



Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
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[Illustration: Book Cover]




THE
HOUSE
THAT
GREW

MRS
MOLESWORTH




THE HOUSE THAT GREW




[Illustration: ROLF CAREFULLY DEPOSITED THE LITTLE CREATURE.--p. 175.]




THE HOUSE THAT GREW

BY
MRS. MOLESWORTH

AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' ETC.

[Illustration]

ILLUSTRATED BY ALICE B. WOODWARD.

LONDON
MACMILLAN AND CO LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1900




CONTENTS


  CHAP.                                                             PAGE
     I. 'IT'S DREADFUL, ISN'T IT?'                                     1
    II. 'MUFFINS, FOR ONE THING, I HOPE'                              18
   III. 'IT'S A WONDERFUL IDEA, IDA'                                  35
    IV. 'GEORDIE STOOD UP AND WAVED HIS CAP'                          52
     V. 'WHAT _CAN_ SHE MEAN?'                                        69
    VI. 'YOU DO UNDERSTAND SO WELL, MAMMA'                            86
   VII. 'NO,' SAID MAMMA, 'THAT ISN'T ALL'                           103
  VIII. 'I'VE BROUGHT MY HOUSE WITH ME, LIKE A SNAIL'                120
    IX. 'THE KIND SEA, TOO, AUNTIE DEAR'                             138
     X. 'IT'S ANOTHER SNAIL'                                         155
    XI. 'I MADE SURE OF THAT,' SAID ROLF                             172
   XII. 'WELL--ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL!'                          189




ILLUSTRATIONS


  ROLF CAREFULLY DEPOSITED THE LITTLE CREATURE       _Front._ (_p._ 175)
  WE WERE WALKING ON SLOWLY                            _To face page_ 11
  NO--THERE WAS NOTHING FOR IT BUT TO LIE STILL                       39
  ORDERING DENZIL ABOUT AS USUAL                                      73
  WE WERE OUT ON THE TERRACE, AND MRS. TREVOR COMING TO MEET US      101
  'I CAN'T VERY WELL GET OUT,' SHE SAID                              131
  SHE FASTENED THE ONE END OF THE STRING ROUND HIS POOR LITTLE BODY  187




CHAPTER I

'IT'S DREADFUL, ISN'T IT?'


Mamma sat quite quietly in her favourite corner, on the sofa in the
drawing-room, all the time papa was speaking. I think, or I thought
afterwards, that she was crying a little, though that isn't her way at
all. Dods didn't think so, for I asked him, when we were by ourselves.
She did not speak any way, except just to whisper to me when I ran up to
kiss her before we went out, 'We will have a good talk about it all
afterwards, darling. Run out now with Geordie.'

I was very glad to get out of the room, I was so dreadfully afraid of
beginning to cry myself. I didn't know which I was the sorriest
for--papa or mamma--mamma, I think, though I don't know, either! Papa
tried to be so cheerful about it; it was almost worse than if he had
spoken very sadly. It reminded me of Dods when he was a very little boy
and broke his arm, and when they let me peep into the room just after
the doctor had set it, he smiled and whistled to make out it didn't hurt
much, though he was as white as white. Poor old Doddie! And poor papa!

'It'll be worse for us and for mamma than for papa, won't it, Dods?' I
said, as soon as we were outside and quite out of hearing. 'They always
say that it's the worst for those that are left behind--the going-away
ones have the change and bustle, you see.'

'How can I tell?' said Dods; 'you ask such stupid things, Ida. It's
about as bad as it can be for everybody, and I don't see that it makes
it any better to go on counting which it's the worst for.'

He gave himself a sort of wriggle, and began switching the hedge with
the little cane he was carrying; by that and the gruff tone of his
voice, I could tell he was feeling very bad, so I didn't mind his being
rather cross, and we walked on for a minute or two without speaking.

Then suddenly Dods--I call him Dods, but his real name is George, and
mamma calls him Geordie--stopped short.

'Where are you going, Ida?' he said. 'I hear those children hallooing
over there in the little planting. They'll be down upon us in another
moment, tiresome things, if we don't get out of the way, and I certainly
don't want them just now.'

I didn't either, though I'm very fond of them. But they're _so_ much
younger, only seven and eight then, and Dods and I were thirteen and
fourteen. And we have always gone in pairs. Dods and I, and Denzil and
Esme. Besides, of course, the poor little things were not to be told
just yet of the strange troubles and sorrows that had come, or were
coming, to us.

So I agreed with Dods that we had better get out of the way.

'Esme is so quick,' I said; 'she'd very likely see there was something
the matter, and papa did so warn us not to let them know.'

'Humph,' said Dods. 'I don't think we need worry about _them_. Denzil is
as dense as a hedgehog, and as comfortable as a fat dormouse. _He'd_
never worry as long as he has plenty to eat and a jolly warm bed to
sleep in. And Esme's just a----'

'A what?' I said, rather vexed, for Esme _is_ a sweet. She's not fat or
lazy, and I don't think Denzil is--not extra, for such a little boy.

'She's just a sort of a butterfly,' said Geordie. '_She'd_ never mind
anything for long. She'd just settle down for half a moment and then fly
up again as merry as a sandboy.'

I could not help bursting out laughing. It was partly, I daresay, that I
felt as if I must either laugh or cry. But Dods did mix up
his--'similes,' I think, is the right word--so funnily! Hedgehogs and
dormice and butterflies and sandboys, all in a breath.

'I don't see what there is to laugh at,' said Geordie, very grumpily
again, though he had been getting a little brighter.

'No more do I, I'm sure,' I replied, sadly enough, and then, I think,
Dods felt sorry.

'Where shall we go?' he said gently.

'Wherever you like--to the hut, I think. It is always nice there, and we
can lock ourselves in if we hear the children coming,' I answered.

The hut, as we called it, was our very most favourite place. It was much
more than you would fancy from the name, as you will hear before long.
But we did not wait to go on talking, till we got there. The children's
voices did not come any nearer, but died away in the distance, so we
walked on quietly, without hurrying.

'Ida,' said Geordie after a bit, 'it's dreadful, isn't it?'

'Yes,' I agreed; 'I think it is.'

The 'it' was the news poor papa had been telling us. We were not quite
like most other children, I think, in some ways. I think we--that is,
Dods and I--were rather more thoughtful, though that sounds like
praising ourselves, which I am sure I don't mean. But papa and mamma had
always had us a good deal with them and treated us almost like
companions, and up to now, though he was getting on for thirteen, Dods
had never been away at school, only going to Kirke, the little town near
us, for some lessons with the vicar, and doing some with me and our
governess, who came over from Kirke every day. So papa had told us what
had to be told, almost as if we were grown-up people.

We did not understand it quite exactly, for it had to do with business
things, which generally mean 'money' things, it seems to me, and which,
even now, though I am sixteen past, I don't perfectly understand. And I
daresay I shall not explain it all as well as a quite grown-up person
would. But I don't think that will matter. This story is just a real
account of something rather out of the common, and I am writing it
partly as a kind of practice, for I do hope I shall be able to write
stories in books some day, and partly because I think it is interesting
even if it never gets into a book, and I should like Denzil and Esme to
read it all over, for fear of their forgetting about it.

I must first tell what the news was that we had just heard. Poor papa
had lost a lot of money!

We were not very rich, but we had had quite enough, and our home
was--and _is_, I am thankful to say--the sweetest, nicest home in the
world. Our grandfathers and great-grandfathers back to papa's
great-great ones have always lived here and seen to everything
themselves, which makes a home nicer than anything else. But a good deal
of _papa's_ money came from property a long, long way off--somewhere in
the West Indies. It had been left to _his_ father by his godmother, and
ever since I was quite little I remember hearing papa say what a good
thing it was to have some money besides what came from our own property
at home. For, as everybody knows, land in England--especially, I think,
in our part of it--does not give half as much as it used to, from rents
and those sorts of things.

And we got into the way--I mean by 'we,' papa and mamma, and grandpapa,
no doubt, in his time--of thinking of the West Indian money as something
quite safe and certain, that could not ever 'go down' like other things.

But there came a day, not very long before the one I am writing about,
which brought sudden and very bad news. Things had gone wrong,
dreadfully wrong out at that place--Saint Silvio's--and it was quite
possible that _all_ our money from there would stop for good. The horrid
part of it was, that it all came from somebody's wrongdoing--not from
earthquakes or hurricanes or outside troubles of that kind--but from
real dishonesty on the part of the agents papa had trusted. There was
nothing for it but for poor papa himself to go out there, for a year at
least, perhaps for two years, to find out everything and see what could
be done.

There was a _possibility_, papa said, of things coming right, or partly
right again, once he was there and able to go into it all himself. But
to do this it was necessary that he should start as soon as could be
managed; and with the great doubt of our _ever_ being at all well off
again, it was also necessary that mamma and we four should be very, very
careful about expenses at home, and just spend as little as we could.

A piece of good fortune had happened in the middle of all this; at least
_papa_ called it good fortune, though I am afraid George and I did not
feel as if it was good at all! Papa had had an offer from some people to
take our house--our own dear Eastercove--for a year, or perhaps more. We
had often been asked to let it, for it is so beautifully placed--close
to the sea, and yet with lovely woods and grounds all round it, which is
very uncommon at the sea-side. Our pine woods are almost famous, and
there are nooks and dells and glens and cliffs that I could not describe
if I tried ever so hard, so deliciously pretty and picturesque are they.

But till now we had never dreamt of letting it. Indeed, we used to feel
quite angry, which was rather silly, I daresay, if ever we heard of any
offer being made for it. And now the offer that had come was a very good
one; it was not only more money than had ever been proposed before, but
it came from very nice sort of people, whom the agent knew were quite
to be trusted in every way.

'They will take good care of the house and of all our things,' said
papa, 'and keep on any of the servants who like to stay.'

'Shall we not have _any_ servants then?' Dods had asked. 'Do you mean
that mamma--mamma and Ida and the little ones--I don't mind for myself,
I'm a boy; I'll go to sea as a common sailor if it would be any
good--but do you mean, that we shall be like _really_ poor people?' And
here there came a choke in his voice that made me feel as if I could
_scarcely_ keep from crying. For I knew what he was thinking of--the
idea of mamma, our pretty mamma, with her merry laugh and nice dresses,
and soft, white hands, having to work and even scrub perhaps, and to
give up all the things and ways she was used to--it was too dreadful!

Papa looked sorry and went on again quietly--

'No, no, my boy,' he said; 'don't exaggerate it. Of course mamma and you
all must have every comfort possible. One servant, anyway--Hoskins is
sure to stay, and a younger one as well, I _hope_. And there must be no
thought of your going to sea, George, or going anywhere, till I come
back again. I look to you to take care of them all--that is why I am
explaining more to you and Ida than many people would to such young
ones. But I know you are both very sensible for your age. You see, we
are sure of the new rent, thanks to this Mr. Trevor's offer--and even
_that_ would prevent us from being in a desperate position. And, of
course, the usual money will go on coming in from the property, though
the most of it must go in keeping things in order, in case----' but here
papa broke off.

'I know what you were going to say, papa,' said poor Dods, growing
scarlet; he was certainly very quick-witted,--"in case we have to sell
Eastercove!" Oh, papa! anything but that! I'll work--I'll do _anything_
to make money, so long as we don't have to do that. Our old, old home!'

He could not say any more, and turned away his head.

'It has not come to that yet, my boy,' said papa, after a moment or
two's silence. 'Let us keep up heart in the meantime, and hope for the
best.'

Then he went on to tell us some of the plans he and mamma had already
begun to make--about our going to live in some little house at Kirke,
where we should not feel so strange as farther away, though there were
objections to this too,--anything at all _nice_ in the shape of even a
tiny house there would be dear, as the neighbourhood was much sought
after by visitors in winter as well as in summer. For it was considered
so very healthy for delicate people; the air was always clear and dry,
and the scent of the pine woods so strengthening. Papa, however, was
doing his best; he and mamma were going there that very afternoon, 'To
spy the land,' papa said, trying to speak cheerily.

So now I come back to where I began my explanation as to what the 'it'
was, that Geordie and I agreed was so dreadful.

[Illustration: WE WERE WALKING ON SLOWLY.]

We were walking on slowly to the hut, and just as I had replied, 'I
think it is,' we came in sight of it, and something--I don't know
what--made us both stop and look at this favourite spot of ours. It was
so pretty to-day--perhaps that was it. A sudden clearing brought us out
of the wood, through which we had been following a well-worn, narrow
path, and the bright, soft light of the early afternoon--of an April
afternoon--was falling on the quaint little place. It was more like two
or three huts than one, and indeed it really did consist of three or
four rooms, which we children had been allowed to consider our own
quarters, and to decorate and improve according to our fancy and taste.
To begin with, it had been a bathing-house, of two rooms, partly of
stone, partly of wood, standing on a little plateau, just at the edge of
the pine trees, and well above the sea, so that even in stormy weather
the water could not possibly reach it; besides which, I must say that
stormy weather in the shape of high tides or great waves never did show
itself in this cove. Often and often we had sat there, listening to the
boom and crash at the foot of the cliffs, round at the other side, as
snug and peaceful as if we had been miles inland.

And the sands that sloped down from our hut were just perfection, both
as to prettiness and niceness for bathing. They shone to-day like gold
and silver mixed in the sunshine; and the hut itself, though queerly
shaped, looked pretty too. We had managed, in spite of the sandy soil,
to get some hardy creepers to grow over it on the inland side, and we
had sunk some old tubs filled with good soil in front of the porch--for
there was a porch--in which flourished some nice, bushy evergreens, and
there was even a tiny terrace with long flower-boxes, where, for six
months of the year at least, geraniums and fuchsias, and for part of
the time, nice, big, white and yellow and straw-coloured daisies seemed
quite at home. It was a _lovely_ place for children to have of their
own; and the year before, papa had added two other rooms to it, for our
photographing--_iron_ rooms, these were, and not at all ugly, though
that would not have mattered much, as they were at the back, beside the
little kitchen, where we were allowed to cook our luncheons and teas
when we were spending a whole day on the shore.

'Dods!' I exclaimed, as we stood there in silence, admiring our mansion,
'we must see about the flowers for the long boxes. It's getting quite
time, for Bush has settled all about the bedding-out plants--he told me
so yesterday--so he'll be able to tell us what he has to spare.'

I spoke in utter forgetfulness--but it only lasted a moment--only, that
is to say, till I caught the expression of Geordie's mournful blue
eyes--he _can_ make them look so mournful when he likes--fixed upon me
in silent reproach.

'Ida,' he said at last, 'what are you thinking of? _What's the use?_'

'Oh, Dods! oh, dear, dear Doddie!' I cried--I don't think I quite knew
what I was saying,--'forgive me. Oh, how silly and unfeeling I seem!
_Oh_, Doddie!'

And then--I am not now ashamed to tell it, for I really had been keeping
it in at the cost of a good deal of forcing myself--I just left off
trying to be brave or self-controlled or anything, and burst out
crying--regular loud crying. I am afraid I almost howled.

George looked at me once more, then for a minute or so he turned away. I
am not sure if he was crying, anyway he wasn't _howling_. But in an
instant or two, while I was rubbing at my eyes with my handkerchief, and
feeling rather, or very ashamed, I felt something come round my neck,
crushing it up so tightly that I was almost choked, and then Doddie's
voice in my ear, very gruff, very gruff indeed of course, saying--

'Poor Ida, poor old Ida! I know it's quite as bad or worse for you. For
a _man_ can always go out into the world and fight his way, and have
some fun however hard he works.'

'That wouldn't make it any better for _me_, Dods,' I said--we both
forgot, I think, that he was a good way off being a man just
yet,--'you're my only comfort. I don't mean that mamma isn't one, of
course; but it's our business now to cheer her up. Papa said so ever so
many times. I don't really know, though, how I _could_ have cheered her
up, or even tried to, if you had been away at school already!'

Poor George's face darkened at this. It was rather an unlucky speech. He
had thought of things already that had never come into my head. One was
that it seemed unlikely enough now that papa would ever be able to send
him to school at all--I mean, of course, to the big public school, for
which his name had been down for ever so long, and on which, like all
English boys, his heart was set. For he knew how expensive all public
schools are.

'Don't talk of school, Ida,' he said huskily. 'Luckily it's a good year
off still,' for it had never been intended that he should go till he was
fourteen; 'and,' with a deep sigh, 'we must keep on hoping, I suppose.'

'Yes, and working,' I added. 'Whatever happens, Dods, you must work
well, and I'll do my best to help you. Mightn't you perhaps gain a
scholarship, or whatever you call them, that would make school cost
less?'

This remark was as lucky as the other had been unfortunate. Dods
brightened up at once.

'By Jove,' he said, 'what a good idea! I never thought of it. I'll tell
you what, Ida; I'll ask Mr. Lloyd about it the very first time I see
him--that'll be the day after to-morrow, as to-morrow's Sunday.'

Mr. Lloyd was the vicar of Kirke.

I felt quite proud of having thought of something to cheer Geordie up,
and my tears stopped, and by the time we had got to the hut, we were
both in much better spirits.

'It is to be hoped,' I said, 'that papa and mamma _will_ find some kind
of a house at Kirke, however poky. For you would be very sorry not to go
on with Mr. Lloyd--wouldn't you, Dods?'

'Of course I should,' he replied heartily. 'He's very kind and very
strict. And if I mean to work harder than ever before, as I do now,
since you put that jolly idea into my head, it's a good thing he _is_
strict.'

When we got to the hut and unlocked the door, we found a good deal to
do. For on Saturdays we generally--we _meant_ to do it regularly, but I
am afraid we sometimes forgot--had a sort of cleaning and tidying up.
Photographing is very nice and interesting of course, and so is cooking,
but they are rather messy! And when you've been doing one or the other
nearly all day, it's rather disgusting to have to begin washing up
greasy dishes, and chemicalised rags and glasses, and pots and pans, and
all the rest of it. I don't mean that we ever cleaned up the
photographing things with the kitchen things; we weren't so silly, as,
of course, we should not only have spoilt our instruments, but run a
good risk of poisoning ourselves too. But the whole lot needed cleaning,
and I don't know which were the tiresomest.

And the last day we had spent at the hut, we had only half-tidied up, we
had got _so_ tired. So there were all the things about, as if they'd
been having a dance in the night, like Hans Andersen's toys, and had
forgotten to put themselves to bed after it.

Dods and I looked at each other rather grimly.

'It's got to be done,' I said. 'It's a shame to see the place so bright
and sunny outside and so _dreadfully_ messy indoors.'

'Yes,' said Dods, 'it is. So fire away, Ida. After all----' but he
didn't finish his sentence and didn't need to. I knew what he
meant--that quite possibly it was the very last time we'd need to have a
good cleaning up in the dear old hut.




CHAPTER II

'MUFFINS, FOR ONE THING, I HOPE'


The first thing we had to do was really to 'fire away.' That is to say,
to light a fire, for of course nothing in the way of washing up or
cleaning can be done without hot water, and you cannot get hot water
without fire of some kind. But that part of our work we did not dislike
at all. We had grown quite clever at making fires and getting them to
burn up quickly in the little stove, and we had always, or nearly
always, a nice store of beautifully dry wood that we picked up
ourselves. And though the hut was so near the sea, it was wonderfully
dry. We could leave things there for weeks, without their becoming musty
or mouldy.

And as the fire crackled up brightly, and after a bit we got the kettle
on and it began to sing, our spirits began to rise again a little, to
keep it company.

'After all,' I said, 'there really is a good strong _likelihood_ that
things won't turn out so badly. Papa is very clever, and once he is out
there himself, he will find out everything, and perhaps get them put
straight once for all. It wouldn't so much matter our having less money
than we have had till now, if all the muddle and cheating was cleared
up.'

'No, it wouldn't,' Geordie agreed, 'and of course it's best to be
hopeful. So long as there's no talk of our selling Eastercove, Ida, I
don't feel as if I minded anything.'

'And the great thing is to cheer up poor mamma while papa's away,' I
said, 'and not to seem dull or miserable at having to live differently
and go without things we've always been used to have. I don't think I
shall mind that part of it so _very_ much, Dods--shall you?'

Dods sighed.

'I don't know; I hope not for myself--of course what matters to _me_ is
the perhaps not going to a big school. But you have cheered me up about
that, Ida. I shall hate you and mamma not having a carriage and nice
servants and all that, though we must go on hoping it will only be for a
bit.'

'And I _do_ hope we can stay on near here,' I said, 'so that at least we
can feel that home is close-to. I would rather have ever so little a
house at Kirke than a much better one farther off--except that, well, I
must say I shouldn't like it to be one of those dreadfully
stuffy-looking little ones in rows in a street!'

'I'm afraid that's just what it is likely to be,' said Dods. 'It will be
pretty horrid; there's no use trying to pretend it won't be. But, Ida,
we're not working at all. We must get on, for papa and mamma will like
to find us at home when they come in.'

'Especially as to-morrow's Sunday,' I added; 'and very likely, if it's
as fine as to-day, we may all come down here to tea in the afternoon,'
for that was a favourite habit of ours. We children used to consider
that we were the hosts on these occasions, and papa and mamma our
visitors.

So we set to work with a will, without grumbling at the rather big
collection of things there were to wash up, and the amount of sweeping
and brushing to do. To begin with, we knew we had ourselves to thank for
it, as we had left things in a very untidy way the last day we had spent
at the hut. Then too, even though only an hour or so had passed since we
had heard the bad news, I think we had suddenly grown older. I have
never felt thoroughly a child again since that morning. For the first
time it seemed to come really home to me that life has a serious side to
it, and I think--indeed I know--that George felt the same. I don't mean
that we were made sad or unhappy, for I don't count that we had ever
been very thoughtless children, but we both began to feel that there
were certain things we could do, and should do, that no one else could
do as well.

I think it must be what people call the sense of 'responsibility,' and
in some ways it is rather a nice feeling. It makes one feel stronger and
braver, and yet more humble too, though that sounds contradictory, for
there comes with it a great anxiety to prove worthy of the trust placed
in one to do one's best.

And just now it was very specially a case of being trusted. Papa said he
would go away happier, or at least less unhappy, for knowing that he
left two 'big' children to take care of mamma, and though I cannot quite
explain how, the feeling left by his words had begun to influence us
already. We even were extra anxious to do our tidying very well and
quickly, as we knew it would please mamma to see we were keeping the
promises we had made when she first persuaded papa to let us have the
hut for our own, and got it all made nice for us.

And by four o'clock or so it did look very nice--I never saw it neater,
and we felt we might rest for a few minutes.

We had put everything ready for Sunday afternoon's tea-party--everything
that could be ready, I mean. The cups and saucers and fat brown tea-pot
were arranged on the round table of the room we counted our parlour; it
was in front of the kitchen, looking towards the sea, and here we did
the unmessy part of the photographing, and kept any little ornaments or
pictures we had. Of the other two rooms one was the 'chemical room,' as
we called it, and in a cupboard out of it we hung up our
bathing-clothes, and the _fourth_ room, which had originally been the
front bathing-house, so to say, or dressing-room, was now a bedroom, all
except the bed. That does sound very 'Irish,' does it not? But what I
mean is that it was furnished simply as a bedroom usually is--only that
there was no bed.

We had often begged to be allowed to spend a night in the hut, for there
was an old sofa that Geordie could have slept on quite comfortably in
the parlour, or even in the kitchen, and we had saved pocket-money
enough to buy a camp bedstead, for which mamma had two or three
mattresses and pillows and things like that among the spare ones up in
the long garret. But so far we had never got leave to carry our
picnicking quite so far. Papa would not have minded, for of all things
he wanted us to be 'plucky,' and did not even object to my being
something of a tomboy; but mamma said she would certainly not sleep all
night if she knew we were alone in the hut, and perhaps frightened, or
ill, or something wrong with us.

So _that_ plan had been put a stop to.

'I wonder what Hoskins will give us in the shape of cakes for
to-morrow,' I said. 'There is enough tea and sugar for two or three more
afternoons'--'more than we shall want,' I added to myself with an inside
sigh.

Hoskins was a sort of half-nurse, half-housekeeper person. She had not
been with us _very_ long, only since Esme was born--but she really was
very good and dear, and I know she cared for us in a particular way, for
her father had been gardener for ages, though ages ago now, as she
herself was pretty old, at Eastercove. And she wasn't cross, like so
many old servants both in books and real life--rather the other
way--too "spoiling" of us. She had only one fault. She was a little
deaf.

'Muffins, for one thing, I hope,' said Dods. 'They don't leave off
making them till May, and it isn't May yet.'

There was a baker in the village--I think I have forgotten to say that
there was a very tiny village called Eastercove, close to our gates--who
was famed for his muffins.

'Humph,' I said. 'I don't very much care about them. They are such a
bother with toasting and buttering. I think bread and butter--thin and
rolled--is quite as good, and some nice cakes and a big one of that kind
of gingerbread that you hardly taste the ginger in, and that's like
toffee at the top.'

I was beginning to feel hungry, for we had not eaten much luncheon,
which was our early dinner, and I think that made me talk rather
greedily.

'You are a regular epicure about cakes,' said Dods.

I did not like his calling me that, and I felt my face get red, and I
was just going to answer him crossly when I remembered about our great
trouble, and thought immediately to myself how silly it would be to
squabble about tiny things in a babyish way now. So I answered quietly--

'Well, you see, it is only polite to think of what other people like, if
you invite them to tea, and I know papa likes that kind of gingerbread.
He ate such a big piece one day that mamma called him a greedy boy.'

Geordie did not say anything, but I always know when he is sorry for
teasing me, and I could see that he was just now.

Then we locked up and set off home again. As we came out of the pine
woods and in sight of the drive we saw the pony carriage, and we ran on,
so as to be at the front door when papa and mamma got there.

They smiled at us very kindly, and papa said in what he meant to be a
cheery voice--

'Well, young people, what have you been about? Run in, Ida, and hurry up
tea. Mamma is tired.'

Yes, poor mamma did look dreadfully tired, and through the outside
cheeriness of papa's words and manner I could see that he was feeling
very sad and dull.

I hurried in, and we were soon all at tea in the pretty drawing-room.
George and I did not always have tea downstairs, but to-day somehow
there seemed no question of our not doing so. I waited till mamma had
had some tea and was looking a little less white and done up, and then I
said half-frightenedly--

'Did you see any nice little house at Kirke?' though in my heart I felt
sure they hadn't, or they would not have come back, looking so
disappointed.

Mamma shook her head.

'I am afraid, dearie,' she began, but papa interrupted her--

'No,' he said decidedly, 'we saw nothing the least possible to call
"nice," except one or two places far and away too dear. And of course we
knew already that there are plenty of nice houses to be got, if expense
had not to be considered so closely. There is no good beating about the
bush with George and Ida,' he went on, turning to mamma. 'Now that we
have so thoroughly taken them into our confidence it is best to tell
them everything. And the truth is,' he continued, leaning back in his
chair with a rather rueful smile, 'I am really feeling almost in
despair. I am afraid we shall have to give up the idea of staying at
Kirke.'

'Yet there are so many advantages about it,' said mamma quickly. 'And
there is, after all, that tiny house in the Western Road.'

'Horrid poky little hole,' said papa. 'I cannot bear to think of you in
it. I would almost rather you went about in a caravan like the gypsies
we passed on the road.'

'Yes,' I agreed, '_I_ wouldn't mind that at all--not in summer, at
least.'

'Ah, but unluckily, my dear child, "it is not always May,"' he replied,
though I was pleased to see he held out his cup for some more tea (I
have found out that things do seem much worse when one is tired or
hungry!) and that his voice sounded more like itself.

'And it isn't always winter either,' said mamma cheerfully. 'Let us be
as happy as we can while we are together, and enjoy this nice spring
weather. I _am_ glad, if sad things had to happen, that they did not
come to us in November or December. Perhaps Mr. Lloyd will find some
nicer house for us.'

'Does he know about--about our having to leave Eastercove?' I asked.

Mamma nodded.

'Yes,' she replied. 'We stopped there on our way back, and papa went in
and told him.'

I felt glad of that. It would prepare him for Dods's anxiety about a
scholarship.

'By the bye,' mamma continued, 'how fast they are getting on with the
new parish room! I was looking at it while I was waiting for you, Jack'
(that's papa), 'and it seems really finished. Are they not beginning to
take away the iron room already?'

'Lloyd says it is to be sold here, or returned to the makers for what
they will give, next week,' papa replied. 'It has served its purpose
very well indeed these two or three years. If----'

'If what?' said mamma.

Poor papa shrugged his shoulders.

'Oh, it's no good thinking of it now,' he answered. 'I was only going to
say--forgetting--that if Geordie and Ida liked I might buy it and add it
on to the hut. It would make into two capital little bedrooms for very
little cost, and Lloyd happened to say to-day that the makers would
rather sell it for less where it stands than have the expense of taking
it back to London. They keep improving these things; it is probably
considered old-fashioned already.'

Geordie and I looked at each other. How lovely it would have been! Just
what we had always longed for--to be allowed really to _live_ at the
hut now and then. And with two more rooms we could have had Hoskins
with us, and then mamma wouldn't have been nervous about it. But as papa
said, there was no use in thinking about it _now_.

'Will the people who are coming to live here have the hut too?' I asked.

Papa did not seem to pay much attention to what I said. He was thinking
deeply, and almost started as I turned to him with the question.

'I do not know,' he replied. 'It has not been alluded to.'

'I hope not,' said mamma. 'If we stay at Kirke, as I still trust we may,
it would be nice to come up there to spend an afternoon now and then. It
is so far from the house that we would not seem like intruders. Though,
of course, once they see how nice it is, they may want to have it as a
bathing-box.'

'That's not very likely,' said papa. 'They seem elderly people, and the
son is a great sufferer from rheumatism. That is why they have taken
such a fancy to this place--the scent of pine woods and the air about
them are considered so good for illnesses of that kind. And sea-air
suits him too, and they think it a wonderful chance to have all this as
well as a dry climate and fairly mild winters. Yes--we who live here
_are_ uncommonly lucky.'

He strolled to the window as he spoke and stood looking out without
speaking. Then he turned again.

'I'll remember about the hut,' he said. 'I don't fancy these good people
would be likely to be fussy or ill-natured or to think you intruding.
Their letters are so well-bred and considerate.'

We felt glad to hear that.

'Mamma,' I said, 'we have made the hut so nice and tidy for
to-morrow--Sunday, you know. You and papa will come and have tea there,
won't you? It will be the first time this year' (and 'the last perhaps'
seemed whispered into my mind, though I did not utter the words), for
the spring-coming had been uncertain and we had all had colds.

Mamma looked at papa.

'Yes,' he said; 'certainly we will. And the little ones too, Ida?'

'Of course,' I said, and then I went off to talk about cakes--and
muffins if possible, to please Dods--to Hoskins, the result of the
interview proving very satisfactory.

When I came back to the drawing-room the little ones were
there--Denzil, solemn as usual; Esme hopping and skipping about and
chattering thirteen to the dozen, as usual, too! She is three or four
years older now, and beginning to 'sober down,' as they say, so I hope
if she ever reads this, which certainly will not be for three or four or
more years from now, she will have gone on sobering down, enough to
understand what a 'flibbertigibbet' (that is a word of Hoskins's which I
think very expressive) she was, and not to be hurt at my description of
her. For I do love her dearly, and I always have loved her dearly, and I
should be sorry for her ever to lose her good spirits, though it is
already a comfort that she _sometimes_ sits still now, and listens to
what is said to her.

All the same, that part of our lives which I am writing this story
about, would have been much duller and harder but for our butterfly's
funny, merry ways.

This afternoon she was especially laughing and mischievous, and it made
me feel a little cross. I was tired, I daresay, with all the work we had
been doing, _and_ the sadness that had come upon us so suddenly, and I
did want to be quiet and talk sensibly. It was a little papa's fault
too, I must say. He is sometimes rather like a boy still, though he has
four big children. He hates being unhappy! I don't think he would mind
my saying so of him, and he got mischievous and teased Esme, to make her
say funny things, as she often does.

And I suppose I looked rather too grave, for, after a little, mamma
whispered to me--

'Ida, dear, don't look so dreadfully unhappy; you almost make me wish we
had not told you anything till we were obliged to do so.'

'I don't look worse than Geordie,' I replied, in a whisper too,
'or--or,' as I happened just then to catch sight of my younger brother's
face, 'than Denzil.'

At this mamma did burst out laughing--a real merry laugh, which, in
spite of my crossness, I was pleased to hear.

'My dear!' she exclaimed, 'who has ever seen Denzil anything but solemn!
And as he knows nothing, it has certainly not to do with what _we_ are
all thinking about. He was the solemnest _baby_ even that ever was seen,
though many babies are solemn. I used to feel quite ashamed of my
frivolity when Denny was only a couple of months old. And--no, poor old
Geordie is trying to cheer up, so you must too.'

Yes, it was true. Geordie was laughing and playing with Esme and papa,
though I know his heart was quite as heavy as mine. Geordie is very
particularly good in some ways. So I resolved to choke down, or at least
to hide, my sadness--and still more the sort of crossness I had been
feeling. It was not exactly real ill-tempered crossness, but the kind of
hating being unhappy and thinking that other people are unhappy too,
which comes with troubles when one isn't used to them especially, and
isn't patient and unselfish, though one wants to be.

However, I managed to look more amiable after mamma's little
warning--still more, I think, after her hearty laugh. Her laughing
always seems to drive away crossness and gloominess; it is so pretty and
bright, and so real.

And I was helped too by another thing, though as yet it had scarcely
taken shape in my mind, or even in my fancy. But it was there all the
same, fluttering about somewhere, as if waiting for me to catch hold of
it and make something of it. Just yet I did not give myself time to
think it out. All I felt was a sort of presentiment that somewhere or
somehow there was a way out of our troubles, or rather out of one part
of them, and that I was going to find it before long. And I am quite
sure that sometimes the thinking a thing out is more than half done by
our brains before we know it--much in the same way that we--Dods and
I--are quite sure that putting a lesson-book under your pillow at night
helps you to know what you have to learn out of it by the next morning.
Lots of children believe this, though none of us can explain it, and we
don't like to speak of it for fear of being laughed at. But I don't mind
writing about it, as I shall not hear if people do laugh at it or not.

Anyway it _did_ happen to me this time, that _something_ worked the
cobweb ideas that were beginning to float about in my brain into a real
touchable or speakable plan, before the 'awake' side of it--of my brain,
I mean--knew that anything of the kind was there.

I will try to tell quite exactly how this came about. But first I must
say that I don't think George was feeling so _very_ bad after all, for
the last thing he said to me that evening as we went up to bed was, 'I
do hope Hoskins has managed to get some muffins for to-morrow.'




CHAPTER III

'IT'S A WONDERFUL IDEA, IDA'


I remember that I fell asleep very quickly that night. Of course, like
most children when they are well, I generally did. But that night it
would not have been very surprising if I had kept awake and even got
into a tossing-about, fidgety state, just from thinking about the
strange, sudden trouble and change that were coming into our lives.

On the contrary, I seemed to drop straight down into unconsciousness
almost as soon as my head touched the pillow, and I must have slept
several hours straight off without even dreaming, or at least dreaming
anything that I could remember. For when I awoke the dawn was creeping
in, and though I felt too lazy and comfortable to get up to look out, I
knew that sunrise could not be far off. It was that time of early
morning when one almost fancies that sun and moon stop a moment or two
to say a word to each other on their way, though of course I know
enough astronomy now to understand that those fancies _are_ only
fancies. And yet there is a kind of truth in them, for the sun and moon,
and the stars too, _have_ to do with all of us people living on this
earth; indeed, we owe everything to the sun; and so it is not altogether
fancy to think of him, great big kind thing that he is, as a wonderful
friend, and of the little gentle moon as taking his place, as it were,
when he is at work on the other side. And the curious, mingled sort of
light in the room, faint and dreamy, though clear too, made me think to
myself, 'The sun is saying, "How do you do?" and the moon, "Good-bye."'

But I soon shut my drowsy eyes again, though not to fall asleep again at
once. On the contrary, I grew awaker and awaker, as I began to feel that
my mind or memory or brain--I don't know which to call it--had something
to tell me.

What was it?

I seemed almost to be listening. And gradually it came to me--the
knowledge of the idea that had been working itself out during my sleep
from the thoughts that had been there jumbled up together the day
before. And when I got clear hold of what it was, I nearly called out,
I felt so struck and startled at first, just as if some one had said it
to me, though with astonishing quickness it spread itself out before me
as a really possible and even sensible plan, with nothing dreamy or
fanciful about it.

It was this.

'Why should not we all--mamma, that is to say, and we four children--why
should we not live altogether at the hut during the year, or more
perhaps, that papa would have to be away?'

It may seem to those who read this story--if ever there are readers of
it--a wild idea that had thus come to me. But 'the proof of the pudding
is in the eating,' as Hoskins is fond of saying. So please wait a little
before you judge.

And no sooner had the idea got into words than all the bits of it began
to place themselves in order like the pieces of a dissected puzzle-map,
or, still better, like the many-coloured skeins of silk in the pretty
fairy story where the touch of the wand made them all arrange
themselves. Still more--no sooner had the first vague thoughts settled
down than others came to join them, each finding its own corner in the
building that I began to see was not a castle in the air but a good
solid piece of work.

It would be so healthy and airy, and yet not damp; nor, with proper
care, need it be very cold, even in winter. It would be near enough to
Kirke for Geordie to go on with his lessons with Mr. Lloyd, and for us
to feel we had old friends close at hand, who would understand all about
us, and very likely be kinder than ever. It would be near enough to
home--dear Eastercove--indeed, it would be Eastercove--for us to take
lots of furniture and things from the house to furnish as much more as
was needed and to make it comfortable and even pretty, without emptying
Eastercove house at all. There was, as I have said, such a lot of
stored-away extra furniture and old carpets and curtains and blankets
and all sorts of things up in the great attic, and Hoskins kept them all
so nice and tidy, and without moths or mildew or horrible things like
that, that it was quite a pleasure to go up there sometimes. It was like
a very neat shop for second-hand things, which is more than can be said
for most box-rooms or lumber-rooms, I fancy.

And the moving these things would be no expense, and there would be no
travelling expenses for any of us, and--the last idea that came into my
head was the best of all. The old parish room! The iron room that Mr.
Lloyd had told papa about the afternoon before! They wanted to get rid
of it and would sell it for almost nothing. Even if 'almost nothing'
meant--I could not guess how much or how little--a few pounds,
perhaps--it would be far, far less than the rent of a house, however
small, and it would make into two or even three little rooms, easily.
Perhaps it would be enough just to divide it by screens or curtains,
perhaps----

Oh, the 'perhapses' that came crowding into my head when I had thought
of the old parish room! I could scarcely lie still another minute--I
felt in such a desperate hurry to tell Geordie of the wonderful thought
that had come to me. But it was still far from getting-up time; I knew
it would be very selfish and unkind to wake up poor old Dods in what
would seem to him the middle of the night, for he was a very sound
sleeper, and had hard enough work to get his eyes properly open by seven
o'clock.

[Illustration: NO--THERE WAS NOTHING FOR IT BUT TO LIE STILL.]

No--there was nothing for it but to lie still and be as patient as I
could. It would be interesting to watch the light growing stronger and
changing; it was already doing so in a curious way, as the cold, thin
moonshine gave place to the sun, even then warmer somehow in its tone
than the fullest moon-rays ever are.

'Yes,' I thought, 'they have met and passed each other by now, I should
think. I wonder--if----'

Strange to say, I cannot finish the sentence, for I don't know _what_ I
was going to wonder! In spite of all my eagerness and excitement I knew
nothing more, till--the usual summons, in Hoskins's voice--

'Miss Ida, my dear, it's the quarter-past. You were sleeping soundly--I
could scarcely find it in my heart to awake you. But it's Sunday
morning, and you know it doesn't do to be late--and a beautiful spring
morning too as ever was seen.'

I could scarcely believe my ears.

'Oh, Hoskins!' I exclaimed, 'I _am_ sleepy. I was awake a good bit quite
early, and I had no idea I had gone off again. I was _so_ awake,
thinking.'

The talking thoroughly roused me, and almost at once all the 'thinking'
came back to me, so that by the time I was dressed, even though Sunday
morning dressing needed a little more care and attention than every
day's, I had got it all clear and compact and ready, as it were, for
Geordie's cool inspection.

To my great satisfaction he had had a good fit that morning of getting
up promptly and being down the first after me, instead of, as often
happened, the last after everybody.

'Geordie,' I exclaimed, when I caught sight of him standing at the
dining-room window, staring out--or perhaps I should say' gazing,' for
staring is an ugly word, and the garden that morning was looking so
particularly pretty--'Geordie, I am just bursting to talk to you. Is it
any use beginning before papa and mamma come down, do you think?'

Geordie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

'Yes,' he said; 'we have five minutes, or ten perhaps. Is it anything
particular?'

'Of course it is,' I replied, 'or I wouldn't say I was bursting to tell
it you. And I think and hope it is something that will please you very
much. You are to listen well and not interrupt me and say "nonsense,"
before you have taken it into your mind and thought it over.'

I saw he already was looking interested, and I was glad of it. His face
had been so sad when he first turned at the sound of my voice, and I
well knew why. I can almost always understand Geordie and very often
guess what he is thinking of. He has such dear blue eyes, but they are
the kind that can look very melancholy sometimes. I do hope he will
have a happy life when he grows up--I am pretty sure he will deserve it.
Even now that he has been a good long while at school--big public
school, I mean--he is just the same to me as ever. When he comes home
for the holidays it seems as if he had never been away.

'I won't interrupt you--or say "nonsense," if I can help it,' he
answered, with a little fun in his voice and smile coming in his eyes.

Then I told him. I need not repeat all I said, as I have written a lot
of it already. But it must have been rather hard for Geordie not to
interrupt me. It all bubbled out so fast--all the splendid ideas and
good reasons and perhapses--one on the top of the other, so that if he
hadn't been pretty well accustomed to my ways he could scarcely have
understood. It was quite interesting and exciting, as I went on, to
watch the expression in his face--his cheeks grew pink, then crimson,
and his eyes brighter and brighter. I soon saw I was not going to be
snubbed.

But real want of breath, and then the sound of mamma's skirts coming
across the hall with a pretty soft rustle--I don't think any one else's
skirts move so nicely; they seem to match her, not like that noisy
flustering that is like saying, 'Here I am; I expect to be attended
to'--made me stop at last. There was only time for George to whisper--

'It's a wonderful idea, Ida. I'll think a lot and then we'll talk about
it, by ourselves, first, of course.'

'We mustn't think about it in church,' I replied in the same tone; 'we
must _try_, I suppose, Dods, not to think of it in church--part of the
time, at least. I don't see that it would matter so much during the
first lesson, and _perhaps_ one of the psalms, if they are very long
ones.'

'No--o, perhaps not,' he said, and then we both ran forward to kiss
mamma.

She looked at us, and I saw her face brighten when she saw that ours
were not very sad or dull. I think she had been afraid that in his wish
to help _her_, papa had put too much of the burden on us two,
considering how young we were then.

'My darlings!' she said, in a rather low voice, 'my own brave boy and
girl,' and I am almost sure the tears came into her eyes. But the smiles
came too.

'What a lovely day it is going to be!' she went on, as she glanced out
of the window. 'I am so glad. We must put cares aside as much as we can
and try to be happy and hopeful.'

'Yes, dear mamma,' I answered cheerfully, and with all the delightful
exciting ideas in my head, it was quite easy to be bright, as you can
understand, 'yes, we _are_ going to have a nice day. Geordie and I'--I
glanced at him; he had not exactly said so, but I knew he would not
mind,--'Geordie and I want to go down to the hut very soon after
luncheon, if you say we may, to get it all ready for you and papa and
the little ones, to come to tea.'

'All right,' said mamma, though I saw a tiny shadow cross her face as I
spoke, and I knew she was thinking to herself that very likely it would
be our last Sunday afternoon tea-party for a very long time, perhaps for
ever, as far as the hut was concerned! But these solemn kinds of
'perhapses' are always in our lives, and if we were always thinking of
them, it would be more than our minds and hearts could bear. We should
not _forget_ them, but I am sure we are not meant to be gloomy about
them. Still, at the best, even if my grand plan was carried out, there
was plenty to be sad about, I knew. Poor papa's going so far away, first
and worst of all, and worst of course for mamma, for though we loved him
dearly, she must love him, I suppose, still more.

He came into the room just as these thoughts were flying about my
brain. I thought he looked more tired and troubled than mamma--men are
not so patient and not always so good at hiding their feelings as _some_
women. At least _I_ think so!

We two, however, were really feeling cheerful, and I think our
brightness made it easier for mamma to be, at least, less sad than she
would otherwise have been. And I said to myself--

'Papa will cheer up too _if_ he likes our idea, and I really can't see
why he should not like it.'

So breakfast got on pretty well on the whole, and as soon as it was
over, Dods and I went off for a talk. How we did talk! But first of
all--that was so like Dods--he pulled out his watch and looked what
o'clock it was.

'It's just half-past nine, Ida,' he said, 'and we must be quite ready by
half-past ten. So let's talk till ten, no longer; it always takes you
twenty minutes or half an hour to get dressed for church, and you know
it vexes papa to be kept waiting. And to-day it's really very important
not to vex him at all, if anything is to come of our plan.'

'Very well,' I said; 'I promise to go in at ten.'

Then we went to one of our favourite garden seats and set to work at our
idea. It grew and grew; we kept thinking of new bits to it, each saying
something which made the other think of something else, till by ten
o'clock we began to feel as if it were all quite settled--'cut and dry.'

The very last thing I called out to Geordie as we ran in was about a
certain old breakfast set of china we had espied in one of our visits to
the garret.

'Yes,' I was saying, 'those willow pattern cups and things would do
beautifully. It wouldn't matter their being odd, for then mamma wouldn't
mind if some got broken. And very likely, Doddie, things _will_ get
broken, more than----'

'What are you talking about, my dear child?' said mamma's voice, and,
looking round, I saw that she was just coming out of the drawing-room on
her way upstairs to get ready for church. 'You don't mean to say that
your tea-things at the hut are all broken?'

'Oh no, no, mamma dear,' I replied in a great hurry, and feeling myself
grow red, though I don't think she noticed it; 'they are all right--none
broken, and only one saucer chipped. But--I was only saying--we _might_
need more some time.'

'Ah, well!' said mamma, with a little sigh, 'not at present, at any
rate.'

And oh how I wished I could tell her of the plan at once! But of course
it was best to wait a little.

I shall never forget that morning at church, and how _awfully_ difficult
it was to give my attention. I found myself counting up the things we
should need to make the hut comfortable, even while my voice was saying
the responses quite correctly, and any one noticing me would very likely
have thought I was being quite good and listening rightly. Dods, whom I
glanced at now and then, was looking very grave but not unhappy. I felt
sure he was being much better than I--I mean about listening to what he
heard and thinking of the words he said--though afterwards he told me
that he too had found it difficult.

'What was most bothering me,' he said, 'was about the new rooms--the old
parish room, I mean. What do you think, Ida--should it be made into a
dining-room and drawing-room, or----'

'Oh no,' I interrupted, 'certainly not. The two front ones looking to
the sea must decidedly be the sitting-rooms--the one to the left of the
porch, in front of the kitchen, must be the dining-room, and the big
dressing-room, the one we have always meant to be a real bedroom, must
be the drawing-room. It is quite a nice, large room, and behind it, the
'messy' room must be _yours_, Dods, which leaves the parish room to be
divided for mamma and Esme and me. Denzil can be with you--there's
plenty of room.'

'But,' said Geordie, 'you're forgetting the servants?'

My face fell at this--I should have said that this conversation was on
our way down to the hut that afternoon. We could not talk much before
then, as we drove back from church with the others, but we set off as
soon as we could after we had had dinner.

'Yes,' I said, 'I was forgetting them altogether, and what's more,
Geordie, I haven't the least idea who they are to be, or how many we
should have.'

'We must let mamma settle that of course,' he replied. 'Hoskins will be
one, anyway. Still--it's a pity we can't propose some place for them,
Ida. It makes the whole plan seem rather unfinished and--childish.'

'Like the man who built a house for himself and when it was all finished
found he had forgotten a staircase!' I said, half laughing, but feeling
rather mortified all the same.

George did not at once reply. He was thinking. We were close to the hut
by this time, and he did not say anything till we had unlocked the door
and put down our packages and looked round us.

Everything was just exactly as we had left it the evening before, but
somehow everything seemed different!

The truth was, I suppose, that we were looking at it all through
different spectacles--yesterday it was only a kind of summer-house or
play-room--to-day it was a possible _home_. In some ways I felt as if I
had never liked it as much; in others I began to be almost frightened at
the ideas I was so full of! But as often happened with us, George's
cool, common sense put me right.

'Yes,' he said, after he had strolled into the other rooms and stared at
them well as if he had never seen them before,--'yes, I don't see why it
shouldn't do. And, about the servants, Ida. Of course papa and mamma
must _settle_ everything; but if they do take it up seriously and papa
buys the iron room, I rather think it's a good deal larger than we have
been counting it. I believe it would divide into three quite well. There
might be a partitioned-off little room for me, and a large curtain might
do to separate mamma from you and Esme?'

'Yes,' I said, my spirits rising again, 'and that would leave the back
room for Hoskins and whomever else we have--_I_ should like
Margery--wouldn't you, Dods? She is such a good-natured, sturdy little
thing. And----'

'We'd better not try to settle too much,' said sensible Geordie. 'And
you must talk quietly, Ida, so as to show we have really thought of it
not in a--oh, a babyish way, you know.'

I felt a little ruffled at this.

'You'd better tell them all about it yourself, then,' I said; '_I_ don't
want any of the honour and glory of it, and if there is any fear of
their thinking us silly babies, why, then, we had better give up the
whole idea.'

'Nonsense, Ida,' said Geordie. 'It was you who first thought of it, and
I think you deserve a lot of credit for it. And I expect you'll get it
too. I only want papa and mamma--papa especially--to hear of it at first
in the best sort of way.'

'Yes--yes, I know!' I exclaimed, 'and you are a sensible old Dods as you
always are. And see what I have got to please you,' and I held up three
lovely, fat muffins.

We got the kitchen fire lighted and the tea-table spread in the
parlour--I felt inclined to begin calling it 'the dining-room' now--and
everything nice and ready before they all came. The first announcement
of them was Esme, who flew in as usual, followed very deliberately by
Denzil. She gave me a hug when she saw the table.

'Oh, what a lovely tea!' she said, 'and how delicious the hut looks. Oh,
_don't_ you wish, Ida, we could live here always?'

I glanced at Dods--we could not help smiling at each other--it seemed a
sort of good omen, her saying that, but we did not say anything. Then
came papa and mamma--they had walked down slowly through the wood, and
as they came to the little 'plateau' where stood the hut, I saw them
stop and look at it. I _wondered_ if the same idea was in their minds at
all. I did not exactly want it to be, for I was rather pleased at being
the first finder of it.




CHAPTER IV

'GEORDIE STOOD UP AND WAVED HIS CAP'


No--papa and mamma had not been thinking of anything of that
kind--afterwards mamma told me they had only been saying to each other
how sweet and pretty it all looked and--though perhaps they did not say
so aloud--feeling no doubt how sad it was that we should so soon have to
leave it.

But they came in quite brightly, and mamma answered gaily to Esme's
exclamations about the 'lovely tea-party.'

'Yes,' she said, 'it does look nice. And muffins too'--as Geordie
glanced up with a very red face from the fire where he was toasting one;
'don't scorch yourself _too_ much, in our service, my dear boy.'

'It's a good bit for myself as well,' said Geordie in his rather gruff
way. He always spoke like that if he thought he was being praised--above
all, the least _over_-praised. 'I like muffins better than any kind of
cake or things.'

He certainly knew how to toast and butter them to perfection. I remember
how very good they were that day. Indeed, the tea-party was a great
success altogether. After it was over we carried all the cups and
saucers and plates into the kitchen, to be ready for Margery to wash up,
for mamma had left word at home that she was to come down to the hut to
do so, which we were very glad of.

'I wanted to be together as much as possible to-day,' said mamma in her
kind way. And just as we had cleared away everything in the parlour we
saw Margery coming, and to my great delight Esme asked if she and Denzil
might 'help her' in the kitchen, for Dods and I had been wondering how
we could get rid of the little ones without seeming unkind.

So off they ran, and then for a few minutes we four--'big ones,' I was
going to say, only that does seem putting Geordie and myself too much on
a line with papa and mamma, doesn't it?--sat silent. I was feeling
rather nervous, not afraid of papa and mamma, but afraid of them
thinking it was all a perfectly impossible plan.

But at last, after looking at me several times and even giving me two
or three little kicks, Geordie plunged in, as was his way--

'Ida has something to say to you,' he began. 'It's only fair for her to
say it, for it's all her own idea, though we have talked about it a good
deal.'

Papa looked at me very kindly.

'What is it, my little girl?' he said. 'I am sure you know how pleased
I--and your mother--will be to do anything we can to--to brighten all
these troubles.'

He seemed to know by instinct that what I had to say must have to do
with what he had told us the day before. Yes--only the day before! I
could scarcely believe it--it seemed years ago.

I felt my face growing red; mamma was looking at me too, and though her
eyes were very kind, I grew more and more nervous, and of course I
blurted it out quite differently from what I had meant to.

'It isn't only for us ourselves,' I began, 'though we should like it
ever so much--awfully much better than anything else. But I feel as if
it would be nicer for everybody--for mamma too, and for papa, when you
are far away, you know,' and here I turned specially to him, 'not to
have to think of us in a strange place and among strange people.
And--and--there are lots of little bits of it that seem to fit in so
well.'

'But, my dear child, I must interrupt you,' said papa smiling, 'before
you go on to the "bits," do tell us what the whole is?'

I had really forgotten that I had not done so--my own mind was so full
of it, you see.

'Oh,' I said, feeling very much ashamed of myself, especially as I knew
Geordie's blue eyes were fixed on me reproachfully. 'I'm very sorry for
being so stupid. It's just this, papa--we've been thinking, at least I
thought of it first, and Dods has joined in the planning, that--why
shouldn't we all, mamma and us four, come to _live_ here, really to live
here altogether, while you are away?'

Papa gazed at me as if he did not understand, and no doubt just at first
he did not.

'Live _here_,' he repeated, 'but that is just----'

'Yes,' I interrupted,--'here, in the hut. I don't mean of course go on
living at home, at Eastercove, though it would be Eastercove too. That's
the beauty of it; you would be able to feel that we _were_ at home, and
close to all our friends.'

But still papa repeated, in a dazed sort of way, I would say 'stupid,'
only it would seem rude--

'Live _here_.'

(I do think men are far slower at taking up new ideas than women.)

'Live _here_,' he said again, till I really wished it would not be
disrespectful to give him a little shake, and even Dods, who is far
patienter and less im----what should I say?--impetuous or impulseful, I
must ask mamma which is best, began to look rather provoked. But mamma
put it all right.

'Yes, Jack,' she said, the colour rushing into her face and her eyes
sparkling,--'yes, _here_ in the hut, is what the child means, and,
really, I think it is an inspiration.' Mamma _is_ quick, and she has
such a beautifully ready imagination. 'I don't see why we shouldn't. It
is perfectly healthy; dry and airy and quite warm except perhaps in the
middle of winter, and we surely could find ways and means of making a
_dry_ house warm. Ida, darling, I believe you have hit upon a way out of
our greatest difficulty. _Do_ say you think so too, Jack!'

Light was gradually penetrating into papa's mind.

'Here in the hut! Yes, I wish it were possible,' he said, 'and I agree
with you both so far. It _is_ dry and healthy, and might be made warm,
but--it is so small! Ah!' and he started to his feet, his whole face
changing, 'talking of inspirations, I'm not sure but that _I_ have got
one too--the------'

Here to our amazement, mamma's and mine I mean, in _his_ turn up jumped
Dods, and, respectful or not, interrupted papa in the most barefaced
way--

'Stop, stop!' he cried, 'let me say it, Dad, do, before you do. I want
to have a bit of it. Is your inspiration the old parish room? The iron
room they want to get rid of? _Is_ it?--do say.'

They were both so excited it was quite funny to see them, Geordie
especially, for he is much calmer than papa naturally. Papa turned to
him smiling--

'You have guessed it, my boy. Yes, we might buy the room and turn it
into two or three at least. It could not cost much--our own men could do
it, I believe. It has doorways and windows and fireplaces too, I think,
all ready, and I believe we can have it for an old song----'

'I hope I shan't be the one chosen to sing it!' exclaimed Dods, at which
we all laughed, though it was not particularly witty. But we were just
in the sort of humour to laugh at the least little piece of fun.

'I wish--upon my word, I wish I could see about it this very
afternoon,' went on papa, who was now racing ahead of us all in his
eagerness.

'But you can't, dear; it's Sunday, you know,' said mamma, patting his
arm; 'and we have plenty to think about. There is no fear of Mr. Lloyd's
selling it before to-morrow morning. Let us hear some more of your plan,
Ida, dear.'

I was only too ready to tell it--I was bursting to do so, and so was
Geordie. We set to work and talked--how we did talk!--papa and mamma
putting in a word now and then, though they were so kind, understanding
our wish to be considered the 'discoverers,' as it were, of the new
home, that they really let us talk ourselves out. Then we four made a
sort of progress through the rooms, papa measuring here and there with
the little folding-up foot-rule he always carried in his pocket, and
mamma planning where she would put such and such a piece of furniture
which could be quite well spared from the almost too full rooms up at
the house, not to speak of the stores--treasures they were fast becoming
in our eyes now--crowded away in the big garret.

'We must go up there first thing to-morrow morning,' said mamma, 'and
have a good look round. I don't believe I know half the things we
have--no one does, except Hoskins.'

'You will have to take her into your confidence at once, I expect,' said
papa.

'Yes, I was just thinking so,' mamma replied; 'but I shall wait till you
have inquired about the iron room. She knows our troubles already,' she
went on, turning to Geordie and me; 'she has known about them for some
days, and she says whatever we do, or wherever we go, she will not leave
us.'

'Oh, I _am_ so glad!' exclaimed Geordie and I in a breath. 'We thought
she would be like that,' I went on; 'and I should hope she'd like the
hut far, far better than going away to some horrid little poky house
among strangers. And, mamma, don't you think Margery would be the best
for the other servant.'

'Are we to have two?' said mamma laughing. 'Your plans are getting quite
grand, Ida!'

'Of course you must have two,' said papa, 'and one of the men to look
after things outside. I have an idea about that; Geordie and I will talk
about it together,' and he nodded to Geordie, who looked very pleased at
being consulted in this way, as if he were quite big.

'When will you ask about the parish room?' he said to papa. 'May I go
with you when you do? Perhaps I could help about the measuring.'

For they had already settled as to where it should be placed--at one
side of the hut, but a little to the back, so that it should not spoil
the rather pretty look we were gradually managing to give to the front,
by training creepers over the porch, and filling two or three large
square tubs with bushy, hardy plants which would stand the winter, and
placing them at each side of the long low windows.

'Certainly,' said papa. 'We can drive down to Kirke immediately after
breakfast to-morrow morning. And if it is all right about the room, I
will see the man whom, I think, Mr. Lloyd employed to put it up. He will
understand the best way of partitioning it off, and our own men can work
under his directions.'

So it was in the best of spirits--considering, that is to say, the real
sorrow of parting with dear papa, and the real anxiety that _must_ hang
over us for many months to come, at least--that we set off home again,
Esme chattering about how she had wiped all the tea-cups and saucers,
and how Margery had said that she could not possibly have 'got through'
without her.

'That is not a very elegant expression, my little girl,' said papa.
'Don't you think you could say it some other way.'

Esme looked rather puzzled.

'You says,' she replied, and at that papa laughed--I think he felt it
was out of the frying-pan into the fire,--'you says to mamma or to Ida
when we're playing croquet, "Now see if you can't get through that
hoop."'

'But cups and saucers isn't croquet hoops,' said Denzil solemnly, at
which we all laughed. A very small joke will go a long way when people
are all happy together, and each one trying to do his best to please or
amuse the others.

When I awoke on Monday morning it was with much more quietly hopeful
feelings than on that sad Saturday I could have believed possible. I
seemed to myself to have grown years older in the two days, which was
partly nice and partly, just a very little, 'frightening.' I was proud
of my idea being thought so well of, and I was very anxious to think it
out more and more, so as really to help mamma and to prove that it _was_
a good one. So, though it was still very early, I lay quite quietly and
did not mind the having a good while to wait till it was time to get
up, so busied was my brain in going into all the details which I was
able to think about.

'Two little beds for Esme and me,' I began. 'Let me see which are the
smallest, to take up the least room? This one is rather too big, and
besides, the people who have taken the house will most likely need it
left. I wonder what they will do with this room. I daresay they will use
it for visitors. It is so pretty--my own dear room!' For since my last
birthday I had had a room to myself, all freshly done up with light
chintz curtains and covers and white furniture. But I resolutely put the
thought of my regret out of my mind, and went on thinking about the hut.
Esme's cot would be big enough for her for a good while, and there was
at least one old small bedstead up in the garret, and then Dods and I
had saved enough money to buy one, as I said.

'We must spend it on _something_ for the hut,' I reflected. 'Perhaps we
had better ask mamma what would be the most useful.'

Then my mind went on again about the other rooms and what would be
needed for them, and I had just arrived at the chests of drawers when I
must have fallen asleep, for when I was awakened by Margery and the
announcement, 'Seven o'clock, Miss Ida,' I found myself dreaming that I
was hanging up curtains in front of the fireplace instead of the window,
and wondering how we could prevent their flying up the chimney!

After breakfast papa and Geordie set off almost immediately for Kirke,
to catch Mr. Lloyd before his week's work began again, papa said. And as
soon as mamma had finished her regular housekeeping business for the
day, she and I went up to the garret together, to spy the land, or
rather the stores. I forget if I said that we happened to be in the
middle of our Easter holidays just then, which was most lucky, was it
not?

Mamma and I really enjoyed ourselves up in the garret. It was all so
neat, and not fusty or dusty or musty, and we came upon treasures--as
often is the case if you explore a lumber-room--whose very existence
even mamma had forgotten.

'I really think, Ida,' mamma began, pushing her hair out of her eyes in
a pretty way she has; her hair is lovely, so curly and fuzzy, like
Esme's, though mine is dreadfully smooth! and theirs never _looks_
messy, however untidy it really may get,--'I really think we could find
enough furniture here to do for all the rooms, after a fashion. And we
can certainly take a few things away from downstairs without spoiling
the look of the house. Two beds at least--and one or two small tables. I
must have a writing-table for myself--and several of the wicker chairs
in the verandah might be spared. Yes--I really don't think the
furnishing will be much difficulty or expense.'

'And Doddie and I have saved sixteen and sixpence, you know, mamma,' I
said. 'We meant to buy a camp bedstead for the hut, you know, whenever
you would let us furnish the room that is going to be our drawing-room
now. So we can still get one for Dods if you like, or anything else
needed.'

'Yes, darling,' said mamma. 'That will be very nice. We can wait a
little till we see what is most required.'

She spoke quite as seriously as I had done, though I know _now_ that
sixteen and sixpence is really not nearly as much money as I then
thought it. But that is what has always been so dear about mamma; she
never 'snubs' us. And many people, even really very kind people, do hurt
children's feelings dreadfully sometimes without in the least meaning
it. It is one of the things I mean to try always to remember when I am
quite grown-up myself, and it would be very wrong and ungrateful of any
of _us_ ever to forget it, for our father and mother have shown us such
a good example about it.

Then mamma went off to write some letters and I to the schoolroom to
practise, which had to be done, holidays or no holidays!

'I wonder if we shall have a piano at the hut,' I thought. 'I shan't
very much mind if we don't,' for at that time I did not care much for
music, not, at least, for my own performances. Since then I have come to
'appreciate' it a little better, though I am not at all clever about it,
and I am afraid papa and mamma are rather disappointed at this. But Esme
is learning the violin and plays already so well that I hope she will
make up for me.

I kept running to the window--the schoolroom overlooks the drive--every
time I heard the sound of wheels, to see if it was papa and Geordie
coming back, which was very silly, as of course they would have a good
deal to do, measuring and seeing the carpenter and arranging it all. But
I felt as if I could not settle to anything till I knew about the iron
room, as it did seem as if the whole plan depended a good deal on our
getting it. And when at last I did catch sight of the dogcart coming
swiftly along the avenue, my heart began to beat so fast that I had to
stop once or twice to take breath on my way to the hall-door.

Mamma was there before me, as anxious as I, I do believe, though she was
too sensible to show it.

But before they got to the house, we knew it was all right. Geordie
stood up in the cart and waved his cap for us to understand.

'Oh, I am so glad!' I cried, and mamma smiled.

How strangely things change their--oh, dear, I can't find just the right
word; yes, I have it now 'aspects'--in life sometimes. This was Monday;
on Saturday only had we heard _the_ sad news, and here we were, quite in
good, almost high spirits again, about a little bettering of what, if we
had foreseen it a week ago, we should certainly have thought a cloud
with no silver lining!

Papa and Dods jumped down in a moment, and threw the reins to the groom.

'Is it----' I began.

'All right,' papa interrupted. 'Lloyd is delighted. Very kind and
sympathising, of course, with us, but so interested in our--I should
say,' with a smile to me, 'Ida's scheme. He thinks it a first-rate
idea, at any rate till the autumn.'

'And he is coming up himself this afternoon,' said Geordie, 'with the
drawings and measures of the room, that he got when he bought it.'

'Very good of him,' said mamma.

'And Jervis, the carpenter, is coming too,' George went on; 'and we must
all go down to the hut together. Mr. Lloyd said _particularly_ Ida.'

I felt myself grow red with pleasure.

'Yes,' said papa; 'we must all go and give our opinions. I am very glad
to have secured the room. They were already beginning to take it down.
It is a very good size really, larger than you would think; and there
are two doorways, I am glad to find, and a little porch. I have two or
three ideas in my head as to how to join it on and so forth, but I can
go into them better on the spot.'

'Ida and I have been busy too,' said mamma. 'Really, Jack, you would
scarcely believe the amount of extra furniture we have. There will be
very little to buy--only, I do believe, one camp bedstead for Geordie,
and perhaps a servant's one; and a few bright, warm-looking rugs.'

'_We_ might buy those, mamma,' I interrupted eagerly. 'I have told
mamma about our sixteen and sixpence, Doddie,' I went on, turning to
George. 'I knew you wouldn't mind.'

Geordie nodded.

'Sixteen and sixpence,' repeated papa. 'How have you managed to get
together all that?'

'It's _hut_ money,' I replied. 'I mean it's on purpose to spend on the
hut. We have other savings, too, for Christmas and birthdays--this is
all for the hut.'

'And it shall be spent on the hut,' said papa, 'on something lasting--to
do honour to you both.'

Wasn't that nice of him?




CHAPTER V

'WHAT _CAN_ SHE MEAN?'


I remember that Monday afternoon so well. It was very interesting. Mr.
Lloyd was very kind and clever about things, and the carpenter, though a
rather slow, very silent man, understood his business and was quite
ready to do all that was wanted. Papa was as eager as a boy, and Geordie
full of ideas too. So between us we got it beautifully planned.

It was far nicer than I had dared to hope. They fixed to run a tiny
passage between the side of the hut where the room was to be placed, so
that the two doorways into it could both be used,--one to enter into
Geordie's room, so that he could run in and out without having to go
through mamma's or ours, and the other leading into mamma's, from which
we could pass to ours. And the partitions made them really as good as
three proper rooms, each with a nice window. There could be no
fireplace in ours, but as it was the middle one, and therefore sure to
be the warmest, that would not matter, as there were two, one at each
end in the iron room. If it was very cold, mamma said Esme and I might
undress in hers, and _dress_ in his, Geordie added, as he meant always
to be up very early and light his own fire to work by, which rather
amused us all, as he was _not_ famed for early rising. Indeed, I never
knew such a sleepy head as he was--poor old Dods!

We felt satisfied, as we walked home, that we had done a good day's
work.

'Though it _couldn't_ have been managed without the iron room,' Geordie
and I agreed.

And a day or two later we felt still more settled and pleased when mamma
told us that Hoskins and Margery were coming with us. Hoskins was just a
little melancholy about it all, not a bit for herself, I do believe, but
because she thought it would be 'such a change, so different' for mamma
and us.

She cheered up however when we reminded her how much nicer it would be
than a poky little house in a back street at Kirke, or, worse still,
away in some other place altogether, among strangers. And when she said
something about the cold, in case we stayed at the hut through the
winter, Geordie said we could afford plenty of fires as we should have
no rent to pay, and that _he_ was going to be 'stoker' for the whole
family.

'You won't need to look after any fire but your own, Master George,'
said she, 'and not that, unless it amuses you. Margery is not a lazy
girl--I would not own her for my niece if she was. And besides that,
there will be Barnes to help to carry in the coal.'

Barnes was one of the under-gardeners. He lived with his father and
mother at the Lodge, but he had never had anything to do with the house,
so I was surprised at what Hoskins said.

'Oh yes,' George explained, looking very business-like and nodding in a
way he had, 'that is one of the things papa and I have settled about. We
are rigging up a room for Barnes, much nearer than the Lodge--the old
woodman's hut within a stone's throw of _our_ hut, Ida, so that a
whistle would bring him in a moment. He will still live at the Lodge for
eating, you see, but he will come round first thing and last thing. He's
as proud as a peacock; he thinks he's going to be a kind of Robinson
Crusoe; it will be quite a nice little room; there is even a fireplace
in it. He says he won't need coals; there's such lots of brushwood
about.'

'_I_ have been thinking of that,' I said eagerly. 'It would seem much
more in keeping to burn brushwood than commonplace coals----'

'Except in my kitchen, if you please, Miss Ida,' put in Hoskins.

'And better still than brushwood,' I went on, taking no notice of
Hoskins's 'kitchen,'--I would much rather have had a gypsy fire with a
pot hanging on three iron rods, the way gypsies do, or are supposed to
do,--'better than brushwood, fir cones. They do smell so delicious when
they are burning. We might make a great heap of them before next winter.
It would give the children something to do when they are playing in the
wood.'

[Illustration: ORDERING DENZIL ABOUT AS USUAL.]

They--the two little ones--were of course in tremendous spirits about
the whole thing,--such spirits that they could not even look sad for
very long when at last--about three weeks after the days I have just
been describing--the sorrowful morning arrived on which dear papa had to
leave us. Esme cried loudly, as was her way; Denzil, more silently and
solemnly, as was his; but an hour or two afterwards we heard the little
butterfly laughing outside in the garden and ordering Denzil about as
usual.

'Never mind,' said mamma, glancing up from the lists of all sorts of
things she was already busy at and reading what was in my mind, 'rather
let us be glad that the child does not realise it. She is very young; it
does not mean that she is heartless,' and mamma herself choked down her
tears and turned again to her writing-table.

I too had done my best not to cry, though it was _very_ difficult. I
think George and I 'realised' it all--the long, lonely voyage for papa;
the risks at sea which are always there; the dangers for his health, for
the climate was a bad one, and it was not the safest season by any
means. All these, and then the possibility of great disappointment when
he got there--of finding that, after all, the discovery of things going
wrong had come too late to put them right, and of all that would follow
this--the leaving our dear, dear home, not for a few months, or even a
year, but for _always_.

It would not do even to think of it. And I had promised papa to be brave
and cheerful.

By this time I must explain that the Hut--from now I must write it with
a capital, as mamma did in her letters: 'The Hut, Eastercove' looked
quite grand, we thought--was ready for us to move into. Our tenants were
expected at the house in a week or ten days, and we were now to leave it
as soon as we could.

A great part of the arranging, carting down furniture, and so on had
been done, but it had been thought better to put off our actually taking
up our quarters in our quaint new home till after papa had gone. _He_
said it would have worried him rather if we had left sooner, but I know
the truth was, that he thought the having to be very busy, in a bustle
in fact, at once on his going, would be the best for us all--mamma
especially.

And a bustle it was, though things had been hurried on wonderfully fast.
The fixing up of the iron room was quite complete and the partitions
were already in their places, the furniture roughly in the rooms too.
But as everybody who has ever moved from one house to another knows,
there were still _heaps_ to be done, and seen to by ourselves, which no
work-people could do properly. And besides the arranging at the Hut of
course, there was a great deal for mamma to settle at the house, so as
to leave everything nice for the people who were coming.

That afternoon, I remember, the afternoon of the day papa left, we were
at the Hut till dark, working as hard as we could, even the little ones
helping, by running messages and fetching and carrying. And by the time
we went home we were very tired and beginning to find it very difficult
to look on the bright side of things.

'I don't believe it will ever be really comfortable for mamma,' said
Geordie in the growly tone he used when he was anxious or unhappy. 'It's
just a horrid business altogether. I don't believe papa will be able to
get things right, out at that old hole of a place, and even if he
doesn't get ill, as he very likely will, he'll only come home to leave
it for good--I mean we'll have to sell Eastercove. I'm almost sorry we
did not go away now at once and get it over.'

I glanced before us. Mamma was some little way in front--I could just
see her dimly, for it was dusk, with Denzil and Esme, one on each side;
Esme walking along soberly for once, and I caught snatches of mamma's
voice coming back to us, for there was a light, though rather chilly
evening breeze, blowing our way. I could hear that she was talking
brightly to the children; no doubt it was not easy for her to do so.

'Listen, Geordie,' I said, nodding forwards, so to say, towards mamma.

And he understood, though he did not say anything just at once.

'It is a good thing,' I went on, after a moment's silence, 'that the
wind is not the other way. I would not like her to hear you talking like
that, within a few hours of papa's going.'

It was not often--very, very seldom indeed--that I felt it my place to
blame good old Dods; and honestly, I don't think I did it or meant it in
any 'superior' way. I am sure I did not, for the words had scarcely
passed my lips before they seemed to me to have been unkind. Geordie was
tired; he had been working very hard the last few days, and even a
strong boy may feel out of heart when he is tired.

'I don't know what _I_ should do, not to speak of mamma,' I went on, 'if
you got gloomy about things. We all depend on you so,' and for a moment
or two I really felt as if I must begin to cry!

Then something crept round my neck, and I knew it was all right again.
The something was Geordie's arm, and it gave me a little hug, not the
most comfortable thing in the world when you are out walking, and it
tilts up your hat, but of course I did not mind.

'Yes, Ida,' he said, 'it's very babyish and cowardly of me, and I'm very
sorry. I won't be like that again, I promise you.'

Then I gave him a sort of a hug in return, and we hurried on a little,
not to leave mamma with the children dragging on at each side of her, as
they are apt to do when they are tired. We none of us spoke much the
rest of the way home, but Geordie said one or two little things about
how comfortable the Hut was getting to look and so on, which _I_
understood, and which prevented poor mamma's suspecting that he was at
all in low spirits.

When people really _try_ to do right, I think outside things often come
to help them. That very evening we were cheered and amused by a letter
which had arrived by the second post while we were all out--a quite
unexpected letter.

It was from a cousin of ours, a girl, though a grown-up one, whom we
were very fond of. She was _almost_ like a big sister, and her name was
Theresa. She was generally called 'Taisy' for short. I have not spoken
of her before; but, indeed, when I come to think of it I have not spoken
of any of our relations, I have been so entirely taken up with the Hut.
We had however none _very_ near. Taisy was almost the nearest. She lived
with her grandmother, who was papa's aunt, so Taisy was really only
second cousin to us children.

She was now about seventeen, and she was an orphan. Many people like her
would have been spoilt, for old Aunt Emmeline adored her and gave her
nearly everything she could possibly want. But Taisy wasn't a bit
spoilt.

She often came to stay with us, and one of the smaller parts of our big
trouble was that we could not look forward to having her _this_ year, at
any rate. Papa had written to Lady Emmeline to tell her of what had
happened; she was one of the few whom he felt he must write to about it,
and it was partly because of Taisy's not coming--I mean our not being
able to have her--that he did so.

And he had had a very kind letter back from his aunt. She wished she
could help him, but though she was comfortably off, her money was what
they call 'tied up,' somehow, and Taisy would have none of _hers_ till
she was twenty-one. Besides, papa was not the sort of man to take or
expect help, while he was strong and active and could work for us
himself, and it was the kind of trouble in which a little help would
really have been no use--a large fortune was at stake.

Taisy had not written; she had only sent loving messages to us all, and
something about that 'by hook or by crook' she must see us before the
summer was over.

But the letter to mamma which was waiting for us roused our curiosity,
and kept us quite bright and interested all that evening, in wondering
what she _could_ mean.

'Ever since I heard from grandmamma of your worries, dear auntie,' she
wrote,--I must explain that Taisy always called papa and mamma uncle and
aunt, though they were really only cousins,-'I have been thinking and
thinking about how I could still manage to pay you a visit. I really
cannot face the idea of all the long summer without seeing you.'

'It _is_ very dull for her at Longfields,' said mamma, interrupting
herself in the reading aloud the letter to us. 'Aunt Emmeline never has
cared much to have visitors, though she is a wonderfully strong and
active old lady. And now that Taisy is giving up regular lessons, it
will be still duller. But it can't be helped, I suppose. Yet I do wonder
what the child has in her head,' and she went on reading.

      'And, once I was with you, I am _sure_ I would not be any trouble,
      if only you had room for me. You don't know what a help I should
      be! So--don't be surprised if you see a balloon coming down
      towards the Hut one day, and me getting out of it. I have not got
      my plan quite ready yet, and I am not going to say anything to
      Granny about it till it is all cut and dried and ready to be
      stacked!--though, as she always lets me do whatever I want, I am
      not much afraid of her making any difficulties. Her old friend,
      Miss Merry, will be coming over from Ireland as usual, I suppose,
      and I am sure I should only be in the way, especially as I have no
      governess now. My best love to you all, and I do hope dear Uncle
      Jack will have a nice voyage and come back feeling quite happy
      again.--Your loving

  TAISY.'

'What _can_ she mean?' said Geordie, looking up with a puzzled face.

'Of course about a balloon is quite a joke, isn't it?' I said, though I
spoke rather doubtfully, not knowing much about balloons!

'Of course,' said Geordie, in a superior tone. 'Besides, there is no
difficulty about her getting to us. The railway and the roads are not
blocked up because of our troubles. The thing is, that there is nowhere
to put her if she did come.'

'No,' I agreed, running over the rooms at the Hut in my mind; 'we are
quite closely enough packed as it is. There isn't any possible corner
for another bed even.'

'Unless,' said Geordie slowly,--'unless you would let me really camp
out, mamma? I could rig up a little tent, or--I wouldn't much mind
sleeping in Barnes's hut?'

'No, no,' mamma replied decidedly. 'I could not allow anything of the
kind. Our living at the Hut is only possible because it is _not_ to be
like rough camping out, but as healthy and "civilised" as if we were in
a house. So put that out of your head, my dear boy. I could not risk
your catching cold, or anything of that sort. Remember, I feel
responsible to your father in _my_ way for you all, just as you two big
ones feel so for me,' she added with one of her own dear smiles.

'And then, Dods,' I said, 'it wouldn't be safe--I know _I_ wouldn't feel
safe--without having you actually in the house, even though Barnes's
hut is so near.'

I think Geordie liked my saying that. But I really meant it.

So we went on wondering and puzzling as to what Taisy meant. It was
quite an amusement to us that first evening of papa's being away. And it
was worth wondering about, for Taisy was a very clever girl--what is
called 'practical.'

'If she could come and be with us, I'm sure she would be a great help,'
I thought. 'She is so full of nice ideas and funny ones too, and she
never has headaches or neuralgia or horrid things like that. And yet she
is _so_ kind--I remember that time I sprained my ankle. She was so
good.'

The next few days were so busy, however, that all thought even of Taisy
and her balloon went out of our heads. I only remember packings and
unpackings and arranging and rearrangings, all in a jumble together,
ending, nevertheless, in a great deal of satisfaction. The afternoon we
went to the Hut 'for good,' it really looked nice enough for us to feel
it, for the time, more 'home' than the big house, which, on the surface,
seemed rather upset still, though in reality it was nearly ready for the
tenants, having gone through a magnificent spring cleaning. But our own
little belongings were absent, and such of the rooms as were quite in
order, to our eyes looked bare and unfamiliar, so that we were not sorry
to be actually settled at the Hut.

The evenings were still a little chilly, which I, for one, did not
regret, as it gave an excuse for nice bright fires in the sitting-rooms
and mamma's bedroom. And the children had already picked up a good lot
of fir cones, so that the pleasant scent of the trees seemed to be
inside as well as out of doors.

'It _is_ cosy, isn't it, mamma?' I said, as we stood for a minute or two
in what was now the little drawing-room; 'and oh, _aren't_ you glad not
to be starting on a railway journey to some strange place, or even
driving to that little house at Kirke which you told me about as the
best we could have got?'

'Yes, indeed, darling,' mamma replied. 'And I am _so_ glad to be able to
date my first letter to papa from the Hut. I must make time to write to
him to-morrow morning; it will just catch the mail.'

'And to-night,' I went on, 'you must rest. There isn't really very much
more to do, is there? Not at least anything that we need hurry about.'

'No,' said mamma, looking round. But she spoke rather doubtfully, and I
felt that she was longing to get everything into perfectly 'apple-pie
order,' though what that means I have never been able to understand, for
as far as we know them nowadays, apple-pies are rather untidy-looking!
'There is very little now for me to see to at--home--at the house,' she
went on. 'I am not going there at all for a day or two, and then just to
give a look round and pay the wages owing till the Trevors come.'

The Trevors were our tenants--a mother and an invalid son, and a
not-very-young daughter--and several of our servants were staying on
with them, which we were very glad of.

'And I want,' mamma began again, 'to get things started here regularly.
Your lessons, and the little ones' too, and--and--everything. Our own
clothes will take some time to arrange, and I must not expect Hoskins to
be everywhere at once.

'I will do _lots_, mamma,' I said. 'You don't know what I can do when I
regularly set-to, and I promise you I won't open a story-book till the
boxes are unpacked and arranged,' though I gave a little silent sigh as
I said this. There seemed such heaps to unpack, for you see we had had
to bring all our winter things with us too, and I was sensible enough
to know that there must now be a lot of planning how to make frocks and
coats and things last, that hitherto we should have given away without a
second thought to those whom they might be of use to. And in my secret
heart I was trembling a little at the idea that perhaps one of the
things I should have to 'set-to' at would be sewing--above all, mending!

'For of course, as mamma says,' I reflected, 'we can't expect Hoskins to
do _everything_! And I knew it was a case of just spending the very
least we could--without risking health or necessary comforts--till papa
came home again, or at least till he got _some_ idea of what the future
was likely to be.

But for the moment it was worse than foolish to go on looking forward,
when the _present_ was pretty clearly to be seen. And just then Esme
came dancing in to tell us that tea was ready in the dining-room.

'Quite ready and getting cold. So come quick,' she said.




CHAPTER VI

'YOU DO UNDERSTAND SO WELL, MAMMA'


I shall never forget the first morning's awaking in the Hut. Well, as I
knew it, it seemed as if I had not till then ever been there before. I
do not mean so much the actual waking; that of course is always a little
confusing, even if only in a different _room_ from the one you are used
to, and I was particularly accustomed to my own room at Eastercove, as
we were not people who went away very much. We loved home too well for
that.

No, though I rubbed my eyes and stared about me and wondered why the
window had changed its place, I soon remembered where I was, especially
when I caught sight of Esme's little bed beside mine, and of Esme's pink
cheeks and bright hair as she lay fast asleep still, looking like a
comfortable doll.

I was thinking rather of the feelings I had when I was dressed--I
dressed very quickly, despising any warm water in my bath for once, and
moved about very quietly, so as not to waken Esme and thereby vex
Hoskins the very first morning--and made my way out to the porch and
stood there gazing about me.

It was not so very early after all--half-past seven by mamma's little
clock in the drawing-room, and I heard the servants working busily in
the kitchen and dining-room, though there was no sound from poor old
Geordie's corner, in spite of his overnight intentions of being up by
six!

But outside it seemed very, very early. It was so absolutely _alone_--so
strangely far from any sight or sound of common human life, except for
just one little thing--a tiny white sail, far, far away on the
horizon--a mere speck it seemed. And below where I stood,--I think I
have said that the hut was on a sort of 'plateau,--' though at some
little distance, came the sound of the waves, lapping in softly, for it
was a calm day, and now and then the flash of a gull as it flew past, or
the faint, peculiar cry of some other sea-bird or coast-bird nearer
inland. For the spot was so quiet and seemingly isolated that rather
wild, shy birds were not afraid of visiting it, even when there was no
stormy weather or signs of such out at sea.

And behind me were our dear pine woods, and the feeling of the squirrels
and the home birds all busy and happy in the coming of the spring,
though any sounds from there were very vague and soft.

At first I did not know what it all reminded me of. Something out of my
own experiences I knew, but I had to think for a minute or two before it
came back to my mind. And then I remembered that it was a story in a
French book that mamma had read to us, partly in French, which Geordie
and I knew fairly well, and partly translating as she read. It was
called _Les Ailes de Courage_, by some great French author, who wrote
it, I think, for his or her grandchildren, and it is almost the most
interesting and strangest story I ever heard--about a boy who lived
quite, quite alone in a cave by the seashore, and got to know all the
wild creatures and their habits in the most wonderful way, so that they
came to trust him as if he was one of themselves. I cannot give any
right idea of the story; I doubt if any one could, but I wish you--if
'you' ever come to exist--would all read it.

Just as I was standing there, pleased to have remembered the
association in my mind, I felt a hand slipped gently round my neck. It
was not one of Geordie's 'hugs,' and I looked up in surprise. It was
mamma.

'How quietly you came,' I said; 'and oh, mamma, _doesn't_ it remind you
of _Les Ailes de Courage_?'

'Yes,' she replied, 'I know exactly what you mean.'

And then we stood perfectly still and silent for a moment or two, taking
it all in, more and more, till a _very_ tiny sigh from mamma reminded me
of something else--that dear papa was on that same great sea that we
were gazing at--perhaps standing on the deck of the steamer and thinking
of us--but _so_ far away already!

'It is chilly,' said mamma, 'and we must not begin our life here by
catching cold. We had better go in, dear. I think it is going to be a
lovely day, but in the meantime I hope Hoskins has given us a fire in
the dining-room.'

Yes--a nice bright little fire was crackling away merrily, a handful or
two of the children's cones on the top. And the room looked quite cosy
and tidy, as Margery had finished dusting and so on, in here, and was
now busy at the other side.

'I will go and see how Esme is getting on,' said mamma. 'She had had
her bath before I came out, but there may be difficulties with her hair.
And you might hurry up the boys, Ida, for I have promised Hoskins to be
very punctual, and breakfast will be ready by eight.'

It was a good thing I did go to hurry up the boys--they were both fast
asleep! Geordie looked dreadfully ashamed when I at last managed to get
him really awake, and Denzil almost began to cry. He had planned with
Esme, he said, to have a run down to the sands before breakfast, and
Hoskins knew and had promised them a slice of bread and butter and a
drink of milk.

'Did she not wake you then?' I asked. 'She woke Esme at seven, but I was
already up.'

Geordie could not remember if he had been awakened or not. Denzil
thought Margery had come in and said something about 'seven o'clock,'
but it was all mixed up with a wonderful dream that he wanted me to stay
to listen to, about a balloon (he had heard us talking about Taisy's
balloon) with long cords hanging from it, like those in the
grandfather's clock in the hall 'at home,' for you to climb up and down
by, as if they were rope-ladders.

'You must have gone to sleep again and dreamt it through the word
"o'clock" getting into your brain,' I said, whereupon I felt as if I had
got out of the frying-pan into the fire, for instead of telling the rest
of his dream, Denzil now wanted to know exactly what I meant, and what
his brain was 'like,' and how a word could get into it--was it a box in
his head, and his ears the doors, etc., etc.--Denzil had a dreadfully
'inquiring mind,' in those days--till I really had to cut him short and
fly.

'You will neither of you be ready for breakfast, as it is,' I said; 'and
if you are not quick you will have none at all, or at least quite cold.'

I nearly ran against the coffee, which Hoskins was just carrying in, as
I got to the dining-room door, which would not have been a happy
beginning. But I pulled up just in time, and took in good part Hoskins's
reminder that it wouldn't do to rush about as if we were in the wide
passages at home. Then she went on to tell me what it all made her think
of, she was so glad to have remembered.

'It is just like a _ship_, Miss Ida. I have never been at sea, but I
spent a day or two once on board one of the big steamers at Southampton
that a cousin of my mother's is stewardess of. Yes, it's that that's
been running in my head.'

'It can't have been a _very_ big one, then,' I said, rather pertly, I am
afraid. But Hoskins did not see the joke.

'Oh, but it was, Miss Ida,' she went on, after she had placed the
coffee-pot in safety. 'The big rooms, saloons, as they call them, were
really beautiful, but the passages quite narrow, and the kitchens and
pantries so small, you'd wonder they do do any washing-up in them, let
alone cooking. Not an inch of space lost, you may say. And as to how
they manage in rough weather when everything's atop of the other, it's
just wonderful, not that I've any wish to see for myself; the sea's all
very well to be beside of, but as for going _on_ it,' and Hoskins shook
her head, but said no more. For mamma just then came into the room, and
the kind-hearted woman did not want to remind her who _was_ on the sea
at the present moment.

We three--mamma and Esme and I--had made some way with our breakfast
before the two lazy ones joined us, Geordie rather shy and ashamed;
Denzil eager to explain the whole story of his dream, and to tease poor
mamma about his brain and how it was made and what it was like, till I
did wish I had not mentioned its existence to him.

I don't remember anything very particularly interesting in the course
of the first few days at the Hut, or rather perhaps, _everything_ was so
interesting that no one thing stands out very much in my memory or in my
diary. I kept a diary in those days, as I daresay you who read this have
suspected, otherwise I could not have been so exact about details,
though it needs no diary to remind myself of the _feeling_ of it all, of
the curious charm of the half gypsy life. Not that it really was nearly
as 'gypsy' as we would have liked it to be, or as we _thought_ we would
have liked it to be! It was really so comfortable, and we were all so
pleased with our own efforts to make it so, and their success, that by
the end of a week or ten days we began to long for some adventures.

'A storm,' said Geordie one day,--'a storm at sea. How would that do?
Not a very bad one of course, and------'

'No,' I said decidedly, frowning at him to remind him about papa's being
on the sea,--'no, that wouldn't do at all. Besides, there never are
storms at this time of year. It's past the bad time. No, something more
like real gypsies camping near us, and coming to ask us to lend them
things, and telling our fortunes.'

But at this idea _mamma_ shook her head.

'No, thank you,' she said, though she smiled; 'I have no wish for any
such neighbours. Besides, Ida, you forget that though we are living in a
hut, we are still at home on our own ground, and certainly gypsies have
never been allowed to camp inside the lodge gates.'

'They never come nearer than Kirke Common now,' said George. 'They have
been frightened of Eastercove, Barnes says, ever since papa was made a
magistrate.'

'I think we must be content if we want adventures,' said mamma, 'with
reading some aloud. I have got one or two nice books that none of you
know, and I think it would be a very good plan to read aloud in the
evenings.'

We were not very eager about it. We liked very much to be read to, but
we were not fond of being the readers, and though mamma read aloud
beautifully, I knew it was not right to let it all fall upon her, as her
voice was not very strong.

'It isn't as if Taisy were here, to take turns with you, mamma,' I said,
'as she always does.'

'After this week,' said mamma, 'you will not want any more excitement,
for we must really arrange about your lessons, Ida--yours and the
little ones. And Geordie, of course, will begin again regularly with Mr.
Lloyd, now that we are settled.'

Our daily governess was given up. She was not now quite 'advanced'
enough for me, and to have her for Denzil and Esme alone was very
expensive, so it had been fixed that I was to work with mamma; and, on
the other hand, be myself teacher to the little ones for the time. Mamma
had thought she would have so much less to do, with papa away, and no
calls to pay, or going out to dinners and luncheons, all of which she
had given up for the time. But it did not look very like it so far--I
mean not very like her 'having more time' than at the big house, for
there were always things turning up for her to do, and then she wrote
enormously long letters to papa every week. And there were things about
the place, the whole property, which she had to be consulted about now
he was away.

And for my part I was not at all looking forward to my new post of
governess!

'It is such a pity,' I thought, 'that we can't have Taisy. She wouldn't
have minded teaching the children a bit, and she is so clever. Lots of
my own lessons I could have done with her too. And I know the little
ones won't obey me; Denzil would, but not Esme, and she will set him
off.'

I suppose my face was looking rather cloudy, for mamma went on again.

'I daresay we shall all feel a little depressed for a time, for we have
had a good deal of really tiring work as well as excitement. And the
worst of over-excitement, at least for young, strong people, is, that
when it is over, everything seems flat, and we find ourselves wishing
something else would happen.'

'Yes,' I said; 'that's just what I feel. You do understand so well,
mamma.'

'I have a mild piece of excitement in store for you to-day or
to-morrow,' mamma went on again. 'I think it is quite time that I called
on our tenants. They must be fairly settled by now.'

'I don't see that there was any settling for them to do,' I said. 'You
left everything so beautifully neat and nice.'

Somehow I felt a little cross at the poor things!

'They have to unpack what they brought with them,' said Geordie; 'and
I'm sure----' he stopped short.

I knew why he stopped. He thought that what he was going to say might
vex me, for, as I think--or hope I have owned--I have a quick temper.
But Dods was not famous for 'tact'; that habit of his of stopping short
all of a sudden often made me crosser than almost anything he could
_say_.

'It's very rude not to finish your sentence,' I said sharply. 'What are
you so sure about?'

'Only that you made fuss enough about our own unpacking,' he replied,
'quite extra from the getting the Hut in order and all that.'

'You are very unfair, and unkind,' I said, feeling as if I should like
to cry, for _I_ thought I had been very patient and good-tempered.
'Mamma, don't you think he needn't have said that?'

'He did not want to say it, to give him his due,' said mamma, smiling a
little; 'and to give Ida her due,' she went on, turning to Geordie, 'I
don't see, my boy, that you needed to _think_ it.'

'Well,' said Dods, and I felt my vexedness begin to go away, 'after all,
I don't know that I did. I suppose we've all been rather fussy, though
it wasn't in a bad sort of way.'

'No, indeed,' said mamma; 'it was in a very good sort of way. You have
all been most helpful; I wish you could have seen my last letter to papa
about you.'

After that it would have been impossible to go on being vexed with any
one, wouldn't it? I never knew any one like mamma for making horrid
feelings go and nice ones come, and yet she is always quite _true_.

'Then, do you mean that you want me to go with you when you call on the
Trevors, mamma?' I asked.

'Yes, I do, rather particularly,' she replied, so of course I said I
would be ready whatever time she fixed, though I didn't very much want
to go. I was just at the age--I don't think I have quite grown past it
even now--when girls hate paying calls, and I could not bear the idea of
being received as visitors in our very own house. This was extremely
silly of course, as it was such a lucky thing for us to have let it to
good, careful people like the Trevors, but I don't think it was an
unnatural feeling. And afterwards, poor mamma owned to me that it was
something of the same kind that had made her wish to take me with her.
It would make her feel less 'lonely,' she thought. Wasn't it sweet of
her to think that?

So that afternoon, or the next, I forget which, we found ourselves
walking slowly up through the woods to the big house. I felt rather as
if it must be Sunday, for it was not often, except on Sundays, that I
was in the woods in very neat 'get up,'--proper gloves instead of rough
garden ones, and best boots, and hat, and everything like for going to
church, or for going a drive with mamma in the victoria.

We did not expect--at least I did not--to find our new acquaintances
very interesting. There was nobody young among them, and hearing that
they had come to Eastercove principally for health's sake did not sound
very lively.

But, after all, something interesting _did_ come of the visit, as I will
tell you.

We were ushered into the drawing-room--'the ladies were at home,' he
said--by an oldish man-servant, with a nice face.

Into our own drawing-room--how funny it seemed! And already it did not
seem quite our own, not the same. There were little changes in the
places of the furniture, and there were unfamiliar odds and ends about,
which made it feel strange. I was rather glad that there was no one in
the room to receive us, and I squeezed mamma's hand tight, and I am sure
she understood, and we both had time to get our breath, as it were,
before any one appeared.

When some one did come, nevertheless, we were taken a little by
surprise, for she--it was Miss Trevor--entered by the window, and I had
been looking towards the door. There are long, low-down windows in the
drawing-room, and at one side a terracey sort of walk, which is very
pleasant for sitting out on, in summer especially, as it is well shaded.

Immediately I saw her I felt she was nice. She seemed older than mamma,
though perhaps she was not so really. Her face was very quiet--that is
the best word for it, and though I was so young then and knew so little
of life, I felt that it was a face that had _grown_ quiet through
goodness. Even now I do not know much of Miss Trevor's history, but
mamma has been told enough of it to make her think very highly of her.

There was not the least bit of hardness, scarcely even of sadness in her
expression, but just a look--a look that made one feel that she had come
through sorrow, and could never care _very_ much about anything for
herself again--anything _here_, I mean.

'I am so sorry,' she said at once, in a nice, hearty way, 'to have kept
you waiting. It is such a lovely afternoon that mother and I have
settled ourselves outside!'

'Then please don't unsettle yourselves,' said mamma, and I saw a gleam
of pleasure creep into Miss Trevor's gray eyes at mamma's pretty voice
and manner. 'May we not join Mrs. Trevor on the terrace, for I suppose
it is there you are sitting?'

'Yes,' was the reply. 'It is so sheltered, and of course it is still
early days for venturing anything of the kind. But mother is quite
strong except for rheumatism, and really who _could_ have rheumatism in
this dry, fragrant air? We are so delighted with everything about your
beautiful home, Mrs. Lanark,' she went on. (It has _just_ struck me that
till now I have never said that 'Lanark' is our family name! Really, I
am not fit to try to write a story.) 'And you have done so much to make
it perfect for us.'

[Illustration: WE WERE OUT ON THE TERRACE, AND MRS. TREVOR COMING TO
MEET US.]

Mamma and I felt repaid for our trouble by this, but before there was
time to reply, we were out on the terrace, and Mrs. Trevor coming to
meet us. It was not such an easy business for her to do so, as you might
think. She had three dogs--darlings, I must own, and not barking,
snapping darlings--dancing round her, and she was all twisted about with
wool, red and green and white and all colours, unwound from the balls
from her knitting. You never saw anything so funny, especially as the
doggies, though very good-natured, were very lively and affectionate,
and very spoilt, evidently accustomed to think the wools and the
knitting and every bit of dear Mrs. Trevor herself only existed for
their benefit. How she managed to keep the wool clean, and to knit the
pretty fluffy things she did, I never found out. I really think there
was some magic about it, for I _never_ saw her without the strands of it
flying loose, _and_ the dogs dancing up and down to catch it!

She was laughing--such a nice laugh.

'Really,' she said, 'you will think me a slave to my pugs, Mrs. Lanark,
and I am afraid it is true. Zenia, dear, please untwist me.'

Miss Trevor was evidently pretty well used to doing so, but she laughed
too; and mamma and I started forward to help, so between us we managed
to get the wool wound up pretty quickly, the doggies standing by more
quietly than usual. They were more in awe of Miss Trevor, it was plain
to see, than of their actual mistress.




CHAPTER VII

'NO,' SAID MAMMA, 'THAT ISN'T ALL'


Then we all sat down at the end of the terrace; Mrs. and Miss Trevor had
already found out exactly the nicest place, one of our own favourite
places, sheltered but not too shut in, with a view of the pine woods
close by, at one side, and a peep of the farther off sea, through an
opening that had been made on purpose, at the other.

'I love that glimpse of the sea,' said Miss Trevor, who naturally began
to talk to me, as her mother and mamma were entertaining each other.

'Yes,' I said, 'this corner is a very nice one. But you should see the
view from where we are now--down at the Hut, I mean.'

'It must be charming,' she replied, 'so open and wide. I am very
anxious, indeed,' she went on smiling, 'to see the Hut. It must be
so--picturesque.'

'No, it isn't exactly that,' I said. 'It's _queer_, and
out-of-the-common, of course, but the charm of the place _is_ the
place,' and I laughed at my own way of expressing myself. 'It seems so
entirely away from everything, except the sea and the trees and the wild
creatures, though it isn't _really_ lonely.'

Then mamma turned to Miss Trevor with some little explanation about
something or other in the house which Mrs. Trevor said her daughter took
charge of, and the old lady--I hope it isn't rude to call her that? she
did seem old to me--began talking to me. I liked her very much. She was
_so_ fond of her three doggies, and she was so sympathising about one of
ours that had died a few months before, and whom we had loved so dearly,
that it was not till a good while afterwards that we could bear to have
another.

The one we did have in the end was a present from Mrs. Trevor, a pug
puppy, and we have him still, and I named him 'Woolly,' which everybody
thinks a most unsuitable name for a pug, as they do not understand the
reason for it. I daresay _you_ will guess that it was because the sight
of a pug always reminds me of Mrs. Trevor's unwound balls, and the wool
all twined round her.

Soon after, mamma said we must be going, and we bade Mrs. Trevor
good-bye, but Miss Trevor said she would go a little bit of the way with
us.

She seemed to have something she wanted to say, and as if she did not
quite know how to begin, till at last, just as we were close to the turn
in the drive that led to the stables and coach-houses, she stood still
for a moment. From where we were there was again a peep of the sea, all
glistening and sparkling, though calm.

'This is another pretty peep,' said mamma.

'Yes,' Miss Trevor agreed, 'and the advantage up here is that we can
have these open views and yet be in shade. As the season gets on, I am
afraid you will find it rather too unsheltered from the sun to sit out
on the sea-side of the Hut.'

'We shall have to rig up shady arrangements,' said mamma laughingly.

'That reminds me,' said Miss Trevor, which was not quite true, as she
had been thinking of it all this time, I am sure, and wondering how she
was to offer it without seeming officious, or anything of that
sort,--'that reminds me'--then she broke off--'would you mind just
looking in here a moment?'

'In here' was one of the coach-houses. Miss Trevor led the way towards
it, and pushed open the door. Inside stood a sort of Bath-chair, of
lighter build, even though larger, than such things generally are. It
was of wickerwork, covered with pretty stuff like what tents and awnings
are made of--as we saw when she threw off the sheet that was over it.

'We call this my brother's boudoir,' she said. 'It is quite a
curiosity,' and she began drawing out and showing us all manner of
contrivances--a table which hooked on to one side, another which
fastened itself to the front, a large basket for the other side, a
stool, quite strong enough for a second person to sit on comfortably to
talk or read to whomever was in the chair; and besides all these,
wonderful awnings that pulled out and could be turned and twisted like
big umbrellas, and stretches of wickerwork to make the chair into a
couch--and all this on wheels!

'It is not meant to be used as a Bath-chair,' went on Miss Trevor; 'the
wheels are just to move it easily for short distances. It is really a
stationary affair. My brother invented a good deal of it himself two or
three years ago when he was very ill--much more of an invalid than now,
I mean.'

'It is a beautiful thing,' said mamma, in which I quite agreed with her,
though we both wondered a little why she was exhibiting it at all to us
so minutely.

'But Will isn't at all pleased with us for bringing it here,' Miss
Trevor continued. 'He says he never wants to see it again; it reminds
him of his worst time, and he says I must get rid of it. He prefers
sitting out among the pines in a quite well sort of way. So--it just
struck mother and me, that _perhaps_ it might be some little use to you,
down so near the sea where there is no shade,' and she glanced at us
half timidly.

'Oh!' I exclaimed, before mamma had time to speak, 'it would be
splendid--just in front of the little porch. We could really make a sort
of tiny room with it, and you could be _so_ comfortable, mamma, on sunny
days. Oh, do say we may have it!'

Miss Trevor seemed delighted, and mamma smiled at my enthusiasm.

'It is a charming chair,' she said, 'far more than a chair indeed--I
scarcely know what to call it. It is most kind of you to have thought of
it for us, Miss Trevor, and if you are so good as to lend it to us, you
may be sure we shall take the greatest care of it. And, of course, if
Mr. William Trevor ever wants to have it while you are here, you must
not for an instant hesitate to tell us and we should send it back at
once.'

Miss Trevor got rather red.

'Oh, but,' she said, 'you don't quite understand, Mrs. Lanark. We want
you to have it for good--to keep, I mean, if you care for it. I am
perfectly certain that Will won't want it. In fact, he says he hates the
sight of it. And down at the Hut, it might be of use, even after you
have moved up here again. I will have it wheeled down to you to-morrow
morning; it may need a little cleaning up first. The wheels are quite
strong enough for a short journey, especially with no one inside. I only
meant that it is not built in the peculiarly strong way a regular
Bath-chair needs to be.'

I did feel so pleased to know it was to be our very own, and so, I
think, did mamma. For when things are lent, there is always a rather
fidgety feeling, for fear they should get spoilt in any way. And Miss
Trevor had said it so nicely--as if our taking it would really be doing
them a favour. For, of course, from almost complete strangers it is a
little difficult to accept presents, though mamma has often told us that
to receive a kindness graciously is quite as much a duty as to offer
one.

And then too she had spoken as if our return to our proper home was
quite a certainty, and our absence from it only a question of a little
time, though afterwards we heard that there had been a good deal of
gossip in the neighbourhood about our being completely 'ruined,' and
that Eastercove was sure to have to be sold. I suppose a great deal of
gossip is not meant to be unkind, but still it does seem sometimes as if
people were more ready to exaggerate and talk about other people's
_troubles_ than about their good fortune.

We said good-bye to Miss Trevor soon after that--she, turning to go back
to the house, and we, after mamma had asked her very heartily to come
soon to see us in our 'gypsy encampment,' as mamma called it (I wished
it had been a good deal more gypsy than it was!), which she seemed very
eager to do, walking slowly towards the Hut. More slowly than I felt
inclined for--I was in a fever to tell Geordie about the wonderful
chair--but mamma was still feeling a little tired after all the bustle
and busy-ness and sad feelings of the last few weeks, and so I tried to
keep down my impatience.

When we came quite out of the wood into the clear, open view of the sea,
mamma stood still again and gazed down at it without speaking for a
moment or two.

'Are you thinking of papa?' I said softly, giving her arm, through which
I had slipped my hand, a little squeeze.

'Yes, dear,' she said, turning her face towards me, and I was pleased to
see that she was smiling. 'He must be nearing the end of his long
journey by now. But it was not only because of his voyage that I was
thinking of him. The sea is always associated with him in my mind; it
was the occasion of our first getting to know each other.'

I felt greatly interested.

'Did you meet on board ship, do you mean?' I asked. 'Did you make a
voyage together?'

'No, no,' said mamma, smiling again; 'I have never been a long voyage in
my life. And the time I was thinking of--ever so long ago--had nothing
to do with a voyage. I will tell you the story of it if you like. Shall
we sit down here a little? It is perfectly dry.'

My hurry to get home to tell Geordie about Miss Trevor's present had
softened down in the interest of what mamma was speaking of; besides,
when I came to think of it, I remembered that he could not yet be back
from Mr. Lloyd's. So I was very pleased to do as mamma proposed.

'There is a little bathing-place far up in the North,' she began, when
we had settled ourselves on a little bank made by some old roots which
had spread out beyond the actual pine wood, 'which was rather a
favourite in that part of the world a good many years ago, though now, I
fancy, it is quite out of fashion. It was considered a very safe place
for children, as there are great stretches of sands, and the bathing is
very good, except that the tide at one part goes out with great
swiftness and force, owing to a current of some kind just there. There
is a garrison town--a small one--two miles or so from the bathing
village--a station for cavalry--and the sands used to be, and I daresay
still are, a favourite exercising ground for the horses. Well, one
morning, ever so long ago, as I said----'

'Do you mean fifty years ago, or a hundred perhaps?' I interrupted
thoughtlessly, forgetting that the story had some connection with mamma
herself.

'No, no,' she said laughing, 'not quite as "ever so long ago" as that.
Let me see--I need not be quite exact--about twenty-four or twenty-five
years ago, we will say. Well, one fine summer morning an officer, a
very young one, of only eighteen or nineteen, was galloping with his
men--a small party--up and down these sands, when he heard and saw
something which made him suddenly pull up and gaze down towards the sea,
which had turned and was rapidly going out. It was just above the
bathing-place--a perfectly safe place if the vans were drawn out when
the tide turned, and not allowed to get into the sort of current I told
you of. But by some mischance one of the vans had been allowed to stay
in the water too long--the old bathing man was getting rather stupid, I
fancy, and was busy drying things higher up, with his back to the sea,
and did not hear the cry from the van, or see the white handkerchief
that was frantically waved from its landward side.

The young man had keen eyes and ears; he saw that there was not a moment
to be lost--and he quickly took in what had happened and what must be
done. The van was _almost_ off its wheels, swaying about with every
little wave that ran in, as the water rose and rose. And just outside
the door, on the ledge at the top of the steps, stood a forlorn little
figure waving a handkerchief, or perhaps it was a towel, and crying at
the top of her small voice--

"Help, help; oh, _please_, help!"

'I don't know what the officer did about his men, who were already some
little way off--I suppose he signed to them to wait for him,--but I know
what he did himself, and that was to gallop as fast as his horse would
go, down to the sea, shouting as he went to the bathing-man, who was
quick enough to see what was wrong, as soon as his attention was called
to it.

'He rushed for his old horse, and was wonderfully soon at the water's
edge and in it, looking horribly frightened, but quick as he was, the
young man was there at least a minute or two before him. And after one
glance at the state of things, the first comer did not hesitate. For he
saw that the van was growing less and less steady; it was _almost_
lifted off the ground by this time, though it kept recovering itself a
little. And the small figure on the steps was calling more and more
wildly and shaking her white signal more desperately, while she clung on
with the other hand to the side of the lurching and swaying van.

'His--the young officer's, I mean--first idea was to harness his horse
_somehow_ to the van, and draw it out bodily--riding like a postilion.
But he gave this up at once when he found how deep the water was
already and how unsteady the thing was. He was too angry with the
careless owner of it to care whether the van itself swam out to sea or
not, and too anxious, to risk wasting a moment. And the sight of the
little white face and tear-swollen eyes lifted up to him doubled both
these feelings.

'"Don't be frightened, you will be all right now," he called out to the
child, who by this time scarcely knew what she was saying. He thinks she
changed her piteous "Help, help, do come!" to "Oh, save me, please, save
me!" And when he and his horse got quite close he had no need to
encourage her to come to him--she almost sprang into his arms, so
quickly that he was afraid she would fall into the water. But it was
managed somehow, so that in another moment he found himself riding back
to the shore again, with the little girl perched on the front of his
saddle, clinging to him and tucked up so as to keep even her feet from
getting wet.

'She was actually quite dry when they got back to the sands and he
lifted her down--getting off himself to get a good shake, for _he_ was
by no means quite dry, nor was the horse, who had behaved so well and
pluckily, as if understanding there was something the matter, and now
stood snorting with pleasure and satisfaction.

'And the little girl was sensible too. She had quite left off crying and
held out her hand to her preserver.

'"Oh, thank you, thank you so velly much," she said, "for saving me. I
was velly neely drowned, wasn't I? Please go home and get dry quick, or
else you'll catch cold."

'But before he had time to reply, a figure came rushing up to them in
great excitement. It was the little girl's nurse, dreadfully frightened
and ashamed, especially when the boy officer turned upon her very
sharply and asked her what on earth she had been thinking of to leave
her charge in such danger.

'She had a long story to tell, which he had not patience to listen
to--how she had almost finished dressing the young lady when she found
she had left her parasol on the sands, and had climbed over into the
next van where a friend was, just as it was being drawn out, as she was
so afraid of the parasol being stolen, thinking no harm could come to
the child in that minute or two till the bathing-man came back again,
and how her friend had seen the parasol higher up on the stones, and
how--and then came the bathing-man lumbering up with _his_ story--or
how he had thought there was no one in the van, and he was just a-goin'
to fetch it out--not that it would have gone far----

'"But it _would_," said the soldier; "and even if it had stuck, the
young lady would have been half killed with fright and soaked through,
and perhaps fallen into the water bodily. The bathing-man deserved to be
reported, and----"

'There came a shout for the young officer just then. Some one, thinking
_he_ had got drowned or something of the kind, had hurried back to see.
So he rode off though just as he was going, the little girl stopped him
for a moment.

'"Oh, please, Mr. Soldier," she said, "will you tell me your name, so
that mamma can write to thank you?"

'He laughed, but he was already in the saddle, and all she heard was the
one word, "Jack."'

Mamma stopped when she got to this. I waited an instant to see if she
was going on again. I felt a little puzzled, though I thought the story
so interesting.

'That isn't all, is it, mamma?' I said. 'I do so like it, but--didn't
you say--something about papa--and you and the sea, being mixed up?'

Mamma smiled; her pretty blue eyes were fixed on the water below us;
they and it seemed almost the same colour this afternoon.

'No,' she said, 'that isn't all. It was many, at least several--nine or
ten or so years later, that the story goes on again. The boy officer had
been out in India and seen fighting and many other things that come into
soldiers' lives. But now that was over for him. Other duties had come
into his life and changed it. Well--he was staying near the sea, with
his mother and sisters, and one day, after a boating expedition,--it was
a picnic to a picturesque island not far off,--he was introduced to a
girl who had come with some other acquaintances. And they walked up and
down the sands for a little. He kept looking at her in rather a curious
way, and she wondered why, till at last he said--

'"I have the strangest feeling that I have seen you before, but I cannot
tell where or when. And your name does not help me to remember."

'Then the girl looked at him in her turn very carefully. And a sudden
rush of remembrance came over her.

'"Is your name," she said quite eagerly,--"is your name--your first name
'Jack'?"

'"Yes," he said, more and more puzzled.

'She smiled, and then she laughed, and then she told him.

'"I believe I can solve the riddle," she said. "I once rode through the
sea on your horse--in front of you.'"

'And then Jack remembered.'

And _I_ understood!

'Oh, mamma!' I exclaimed, 'what a dear story. And _you_ are the little
girl, and dear papa is "Jack," and--and--it ended in your being married!
How clever it was of him to remember your face again!'

'Don't you think it was still cleverer of me to remember his name?' said
mamma. '_He_ always says so. But Ida, dearest, look how low the sun is
getting. We must hurry home, or Geordie and the others will be getting
tired of waiting for tea,' and she got up from her root-seat as she
spoke, and we walked on quickly.

I kept on thinking of the story all the way. It was so pretty and yet so
queer to think of my own papa and mamma as if they were people in a
book, and to picture to myself that once upon a time, or _ever_, they
were strangers to each other.

'Mamma must have been a dear little girl,' I thought to myself, as I
glanced up at her; 'she is still so pretty and sweet;' and I felt that
to me she _always_ would seem so, even when her golden hair had grown
silver, and her bright eyes dimmer, and her rounded cheeks thin and
worn.

'She will always be my dear pretty mamma,' I thought.




CHAPTER VIII

'I'VE BROUGHT MY HOUSE WITH ME, LIKE A SNAIL'


The interest of listening to mamma's story had made me for the time
almost forget about Miss Trevor's present. But as we got close to the
Hut and saw George coming to meet us, it rushed back into my mind again.

'I say,' he called out, as he caught sight of us, 'it's past tea-time;
Hoskins wanted us to begin without waiting for you, but I wouldn't. She
said she was sure you were having it up there with those people,' and he
nodded his head in the direction of the big house.

'Oh no!' said mamma, 'I like tea at home best, my boy.'

And 'Oh no!' I joined in;' I was really in a hurry to get back, Dods,
for I have something very interesting to tell you. And you mustn't call
them "those people;" they are very nice indeed and _very_ kind. They're
going to send----'

'Wait till we are at tea to tell him all about it,' interrupted mamma.
'It will take some time, and I see Esme and Denzil peeping out
impatiently.'

Tea, you see, had become rather a settled sort of meal, even for mamma,
though she and Geordie and I had a sort of little dinner or supper, I
scarcely know which to call it, later in the evening. But _nursery_
meals had of course to be given up at the Hut, as there was no nursery
to have them in, so Esme and Denzil did not think five o'clock tea a
small affair by any means. And whether it was that the being so _very_
close to the sea had sharpened our appetites, or that Hoskins and
Margery between them made such very good 'plain cakes,' I can't say, but
I certainly don't remember ever having nicer teas or enjoying them more
than at the Hut.

'Well,' began Geordie, after we were all seated comfortably at the
table, 'what is the interesting thing you have to tell about, Ida? Has
it anything to do with the--our tenants,' he went on, with a tone of
satisfaction in his voice; 'I may call them _that_, for that's what they
are.'

'Yes, of course it has,' I said. 'You might have guessed that much
without being a--what is it you call a man witch--oh yes, a wizard, as
you knew mamma and I were there this afternoon, and I began to tell you
they were going to send us something. It's the jolliest thing you ever
saw, Dods--isn't it, mamma? Do help me to describe it.'

Between us we managed to do so pretty well, and I could see that Geordie
was really very pleased about it. But he was in one of those humours
that boys have more often than girls, I think--of not showing that he
was pleased--'contradictious,' Hoskins calls it, and of trying to poke
out something to find fault with or to object to.

'Hum, hum,' he kept murmuring; 'yes, oh yes, I know the sort of thing.
But there's one point you've forgotten, Ida, and mamma too, haven't
you?--where is this wonderful chair affair to be kept?' and he looked
round the table in a provoking sort of way. 'It won't _always_ be fine
dry weather, and certainly it wouldn't get in at the door here by your
description, even if we had any room for it to stand in.'

I suppose my face fell, and I think mamma, who is as quick as lightning
to understand one's little changes of feeling, was rather vexed with
Geordie, who is--or _was_ rather--he has got out of those half-teasing
ways wonderfully, now that he is older--tiresome sometimes, though he is
so good, for she said quickly--

'We shall find some place or plan something about it. Don't be afraid,
Ida dear. It is a beautiful present. Geordie will thoroughly appreciate
it when he sees it.'

'Is it big enough to hold both Denny and me together?' asked Esme.

'It's big enough to hide you, so that you couldn't be seen at all, you
small person,' said mamma laughing.

I felt sure mamma would plan something, so that we need not feel we had
got a white elephant in the shape of a garden chair. All the same,
Geordie's objection did worry me a little. I kept wondering, when I woke
in the night, where we _could_ keep Miss Trevor's present, and hoping
that we should not have to send it back after all.

I need not have done so, for when it arrived, as it did the next
morning, it was even more complete than we had known. It was enveloped
in a huge waterproof cover, looking like a miniature van or waggon, as
the gardener, sent with it, slowly pushed it along! And he explained
that, for eight months or so of the year, it would be quite safe
outside. For there were also rollers--I don't know exactly what to call
them--strips of wood you could roll _it_ on to, to keep the wheels from
the damp of the ground, if it _was_ damp, though, as the man said, when
he had told us all this and shown us how to slide the wheels into the
grooves, 'it's really never for to say damp or wet in the pine woods. If
it was wheeled into a good sheltered place, I'd undertake to say it'd be
safer and drier than inside most coach-houses or stables.'

He was an Eastercove man, I should explain, and of course he thought
there was no place in the world to compare with it!

There was another addition to the belongings of the chair, which we had
not known of, and that was a hot water tin which fitted into the
footstool, in the same neat, compact way which everything belonging to
it did. Really a very good thing, for of course any one sitting still
out-of-doors may get cold feet, even though it is not winter or wintry
weather.

Geordie stood with his hands in his pockets admiring it all, without a
fault to find; not that he wanted to find one, I feel sure. He was in a
much cheerier humour this morning, and perhaps he was feeling a little
sorry for having wet-blanketed my pleasure at all, the night before.

Mamma called us all away from our new toy at last. Geordie had to set
off to Mr. Lloyd's, and for me, alas! it was one of the days on which I
had to act governess to the little ones. I did not mind Denzil so much,
though he was--I don't mind if he sees this--I am afraid I must say he
still is, _very_ slow at lessons.

But he cannot help it, not altogether, anyway, and I do think he
generally does his best, and when you know that of any one, you can be
much less particular with them, can't you? Besides, once he _has_ 'taken
in' anything thoroughly, he does not forget it, which is a great comfort
to a teacher.

It was Esme who tried me the most. Such a flibbertigibbet (that is one
of Hoskins's queer words, and mamma does not like me to use them much,
but it is so expressive) you never saw. If you got her to give her
attention, or thought you had, and were feeling quite pleased and even
proud of it, as she sat there with her bright eyes fixed on the map,
we'll say, while you were pointing but how big Russia was, and how tiny
England seemed with the sea all round it, all of a sudden she would say
something like this--

'Ida, _did_ you see that girl just in front of the school-children in
church?' (Geography, I think, came on a Monday morning.) 'I couldn't
make out if the ribbon on her hat was green or blue, or both shaded
together.'

And then if I scolded her and begged her to think of her lessons and not
of people's hats in church, she would explain in the funniest way, that
thinking of the sea, which sometimes looks blue and sometimes green, and
sometimes you don't know which, had made her remember how puzzled she
had been about the girl's hat.

Upon which Denzil must come in with his remark, very wise and proper of
course--

'_I_ think,' he said, 'that Esme and nobody, shouldn't think about hats
and ribbins and things like that in church--never. _I_ think it'd be
much better if ladies and girls dressed all like each other, like men
and boys, when they go to church.'

'Oh, indeed,' said Esme; 'and who was it that was in a terrible fuss
about his tie not being knotted up the right way only last Sunday as
ever was, and----'

'Esme!' I exclaimed, horrified, 'where _did_ you learn anything so
vulgar--"last Sunday as ever was"? What would mamma say if she heard
you?'

'It was Margery that said it,' replied Esme, not the least put out; 'and
I thought it sounded rather nice, but I won't say it again if you'd
rather I didn't. _Is_ it nonsense, Ida, about men and boys never
thinking about their clothes? Geordie can't bear his best hat to be
touched, and I've noticed gentlemen, big ones, I mean like papa--looking
as cross as anything if they couldn't put their hats safe. _I_ think
they fuss more on Sundays in church than any other time.'

'Well, don't talk any more about it just now,' I said, 'or you will
never get your geography into your head.'

But it was already too late. There was very little use trying to call
back Esme's wandering wits once they had started off on an expedition of
their own, and I really began to fear I should have to tell mamma that I
was very little, if any, use as the child's governess.

About this too, as things turned out, I need not have worried. It is
curious how very seldom what we vex ourselves about before it happens
does come to pass! I suppose this should show us the harm and
uselessness of fancying troubles, or exaggerating them.

We were very busy and happy that afternoon, I remember, when George came
back from Kirke, in arranging the wonderful chair. We settled it near
the porch, and to please us, as it was really a very fine, almost warm
day, mamma said we might have tea there, and that she would sit in the
chair with Esme on the stool, and the little table hooked on for their
cups and plates. I made tea on a little table in the porch, and Dods and
Den handed it out. It was rather a squash, but we didn't mind. Mamma
looked so comfortable under the awning, which we had drawn out, as we
wanted to try everything; the only mistake was having the hot-water
bottle in the footstool filled; poor mamma was obliged to ask to have it
taken out, as she said she was afraid her feet were really nearly
getting boiled, and of course it was not cold enough weather to require
it.

After tea was over and the things taken away, mamma said she would stay
where she was for a little and finish a letter to papa, in which she
would tell him all about her movable 'boudoir,' as she called it. She
really seemed to have taken a great fancy to it, which I was very
pleased at, for of us all--though she never said or seemed to think
so--it was certainly mamma who had had to give up the most of what she
was accustomed to, when we came to live at the Hut.

Esme and Denzil ran down to the shore to play, and Dods and I strolled
round a little. I remember all about that evening, even without looking
up in my diary. I think I was telling him the story mamma had told me,
of when she was a little girl, and the bathing machine, and papa saving
her, and we had walked up a short way behind the house, to a part of the
path, or road--it was a road, though a small one--from where you could
see a bit of the drive from the lodge to the big house.

Suddenly something came in view--the queerest-looking thing you ever
saw, like a van, and yet not like one, more like a small omnibus, only
all over the top it was bumped out into all kinds of shapes, so that it
looked like a gypsy's basket waggon, with a cover over.

'What can that be?' I said to Geordie.

And we both stared hard, as the thing slowly made its way along.

'The Trevors must have queer things sent to them,' I said. 'It isn't the
railway van from the station, and yet, if it was travelling pedlars or
anything of that kind, they wouldn't have let it in at the gates.'

Geordie did not speak. He has better eyes than I--I have always been a
little near-sighted--and he stood there gazing before him with an odd
expression creeping over his face. He saw--what I did not--a head, or
part of one, poked out of the window at the back of the strange vehicle.

'Geordie,' I said at last, 'what are you staring at so? What _do_ you
think it is? Oh!' as I suddenly caught sight of a new feature in the
mystery, 'I do believe the thing is coming down _here_, and not going to
the big house at all.'

For there was a side road out of the drive just about the part that the
strange carriage or waggon had now got to, which led in our direction.

'Yes,' said Geordie, turning to me, and speaking very slowly and
distinctly, though there was a twinkle in his eyes, which rather spoilt
the solemnity of his tone, 'you are right, Ida. I will tell you what it
is--it is the _balloon_.'

Now indeed it was I who stared!

What could he mean?

Did balloons come in vans, and what had we to do with them? It was not
for a moment or two that I remembered our joke about Taisy,--that she
meant to astonish us by coming down in a balloon or something wonderful
and original of that kind, from her mysterious hints in her letter to
mamma.

And then I seemed to understand it all, almost better than Dods did. It
quite took my breath away.

'Come, come, Dods!' I cried, setting off as I spoke, 'let's run to meet
her. Oh, Taisy, Taisy, you funny girl! Oh, how delighted I am!'

We ran so fast that we reached the waggon almost before the driver and
horses--there were two--seemed fairly launched on the side road, and in
time to hear an eager voice from within calling out, 'All right,
straight on, now. There is plenty of room.'

It was Theresa of course, but just at first she did not see us. She was
leaning out on the other side to make the driver hear. But she turned,
fast enough, when our shouts reached her, though she did not jump down,
as we half expected.

[Illustration: 'I CAN'T VERY WELL GET OUT,' SHE SAID.]

'I can't very well get out,' she said. 'I'm so packed in, and there are
some breakable things. But I'll manage it in a minute. Yes, yes--it's I
myself! I've come to stay with you, though I have not been invited.
And--you'll understand directly, I've brought my house--or rather my
room--with me like a snail, so auntie can't turn me away again.'

She was so excited and delighted with herself, and we were so excited
and delighted too, that we could scarcely speak for laughing. We did not
let her get out; she _was_ so packed in, as she said, but we walked by
the door, she talking as hard as she could, for her vehicle was
lumbering along at a foot's pace.

'Yes,' she said, in answer to our eager questions; 'I've been travelling
like this since ten o'clock. No, not _quite_ like this--we did trot on
the high road. The waggonette----'

'Waggonette,' interrupted George, 'I should call it a--waggon and a
half!'

'Well, never mind about that. Call it an omnibus if you like. Anyway,
_it_ started yesterday, and spent the night at Wetherford. Granny wanted
me to come all the way to Kirke by train and to write to tell you, which
would have spoilt the fun. So I got her to let me '('to _let_ you
indeed, Miss Taisy,' thought I to myself, though I did not say so; 'I
know better. You said sweetly, "Granny, dear, I just must;" and she
said, "Well, well, my darling, if you must, you must, I suppose")--'to
let me come to Wetherford this morning with her maid, and to meet old
Dawson' (the driver) 'there, and come on as you see. I had hard work to
find room for myself inside, and I did begin to think we should never
get here! But the evenings are long now, and it's been a lovely day;
everything's dry and ready--bedding and all. There'll be plenty of time
to unpack, and Dawson is to stay the night at Kirke, and ride home on
one horse, leading the other.'

'And leaving the waggon,' I said, rather stupidly I must own; I think I
was really feeling rather bewildered with the excitement and laughing
and Taisy's flow of explanation.

She burst out laughing again at this.

'Of course,' she said. 'If I didn't keep my house, I might as well go
back again. But do let us hurry on to tell auntie all about it.'

I think in her heart of hearts poor Taisy was feeling a tiny atom
anxious as to what mamma would think of it all. But she need not have
done. Mamma understood her so well and trusted her good sense as well
as her affection, in spite of dear Taisy's _rather_ wild ways sometimes.

She--mamma, I mean--was sitting quietly where we had left her, reading,
in the new chair. And it was nice to see the bright look of pleasure
which came over her face when she realised that it was Taisy, really
Taisy, and not an 'optical illusion,' who stood before her and then
hugged and kissed her as no illusion could have done.

'But, my child,' said she, 'where----'

'Where are you going to put me?' interrupted our new guest; 'look,
auntie, look up and see,' and she pointed to the van, which was just
coming in sight again. 'I have brought my house with me.'

Mamma's face looked completely puzzled now.

'I will explain,' Theresa went on, and indeed George and I wanted this
part of it explained as much as mamma did. 'That lovely old thing that's
lumbering along is Granny's discarded luggage-waggonette. It hasn't been
used for centuries; it is really a small omnibus more than a waggonette.
I ferreted it out in one of the coach-houses, where I was poking about
with a vague idea that I might find something of the kind to make it
possible for me to come to you after all. And I got the coachman to help
me. We had it thoroughly dried and aired, and the seats at one side
taken out--and a friend of the coachman's, who is a clever carpenter,
has fitted it up. You will see. There is a table that slips down when
not wanted, and a frame in one corner to hold a basin and ewer, and
hooks for hanging things, and a tray like a deep drawer under the seat
that's to be the bed. Oh, it's lovely! and really as good as a cabin on
board ship,' and Taisy stopped to take breath.

'And did Aunt Emmeline know about it?' asked mamma.

'She gave me leave to do what I liked with the old thing,' said Taisy;
adding candidly, 'I did not tell her _what_ I was doing till it was all
ready. She thought I was fixing it up for photographing, I think. But in
the end she was nearly as excited about it as I was, and she gave me all
sorts of things--blankets and pillows and crockery and little curtains.
It's just stuffed with things--inside and out--though I brought as few
personal things--clothes, I mean--as possible, for I don't want to crowd
_you_ up, you see. I shall have room for everything when it's all
unpacked, you will see,' she added, with a touch of apology in her
voice.

'Dearest child,' said mamma, 'as if we would mind that, if _you_ were
comfortable.'

Taisy's eyes beamed.

'Comfortable,' she repeated; 'that is no word for what I am going to
be.'

'And how long may you stay?' asked Geordie.

'As long as you like to have me,' was the reply. 'Granny is expecting
her old friend to-morrow, and I _know_ they will be much happier without
me. I have a letter from Granny for you, auntie, explaining her plans.
But there's no hurry about that. I want to begin unpacking. And what a
lovely arrangement all this is!' she went on admiringly, touching the
arm of mamma's chair as she spoke, 'nearly as beautiful as my waggon!'

Then the history of Miss Trevor's present had to be related, and all its
wonderful perfections exhibited. And then Hoskins appeared with a cup of
fresh tea for Miss Theresa, which she offered with a face all over
smiles, for Taisy was a great favourite of hers. And 'Miss Theresa'
drank the tea, and devoured bread and butter and cake in a most
gratifying way; and then she _had_ to run through the Hut, and see all
that we had done to it.

So that, after all, it was rather late before we got to the unpacking of
the waggon, though Hoskins and Margery and Dawson had already done a
good deal.




CHAPTER IX

'THE KIND SEA, TOO, AUNTIE DEAR'


We _did_ get everything unpacked that night, but only in a
rough-and-ready way. We should have liked to go on till midnight or
later even, working by moonlight, for it was full moon and very clear
weather just then, but this mamma would not hear of.

And Hoskins in her sensible way pointed out how much more nicely and
neatly we could finish it all by daylight with the straw and packing
cloths all tidied away, which she would 'see to' first thing in the
morning.

She and mamma had already arranged for Taisy to sleep in my room that
night, by Esme's sleeping with mamma, and by taking out the end of
Esme's cot, to make it longer--long enough after a fashion, for _me_.

How we laughed, Taisy and I, though any other girl would have been
tired after all she had done, and the tiresomely slow drive from
Wetherford! Mamma was obliged to knock on the--wall, I was going to
say--but of course it was not a wall, only a wooden partition, to tell
us to be quiet. I never knew any one with such spirits as Taisy--not
only high spirits, but _nice_ ones, for she was never boisterous, and
she knew in a moment if you were not inclined for laughing or joking,
though her fun was always there, ready to bubble up again at the right
moment. She was full of sympathy too, in spite of her cheerfulness; no
one could possibly have called her heartless.

Looking back, I can see what a _very_ good thing it was for us all that
she came, even for mamma. We were in danger just then of being too much
taken up with our own little life--the life of the Hut--which is one
kind of selfishness.

And dear mamma in her _un_selfishness might have got too silent about
all she was feeling; she was so afraid of making us young ones
melancholy. But I have seen her sitting or standing, when she thought we
did not notice, gazing at the sea--gazing, gazing, as if she could
scarcely bear it and yet must look at it. The cruel sea, which had taken
dear papa so far away! On fine, sunny days I almost think somehow it
seemed worse. I know that feeling about the sea myself, as if it _were_
cruel really, below its loveliness and brilliance. And I am sure she
said something of this to Taisy, the very day after Taisy came, for I
heard _her_ say, though her eyes were full of tears--

'The _kind_ sea, too, auntie dear, which will bring him back again.'

And as for us children, it was just delightful past words to have
Theresa. We had been very happy at the Hut already, very busy and
interested, but the _fun_ of the life there came with Taisy. She was
full of it, though the things we found so amusing are too trifling, even
if they would not seem really silly, to write down.

The arranging of her 'house,' as she would call it, was the nicest part
of all the arranging we had had to do. We pulled it close up to one side
of one of our doors--the 'parish room' doors you understand, where there
were no windows, so that the waggon was, so to say, protected by one of
the iron walls--I don't know what else to call it, and which also gave
the advantage of a tap in the night arousing us at once, _in case_
Taisy felt frightened, which she never did. But the tapping was very
convenient all the same, as she could awaken me in the mornings when
they got warm enough for very early bathing, without 'disturbing the
whole house,' as Hoskins said. And I could tap to her, last thing at
night, to wish her good-night.

You never saw a cosier place than we made of it; that first day after it
was all arranged, we _couldn't_ leave off admiring it.

There was Taisy's bed along one side, rather a narrow one of course,
though not worse than a berth at sea, and looking so bright with the
lovely scarlet blankets Lady Emmeline had given her. And in one corner a
little frame which held a ewer and basin, and in the other some hooks
for hanging things with a red curtain that drew round, and short red
curtains to the windows, and a _tiny_ chest of drawers; it was really
one end of an old writing-table, or _secretaire_, to hold gloves and
pocket-handkerchiefs and belts and small things like that. Then under
the bed there was a long low trunk, what is called a cabin portmanteau,
I believe, which held Taisy's best dresses, of which she had certainly
not brought many, and hooks higher up than the hanging ones, for her
hats. You wouldn't believe, unless you have ever been a long voyage--I
_have_, since those days--all that was got into the old omnibus, by
planning and ingenuity.

Taisy was as proud of it as if she had made or built, I suppose one
should say, the whole carriage; indeed, I think we all were, once we had
got everything perfectly arranged. Mamma carried off some of her _most_
crushable things, as she said she had really some spare room in her own
cupboards or wardrobes; and I took her best hat, as it had lovely white
feathers, which it would have been a thousand pities to spoil, and which
there was plenty of space for in the big box where Esme's and mine were.
And then Taisy declared she felt her house quite spacious.

Lady Emmeline had sent several things for us, some especially for mamma
herself, which I was particularly glad of, as dear mamma, never thinking
of herself and anxious to leave the big house as pretty as usual, had
left behind some little things that I am sure she missed. And old Aunt
Emmeline and Taisy seemed to have guessed by magic what these were.

'How nice!' I exclaimed, when Taisy had got them unpacked. 'This screen
is just like the one you have in the boudoir at home, and cushions--I
_know_ you will be glad of some cushions, mamma, though you wouldn't
bring any with you.'

'And a _couvre-pied_,' added Taisy; 'Granny was sure you hadn't got
enough "wraps." Nothing will persuade her that it is not always as cold
as winter down here.'

'It is most kind of her,' said mamma; 'and I really am very, very
pleased to have these things. And--did you know, Ida?--Aunt Emmeline has
also sent us two hampers full of all manner of good things to
eat--chickens and a turkey, and a ham and pickled tongues, and I don't
know all what.'

'Yes,' said Taisy; 'nothing will persuade her either that you are
not----' She stopped suddenly and got rather red.

'I know,' said mamma, laughing, 'that we are not in danger of starvation
as well as of cold. You need not mind, Taisy dear--as if _anything_
could offend us that you said or that Aunt Emmeline thought. And of
course it is true that we are anxious to spend as little as we can,
while things are so uncertain.'

'And then we can't cure hams or pickle tongues like at home,' I added.

So all the kind old lady's gifts were very welcome. I think Hoskins was
more pleased with the eatables than with anything.

Things had been nice before, but after Taisy came, we really did enjoy
ourselves. She was always planning something amusing or interesting, and
mamma declared she had never heard me or Geordie laugh so much in her
life. It was very good for Geordie to be 'routed out' a little, as Taisy
said. He was inclined to be too serious and anxious, and to overwork, at
this time, because of the scholarship, and as I had put it into his
head, I was doubly glad of being helped to keep him bright and merry,
as I know he worked all the better for it. He was _really_
anxious-minded--not like Denzil, who never laughed and was as solemn as
an owl, not because _he_ was anxious, but just because he was too fat
and comfortable to worry--poor old Den!--he really _is_ so
good-tempered, I don't like laughing at him.

It was very nice too that just about this time came the first really
long letter from papa; up to now he had written scarcely more than
scraps. And this letter was decidedly more cheerful and hopeful.

He had begun to go into things thoroughly, he said, and had got very
good friends to help him, and he was beginning to think that, at worst,
it would not turn out _too_ awfully bad. And for this mamma felt very
grateful, though she had so bravely prepared for whatever might be to
come.

So for a few weeks we went on very contentedly, more than that,
indeed--very brightly too. It was, for me, too delightful not to have
much governessing to do, for Taisy at once took the most of this on
herself. And I assure you, she _did_ keep Miss Esme in order.

In return for this she joined me in some of my reading with mamma, and
she always has said that she learnt more in this way about some lessons
than she had ever done before. Mamma is very clever.

We went on, as I said, pretty steadily like this for some weeks till
another rather big thing happened--almost as big as the 'descent of the
balloon,' which we always called Theresa's arrival.

But before telling about this new event, I must relate a curious thing
that happened one day.

It was one afternoon--just after tea--we were still sitting out of doors
where we had had tea--mamma in her 'boudoir,' for the days were getting
quite long, and we were specially glad to be in the open air as much as
possible, for we had had a good deal of rain for nearly a week--mamma
was reading, and I think I was too--when Hoskins came out of the house
looking rather 'funny'--queer, I mean, as if not quite sure if she were
vexed or not.

'If you please, ma'am,' she said, 'there's a gypsy at the back door, and
I can't get her to go till she's seen you.'

'A gypsy,' mamma exclaimed in great surprise; 'how has she managed to
get inside the grounds? And I did not know there were any in the
neighbourhood just now. It is so seldom they come this way too. Taisy,'
she went on, looking round, 'you might speak to her for me and ask what
she wants.'

But Taisy was not there.

'Miss Theresa has gone into the woods, I think,' said Hoskins; 'I heard
her calling to Miss Esme just after tea-time.'

Mamma and I had not noticed the others going; our books must have been
interesting, and time passes quickly in such a case.

'How did the gypsy get through the lodge gates?' mamma repeated.

'That's what I asked her first thing,' Hoskins answered; 'but she did
not answer very distinctly. She says she has come a good bit out of her
way to see you--there are not any camping about near here. She has a
boy with her--perhaps she wants something for him--quite a little
fellow. She's a pleasant, civil-spoken woman--indeed, gypsies generally
are if they want to get something out of you.'

'Like most people, I am afraid,' said mamma, smiling as she reluctantly
prepared to move. 'Perhaps I had better speak to her; it would not do to
have her lurking about all night. They are queer people--I should not
like to rouse any ill-feeling in a gypsy.'

'Mayn't I come with you, mamma?' I said. 'I have never spoken to a real
gypsy.'

Mamma looked at me rather doubtfully.

'Oh yes,' she said; 'but I don't want her to tell your fortune or
anything of that kind, Ida, so do not encourage her if she begins about
it.'

We made our way through the Hut, followed by Hoskins, to the door at the
back, where, as she had said, the strange visitor was standing--Margery,
who was washing up (I never saw Margery _not_ washing up, by the bye),
was also keeping an eye on the woman, though I could see by the movement
of her shoulders that she was giggling.

Mamma went forward.

'What do you want to see me for?' she said gently but rather coldly.

The woman lifted her face--she was not quite as tall as mamma, and
looked at her closely, but not rudely. She was older than I had somehow
expected. Her skin was very brown, her hair jet-black, her eyes not
_quite_ as dark as one imagines a gypsy's must be; I thought to myself
that perhaps the very tanned complexion made them seem lighter. She was
wrinkled and weather-beaten, but not by any means ugly, though not
beautiful, except her teeth, which were extremely white and even.

'Yes, my lady,' she said, 'I did want to see you. I have come far to do
so.'

Her accent was peculiar, her voice low, and she talked slowly, almost as
if using a foreign language.

'How did you get through the gates?' mamma asked.

The answer was a shake of the head.

'I have not passed through them--not to-day,' she said. 'There are
ways--when one is in earnest.'

'I hope you have not broken through the hedges, or over the walls,' said
mamma, rather uneasily.

Another shake of the head.

'No, no--have no fear; I have done no harm,' was the reply, and somehow
mamma seemed as if she did not like to say any more about it.

'But what do you want to see me for?' she repeated. 'Has it anything to
do with the boy? Is he your son, or your grandson?' and she glanced at
the little fellow beside the gypsy. A very little fellow he was--dark
too, very dark-skinned and grave and rather frightened-looking. He stood
there with his eyes cast down, a shock of black hair tumbling over his
forehead, so that it was difficult to distinguish the upper part of his
face.

Mamma looked at him curiously--afterwards she told me she felt sorry for
him, and wondered if the woman was good to him. She--the woman--glanced
at him and said something rather sharply in a queer-sounding language,
on which the little fellow gave a sort of tug to his cap, though without
actually taking it off--meant, of course, for politeness. But he never
spoke the whole time they were there.

'No, my lady,' the woman replied, turning again to mamma,--'no, I have
no favour to ask for the child. He is not my son--nor my grandson,' and
here she smiled, showing her white teeth; 'I am not quite old enough for
that, though I may look it. I wanted to see you for a reason of my
own--to do you no harm, you may be sure. And one day you will know the
reason. But now,' and she held out her hand, 'you will let me tell your
lines? Not much, nor far--I would not ask it. Just a little, and mostly
of the past.'

Mamma shook her head.

'Then the young lady's?' said the gypsy, looking at me. Mamma shook her
head still more decidedly.

'No, no,' she said; 'I would rather you told mine than hers. Such things
make young people fanciful.'

'Then your own, my lady,' said the woman, and again she held out her
hand persuasively,--'just a little.'

I drew nearer.

'Do, mamma,' I whispered; 'she may be offended if you don't.'

Mamma laughed, and held out her right hand.

'Cross it with silver,' said the woman, simply but gravely, as if she
were issuing a command. I had my purse in my pocket, and drew it out.

'Give her a shilling,' said mamma. I did so.

Then the gypsy bent over mamma's hand, studying it closely and murmuring
to herself.

'The other too,' she then said, without looking up.

Mamma gave it.

'Yes,' said the gypsy, almost as if speaking to herself,--'yes--you have
come through some dangers--water was the worst, but that was long ago.
Now water has robbed you of your dearest, but only for a time. It will
restore what it has carried away. And you will be happy. You have a
brave heart. Strange things have happened of late to you. You have with
you an unexpected visitor. And you are going to have another unexpected
visit--a shorter one. Show kindness to your guest; it is always well to
do so, though you may not care to receive a stranger. And----'

'No,' said mamma,--'no, my good woman. I really don't want to hear any
more. It is getting late, and you say you have come far and this little
fellow will be tired. You had better go,'--she drew away her hand as she
spoke, though quite gently.

'Very well, my lady,' said the woman, without persisting further; 'and I
thank you for your courtesy.'

'Shall I send some one to see you through the lodge gates?' said mamma;
but the woman shook her head.

'There is no need,' she said. 'I shall not pass that way,' and she
walked off quietly.

Hoskins came forward and stood beside us.

'I declare,' she said, 'she is going by the shore! What a round to get
to the high road!'

'Perhaps she is going to meet a boat,' I said. For there were little
coves farther on, from where boats were easily launched, and whence an
hour or so's rowing would bring them to a small fishing village called
Brigsea.

'Very likely,' said mamma; 'that is a good idea and explains the
mystery. But she was a queer woman all the same,' and mamma seemed a
tiny bit upset.

'She only told you good things, though,' I said. 'I do wonder how she
knew about your escape from a great danger by water, long ago.'

'Yes,' said mamma. 'It is very strange how they know things.'

'And about our unexpected visitor,' I went on; 'that meant Taisy, of
course. But I wonder who the new one coming can be?'

'Oh, nobody, I daresay,' said mamma. 'Visitors and letters coming are
one of their stock prophecies. Still she did not strike me as quite a
commonplace gypsy. I wish Taisy had been here to see her too. Where can
they all be, I wonder?'

We were not kept uncertain very long. We heard a whoop, followed by the
appearance of the two boys, who told us that Taisy and Esme were coming
directly.

'We've all been in the wood,' said Geordie.

'I wish you had been here,' I said. 'There's been a gypsy at the back
door,' and I went on to tell him of our strange visitor and what she had
said.

Geordie whistled.

'I should have liked to talk to her,' he remarked. 'Did she say how she
got into the grounds?'

I shook my head.

'No,' I replied. 'She was very mysterious about it, but she went away in
the direction of the shore, so she prob----'

I was interrupted by another whoop, and in a moment or two up came Taisy
and Esme, looking very hot and untidy, but very eager to hear all
details of our rather uncanny visitor, as soon as the word 'gypsy' had
caught their ears.

And we talked so much about her that at last mamma said we had really
better change the subject, or she would begin to wish she had not agreed
to see the woman.

'You will all be dreaming about her and fancying she knew much more than
she did,' mamma added; and though she smiled and did not seem at all
vexed, I somehow felt that she rather wished the gypsy had not come. One
little thing which she said helped to explain this.

'I cannot get the small boy out of my mind,' it was. 'She spoke sharply
to him, and he seemed frightened. I do hope she is not unkind to him.'

'Oh no,' I said; 'she had not an unkind face at all, though there was
something rather--_odd_--about it, besides her being a gypsy.'

Taisy laughed, and stroked mamma's arm.

'I should think it _most_ unlikely she is unkind to the child,' she
said, 'though he is not her son--or grandson! Dear auntie, you are too
tender-hearted.'

Just then I heard a sort of giggle from Esme, who, for a wonder, was
sitting quietly with a book in a corner. I felt vexed with her.

'Esme,' I whispered, 'it's very rude to laugh at anything Taisy says to
mamma.'




CHAPTER X

'IT'S ANOTHER SNAIL'


It was the next morning at breakfast that another strange thing
happened. It was when the letters came.

We did not get them quite so early as at home, for it would have brought
the postman a good deal out of his way to come down to the Hut, so it
had been arranged for him to leave them at the lodge, and for them to be
sent on from there.

This morning there were only two: one for mamma--a long one, it seemed,
but not a foreign one, as I saw by a glance at the thick paper while she
was reading it. But I had not noticed anything about Taisy's, and when a
queer kind of little gasp made me look round at her, my first thought
was that there was bad news of papa, which some one had somehow sent
first to her--Taisy--for her to 'break it,' as they say, to mamma.

And my heart began to beat furiously, and no wonder, I think, for Taisy
was as white as the tablecloth, and was evidently on the point of
bursting into tears.

'Taisy, Taisy,' I whispered. Luckily she was sitting next me, so that I
could speak to her in a low voice without being overheard. 'Is it--oh,
is it, anything wrong with papa?' and I felt myself clasping my hands
together under the table in an agony of terror.

_My_ face brought back Taisy's presence of mind.

'No, no,' she said. 'Nothing of that kind--nothing wrong really. I know
I am very silly,' and already the colour was coming back to her cheeks,
for she was not a nervous or delicate girl at all. 'It is only--oh, I
must tell auntie first, and then you will understand the sort of fright
I got.'

She stopped abruptly, for just then mamma looked up from her letter and
spoke to Taisy. She was smiling a little, which made me feel all the
more puzzled as to what was the matter with Taisy when I heard her reply
to mamma's question, 'Have you too a letter from your grandmother?'
'Yes, auntie,' as if the two words were all she could force herself to
say.

Still, mamma did not notice her peculiar manner. She herself turned
again to her letter.

'I must say my respect for our gypsy has risen,' she remarked, 'though I
suppose it is really only a rather odd coincidence.'

At this Taisy's colour changed again and her lips began to quiver. And,
happening to glance across the table, I saw that Esme's mouth was wide
open, and that she was staring gravely at Taisy, in a way quite unusual
with her. I could not make it out at all.

Breakfast was over by this time. Mamma turned to the children.

'Run off, dears, but don't be very long. You have just time for a little
blow before Taisy and Ida are ready for lessons.'

'But, mamma,' began Esme, 'I want to speak to Taisy first.'

'No "buts," Esme,' said mamma decidedly. We were well used to them.
'Taisy won't be ready to speak to you just yet. Run off at----' she had
not time to finish the sentence before she at last noticed Taisy; the
tears were really starting by now, and her breath came in little chokes.
'Go, children,' mamma repeated, looking startled, 'and Geordie, dear,
you had better be getting ready for Kirke.'

Geordie, big boy as he was, was very obedient. He got up, first catching
hold of Denzil by his sailor collar, to make him hurry up.
He--George--must have been as puzzled as any one, for he had no idea of
course what the letters contained. But he contented himself with a kind
of reassuring nod to Taisy as he left the room, and a sign to me as he
gave a little gesture of the hand in her direction, as much as to say,
'Be good to her, Ida.'

Then Taisy broke down and fairly sobbed. Mamma got up and came round to
her.

'My dearest child,' she said, 'what _is_ the matter? It has something to
do with your grandmother's letter, I can see. Do you dislike this
boy--what is his name--oh yes, Rolf--Rolf Dacre--that she writes about?'

'Oh no, no, indeed. He is a very nice boy, as nice as he can be,' Taisy
replied, amidst her tears. 'It isn't that at all. It's--it's about the
gypsy--the saying it like a prophecy--it wasn't right. I--I shouldn't
have done it, but I thought it was no harm, only fun;' and she began
sobbing again.

For a moment or two mamma and I stared at each other, as if we thought
Taisy was losing her wits. Then gradually light began to break in upon
us.

"_You_ shouldn't have done it," you say, dear,' mamma repeated. 'Do you
mean--can you mean----'

Taisy nodded.

'Yes,' she said; 'you have guessed it, I see. But please do not be angry
with me. I meant no harm.'

'Then _you_ were the gypsy,' mamma exclaimed, as if she could scarcely
believe it.

'And,' I added, 'the little boy was--oh, he was Esme, I suppose. That
was why she was looking so queer at breakfast.'

'Was she?' said Taisy, 'I didn't notice. Yes, she was the little boy. I
did not mean to mix her up in it, but she came poking about when the
boys were helping me to dress up, and we thought the best way to keep
her quiet was for her to join in it. But, auntie--I was going to tell
you all about it to-day--you believe me, don't you?' and she lifted such
an appealing, tear-stained face to mamma, that mamma could not help
patting it reassuringly and kissing her.

'It was very cleverly done--very,' she said. 'And I see no harm in a
little trick of the kind if not carried too far. The only thing is--Why
did you not unmask yourself at once? Perhaps--for Esme's sake--it would
have been better not to keep up the mystification so long.'

'I know,' said Taisy, calmer now, but speaking very humbly, 'that is
what I did wrong. It might have led to her telling what was untrue. Last
night when you were pitying the child--who was _not_ my son or
grandson'--and here Taisy's sunny nature broke out again in one of her
own merry laughs--'I could _scarcely_ keep it in.'

'But why did you, then?' I asked.

'Oh, that is what I wanted to explain! I had a sort of wager with
Geordie. He said I might take you both in _once_, but certainly not
twice, and he dared me to try it. So I made a second plan. I was coming
again to-day--quite differently--dressed like a rather old-maidish lady,
who wanted to know if you would let her have rooms here, as the sea-air
and pine-wood air would be so good for her. I meant to have made her
very pertinacious, and very funny, and I wanted you to get quite cross
with her, auntie dear,' and Taisy could not help a little sigh of
regret. 'That was why the gypsy foretold that you were going to have
another unexpected visitor. I wasn't quite happy about it. When I woke
in the night, I felt as if I was carrying the trick too far, as you say.
And then when I got Granny's letter about another _real_ visitor, all of
a sudden I felt so frightened--as if my joke had been turned into
earnest as a punishment for my--my daring to predict anything.'

'Yes, I understand,' said mamma; 'but do not get exaggerated about it.'

Then she was silent for a moment or two and seemed to be thinking it
over.

'Was Esme to have come again?' I asked.

Taisy shook her head.

'Oh no--it was on condition of her keeping quite out of the way the
second time--for of course she would have begun giggling if she had seen
me, and spoilt it all--that I let her act the gypsy boy.'

'I think,' said mamma, 'that I must unconsciously have recognised
something about her--that it was some feeling of that kind that made me
so sorry for the boy. But about the whole affair--well, yes, Taisy dear.
Perhaps it was scarcely right--not _quite_ respectful to one so much
older than you as I am to let it go on so long. And not quite a good
thing for Esme.'

'I know--I see,' said Taisy very penitently.

'But,' mamma continued, 'don't exaggerate it now. I will--and you will
help me to do so--put it all right by a little explanation to Esme. And
don't get it into your head that the coincidence of a real visitor being
proposed to us is in any way a "punishment" to you for your piece of
fun, though I can understand your feeling startled.'

'Oh!' exclaimed Taisy, 'I shall never forget what I felt when I opened
Granny's letter and saw what it was about.'

'Then,' said mamma, 'you had no sort of idea that the thing was the
least possible?'

'Not the very slightest,' Taisy replied. 'You see it has happened
unexpectedly to every one.'

'Yes,' said mamma, glancing again at her letter; 'but you know Rolf?'

'I have not seen him for more than a year,' said Taisy. 'He spent one or
two short holidays with us when his aunt, Miss Merry, was with Granny.
He is a very nice boy. I am sure George would like him, though he is two
years or so older than Dods.'

I was growing rather impatient by this time to hear all about the
contents of the letters which had caused such a sensation.

'Do tell me about it, mamma,' I said. 'Is it some one else coming to
stay with us? Where _could_ we put any one?'

Taisy began to laugh.

'That's the fun of it,' she said. 'It's another snail--some one who will
bring his house with him!'

Mamma laughed too, but I could see that she was thinking over the new
proposal, whatever it was, rather seriously. Then between them they told
me all about it.

It appeared that Aunt Emmeline's friend, Miss Merry, had a nephew, the
son of a sister, much, much younger than herself, who had died some
years ago. The boy's father was in India, so he sometimes, though not
always, spent his holidays with his aunt. And this spring something had
happened--I forget what exactly--illness at his school, or his leaving
school for some reason, sooner than had been expected--which left him
with nowhere to go to for some time.

'As ill-luck would have it,' Lady Emmeline wrote to mother, 'just as
Taisy had gone to you, and Bertha Merry and I were settled cosily
together, down comes this thunderbolt in the shape of a great
hobbledehoy of a boy, who would be utterly out of his element with two
elderly ladies and sure to get into mischief. Not that he is not a nice
fellow and a good boy--I know him to be both, otherwise I would
certainly not propose what I am going to do.'

And this was the proposal which she had written about--she or Miss
Merry, or both perhaps--to Taisy too--that Rolf should come to us at the
Hut, and join Geordie, if possible, in his lessons with Mr. Lloyd, and
be just one of the family for the time. _He_ would be as happy as a boy
could be; of that his aunt was sure, and would do anything in his power,
like a big brother, to help mamma with the younger ones. But the fun of
the thing was, that he would bring his room with him! There would be no
difficulty about the expense of it. His father was rich and Rolf an only
child, and his aunt was free to spend whatever she thought right upon
him, and being a very energetic little woman, as I think many old maids
are, she had already written to some place where such things were to be
got, to get sizes and prices and everything required for a neat little
iron room, fitted up as a bedroom; and if mamma was so very, very kind
as to agree to take him in, Rolf would be ready to come the very next
week.

Of course we talked it over a lot. It had to be considered if Hoskins
and Margery could manage another guest, and we were almost surprised to
find how pleased Hoskins was about it. 'Miss Theresa,' she said, 'was
such a help; there had not seemed half so much to do since she came. And
the weather was getting so nice and mild, we would scarcely need fires
at all soon, except perhaps 'a little bit, of an evening in the
drawing-room.' And it would be such a good thing for Master George to
have a companion a little older than himself before going to school,
which mamma in her own mind had already thought the same about.

I never knew Hoskins quite so cheery about anything. I think the truth
was, that she had thoroughly enjoyed the gypsy mystification which had
been confided to her. And I believe, at the bottom of her heart, she
thought that somehow or other Taisy had had a sudden gift of prediction,
and that it would be very unlucky to refuse to receive the unlooked-for
visitor.

Anyhow it ended in mamma's writing to Aunt Emmeline and Miss Merry,
consenting pleasantly to Rolf's joining us, provided he promised, or
they for him, to be content with our present very simple quarters and
way of living.

'That I am sure he will be,' said Taisy, who had quite recovered her
spirits by the time, or rather long before, the letters were written.
'Any boy would be a goose who wasn't delighted with the Hut, and Rolf is
certainly not a goose.'

The only person who did not seem quite pleased about it was George. At
first I thought this very strange, as naturally you would have expected
him to be very delighted at the idea of a companion of his own standing,
so to say, which he had never had. But Dods was a queer boy in some
respects. He is less so now on the whole, though he is just as dear and
'old-fashioned,' in nice ways, as ever, and I do think the _right_ ways
in which he has changed are a good deal thanks to Rolf.

Perhaps Geordie was a little jealous of him before he came, without
knowing it. It was not unnatural, considering everything. Poor old Dods,
you see, had been left by papa in his own place, as the 'man' of the
party, and we had all got into the habit of looking to him and even
asking his opinion as if he were much older than he really was. And then
he was so devoted to Taisy; he looked upon himself as a sort of knight
to her, I do believe, for down below his matter-of-factness and
practicalness, I know now that there is a good deal of romance, and
what I can only call poeticalness in dear Geordie, so that the idea of a
big, handsome, rather dashing fellow coming to take place above him must
have been rather trying.

I shall never forget the day Rolf arrived. I had been feeling sorry for
Geordie, as I had begun to understand his rather disagreeable manner
about Rolf, and yet provoked with him too. I did not see after all, I
thought to myself, why he should mind Rolf's coming, any more than I
minded Taisy. For though Taisy was our own cousin and we loved her
dearly, she could not but take a _little_ the place of eldest daughter
with mamma, and if she had not been so sweet, it might have been
uncomfortable.

And after all, Rolf was a stranger--and only to be with us a short time.
There was far less chance of his really interfering with Geordie's own
place.

These things however are not often set straight by reasoning about them.

It is the people themselves--their characters and ways and
feelings--that put it all right if it is to be put right.

And just as Taisy's brightness and unselfishness and simpleness--I can't
find a better word--kept away any possibility of jealousy of her on my
own part, so it was with Rolf. He and she were no sort of relation to
each other, and yet in some ways they were very alike. I never did know,
and I am sure I never shall know, any one with such a thoroughly
straightforward, unfanciful, and yet very loving and sympathising heart
as Rolf. When I think--but no, I must not allude to that yet--I could
scarcely bear to write of these past happy days if I did.

But I am wandering away from the day of Rolf's arrival. It was not of
course a 'balloon surprise,' as Dods called Taisy's shooting down upon
us as she had done, for we knew exactly what train he was coming by, and
everything. And it was not so like a 'snail's visit,' which was Taisy's
own name for hers, as in this case the house came before the snail--the
day before.

It was a different kind of thing from the parish room--that very
substantial affair. This was more like a strong, stout kind of
tent--only it did not go up to a quite small point at the top, as I had
imagined all tents do. But it was partly made of stretched canvas, with
iron rods and bars, and the men who put it up told us it was fireproof
as well as waterproof, which mamma was very glad to hear, especially
when she saw that a small stove was among the furnishings that came with
it.

George was very pleased to find that the men from Kirke who had received
full directions about it all, from the makers, had instructions to set
it up wherever we thought best. It almost reconciled him, I could see,
to the idea of the stranger boy's visit--even to being pleased at it.

And we three--Taisy and Geordie and I--were not long in finding the best
place for the new addition to our encampment. We made it a sort of
match, on the other side, to Taisy's waggon, though, as it was much
prettier to look at, it was placed so that a bit of it showed from the
front of the house in a rather picturesque way.

Inside it really was awfully nice when we got the things unpacked. There
was everything that could be wanted for camping out, for I don't think
the people had understood that only an additional bedroom was required.
They had even sent pots and pans and things like that for cooking, if
required, on the stove.

'All the better,' said Hoskins, whose face grew beamier and beamier with
every article that appeared. 'I shall not be put about now if anything
goes wrong with the kitchen fire, as has been at the back of my mind now
and then. Master Dacre, by what Miss Theresa says, isn't one to grumble
if we had to do a bit of cooking in his room, once in a way.'

'No, indeed,' said Taisy laughing; 'he'd think it the best of fun and be
quite ready to act kitchen-maid.'

She declared she was getting quite jealous, as all the perfectly new and
fresh furniture and fittings were set in their places, for of course her
waggon had been provided with what she required in rather a makeshift
way. There were tables and chairs and hanging presses and bookshelves
all made to fold up into next to no compass; a squashy bath, which I did
_not_ envy, as I was sure it would topple over and all the water be
spilt. And there was a lovely red carpet, or strips of it, so thick and
firm, which I _did_ envy, as what we had in our rooms was rather shabby,
and two or three rugs, which, by the bye, soon found their way to the
inside of the Hut, when Rolf discovered that we liked them, declaring
that they were always kicking about in his way.

'Yes,' said mamma, when we summoned her to see and admire, 'it is
wonderfully nice. And I am glad it has all come the day before. It makes
it seem more like Rolf's being our guest, that his room should be all
ready to receive him.'

Then Esme made us laugh. She had been standing gazing at it all with her
mouth wide open, as was her way when very much interested or very
admiring. And then she said, solemnly for once--

'He must be very--termenjously rich!'

After all, something of a surprise _did_ come with Rolf, which I must
now tell about.




CHAPTER XI

'I MADE SURE OF THAT,' SAID ROLF


We _heard_ it--the surprise I mean--almost before we heard the wheels of
the fly from Kirke, bringing the visitor that _was_ expected. For the
drive from the lodge is on well-rolled gravel, and as there had been a
few showers lately, it was soft, and you scarcely hear a carriage coming
in that case.

But what we did hear, as we stood about waiting to welcome Rolf
cordially, was a sharp, clear little voice, not talking, but--barking,
and then, almost at the same moment, we caught sight of the fly, as it
reached the turn at which anything coming up the drive could be seen
from the Hut.

'I do believe,' I exclaimed, turning to Taisy,--'I do believe he has got
a dog!'

Taisy shook her head.

'I don't know of it if he has,' she said; 'and I don't think he would
have brought one without asking if he might.'

Taisy looked a little frightened. She felt somehow as if she were rather
responsible for Rolf, especially on account of the gypsy affair!

'It may be a dog belonging to the flyman,' I went on; 'though in that
case it would probably be running alongside, and it doesn't sound as if
it were.'

Our doubts were soon set at rest.

When the fly drew up, not at the front--there was no place for carriages
there, but on a piece of level ground a little towards the back on one
side--out sprang our visitor--a tall, fair boy, a good bit taller than
Geordie, with nice blue eyes and a very sunny look about him,
altogether. And--in his arms he held--as if very much afraid of losing
it--the dearest, duckiest, little rough-haired terrier you ever saw!

Rolf--for of course it was Rolf--looking just a trifle shy, for which
we--Geordie and I--liked him all the better--turned at once to Taisy, as
if to a sort of protector. But he could not hold out his hand, as it was
all he could do with both hands to keep the frightened doggie from
escaping there and then from his grasp.

'How funny!' I thought. 'Why doesn't he let him go? He wouldn't want to
run away from his own master!'

'I can't shake hands, Taisy--but how are you?' Rolf by this time was
saying: 'Will you introduce me to your cousins? This little beggar--I
declare he's as slippery as an eel, in spite of his coat.'

We needed no introduction--we all pressed round him to look at the
terrier.

'Is he so nervous?' said Taisy. 'Has the railway frightened him?'

'Oh no, I don't think so. He was just as bad before we got into the
train. It's just strangeness' was the rather puzzling reply.

'"Strangeness,"' Taisy repeated, while Geordie and I looked up in
surprise,--'strangeness, with his own master holding him?'

Rolf gave a funny little laugh, and grew rather red.

'Oh, but,' he said, 'you see, he doesn't know I'm his master, and I
don't want him to. It isn't worth while. I--I only bought him this
morning from the keeper at Millings--you know Millings?'--Taisy nodded;
it was a place near Lady Emmeline's. 'I asked him to be on the lookout
for one as soon as I knew about coming here. I thought he'd suit Miss
Lanark, as you once said something about her wanting a really nice
little dog,' and he smiled at me in his frank, boyish way.

It was quite true! Rolf must have a good memory, for it was fully six
months ago that I had once said in writing to Taisy that papa had given
me leave to have a dog of my very own if I could get a good-tempered,
well-bred one, and that she must let me know if she came across a
personage of the kind. For, though it seems odd that, living in the
country, we had never had a pet of the kind, it was the case. I think
papa and mamma had rather discouraged it, till we were old enough to
treat a dog well and not to risk being ill-treated by him!

Since getting papa's leave to have one of my own I had almost forgotten
about it, so many important things and changes had happened.

But for a moment or two I forgot everything but my delight. The wee
doggie was so sweet--so just exactly what I had pictured to myself as
the perfection of a pet.

'Oh, thank you, thank you!' I exclaimed, holding out my arms, in which
Rolf carefully deposited the little creature, not very sorry, I fancy,
at the bottom of his heart to make him over to me, for he must have been
rather a tiresome travelling companion.

'He's a young dog, but full-grown,' Rolf said; 'and very affectionate
and good-tempered. I made sure of that. And he's really a lady's
dog--his mother belonged to a lady near Millings, and that has been his
home. She only sold him because she couldn't keep so many. He's a bit
timid, they say, or rather nervous--but plucky too; if any one tried to
hurt you he'd go for them, the keeper said. But it may take him a day or
two to settle down.'

It scarcely looked like it--already the little round, rough head was
nestling against me, and the nice little cold, black nose rubbing my
fingers approvingly, while Taisy and George pressed up to me to see him.

'What's his name, Rolf?' asked the former. Geordie did not speak; I
think for a minute or two he was feeling just a little jealous--or
envious rather of Rolf--as _he_ had not been able to give me a dog, when
he saw how delighted I was. But he was too good and unselfish to let
this feeling last, and when the terrier gave him a friendly lick in
return for a patronising little pat, Dods's kind heart was completely
won.

'His name,' Rolf repeated thoughtfully; 'I'm afraid I forgot to ask. But
he'll soon get used to any name. It's often more the tone than the
actual sound that a dog notices.'

'I know,' said Taisy in her quick way; 'call him "Rough." It's not very
uncommon perhaps, but it would suit him--his coat--so well, and it is
rather like "Rolf" too.'

We had just decided this when mamma's voice, coming towards us from the
Hut, made us turn round.

'What are you all about?' she asked. 'I heard the fly come some minutes
ago. Welcome to Eastercove, Rolf,' she went on, holding out her hand,
which our visitor was now able to take. 'I hope you have had a pleas----
Oh! so you have brought your dog,' and she looked a very little
startled; 'take care, Ida. Is he quite good with strangers?'

'Oh, but,' I began, and then I suddenly remembered that without mamma's
leave I had no right to accept Rolf's gift. 'He's mine--my own dog,' I
went on; 'that's to say if you will let me have him. You know papa said
I might have a dog,' I added pleadingly; 'though of course it is
different now. And he is quite good-tempered and gentle.'

'Yes,' Rolf repeated; 'I made sure of that.'

They were the first words mamma had heard him speak. He had not had a
chance of thanking her for her 'welcome,' nor she of finishing her
sentence about his journey, so taken up had we all been by Master Rough!
But at least it had had the good effect of setting us all at our ease.

Then I went on to explain about Rolf's having remembered what Taisy had
told him ever so long ago about my wish to have a dog--by the bye, it
was lucky that I had not already got one! That possibility had never
struck Rolf; he had only been turning over in his mind what he could do
to please us, whom he thought very kind to 'take him in,' and mamma
turned to him in the pretty way she does, which always makes people like
her.

'It was very good of you,' she said,--'very good and thoughtful,' and
she too patted the new pet--_very_ gently; mamma is a little afraid,
perhaps wisely so, of strange dogs--so that in her case he thought a wag
of his tail sufficient notice of her attention instead of a lick, for
which omission, if mamma had known of it, she would have been grateful!
'Do you think,' she went on, turning to us three, 'that among you, you
can look after him properly and prevent his getting into any trouble,
or straying away in the woods?'

'And getting shot by mistake for a rabbit?' said Geordie. 'He is so like
one!'

We all laughed at this; for nothing in dog shape, _little_ dog shape, at
least, could be less like a bunny than Rough, though perhaps it was not
_very_ respectful of Dods to joke at mamma's fears. But she did not
mind, and by this time we were all feeling quite at home with Rolf, and
he with us. So we went in together to tea, where he and the two little
ones had to be introduced to each other, and Rough exhibited to Denzil
and Esme's admiring eyes. He had fallen asleep in my arms, feeling happy
and comfortable again, and probably thinking I was his old mistress
restored to him after some dreadful doggie nightmare of separation.

'Mamma need not say, "_Among_ you, will he be looked after?"' I thought
to myself. 'The darling will have looking after enough from his
owner--myself. I only hope the little ones won't tease him, or interfere
with him, even out of kindness.'

That first evening of Rolf's visit left a very pleasant remembrance, and
it was only a beginning of many happy days.

He seemed to bring with him just what we needed (though Taisy had done a
good deal, rather of the same kind). It prevented our getting too much
taken up with our own affairs, or becoming too 'old-fashioned,'--Geordie
and I especially--as Hoskins called it, and I don't know that there is a
better word to express what I mean.

He was so thoroughly a boy, though the very nicest kind of boy--not
ashamed of being a 'gentleman,' too, in lots of little ways, which many
boys either despise, or are too awkward and shy to attend to. I don't
mean to say that he was the least bit of a prig--just the opposite. He
often forgot about wiping his feet, and was rather particularly clever
at tearing his clothes, but never forgot to open the door for mamma and
us girls, or to tug at his old straw hat or cap when he met us! Or more
important things in a sense--such as settling mamma's 'boudoir,' as we
got into the habit of calling Miss Trevor's present, in the best place;
and seeing that her letters were taken in good time to the lodge for the
postman, and things like that.

And looking back upon those days now that I am so much older, I can see
that he must have had a good deal of 'tact' of the truest kind, as
mamma says it really means care for other people's feelings, not to
make dear old Geordie at all jealous,--actually, indeed, to take away
the touch of it which Dods did feel at the beginning.

Before a couple of days had passed, all the boys were the best of
friends. Of course, I made Rolf leave off calling me anything but 'Ida,'
and to Esme he was quite a slave. Rather too much so. He spoilt her, and
it was the only thing Taisy and I were not quite pleased with him for,
as it did make her much more troublesome again at her lessons.

But there came a day when even he got very, very vexed with Esme. I
think I must tell the story. She won't mind even if she ever reads this,
for she is _much_ more sensible now, and often says she wonders how we
all had patience with her.

It had to do with Rough, my doggie.

Dogs, as I daresay you, whoever you are, know, if you have had much to
do with them, are not always fond of children, or perhaps I should say,
are not fond of _all_ children. They hate fidgety, teasing ones, who
will pull and pinch them for the fun of making them snap and snarl, or
who _won't_ let them have a peaceful snooze on the hearthrug, if they
themselves--the tiresome children, I mean--are inclined for noisy
romping. If I were a dog, I should do more than snap and snarl in such a
case, I know!

Esme was not as bad as that. She was a kind-hearted little girl, and
never meant to hurt or worry any one. But she was a terrible fidget, and
very mischievous and thoughtless. It would have been better for her
perhaps to have had a rather less free life than ours at the Hut was.
There was no one whose regular business it was to look after her. Out of
lesson hours she might do pretty much as she liked. Mamma knew she would
never do anything really naughty, or that she thought so, anyway, and we
trusted a good deal to the boys, who, even little Denzil, were so
particularly steady-going, and whom she was generally with.

But after Rolf came, he and George naturally went about together a good
deal, just as Taisy and I did, and I don't think any of us realised how
completely Esme had the upper hand of Den.

If I was to blame about her, by not keeping her more with Taisy and
myself, I was well punished for it by the fright she gave us, as you
will hear.

It was rather a hot day for the time of year--still only spring. We four
elder ones had gone for a good long ramble in the farther off woods,
taking our luncheon with us, and for some reason--I think I _was_, in
my own mind, a little afraid of Rough's getting trapped or some
mischance of the kind--I had left my doggie at home, as safe as could
be, I thought, for he was under Hoskins's care, and she was nearly as
fond of him as I myself.

He would have been far safer, as it turned out, if we had taken him with
us.

Esme must have been 'at a loose end' that afternoon, from what she told
me afterwards. Denzil had got some little carpentering job in hand--he
was rather clever at it, and at dinner-time, Esme, as well as he, told
mamma about it--so she was quite happy, thinking they had got good
occupation, and that there was no fear of any 'idle hands' trouble.

But Miss Esme, as was her way, got very tired of handing Den the nails
and tools and things he wanted, and of watching his rather slow
progress, and told him she must really go for a run.

'All right,' said Denzil; 'but don't go far.'

He told us this part of it himself, when he came in for some blame in
having 'let' Esme' get into mischief. This sounds rather hard upon him,
doesn't it, considering he was fully a year younger than she? but, as I
have explained, he was such a solemn old sober-sides, that we had all
got into the way of treating him as if he were the responsible one of
the two.

'No,' Esme replied, she would not go far; nor did she.

She strolled about--I can see her now as she must have looked that
afternoon--her hands behind her back, her black legs--she was a tall
little girl for her age--showing rather long and thin beneath her big,
brown Holland overall, her garden hat tilted very much to the back, her
lovely goldy hair in a great fuzz as usual, and her bright hazel eyes
peering about for something to amuse herself with.

As ill-luck would have it, she found the 'something' in the shape of my
poor darling Roughie!

Hoskins had allowed him to go out with a bone to the front of the Hut,
where he was lying very comfortably in the sunshine, on a mat, which he
considered his own property. He had left off nibbling at the bone, and
was half or three-quarters asleep.

Now when Esme is--no, I must in fairness say 'was,' she is so different
now--in one of her idle yet restless humours, it irritated her somehow
to see any one else peaceful and quiet, even if the some one else was
only a dog.

'You lazy little beggar,' she said to Rough. I don't really know that
she said those very words, but I am sure it was something of the kind,
and so I think I may 'draw on my imagination' a little in telling the
story. 'You lazy little beggar, why don't you get up and go for a run?
You are getting far too fat.'

And--she told me this herself--she gave him a 'tiny' kick, not so as to
hurt him--that I quite believe, but dogs have feelings about other
things than being actually hurt in their bodies. He had been blinking up
at her good-naturedly, though he was not, as I said, very fond of her.
Nor was she of him.

But now, at the kick, or 'shove,' I think she called it, he gave a
slight growl. And no wonder--it was not the sort of thing to sweeten
even a sweet-tempered dog's temper--when he was doing no harm and only
asking to be left alone in peace. Esme, however, declared that it was
the growl that made her wish to tease him.

She put her hand into the pocket of her blouse, meaning to take out her
handkerchief to 'flick' him a little and make him wake up. But in this
pocket, unluckily, besides the handkerchief were some nails and screws
and such things which she had put there for convenience while being
supposed to 'help' Denzil, by handing them to him as he wanted them. And
when she touched them, they rattled and jingled, thoroughly rousing poor
Roughie, who opened his eyes and growled again, this time more loudly,
and Esme, delighted, rattled and jingled, and again he growled.

Then a wicked idea came into her head.

She had heard of naughty boys tormenting cats in a certain way.

'It can't hurt him,' she thought; 'it will only make him run, which is
good for him.'

And she darted into the Hut, and through it to Rolf's tent, where, as I
said, there was a small compact cooking stove, and among the things
belonging to it a small but strong tin kettle. Esme looked at it. I
believe she was more afraid just then of damaging the kettle than of
harming the dog!

Still she lifted it and considered for a moment.

'No,' she thought, 'it's quite light; it can't hurt him. And it won't
hurt _it_ either. I'll only put a few nails in,' and out she ran again
to the front, where my poor pet was settling down for another nap,
hoping, no doubt, that Miss Esme had gone for good.

By ill-luck, her other pocket held a good piece of stout string. She sat
down and quietly tied up the kettle, so that the lid was secure, having
first dropped into it enough nails and screws to make a woful clatter,
but taking care that no jingle should be heard as yet. It is wonderful
how careful a careless child can be if bent on mischief!

[Illustration: SHE FASTENED THE ONE END OF THE STRING ROUND HIS POOR
LITTLE BODY.]

Then speaking for once most gently and caressingly to Roughie, who was
so surprised that he lay quite still, she fastened the other end of the
string to his tail, and round his poor little body too. 'I didn't want
his tail to be pulled off,' she said afterwards--fortunately, for his
tail _might_ have been badly hurt.

Then when all was ready, she got up cautiously, and walking away a few
steps, called Rough very sweetly. But he was rather suspicious; he first
got up and stretched himself--there was a faint jingle--poor wee man, he
looked behind him--no, Esme was not there; he moved, more jingle and
rattle, again she called, and he, beginning to be frightened, turned
towards her, on which the cruel little thing 'shoo'ed' him away. She
described it all perfectly. And then the idea must have seized him of
escaping by flight from the unseen terror. He ran--of course the noise
got worse; he ran faster, and it grew louder--faster still--oh, my poor
Roughie!--louder still, Esme laughing--at _first_, that is to say--to
herself, till his doggy wits began to desert him, and a sort of
nightmare agony must have seized him.

And then--too late--the naughty girl saw what she had done.




CHAPTER XII

'WELL--ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL!'


What I described in the last chapter will explain the scene that met our
eyes, and the sounds that reached our ears, as we got near the Hut.

And unluckily the 'we' did not mean only us four--the two bigger boys
and Taisy and I. For as we were passing through that part of the near
woods which skirts the Eastercove gardens--we always took care not to go
very close to the house or more private part of the grounds, as, nice as
the Trevors were, mamma said we must never risk their feeling that the
place was not quite their own for the time being--just, I say, as we
passed the nearest point to the house, we came upon them, all three of
them--Mr., Mrs., and Miss. No, I think I should say all _six_ of them,
for trotting round old Mrs. Trevor's heels were of course the three
pugs. And, of course too, huddled up under one arm, was the bundle of
many-coloured knitting; she was working as she walked, and when she
stopped to speak to us, one or two balls rolled on to the ground, so
that before Rolf and Geordie had time to touch their caps almost, they
were both on their knees, trying to catch the truants before they rolled
farther away.

'We were coming to see you all,' said Miss Trevor smiling; 'do you think
your mother is at home and disengaged?'

'I think so,' I replied, and then I went on to explain that we had been
out for several hours on a private picnicking expedition of our own, and
we all joined in saying, 'Do come,' for we liked the Trevors very much,
especially Miss 'Zenia.' We were a little frightened of Mr. Trevor; he
was so tall and thin, and had the name of being tremendously learned,
but they were all very kind, though I have nothing _very_ particular to
tell about them. Mrs. Trevor always made us laugh, with her dogs and her
knitting, but she _was_ so good-natured.

So we strolled on together, in the pleasant, still, sunshiny
afternoon--Rolf and Geordie talking to Mr. Trevor, who was not at all
'awe-inspiring' when he got on the subject of his own schooldays, for we
heard them all laughing most heartily now and then.

Taisy declared afterwards that she had picked up balls of wool at least
twenty times during that walk, as she kept beside Mrs. Trevor. And
seeing that their mistress was thus engaged, the three dogs--they were
really very well-behaved--took to following rather demurely, all three
together, while I chatted to Zenia.

It was not till we were very near the Hut that any unusual sounds
reached us.

I was just talking about Roughie to Miss Trevor, descanting on his
perfections, when a sort of queer yelping gasp, or gasping yelp, made us
stand still for a moment.

'What can that be?' I said.

'Oh, nothing,' said Miss Trevor. 'One hears all sorts of funny animal
sounds in the woods, I have learnt to know. You are rather like an
anxious mamma, Ida, who has been out and left her baby too long. For I
can see you at once think of the dear doggie,' and she laughed a little,
though of course quite kindly.

I laughed too, and we walked on--we were just a few steps in front of
the others.

But--again in another moment I stopped, this time holding up my hand,
and saying, 'Hush!'

Then I turned, and I fancy I had grown quite white already.

'Miss Trevor,' I said, 'it _is_ Rough, and there must be something
dreadful the matter. Just listen.'

There was the same gasping yelp, almost like a choking human cry, and
the strangest rushing and clanking, jingling sounds, all mixed together.

'Was he chained up? Can he have broken loose?' said Zenia breathlessly.
'It sounds like----'

'"Chained up,"' I repeated indignantly; 'my sweet little Roughie! Oh no,
no!' I cried, as I rushed off.

It was rather rude, I am afraid, to repeat her words like that, but she
was far too kind to mind.

'Geordie, Geordie, Rolf,' I cried, 'come quickly! There is something
dreadfully the matter with Rough.'

So indeed it seemed, for the noise grew louder, and mingled with it now
were a child's calls and shrieks.

'Roughie, Roughie,' I distinguished in Esme's voice; 'darling Roughie,
come to me. Don't be so frightened, darling. I didn't mean it--oh, I
didn't mean it!'

And this was what I _saw_.

Esme, hair streaming, eyes streaming, scarlet with terror, rushing over
the ground in front and at the side of the Hut, lost to sight for a
moment among the trees, then out again, after _something_--a small, wild
animal, it seemed--that was tearing before her, evidently trying to
escape from her, or from--yes, what was that strange thing rushing after
_it_? Another still smaller wild beast of some kind, or what? No, it was
nothing alive; it was a metal thing of some kind, rattling, clanking,
jingling, and--oh, horrors!--tied to my poor pet's little body.

I saw it all at once--affection quickens one's eyes, they say--I took it
all in before there was time for any explanation, though Esme screamed
to me as she flew on: 'Oh, Ida, Ida, I didn't mean it! Stop him, stop
him!'

Naughty, naughty Esme!

_He_ had already rushed past me--within a few yards, that is to
say--without seeing me, whom he generally caught sight of before you
could think it possible. Blinded by terror--yes, and deafened too--he
did not know I had come; he could not hear his own 'missus's' voice.

And he was dreadful to look at: his tongue was hanging out; his whole
little head seemed spattered with foam; he was rushing like a mad
thing, even though, by the gasping sound he made, you could tell he was
exhausted, and had scarcely any breath left.

No wonder that, as the boys hurried up behind me, they and Mr.
Trevor--Mr. Trevor especially--thought he _was_ mad.

Mr. Trevor kept his presence of mind, I must say, under what _he_
thought the dreadful circumstances. He almost pushed his mother and
sister and Taisy into the porch, and tried to push me in too. But I
evaded him.

The boys and Esme were quite out of reach--_they_ were tearing after
_her_, shouting to her to 'Come back, come back!' which did not tend to
lessen the uproar. And when _I_ started in pursuit, as of course I did,
it must have seemed to any one looking on as if we had all gone mad
together! Indeed, Taisy owned to me afterwards that, terrified as she
was, she had hard work to keep down her laughter, especially when she
heard me turn upon dignified Mr. Trevor, and in answer to his despotic--

'Go back, Miss Lanark, go back; I insist upon it,' shout back,
'Nonsense; I will _not_ go back.'

And as I heard his next words--

'The dog must be shot at once. Boys, is there a gun about the place?' I
grew desperate, for I knew that there _was_ a gun--Rolf's--though he and
Geordie had given their word of honour to mamma not to touch it without
leave.

Then a new idea struck me. Instead of rushing round like the
others--like the boys that is to say, for by this time Esme had dropped
in front of the porch, whence Zenia Trevor had dragged her in, and she
was now sobbing on Taisy's shoulder--instead of rushing after Roughie, I
'doubled' and _met_ him, my arms outstretched, and using every endearing
and coaxing tone I could think of. And oh, the joy and relief when,
almost dead with exhaustion by now, he flew into my clasp, and, panting
and nearly choking, faintly rubbed his poor little head against me!

'He knows me, he knows me!' I shouted. 'He is not a bit mad; he is only
wild with terror.'

But I had some trouble to get the others to believe me; _their_ fright
had only increased tenfold when they saw me catch him. In some
marvellous way Mr. Trevor had got out the gun--I have always suspected
that Taisy or Hoskins or one of them had already thought of it--and
stood within a few paces of my dog and me. But for my having him in my
arms, he would have made an end of Roughie, and certainly I would never
have told this story.

As it was, for a moment or two he--Mr. Trevor, not the poor pet--was
very angry.

'Miss Lanark!' he shouted, 'you are mad yourself to touch him. Has he
bitten you?' for I was crying so by this time that I had hidden my face
in Rough's coat.

'_Bitten_ me!' I exclaimed, looking up and not caring if Mr. Trevor saw
my tears or not,--'_bitten_ me! How can you imagine such a thing? Look
at him.'

And, indeed, it was a sight to melt any heart and disarm any fears!
Roughie was lying quite still, nestling against me as close as he could
get, only quivering now and then and giving little sobbing sighs, just
as a tiny child does after some violent trouble and crying.

I believe he was already asleep!

Mr. Trevor approached cautiously.

'He--he certainly looks all right now,' he said. 'Can it have been a fit
of some extraordinary kind, then, or what can----'

'There is no mystery about it,' I said, 'except the mystery of how any
one _could_ be so cruel. Didn't you hear the rattling, Mr.
Trevor--didn't you see--_this_?'

And I gave a gentle tug to the string, still firmly fastened to the poor
little man; but gently as I did it, the horrid kettle and things in it
jingled slightly, and at once Roughie opened his eyes and began to
shake.

I soothed him again, but Mr. Trevor did the sensible thing. He laid down
the gun, calling to the boys as they hurried up not to touch it, and
taking out his penknife cut the string, close to the kettle end first,
and then handed the knife to me, to cut the string again where it was
fastened to my dog.

Rolf and Geordie could scarcely speak.

'Who can have done it?' they exclaimed. '_Could_ Esme have been so----'

'Cruel and naughty,' I interrupted,--'yes, I am afraid so, though I
_couldn't_ have believed it of her. Geordie, pick up the kettle please,
without jingling if you can help it, and please throw away the horrid
things that are in it.'

'No, no, don't throw them away!' exclaimed a newcomer on the scene.
'They're my nails and screws.'

It was Denzil.

'And my kettle,' said poor Rolf, rather dolefully, for he was proud of
his cooking stove and all its neat arrangements, and the kettle looked
nearly as miserable for a kettle as Roughie did for a little dog!

I turned upon Denzil very sharply, I am afraid.

'Did you know of it, then?' I said.

Poor Denzil looked very frightened.

'In course not, Ida,' he said. 'I came out to ask Esme for my nails. She
had a lot of them in her blouse pockets, and she got tired of helping me
and forgot to give me them back.'

'I'm very sorry,' I said. 'No, I am sure you would never do such a
thing, Den.'

Then I got up, very carefully, not to disturb my poor doggie, who was
really asleep by this time, and we all--Mr. Trevor and the three boys
and I--went to the group in the porch, whose anxiety was already
relieved by seeing us more tranquil again. Taisy had been dying to rush
out to us, but Esme, sobbing in her arms, was not easily disposed of.

She--Esme--had begun an incoherent confession of her misdoings, but now
mamma stopped it.

'Is it all right?' she asked eagerly, speaking to Mr. Trevor. 'The dog
is _not_ mad then? What was it?'

Mr. Trevor glanced, still a little doubtfully, at Roughie in my arms.

'I--yes, I think he is all right again,' he replied. 'He certainly
recognised his mistress's voice, which is the best sign. I do not think
it was any kind of fit; it was just terror. He must be a nervous little
creature.'

'Yes,' said Rolf; 'he is awfully nervous, though he is not cowardly.'

'A fine distinction, as applied to a dog,' said Mr. Trevor smiling. 'But
if--you all knew it, how----'

A howl--really it was a howl--from Esme interrupted him.

'Oh, I know, I know!' she wailed. 'It was all my fault. But I only meant
to tease him and make him run. I didn't mean--oh, Ida, I didn't mean--to
make him go mad. Will you ever forgive me? Rough will never look at me
again, I know.'

She was mistaken. The prettiest thing happened just then: Roughie,
placidly asleep, though giving little quivers and sobs still, was
awakened by the noise she made. He opened his eyes, and his mouth--what
Denzil called 'smiling'--a little; I think he meant to give a friendly
lick, but finding nothing handy for this, he contented himself with a
very cheerful tail-wagging, first glancing up at Esme, who was bending
over him, as much as to say, 'I do forgive you heartily.'

I have always said that dogs--nice dogs--are sorry for people when they
see them crying. Since that day I have been sure of it.

But the first effect of Rough's magnanimity was to bring forth another
burst of sobs and tears from poor Esme.

Yes, I too forgave her from that moment.

'Oh, Ida! oh, mamma! oh, everybody!' she cried, 'do forgive me! You see
_he_ does.'

So now we fell to petting and soothing her; it never took very long to
get up Esme's spirits again, happily. Before bedtime, except for
reddened eyes, you would not have known there had been anything the
matter, but from that day to this Roughie has had no kinder or truer
friend than her.

We were all feeling rather overstrained. Mr. Trevor, I _fancy_, a little
ashamed of the great fuss he had made, though perhaps I should scarcely
speak of it like that, and I think we all felt glad when mamma said
brightly--

'Well--all is well that ends well! Will you join us at our schoolroom
tea and forgive its being rather a scramble after all this upset?' She
turned to the Trevors, but before they had time to reply there came a
half-laughing but rather distressed appeal from Mrs. Trevor.

'My dears,' she said, addressing everybody as far as I could make out,
'will some of you disentangle me? The dogs and I have all got mixed up
together--naughty, naughty!' and she switched powerlessly with a
knitting needle at the poodles, who this time were really enjoying
themselves in a good ball-of-wool chase, as the excitement of Rough's
strange behaviour had actually made the old lady leave off knitting for
fully five minutes!

It was quite impossible not to laugh, but Mrs. Trevor herself laughed as
heartily as any one, and at last, by turning her round and round as if
we were playing at blind man's buff, and catching up first one poodle
and then another, we got her free.

And of course the wool looked none the worse!

That laughing set us all still more at our ease, and by the time we had
sobered down, Hoskins appeared to announce tea. And after the kind
Trevors had said good-bye and gone, Denzil set us off laughing again by
announcing in his solemn way that he didn't believe Mr. Trevor was at
all ill; he ate such a lot of buttered toast!

This affair of poor little Roughie was, I think, the most exciting thing
that happened to us all that spring and summer at the Hut. And though
everybody, starting with the good-natured wee man himself, forgave Esme
thoroughly, we were none of us allowed to _forget_ it. For my dog
behaved in the funniest way. Nothing for at least a fortnight would
persuade him to leave my room, where he installed himself in what he
evidently thought a fortress of security, under the bed. And he would
only come out if I called him, and then expected me to hold him in my
arms as if he were a baby, which, as you can understand, was not very
convenient.

But by degrees he got over it, and became his own happy little self
again.

I think it was the very day after this thrilling experience that we got
another really cheering and hopeful letter from papa. And once this
happier turn of things began, it kept on pretty steadily; the only
drawback to our thankfulness being that he could name no date--no
_probable_ one even--for his return. So the lengthening days followed
each other till we got to midsummer, and then came July and August,
specially lovely months that year, during which the sun looked down on a
busy and happy party in the queer encampment that was our home for the
time.

In September Rolf left us for the big school he was bound for. We missed
him sadly, though we had the cheering _hope_ that his aunt would let him
come to us again for the winter holidays.

And so she did!

A few days before Christmas he and Taisy--Taisy had spent the autumn
with her grandmother--arrived again, together this time, though less
like snails, as they had left their houses behind them when they went
away. And some changes in the arrangements were made. Taisy had
Geordie's room, and Geordie, to his great delight, took up his quarters
in her waggon, as mamma did not like the idea of a girl's being
outside--even though so near--through the long, dark nights. It was not
a cold winter; it is never very cold at Eastercove, and where the Hut
stands it seems even milder than higher up. So Rolf stuck to his tent,
and was very pleased to have an excuse for keeping his patent stove
going all the time. Those holidays came to an end only too soon.

In March, just about a year after he had left, came the news of papa's
return being fixed for June. It all fitted in. The Trevors had taken the
house for twelve months, and with the fine weather meant to go back to
their own home in the north. And now there was no talk of letting our
dear home again, or, as far as we could see, of ever leaving it except
for pleasant reasons. But we kept the Hut just as it was, for papa to
see. Rolf would not even have his tent moved till after that summer, and
Taisy's waggon is to this day somewhere about the premises, and mamma
still has her movable 'boudoir' wheeled about to different parts of the
grounds, as it suits her.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is nearly three years since I made the last entry in my 'Hut' diary,
from which I have written out this history of 'The House that Grew.' How
I came to do so I will explain.

We have been through some very anxious times lately about Rolf. He is a
soldier, and very soon after he got his commission his regiment went to
India, and he with it. I will not tell the particulars, as he might not
like it, but he 'came in' almost at once for some _very_ active service,
up in some of those dreadfully out-of-the-way places, where there are so
often disturbances with the natives, which in England do not attract
much attention, unless you happen to have close personal interest in
what is happening, as we had, for Rolf had become almost like another
brother to us, spending half his holidays at Eastercove. And
Geordie--oh, I forgot to say he _did_ get the scholarship!--and he, by a
happy coincidence, had been at school together.

Well--one sad day there came news that Rolf was badly wounded. We have
been waiting and waiting--and I think the anxiety 'got on my nerves,' as
people say. For one day mamma spoke seriously to me, when she found me
sitting idle, just longing for letters.

'Ida, dear,' she said, 'you must get something to do--something _extra_,
I mean, to interest you.'

And after talking a little, the idea of writing out my 'Hut' diary came
into my head, and, as you see, I have done it!

       *       *       *       *       *

And I have been, if I deserved to be so, rewarded for following mamma's
advice.

Rolf is coming home--on leave--'invalided,' it is true, but his wound is
not so bad as reported; indeed, according to _him_, not bad at all!

Papa and Dods are just off to Southampton to meet him and bring him
straight here.


THE END




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End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House That Grew, by Mrs. Molesworth

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