French teacher considered matters carefully for a minute, then said with a smile:

“Ah, well! I must perforce agree. It is large—it is ruinous! But what shall I do? Where there is no choice, one must put up with the inevitable. I will do for you, Madame, all that I would have done had you taken this lonely one for twelve or fifteen shillings a week. I will still entertain your visitors, and teach you the recipes of my own land, and go errands for you and make myself, in truth, your valued friend.”

“Thank you, very much,” said Mrs Dawson, “but it isn’t my habit to trouble my visitors. Of course I always value a pleasant person at table, but otherwise I do my own housekeeping and I go my own messages.”

“Ah—Madame! you know me not yet. You will yet esteem my services. What a delicious cool appartement is your own!”

The room was steaming hot, and poor Mrs Dawson’s face testified to the fact. Mademoiselle, however, was in the best of humours. She hurried away to fetch her luggage—that small packet which she had carried in one hand while she dragged Pauline Hungerford along the platform with the other; and she had sat down and made herself quite one of the family by the time supper was announced.

During supper, she caused the entire company to convulse with laughter. She told one funny story after another, entreating them to laugh their hearts full and not to mind her poor English, which she would speak better if she knew how. In short, she was established as a most agreeable addition to Number 9, Palliser Gardens by the time the Beverleys’ wagonette drew up at the door with the three little Amberleys and Brenda Carlton ensconced within.

As the ladies had gone out to see Miss Carlton off, so did the ladies once more reassemble to witness Miss Carlton’s return. She was certain that she would feel to her dying day that she had achieved this, at least, with flying colours. The very look of the coachman on the box and of the footman as he flung open the door and helped the three awkward girls to descend, had such a paralysing effect upon the members of Mrs Dawson’s boarding-house, that they were all silent for a moment.

“That will do,” said Brenda, as she shook out her white skirts on the steps.

Then the coachman turned homewards, and after that, all tongues were loosened. Brenda was almost carried into the house by the other boarders.

“Come straight into the drawing-room,” said Miss Price, “and tell us all about it. Oh, by the way, may I introduce you to a most charming addition to our circle, Mademoiselle d’Etienne. Mademoiselle arrived to-day. Mademoiselle, this is Miss Brenda Carlton.”

“I have the so great pleasure to know your sister,” said Mademoiselle, in a small, distinct voice, fixing her black eyes on Brenda’s face.

“You know Penelope?” cried Brenda.

“I have the so immense honour to educate that fascinating young lady in that elegant tongue of my beloved France. She is an obedient pupil and does to me credit.”

Brenda felt confused, interested, and on the whole pleased. They all entered the drawing-room, the three girls dead tired with their day and, consequently, very cross; Brenda was more or less cross also, but gratified to find there was such a fuss being made about her. Mademoiselle was cool, ugly, but nevertheless charming looking. What was there about her French dress and French manner which lifted her altogether into a different world from her dowdy English neighbours?

She was in black too—black from head to foot; but her black dress fitted her like a glove and her hair was most becomingly arranged. In short, she looked finished. Mrs Simpkins looked the reverse of finished, for she had just had a scuffle with her eldest baby in which the baby had been distinctly victorious; and Miss Price was hot and untidy, cross with the weather, but, nevertheless, ready to welcome the gossip that Brenda might treat them to.

“Oh, you poor childrens!” said Mademoiselle. “Miss Carlton will you not send these petites to their rest—they look so fatiguées. They want the repose so essential to the youth. What sweet childrens! I know I shall adore them all. But go, my little ones. Mademoiselle, you permit? Yes—go at once to your needed rest.”

“Yes, children; do run upstairs,” said Brenda. “Fanchon, you must go with the rest; we’re not going out this evening.”

“Oh, you’ve said that already!” remarked Fanchon in a rude voice, “and you’ve let the cat out of the bag too!” she continued, a venomous expression coming into her face; for the younger girls were not supposed to know anything of the existence of Harry Jordan.

“What cat out of what bag?” asked Mademoiselle. “I do so adore cats in bags—what mean you, mon enfant—your words thrill me—what cat out of what bag?”

“Hold your tongue, Fanchon, and go to bed!” said Brenda.

“Obey your governess, my dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “You’re dead tired: creep upstairs, all three of you, and don’t, for the life of you, wake my Georgie, for he’s that fractious—enough to madden a body.”

The girls had to depart, and then Miss Price went up to Mrs Dawson and whispered something in her ear, the result of which was that Mrs Dawson went to the door and called Jane. She gave her hurried directions and, by-and-by, what should appear in the little drawing-room but delicious ices which had hastily been fetched from a neighbouring confectioner’s, and which Miss Price meant to pay for. Mademoiselle declared that she fairly gloated on the ices made in Angleterre; even Brenda was soothed by a really good strawberry ice, and, as there was one apiece, all the ladies congregated round and ate their dainties with deliberation.

“Now tell me about the Castle, do,” said Miss Price. “Is it as grand as they make out, or do they exaggerate?”

“Of course they exaggerate,” said Mrs Simpkins. “Folks of that kind always do.”

“But no,” cried Mademoiselle, “that is imposseeble to exaggerate the so great glories of Castle Beverley! It cannot be done. I have heard it described, and I was ravished with what I was told.”

“I have been there,” said Brenda. “I have spent the day; my sister is a special friend of Miss Beverley.”

“Not so very special,” whispered Mademoiselle, something like a little snake at that moment, in Brenda’s ear. Brenda turned and looked full at her. Their eyes met. It seemed at that instant that these two—the young girl and the experienced woman—crossed swords, and that Brenda got the worst of the encounter. There was a pause for a minute. Then she said, quietly:

“I don’t know with regard to the depth of the friendship, but I only know that my sweet sister Penelope is staying at the Castle, and that it is—oh, well—a very nice sort of place. I could imagine more beautiful places.”

“Windsor Castle, perhaps,” whispered Mademoiselle, at which remark Miss Price tittered audibly.

“But tell us, dear,” said Mrs Simpkins. “I have been thinking all day about it. I assure you that the thought of your return has kept me up although the heat is fearful, and Georgie is so cross, and little Peter cutting another tooth—oh dear! Of course I love my children, but sometimes they seem to do things just to spite you; for the doctor told me flat that Peter’s eye-teeth would not be due for another two months, and I made certain that we’d have our seaside holiday over before he began on it. The aggravation of eye-teeth is almost past bearing. I often say if a woman can live through the eye-teeth of her children, she’ll live through anything. But there—I am digressing. Go on, Miss Carlton, do.”

“What did you have to eat?” said Mrs Dawson. “Was there anything that specially took your fancy?”

“Ah, yes—tell us that!” cried Mademoiselle, “for I could copy it for these dear, most select and amiable ladies. I should so love to give them the benefit of my French experience.”

“I don’t know what we had to eat,” said Brenda. “Perhaps Nina could tell you to-morrow—she is our greedy one.”

“Poor little thing!” said Mrs Simpkins. “You’ve let her off her accounts, I see, and that’s a blessing. Now, Miss Carlton, you won’t take it amiss, but if you will allow a motherly body like myself to speak, you won’t be too harsh with that poor child. She’s a good child, and means well; and why in the name of goodness she should be pestered with that account-book and pencil at all hours of the day beats me.”

“Is this what would be so called a secret?” asked Mademoiselle, “for, if so, I will—to speak in the figurative way—stop up my ears.”

“Oh, no,” said Brenda, “it is nothing: I am teaching my youngest pupil a lesson, and these ladies—even dear Mrs Simpkins—fail to understand.”

“Ah—how I you do admire!” said Mademoiselle. “I also have my methods. We, dear Miss Carlton, will have much in common. We will talk together of our pupils and our wrongs.”

“For my part, I am getting sleepy,” said Miss Price, “and the conversation is not nearly so interesting as I hoped it would have been.”

She looked regretfully at the empty ice plates and thought of the bill she would have to pay at Jones’ on the morrow.

“But what did you suppose I would have to talk about?” asked Brenda, putting the last morsel of delicious strawberry ice into her mouth as she spoke.

“Oh, I’m sure I can’t tell. I had a sort of vision of a delightful time—I thought you’d begin at the very beginning, as they pay in the story books, and tell us of everything—what he said to her, you know, and what she said to him, and how they were all dressed—”

“And a good lot about the food,” interrupted Mrs Simpkins. “I’m great on nice food myself, and it’s delightful to think that a good-natured French body has come to stay here—”

“I will make you,” interrupted Mademoiselle, “of the salade the most enjoyable with a taste of mayonnaise, that cannot be compounded except by a person born in la belle France.”

“You mustn’t let Georgie see it, then,” said Mrs Simpkins, “for if he swallows even a morsel of anything Frenchy, he’ll be done for!”

“I could fancy it myself,” said Miss Price. “I am very much obliged indeed to Mademoiselle for thinking of making us a proper French salad.”

“And so am I, although you oughtn’t to trouble yourself,” said Mrs Dawson, who began to perceive that Mademoiselle might be exceedingly useful to her.

“Well, ladies,” said Brenda, rising, “I think I will go to bed. I am a little tired to-night, for we have been out so much. It was sweet of you, Miss Price, to give us those delicious ices. I have never enjoyed anything better. Doubtless, to-morrow, when I am refreshed, I shall have numerous little anecdotes to tell each of you in turn, but not before the children. It is so bad for children, too, to hear their friends gossiped about.”

“I agree with them sentiments,” said Mrs Simpkins. “I wouldn’t have Georgie listen to the tell-tales between me and Maria—that’s my maid at home—for all the world. Why, he’d have it out to his pa at his next meal for certain.”

“I’ll tell you each in confidence,” said Brenda, “and,” she added, “I daresay there’ll be plenty of fresh news for the future, for I expect to go constantly to Castle Beverley, and my sister is coming to spend the day with me soon.”

“Not Penelope, my most adored one!” cried Mademoiselle. “Do you say, dear Miss Carlton, that I am to see my sweetest pupil so soon?”

“I don’t know the exact day,” said Brenda, “but you will see her if you happen to stay here.”

“Stay here?” said Miss Price. “Of course we trust Mademoiselle will stay! It is delightful to have a real Frenchwoman in the house.”

“I said this place was home,” said Mademoiselle, raising her eyes ceilingward.

Brenda went up to her room. There she found all the girls already disposed of in their separate beds. To her relief, they were all, even Fanchon, sound asleep. She sat down for a short time by the open window and thought over matters. She did not altogether like the turn of events. Try as she would, she felt that she would never be anything but a nobody at Castle Beverley. More anxious than ever was she to secure Harry Jordan as her affianced husband. She had a shrewd guess as to his sort of character, and wondered what impression she would make on him when they met the following evening. Poor Brenda went to sleep fairly happy, on the whole, that night, little guessing what a very active disturber to her peace Mademoiselle d’Etienne would prove herself to be.

The next day broke, as usual, with cloudless splendour. The different ladies went out Brenda strolled abroad with her pupils. She found a shady place under a cliff, and sat there to rest, and looked around her.

Meanwhile, Mademoiselle devoted herself to Mrs Dawson. She insisted on going shopping, if not for her, yet with her. And Mademoiselle had an eye for a bargain which even that astute Englishwoman, Mrs Dawson, could never hope to possess. Why, those tomatoes which she purchased for almost nothing would never have been observed at all by the good lady, and then those little crabs which were going for a few pence (Mrs Dawson, as a rule, never purchased small crabs, but Mademoiselle begged of her, on this occasion, to do so) were soon disposed of in the worthy woman’s basket; and lettuces, with other tempting fresh vegetables, were secured. Mademoiselle implored of Mrs Dawson to let her arrange the supper table that night.

“You have bought but little,” she said; “nevertheless, it is enough. I will surprise the good, the dear ladies of your charming family with the French supper which I will prepare.”

“But Mary Anne will never stand it,” objected Mrs Dawson.

“Is she your cook?”

“Yes, and a very good one too—I pay her a lot of wages.”

“Never mind: I will counsel her, and I will talk with her: I will get her to think that she herself has made the soufflé and the omelette and the tomato soup and the delectable preparation of crabs. She will know it not, except as her own handiwork, and I will be your cook.”

“It is too much to expect of you,” said Mrs Dawson, really won over by her paying guest’s extraordinary kindness.

“Have I found a home—and am I ungrateful?” was Mademoiselle’s response.

The result of this was that the two ladies came back the most excellent friends, and sat together until early dinner in that stifling little parlour. In that small room Mademoiselle got a good deal of information with regard to Brenda, whom she was interested in for more reasons than one, and also saw the advertisement for the lost bracelet with her own eyes. She read it over carefully and her black eyes glittered with excitement.

“It is a reward magnifique!” she said.

“I wish I could find it,” said Mrs Dawson.

“If we were both to find it, chère amie,” said the Frenchwoman, “we might divide the so great profits.”

“But we never can,” said Mrs Dawson. Then she added, after a minute’s pause, “All the same, I’d like to say something.”

“And what is that?” asked Mademoiselle.

“You mustn’t breathe it, please. You’re quite a stranger to me, but coming from Hazlitt Chase, and knowing Miss Beverley, I suppose you’re to be trusted.” Mademoiselle laid her hand dramatically on her very fat chest.

“I suppose so,” she replied.

“And I must confide in some one, for the thing seems to burn a sort of hole in me.”

“My good, dear, delightful friend,” said the Frenchwoman, “don’t let the secret prey on you in that fashion, for it will undermine your so precious health. Confide it to one who is ardent to help you, who has for you already the affection the most profound.”

“It is nothing, of course,” said Mrs Dawson, “and you will promise not to tell.”

“I have promised.”

Again the hand was laid over the region of the heart.

“Well, then,—it is just this. I know a good jewel when I see it, for my poor husband, the late Dawson, was in the jewellery line, and he taught me to know at a glance the difference between poor gold and good gold, and imitation stones and real ones; and if you will believe me, Mademoiselle d’Etienne, that little minx of a Fanchon Amberley came into the house the other evening with a bangle on her arm which for all the world might have been this,”—here she pointed to the Standard. “That bangle might have meant three guineas in my pocket, for it was eighteen carat gold as I am alive, and the turquoise in it was the most beautiful I ever saw.”

Mademoiselle’s dark face flushed and then paled; but she did not stir or show any other sign of special interest. After a minute, she said gently:

“There are so many bangles now-a-days, and they are all more or less alike.”

“Of course Miss Fanchon—”

“Ridiculous to call an English girl by one of our names—”

“Had it of her own—she said a friend gave it to her, but she was very mysterious about it.”

“I’d like to see it,” said Mademoiselle.

“And so would I,” said Mrs Dawson.

“I’d like to see it for a reason,” said Mademoiselle. “Mademoiselle d’Etienne, you don’t mean—”

“I don’t know that I mean anything, but if I saw it, I’d know once for all.”

“What would you know?”

“I tell you what, Mrs Dawson. I have examined the bracelet that little Pauline Hungerford—one of my adorable pupils—has worn, which she got on the day of the break-up. I took it in my hand, and she allowed me to examine it, and I know the other was exactly the same except for the difference in the stones. I should like to see the bracelet that the young lady who ought not to possess bangles, wears.”

“I don’t believe you will: there’s something about that governess which makes me think her a deep one—I can’t be certain, but I have my suspicions—and she seemed distressed, I don’t know why, when I noticed the bangle on Miss Fanchon’s arm.”

“Leave the matter to me,” said Mademoiselle. “This interests me; but I must be calm. You and I, dear Madame, are true friends, are we not?”

Chapter Eighteen.

The Locked Drawer.

Brenda was looking eagerly forward to the evening. A great deal would depend on the evening, for then she would see Harry Jordan again, and find out whether he was impressed or not. She had already perceived in that charming youth a passion for greatness—a snobbish devotion to the great ones of this world. She had wondered within herself why he cared so much for people with “handles,” as he expressed it, to their names. If he was as rich as he described himself, surely these things scarcely mattered to him.

Well, she at least was gently born, and had friends in the class which he so coveted to know. She was very, very pretty, and he had almost told her that he loved her.

“Fanchon,” said the governess to her eldest pupil that day, “we’ll go out by ourselves after supper to-night and walk on the promenade and listen to the band. The two younger children must go to bed immediately after supper; I must insist on that; Mrs Simpkins always helps me with regard to that. She thinks it is good for children to put them early to bed. But for that one redeeming trait in her character, I should detest the woman.”

“Oh, every one in the house is detestable!” said Fanchon, “except perhaps Mademoiselle.”

Brenda lowered her brows. The two younger girls were well on in front.

“I like Mademoiselle the least of all,” she said.

“Do you, Brenda?” cried Fanchon. “I wonder why.”

“I detest her,” said Brenda.

“Oh, but she’s so funny,” exclaimed Fanchon.

“Do you know,” said Brenda, “that she’s leaving Hazlitt Chase? Penelope mentioned the fact quite casually to me yesterday. She will not be there when darling Penelope returns. Perhaps if the ladies knew that little item of news, they wouldn’t be quite so agreeable to her. They think a great deal of the fact that she’s French teacher at the Chase.”

Fanchon yawned.

“I dare say,” she answered. “But after all, what does that matter? She’s rather a pleasant woman, I think, and she does talk such funny English; it’s as good as a play to hear her.”

“Well,” said Brenda, “we needn’t bother about her now. The great thing is for us to slip away after supper. Your friend will be there, of course, and you will talk to him.”

“You mean Mr Burbery,” said Fanchon, blushing. “Don’t colour up like that, dear—I wouldn’t if I were you. He can’t mean anything, of course.”

“Oh, of course not,” said Fanchon; but she coloured more vividly than ever, while a delicious thrill ran through her childish breast. “I wonder,” she said in a low tone, “if you will lend me the bangle again to-night.”

“No—I won’t, Fanchon.”

“But why not—why won’t you?”

“You are so dreadfully silly about it—you show it to people—oh, not by talking, but you shove out your hand and arm in such a hideously marked fashion. If you were modest, and like a girl accustomed to get jewellery, you would think nothing about it, and then no one would remark it. As it is, that precious Mr Burbery spoke of it. Then Mrs Dawson was attracted by it.”

“But where’s the good of wearing it, if no one is to see it?” queried the practical Fanchon.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brenda, crossly; “but I can assure you it is exceedingly bad form to intrude it in the way you do. You look, when you have it on, as though you were all bangle—it’s absurd!”

“Well, all the same, I do wish you would let me put it on,” said Fanchon. “I can slip it up under my sleeve, then no one will notice and it does support me so tremendously when I am undergoing the ordeal of talking to a man.”

“No—you shan’t have it to-night,” said Brenda, and there was a finality in her tone which Fanchon recognised and did not attempt to dispute.

Supper that evening was of course extra delicious. The ladies were in raptures. The salad, made in the truly French style, was most appetising. There were certain most “chic” little sandwiches handed round to eat with it. Mademoiselle would not give away the secret of how those sandwiches were made. There were iced drinks to refresh the unfortunate inmates of Mrs Dawson’s fearfully hot dining-room. There was a fragrance about the supper which astonished and delighted these poor ladies. Mrs Simpkins very nearly shed tears.

“After the battle I’ve had all the afternoon with those dear, darling, dreadful children,” she said, “it’s fairly like heaven to come down here.”

Her raptures grew still greater as she partook of the savoury omelets, and by-and-by ate some of that soufflé which most certainly Mary Anne could never have compounded. But the crowning dish at that supper table was the preparation of crab to which Mademoiselle gave some long French, absolutely unpronounceable name, and which all the ladies consumed with immense satisfaction. Mrs Dawson was so struck with the success of her supper, and also with the pleasing knowledge that the ingredients which composed it had cost hardly anything, that she began to entertain serious thoughts of taking Mademoiselle into partnership on the spot. With such a woman to help her with her daily ménage, what might she not aspire to? Another house, a higher class of boarders, double and even treble profits. Then Mademoiselle was so nice to look at—although ugly, yes, quite ugly—and so charmingly witty, but so modest withal, never attempting to take the lead, listening deferentially even to the most minute details with regard to Georgie’s cold, and to Miss Price’s pain in her head, and yet guiding the conversation ever and always into channels which caused ripples of laughter and perfect good humour.

Brenda, who hitherto had been the centre of attraction, was cast completely into the shade. Brenda Carlton seldom looked prettier than she did that evening, but nobody noticed her fresh young face with its bright colour, nor the clear blue of her eyes, nor her charming figure, when ugly Mademoiselle was keeping the table in constant roars of laughter. Brenda felt that, if this sort of thing went on, her feeling towards the French governess would become dangerous.

The little Simpkinses were, of course, not allowed to sit up to supper, but the Amberleys always partook of that meal, and there was no one more greedy on the present occasion than Nina Amberley, who enjoyed the Frenchwoman’s cooking so intensely that she forgot to do anything but eat.

At last, however, the viands were disposed of. There was nothing for Jane to remove from the table but the empty plates and dishes. Mademoiselle felt that she was wearing a little secret crown—the crown of a great success, and Mrs Dawson rose majestically from the board.

“Children,” said Brenda, “you will at once go up to bed, it is exceedingly late.”

Josie looked cross, Nina defiant.

“Les pauvres enfants!” exclaimed Mademoiselle. “Why confine them to their appartement on this so hot evening! The air would refresh them—there is no need for this early retirement on these long summer days.”

“Your opinion, Mrs Simpkins, coincides with mine in that subject,” said Brenda, turning hastily to the fat mother of the babies.

“Oh, I know, my dear,” said Mrs Simpkins, “and I always do hold with my favourite proverb. But it is ’ot to-night, and I fairly gasp. I suppose an extra hour up would not be permitted, Miss Carlton?”

“No, no—you must go to bed immediately,” said Brenda, turning to her pupils. “Now off you go. Say good-night, Nina; say good-night, Josephine.”

Very sulkily did the girls obey. They were both of them consumed with rage when they reached their hot attic.

“I hate going to bed,” said Nina.

“It is abominable—it is cruel to send us!” cried Josie. “I want to know,” she added, “why Fanchon, who is only a year and six months older than me should go out and have no end of fun and why we should lie stewing in these hot beds!”

But though the little girls grumbled, they felt in their own minds that they were no match for Brenda; and when, a short time afterwards, that young lady came into the room, they were both in bed and were even pretending to be asleep. Brenda hastily put on her most becoming picture hat, glanced at the private drawer which contained the bracelet and her money, took Fanchon’s hat and gloves from the room, and, telling the others to go to sleep and be quick about it, took her departure. A few minutes later, she and Fanchon had stolen softly from the house, and ten minutes after that, there came a gentle tap at the door of the room where Nina and Josie were lying wide awake and conversing in low tones about their mutual grievances.

“Whoever is that?” said Joey, in a tone of some alarm. “Come in!” she called, and Mademoiselle entered.

“Oh, pauvres petites!” cried the French governess. “I venture to come to offer you my consolations. This ‘early to bed’ is what cannot be permitted. I also am an instructress of the young. I have had a long experience. Why should you not be out and enjoy the summer air?”

“Oh—but we dare not disobey Brenda!” exclaimed Nina.

“It is very kind of you, Mademoiselle, to come and see us,” said Josie; “but Brenda always sends us to bed when she and Fanchon go out for their fun.”

“Do they have great fun at this hour?” asked Mademoiselle.

“Oh, I don’t know—I expect so,” exclaimed Josie, and she giggled a little.

Mademoiselle uttered a sigh. She opened the window a little wider and left the door ajar.

“Now there is a consoling draught,” she said, “you will not suffer so much from the hot, hot air. Tell me your little stories, petites, so that I may you comfort while you lie awake.”

The children did not know at first what they had especially to tell to Mademoiselle; but that clever woman was not ten minutes in their society before she had obtained a vast lot of useful information from them—information which she meant to turn to good account. She had her way to make in the world, and could only make it by more or less dishonest means. In short, before she left the little girls on this occasion, she knew that little secret with regard to Nina’s account-book, and why Nina was learning this salutary lesson. She pretended to be rather shocked by the little girl’s disclosure.