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Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl

by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #18666 · 462,499 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl

Author: L. T. Meade


        
Release date: June 23, 2006 [eBook #18666]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18666

Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POLLY: A NEW-FASHIONED GIRL ***




Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net





POLLY
A NEW-FASHIONED GIRL

BY
L. T. MEADE

Author of "A World of Girls," "Daddy's Girl,"
"Light of the Morning," "Palace Beautiful,"
"A Girl in Ten Thousand," etc.

NEW YORK
THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY
1910

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration: Polly]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"But if thou wilt be constant then,
  And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen
  And famous by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
  Was never heard before:
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays
  And love thee evermore."

                         --James Graham.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CONTENTS

PART I
CHAPTER I.     A GREAT MISFORTUNE.                 1
CHAPTER II.    ALL ABOUT THE FAMILY.               4
CHAPTER III.   "BE BRAVE, DEAR."                   6
CHAPTER IV.    QUITE A NEW SORT OF SCHEME.        10
CHAPTER V.     A SAFETY-VALVE.                    13
CHAPTER VI.    POLLY'S RAID.                      16
CHAPTER VII.   THE GROWN-UPS.                     19
CHAPTER VIII.  SHOULD THE STRANGERS COME?         24
CHAPTER IX.    LIMITS.                            28
CHAPTER X.     INDIGESTION WEEK.                  32
CHAPTER XI.    A--WAS AN APPLE PIE.               36
CHAPTER XII.   POTATOES--MINUS POINT.             42
CHAPTER XIII.  IN THE ATTIC.                      45
CHAPTER XIV.   AUNT MARIA.                        50
CHAPTER XV.    PUNISHMENT.                        55
CHAPTER XVI.   DR. MAYBRIGHT _versus_ SCORPION.   60
CHAPTER XVII.  WHERE ARE THE CHILDREN?            64
CHAPTER XVIII. THE WIFE OF MICAH JONES.           68
CHAPTER XIX.   DISTRESSED HEROINES.               73
CHAPTER XX.    LIMITS.                            75
CHAPTER XXI.   THE HIGH MOUNTAINS.                78

PART II
CHAPTER I.     A COUPLE OF BARBARIANS.            82
CHAPTER II.    A YOUNG QUEEN.                     86
CHAPTER III.   NOT LIKE OTHERS.                   94
CHAPTER IV.    A YOUNG AUSTRALIAN.                98
CHAPTER V.     FORSAKEN.                         103
CHAPTER VI.    WITHOUT HER TREASURE.             108
CHAPTER VII.   MAGGIE TO THE RESCUE.             113
CHAPTER VIII.  THE HERMIT'S HUT.                 117
CHAPTER IX.    AN OLD SONG.                      121
CHAPTER X.     LOOKING AT HERSELF.               126
CHAPTER XI.    THE WORTH OF A DIAMOND.           131
CHAPTER XII.   RELICS AND A WELCOME.             135
CHAPTER XIII.  VERY ROUGH WEATHER.               139
CHAPTER XIV.   A NOVEL HIDING-PLACE.             144
CHAPTER XV.    A DILEMMA.                        149
CHAPTER XVI.   FIREFLY.                          151
CHAPTER XVII.  TO THE RESCUE.                    155
CHAPTER XVIII. OH, FIE! POLLY.                   159
CHAPTER XIX.   ONE YEAR AFTER.                   165

------------------------------------------------------------------------




POLLY:
A NEW-FASHIONED GIRL.

CHAPTER I.

A GREAT MISFORTUNE.


It was an intensely hot July day--not a cloud appeared in the high blue
vault of the sky; the trees, the flowers, the grasses, were all
motionless, for not even the gentlest zephyr of a breeze was abroad; the
whole world seemed lapped in a sort of drowsy, hot, languorous slumber.
Even the flowers bowed their heads a little weariedly, and the birds
after a time ceased singing, and got into the coolest and most shady
parts of the great forest trees. There they sat and talked to one
another of the glorious weather, for they liked the heat, although it
made them too lazy to sing.

It was an open plain of country, and although there were clumps of trees
here and there, great clumps with cool shade under them, there were also
acres and acres of common land on which the sun beat remorselessly. This
land was covered with heather, not yet in flower, and with bracken,
which was already putting on its autumn glory of yellow and red. Neither
the bracken nor the heather minded the July heat, but the butterflies
thought it a trifle uncomfortable, and made for the clumps of trees, and
looked longingly and regretfully at what had been a noisy, babbling
little brook, but was now a dry and stony channel, deserted even by the
dragon-flies.

At the other side of the brook was a hedge, composed principally of wild
roses and hawthorn bushes, and beyond the hedge was a wide dyke, and at
the top of the dyke a wire paling, and beyond that again, a good-sized
vegetable garden.

From the tops of the trees, had any one been energetic enough to climb
up there, or had any bird been sufficiently endowed with curiosity to
glance his bright eyes in that direction, might have been seen smoke,
ascending straight up into the air, and proceeding from the kitchen
chimneys of a square-built gray house.

The house was nearly covered with creepers, and had a trellis porch,
sheltering and protecting its open hall-door. Pigeons were cooing near,
and several dogs were lying flat out in the shade which the wide eaves
of the house afforded. There was a flower garden in front, and a wide
gravel sweep, and a tennis court and croquet lawn, and a rose arbor, and
even a great, wide, cool-looking tent. But as far as human life was
concerned the whole place looked absolutely deserted. The pigeons cooed
languidly, and the dogs yapped and yawned, and made ferocious snaps at
audacious and troublesome flies. But no one handled the tennis bats, nor
took up the croquet mallets; no one stopped to admire the roses, and no
one entered the cool, inviting tent. The whole place might have been
dead, as far as human life was concerned; and although the smoke did
ascend straight up from the kitchen chimney, a vagrant or a tramp might
have been tempted to enter the house by the open hall door, were it not
protected by the lazy dogs.

Up, however, by the hedge, at the other side of the kitchen garden,
could be heard just then the crackle of a bough, the rustle of a dress,
and a short, smothered, impatient exclamation. And had anyone peered
very close they would have seen lying flat in the long grasses a tall,
slender, half-grown girl, with dark eyes and rosy cheeks, and tangled
curly rebellious locks. She had one arm raised, and was drawing herself
deliberately an inch at a time along the smooth grass. Several birds had
taken refuge in this fragrant hedge of hawthorn and wild roses. They
were talking to one another, keeping up a perpetual chatter; but
whenever the girl stirred a twig, or disturbed a branch, they stopped,
looking around them in alarm, but none of them as yet seeing the prone,
slim figure, which was, indeed, almost covered by the grasses. Perfect
stillness once more--the birds resumed their conversation, and the girl
made another slight movement forward. This time she disturbed no twig,
and interrupted none of the bird gossip. She was near, very near, a
tempting green bough, and on the bough sat two full-grown lovely
thrushes; they were not singing, but were holding a very gentle and
affectionate conversation, sitting close together, and looking at one
another out of their bright eyes, and now and then kissing each other
with that loving little peck which means a great deal in bird life.

The girl felt her heart beating with excitement--the birds were within
a few inches of her--she could see their breasts heaving as they
talked. Her own eyes were as bright as theirs with excitement; she got
quite under them, made a sudden upward, dexterous movement, and laid a
warm, detaining hand on each thrush. The deed was done--the little
prisoners were secured. She gave a low laugh of ecstasy, and sitting
upright in the long grass, began gently to fondle her prey, cooing as
she talked to them, and trying to coax the terrified little prisoners to
accept some kisses from her dainty red lips.

"Poll! Where's Polly Parrot?--Poll--Poll--Poll!" came a chorus of
voices. "Poll, you're wanted at the house this minute. Where are you
hiding?--You're wanted at home this minute! Polly Parrot--where are
you, Polly?"

"Oh, bother!" exclaimed the girl under her breath; "then I must let you
go, darlings, and I never, never had two of you in my arms at the same
moment before. It's always so. I'm always interrupted when I'm enjoying
ecstasy. Well, good-by, sweets. Be happy--bless you, darlings!"

She blew a kiss to the released and delighted thrushes, and stood
upright, looking very lanky and cross and disreputable, with bits of
grass and twig sticking in her hair, and messing and staining her faded,
washed cotton frock.

"Now, what are you up to, you scamps?--can't you let a body be?"

"Oh, Polly!"

Two little figures came tumbling down the gravel walk at the other side
of the wire fence. They were hot and panting, and both destitute of
hats.

"Polly, you're wanted at the house. Helen says so; there's a b-b-baby
come. Polly Perkins--Poll Parrot, you'd better come home at once,
there's a new b-b-baby just come!"

"A _what_?" said Polly. She vaulted the dyke, cleared the fence, and
kneeling on the ground beside her two excited, panting little brothers,
flung a hot, detaining arm round each.

"A baby! it isn't true, Bunny? it isn't true, Bob? A real live baby? Not
a doll! a baby that will scream and wriggle up its face! But it can't
be. Oh, heavenly! oh, delicious! But it can't be true, it can't! You're
always making up stories, Bunny!"

"Not this time," said Bunny. "You tell her, Bob--she'll believe you. I
heard it yelling--oh, didn't it yell, just! And Helen came, and said to
send Polly in. Helen was crying, I don't know what about, and she said
you were to go in at once. Why, what is the matter, Poll Parrot?"

"Nothing," said Polly, "only you might have told me about Helen crying
before. Helen never cries unless there's something perfectly awful going
to happen. Stay out in the garden, you two boys--make yourselves sick
with gooseberries, if you like, only don't come near the house, and
don't make the tiniest bit of noise. A new baby--and Helen crying! But
mother--I'll find out what it means from mother!"

Polly had long legs, and they bore her quickly in a swift race or canter
to the house. When she approached the porch the dogs all got up in a
body to meet her; there were seven or eight dogs, and they surrounded
her, impeding her progress.

"Not a bark out of one of you," she said, sternly, "lie down--go to
sleep. If you even give a yelp I'll come out by and by and beat you. Oh,
Alice, what is it? What's the matter?"

A maid servant was standing in the wide, square hall.

"What is it, Alice? What is wrong? There's a new baby--I'm delighted at
that. But why is Helen crying, and--oh!--oh!--what does it mean--you
are crying, too, Alice."

"It's--Miss Polly, I can't tell you," began the girl. She threw her
apron over her head, and sobbed loudly. "We didn't know where you was,
miss--it's, it's--We have been looking for you everywhere, miss. Why,
Miss Polly, you're as white, as white--Don't take on now, miss, dear."

"You needn't say any more," gasped Polly, sinking down into a garden
chair. "I'm not going to faint, or do anything silly. And I'm not going
to cry either. Where's Helen? If there's anything bad she'll tell me.
Oh, do stop making that horrid noise, Alice, you irritate me so
dreadfully!"

Alice dashed out of the open door, and Polly heard her sobbing again,
and talking frantically to the dogs. There was no other sound of any
sort. The intense stillness of the house had a half-stunning,
half-calming effect on the startled child. She rose, and walked slowly
upstairs to the first landing.

"Polly," said her sister Helen, "you've come at last. Where were you
hiding?--oh, poor Polly!"

"Where's mother?" said Polly. "I want her--let me go to her--_let_ me
go to her at once, Nell."

"Oh, Polly----"

Helen's sobs came now, loud, deep, and distressful. There was a new
baby--but no mother for Polly any more.




CHAPTER II.

ALL ABOUT THE FAMILY.


Dr. Maybright had eight children, and the sweetest and most attractive
wife of any man in the neighborhood. He had a considerable country
practice, was popular among his patients, and he and his were adored by
the villagers, for the Maybrights had lived in the neighborhood of the
little village of Tyrsley Dale for many generations. Dr. Maybright's
father had ministered to the temporal wants of the fathers and mothers
of these very same villagers; and his father before him had also been in
the profession, and had done his best for the inhabitants of Tyrsley
Dale. It was little wonder, therefore, that the simple folks who lived
in the little antiquated village on the borders of one of our great
southern moors should have thought that to the Maybrights alone of the
whole race of mankind had been given the art of healing.

For three or four generations the Maybright family had lived at Sleepy
Hollow, which was the name of the square gray house, with its large
vegetable garden, its sheltered clump of forest trees, and its
cultivated flower and pleasure grounds. Here, in the old nursery, Polly
had first opened her bright blue-black eyes; in this house Dr.
Maybright's eight children had lived happily, and enjoyed all the
sunshine of the happiest of happy childhoods to the full. They were all
high-spirited and fearless; each child had a certain amount of
individuality. Perhaps Polly was the naughtiest and the most peculiar;
but her little spurt of insubordination speedily came to nothing, for
mother, without ever being angry, or ever saying anything that could
hurt Polly's sensitive feelings, had always, with firm and gentle hand,
put an extinguisher on them.

Mother was really, then, the life of the house. She was young to have
such tall slips of daughters, and such little wild pickles of sons; and
she was so pretty and so merry, and in such ecstasies over a picnic, and
so childishly exultant when Helen, or Polly, or Katie, won a prize or
did anything the least bit extraordinary, that she was voted the best
playfellow in the world.

Mother was never idle, and yet she was always at leisure, and so she
managed to obtain the confidences of all the children; she thoroughly
understood each individual character, and she led her small brood with
silken reins.

Dr. Maybright was a great deal older than his wife. He was a tall man,
still very erect in his figure, with square shoulders, and a keen,
bright, kindly face. He had a large practice, extending over many miles,
and although he had not the experience which life in a city would have
given him, he was a very clever physician, and many of his brothers in
the profession prophesied eminence for him whenever he chose to come
forward and take it. Dr. Maybright was often absent from home all day
long, sometimes also in the dead of night the children heard his
carriage wheels as they bowled away on some errand of mercy. Polly
always thought of her father as a sort of angel of healing, who came
here, there, and everywhere, and took illness and death away with him.

"Father won't let Josie Wilson die," Polly used to say; or, "What bad
toothache Peter Simpkins has to-day--but when father sees him he will
be all right."

Polly had a great reverence for her father, although she loved her
beautiful young mother best. The children never expected Dr. Maybright
to join in their games, or to be sympathetic over their joys or their
woes. They reverenced him much, they loved him well, but he was too busy
and too great to be troubled by their little concerns. Of course, mother
was different, for mother was part and parcel of their lives.

There were six tall, slim, rather straggling-looking Maybright
girls--all overgrown, and long of limb, and short of frock. Then there
came two podgy boys, greater pickles than the girls, more hopelessly
disreputable, more defiant of all authority, except mother's. Polly was
as bad as her brothers in this respect, but the other five girls were
docility itself compared to these black lambs, whose proper names were
Charley and John, but who never had been called anything, and never
would be called anything in that select circle, but Bunny and Bob.

This was the family; the more refined neighbors rather dreaded them, and
even the villagers spoke of most of them as "wondrous rampageous!" But
Mrs. Maybright always smiled when unfriendly comments reached her ears.

"Wait and see," she would say; "just quietly wait and see--they are
all, every one of them, the sweetest and most healthy-minded children in
the world. Let them alone, and don't interfere with them. I should not
like perfection, it would have nothing to grow to."

Mrs. Maybright taught the girls herself, and the boys had a rather
frightened-looking nursery-governess, who often was seen to rush from
the school-room dissolved in tears; but was generally overtaken half-way
up the avenue by two small figures, nearly throttled by two pairs of
repentant little arms, while eager lips vowed, declared, and
vociferated, that they would never, never be naughty again--that they
would never tease their own sweet, sweetest of Miss Wilsons any more.

Nor did they--until the next time.

Polly was fourteen on that hot July afternoon when she lay on the grass
and skillfully captured the living thrushes, and held them to her
smooth, glowing young cheeks. Her birthday had been over for a whole
fortnight; it had been a day full of delight, love, and happiness, and
mother had said a word or two to the exultant, radiant child at the
close. Something about her putting away some of the childish things, and
taking up the gentler and nobler ways of first young girlhood now. She
thought in an almost undefined way of mother's words as she held the
fluttering thrushes to her lips and kissed their downy breasts. Then had
come the unlooked-for interruption. Polly's life seemed cloudless, and
all of a sudden there appeared a speck in the firmament--a little cloud
which grew rapidly, until the whole heavens were covered with it. Mother
had gone away for ever, and there were now nine children in the old gray
house.




CHAPTER III.

"BE BRAVE, DEAR."


"Wasn't father with her?" Polly had said when she could find her voice
late that evening. "Wasn't father there? I thought father--I always
thought father could keep death away."

She was lying on her pretty white bed when she spoke. She had lain there
now for a couple of days--not crying nor moaning, but very still,
taking no notice of any one. She looked dull and heavy--her sisters
thought her very ill.

Dr. Maybright said to Helen--

"You must be very careful of Polly, she has had a shock, and she may
take some time recovering. I want you to nurse her yourself, Nell, and
to keep the others from the room. For the present, at least, she must be
kept absolutely quiet--the least excitement would be very bad for her."

"Polly never cries," said Helen, whose own blue eyes were swollen almost
past recognition; "she never cries, she does not even moan. I think,
father, what really upset Polly so was when she heard that you--you
were there. Polly thinks, she always did think that you could keep death
away."

Here poor Helen burst into fresh sobs herself.

"I think," she added, choking as she spoke, "that was what quite broke
Polly down--losing mother, and losing faith in your power at the same
time."

"I am glad you told me this, Helen," said Dr. Maybright, quietly. "This
alters the case. In a measure I can now set Polly's heart at rest. I
will see her presently."

"Presently" did not mean that day, nor the next, nor the next, but one
beautiful summer's evening just when the sun was setting, and just when
its long low western rays were streaming into the lattice-window of the
pretty little bower bedroom where Polly lay on her white bed, Dr.
Maybright opened the door and came in. He was a very tall man, and he
had to stoop as he passed under the low, old-fashioned doorway, and as
he walked across the room to Polly's bedside the rays of the setting sun
fell on his face, and he looked more like a beautiful healing presence
than ever to the child. She was lying on her back, with her eyes very
wide open; her face, which had been bright and round and rosy, had grown
pale and small, and her tearless eyes had a pathetic expression. She
started up when she saw her father come in, gave a glad little cry, and
then, remembering something, hid her face in her hands with a moan.

Dr. Maybright sat down in the chair which Helen had occupied the greater
part of the day. He did not take any notice of Polly's moan, but sat
quite still, looking out at the beautiful, glowing July sunset.
Wondering at his stillness, Polly presently dropped her hands from her
face, and looked round at him. Her lips began to quiver, and her eyes to
fill.

"If I were you, Polly," said the doctor, in his most matter-of-fact and
professional manner, "I would get up and come down to tea. You are not
ill, you know. Trouble, even great trouble, is not illness. By staying
here in your room you are adding a little to the burden of all the
others. That is not necessary, and it is the last thing your mother
would wish."

"Is it?" said Polly. The tears were now brimming over in her eyes, but
she crushed back her emotion. "I didn't want to get up," she said, "or
to do anything right any more. She doesn't know--she doesn't hear--she
doesn't care."

"Hush, Polly--she both knows and cares. She would be much better
pleased if you came down to tea to-night. I want you, and so does Helen,
and so do the other girls and the little boys. See, I will stand by the
window and wait, if you dress yourself very quickly."

"Give me my pocket-handkerchief," said Polly. She dashed it to her eyes.
No more tears flowed, and by the time the doctor reached the window he
heard a bump on the floor; there was a hasty scrambling into clothes,
and in an incredibly short time an untidy, haggard-looking, but now
wide-awake, Polly stood by the doctor's side.

"That is right," he said, giving her one of his quick, rare smiles.

He took no notice of the tossed hair, nor the stained, crumpled, cotton
frock.

"Take my arm, Polly," he said, almost cheerfully. And they went down
together to the old parlor where mother would never again preside over
the tea-tray.

It was more than a week since Mrs. Maybright had died, and the others
were accustomed to Helen's taking her place, but the scene was new to
the poor, sore-hearted child who now come in. Dr. Maybright felt her
faltering steps, and knew what her sudden pause on the threshold meant.

"Be brave, dear," he whispered. "You will make it easier for me."

After that Polly would have fought with dragons rather than shed a ghost
of a tear. She slipped into a seat by her father, and crumbled her
bread-and-butter, and gulped down some weak tea, taking care to avoid
any one's eyes, and feeling her own cheeks growing redder and redder.

In mother's time Dr. Maybright had seldom spoken. On many occasions he
did not even put in an appearance at the family tea, for mother herself
and the group of girls kept up such a chatter that, as he said, his
voice would not be heard; now, on the contrary, he talked more than any
one, telling the children one or two most interesting stories on natural
history. Polly was devoted to natural history, and in spite of herself
she suspended her tea-cup in the air while she listened.

"It is almost impossible, I know," concluded Dr. Maybright as he rose
from the table. "But it can be done. Oh, yes, boys, I don't want either
of you to try it, but still it can be done. If the hand is very steady,
and poised in a particular way, then the bird can be caught, but you
must know how to hold him. Yes--what is the matter, Polly?"

"I did it!" burst from Polly, "I caught two of them--darlings--I was
kissing them when--oh, father!"

Polly's face was crimson. All the others were staring at her.

"I want you, my dear," said her father, suddenly and tenderly. "Come
with me."

Again he drew her hand protectingly through his arm, and led her out of
the room.

"You were a very good, brave child at tea-time," he said. "But I
particularly wish you to cry. Tears are natural, and you will feel much
better if you have a good cry. Come upstairs now to Nurse and baby."

"Oh, no, I can't--I really can't see baby!"

"Why not?--She is a dear little child, and when your mother went away
she left her to you all, to take care of, and cherish and love. I think
she thought specially of you, Polly, for you always have been specially
fond of little children. Come to the nursery now with me. I want you to
take care of baby for an hour, while Nurse is at her supper."

Polly did not say another word. The doctor and she went together into
the old nursery, and a moment or two afterwards she found herself
sitting in Nurse's little straw arm-chair, holding a tiny red mite of a
baby on her knee. Mother was gone, and this--this was left in her
place! Oh, what did God mean? thought the woe-begone, broken-hearted
child.

The doctor did not leave the room. He was looking through some books, a
pile of old MS. books in one corner by the window, and had apparently
forgotten all about Polly and the baby. She held the wee bundle without
clasping it to her, or bestowing upon it any endearing or comforting
little touch, and as she looked the tears which had frozen round her
heart flowed faster and faster, dropping on the baby's dress, and even
splashing on her tiny face.

Baby did not like this treatment, and began to expostulate in a fretful,
complaining way. Instantly Polly's motherly instincts awoke; she wiped
her own tears from the baby's face, and raising it in her arms, pressed
its little soft velvet cheek to her own. As she did so, a thrill of warm
comfort stole into her heart.

"Polly," said her father, coming suddenly up to her, "please take good
care of baby till Nurse returns. I must go out now, I have some patients
to see, but I am going to prescribe a special little supper for you,
which Helen is to see you eat before you go to bed. Good-night, dear.
Please ask Nurse, too, if you can do anything in the morning to help her
with baby. Good-night, good-night, both of you. Why the little creature
is quite taking to you, Polly!"

Dr. Maybright was about to leave the room when Polly called him back.

"Father, I must say one thing. I have been in a dreadful, dreadful dream
since mother died. The most dreadful part of my dream, the blackest
part, was about you."

"Yes, Polly, yes, dear."

"You were there, father, and you let her die."

Dr. Maybright put his arm round the trembling child, and drew her and
the baby too close to him.

"Not willingly," he said, in a voice which Polly had never heard him use
before. "Not willingly, my child. It was with anguish I let your mother
go away. But Polly, there was another physician there, greater than I."

"Another?" said Polly.

"Yes, another--and He prescribed Rest, for evermore."

All her life afterwards Polly remembered these words of her father's.
They calmed her great sorrow, and in many ways left her a different
child.




CHAPTER IV.

QUITE A NEW SORT OF SCHEME.


On a certain sunny morning in August, four or five weeks after Mrs.
Maybright's death, six girls stood round Dr. Maybright in his study.
They were all dressed in deep mourning, but it was badly made and
unbecoming, and one and all looked untidy, and a little run to seed.
Their ages were as varied as their faces. Helen, aged sixteen, had a
slightly plump figure, a calm, smooth, oval face, and pretty gentle blue
eyes. Her hair was fair and wavy; she was the tidiest of the group, and
notwithstanding the heavy make of her ugly frock, had a very sweet and
womanly expression. Polly, all angles and awkwardness, came next in
years; she was tall and very slim. Her face was small, her hair nearly
black and very untidy, and her big, dark, restless eyes reflected each
emotion of her mind.

Polly was lolling against the mantelpiece, and restlessly changing her
position from one leg to another; Katie, aged eleven, was something in
Helen's style; then came the twins, Dolly and Mabel, and then a rather
pale child, with a somewhat queer expression, commonly known in the
family as "Firefly." Her real name was Lucy, but no one ever dreamt of
calling her by this gentle title. "Firefly" was almost always in some
sort of disgrace, and scarcely knew what it was not to live in a state
of perpetual mental hot water. It was privately whispered in the family
circle that Polly encouraged her in her naughtiness. Whether that was
the case or not, these two had a kind of quaint, elfish friendship
between them, Firefly in her heart of hearts worshipping Polly, and
obeying her slightest nod or wish.

"I have sent for you, girls," said the Doctor, looking round tenderly at
his six motherless daughters, "to say that I have talked over matters
with Helen, and for the present at least, I am willing to give her plan
a trial. I think she is right when she tells me that if it turns out
successful nothing would please your mother more. It entirely depends on
yourselves whether it succeeds or fails. If you are agreeable to try it,
you can come to me to-morrow at this hour and tell me so. Now good-by,
my dears. Helen will explain everything to you. Helen, I shall not be in
for early dinner. Good-by, good-by to you all."

The Doctor nodded, looked half-abstractedly at the upturned young faces,
pushed his way through the little group, and taking up a parcel of
papers and a surgical case which lay near, went straight to his
carriage, which was heard immediately afterwards to bowl quickly down
the avenue.

The moment he was gone Helen was surrounded by a clamorous group.

"What is it, Nell? oh, do tell us--tell us quickly," said they, one and
all.

"I thought Helen looked very important these last few days," said Dolly.
"Do tell us what it is, Nell, and what the plan is we are all to agree
to."

"It sounds rather nice to be asked to agree to things," said Firefly.
"What's the matter, Poll? You look grumpy."

"I think Helen may be allowed to speak," said Polly. "Go on, Nell, out
with the budget of news. And you young ones, you had better not
interrupt her, for if you do, I'll pay you out by-and-by. Now, Nell.
Speak, Nell."

"It's this," said Helen.

She seated herself on the window-ledge, and Polly stood, tall and
defiant, at her back. Firefly dropped on her knees in front, and the
others lolled about anyhow.

"It's this," she said. "Father would like to carry on our education as
much in mother's way as possible. And he says that he is willing, for a
time at least, to do without having a resident elderly governess to live
with us."

"Oh, good gracious!" exclaimed Polly, "was there ever such an idea
thought of?"

"She'd have spectacles," said Dolly.

"And a hooked nose," remarked Katie.

"And she'd be sure to squint, and have false teeth, and I'd hate her,"
snapped Firefly, putting on her most vindictive face.

"Well, it's what's generally done," said Helen, in her grave, sad,
steady, young voice. "You remember the Brewsters when they--they had
their great sorrow--how an elderly governess came, and Aunt Maria
Cameron has written to father about two already. She speaks of them as
treasures; father showed me the letters. He says he supposes it is quite
the usual thing, and he asked me what I'd like. Poor father, you see he
must be out all day with the sick folks."

"Of course," murmured Polly. "Well, what did you answer him about the
old horrors, Nell?"

"One seemed rather nice," said Helen. "She was about forty-five, and had
thin grayish hair. Aunt Maria sent her photograph, and said that she was
a treasure, and that father ought not to lose an hour in securing her.
Her name was Miss Jenkins."

"Jenkins or Jones, I'd have given her sore bones," spitefully improvised
Firefly.

"Well, she's not to come," continued Helen, "at least, not at present.
For I have persuaded father to let us try the other plan. He says all
our relations will be angry with him; of course, he is not likely to
care for that. This is what we are to try, girls, if you are agreeable.
Father is going to get the very best daily governess from Nettleship to
come here every morning. She will stay until after early dinner, and
then George will drive her back to town in the pony trap. And then Mr.
Masters is to come twice a week, as usual, about our music, and Mr.
Danvers for drawing. And Miss Wilson is to stay here most of the day to
look after Bunny and Bob. That is a much better arrangement than having
a resident governess, is it not?"

"Yes," said three or four voices, but Polly was silent, and Firefly,
eagerly watching her face, closed her own resolute lips.

"That is part of father's plan," continued Helen. "But the other, and
more important part is this. I am to undertake the housekeeping. Father
says he would like Polly to help me a little, but the burden and
responsibility of the whole thing rests on me. And also, girls, father
says that there must be some one in absolute authority. There must be
some one who can settle disputes, and keep things in order, and so he
says that unless you are all willing to do what I ask you to do, the
scheme must still fall through, and we must be like the Brewsters or any
other unhappy girls whose mothers are no longer with them, and have our
resident governess."

"I know you won't like to obey me," continued Helen, looking anxiously
round, "but I don't think I'll be hard on you. No, I am sure I shall not
be hard on any of you."

"That remains to be proved," said Polly. "I don't think I like that
plan. I won't give any answer at present--I'll think about it. Come
along, Fly," she nodded to her younger sister, and then, lifting the
heavy bottom sash of the window where Helen had been sitting, stepped
lightly out, followed by the obedient Firefly.

"I don't want to obey Nell," said the little sister, clasping two of
Polly's fingers with her thin, small hand. "If it was you, Poll Parrot,
it would be a different thing, but I don't want to obey Nell. I don't
think it's fair; she's only my sister, like the rest of them. There's
nothing said in the Catechism about obeying sisters. It's only fathers
and mothers, and spiritual pastors and masters."

"And all those put in authority over you," proceeded Polly, shaking her
fingers free, and facing round on Firefly, in a way which caused that
young person to back several inches. "If Helen once gets the authority
the Catechism is on her side, not on yours."

"But I needn't promise, need I?" pouted Firefly. "If it was you, it
would be different. I always did what you wanted me to do, Polly
Perkins."

"Of course you did," responded Polly, in a most contemptuous voice.
"Will a duck swim? I led you into mischief--of course you followed.
Well, Fly, it rests with yourself. Don't obey our dear, good, gentle
Nelly, and you'll have Miss Jenkins here. Won't it be fun to see her
squinting at you over her spectacles when she returns your
spelling-lessons. Bread and water will be your principal diet most of
the week. Well, good-by now; I'm off to baby."

Polly took to her heels, and Firefly stood for a moment or two looking
utterly miserable and irresolute on the wide gravel walk in the center
of the flower-garden. She felt very much inclined to stamp her feet and
to screw up her thin little face into contortions of rage. Even very
little girls, however, won't go into paroxysms of anger when there is no
one there to see. Firefly's heart was very sore, for Polly, her idol,
had spoken to her almost roughly.

"I wish mother wasn't in heaven," she murmured in a grieved little
voice, and then she turned and walked back to the house. The nearer she
approached the study window the faster grew her footsteps. At last, like
a little torrent, she vaulted back into the room, and flung her arms
noisily round Helen's neck.

"I'll obey you, darling Nell," she said. "I'd much rather have you than
Miss Jenkins."

And then she sobbed aloud, and really shook herself, for she felt still
so angry with Polly.

"That's a good little Fly," said Helen, kissing her affectionately in
return, and putting her arm round her waist, so as to establish her
comfortably on her knee. The other girls were all lying about in
different easy attitudes, and Firefly joined in the general talk, and
found herself much comforted.




CHAPTER V.

A SAFETY-VALVE.


"Fly caved in, didn't she?" said Polly to her eldest sister that night.

"Yes, poor little mite, she did, in a touching way," said Helen; "but
she seemed in trouble about something. You know how reserved she is
about her feelings, but when she sat on my knee she quite sobbed."

"I was rather brutal to her," said Polly, in a nonchalant tone, flinging
up the sash of the bedroom window as she spoke, and indulging in a
careless whistle.

It was bed-time, but the girls were tempted by the moonlight night to
sit up and look out at the still, sweet beauty, and chatter together.

"How could you be unkind to her?" said Helen, in a voice of dismay.
"Polly, dear, do shut that window again, or you will have a sore throat.
How could you be unkind to poor little Fly, Poll, when she is so devoted
to you?"

"The very reason," said Polly. "She'd never have gone over to you if I
hadn't. I saw rebellion in that young 'un's eye--that was why I called
her out. I was determined to nip it in the bud."

"But you rebelled yourself?"

"Yes, and I mean to go on rebelling. I am not Fly."

"Well, Polly," said Helen, suppressing a heavy sigh on her own account;
"you know I don't want you a bit to obey me. I am not a mistressing sort
of girl, and I like to consult you about things, and I want us both to
feel more or less as equals. Still father says there are quite two years
between us, and that the scheme cannot be worked at all unless some one
is distinctly at the head. He particularly spoke of you, Polly, and said
that if you would not agree we must go back to the idea of Miss Jenkins,
or that he will let this house for a time, and send us all to school."

"A worse horror than the other," said Polly. "I wouldn't be a
school-girl for all you could give me! Why, the robin's nest might be
discovered by some one else, and my grubs and chrysalides would come to
perfection without me. No, no; rather than that--can't we effect a
compromise, Nell?"

"What is it?" asked Helen. "You know _I_ am willing to agree to
anything. It is father."

"Oh, yes; poor Nell, you're the meekest and mildest of mortals. Now,
look here, wouldn't this be fun?"

Polly's black eyes began to dance.

"You know how fond I always was of housekeeping. Let me housekeep every
second week. Give me the money and let me buy every single thing and pay
for it, and don't interfere with me whatever I do. I'll promise to be as
good as gold always, and obey you in every single thing, if only I have
this safety-valve. Let me expend myself upon the housekeeping, and I'll
be as good, better than gold. I'll help you, and be your right hand,
Nell; and I'll obey you in the most public way before all the other
girls, and as to Fly, see if I don't keep her in hand. What do you think
of this plan, Nell? I, with my safety-valve, the comfort of your life, a
sort of general to keep your forces in order."

"But you really can't housekeep, Polly. Of course I'd like to please
you, and father said himself you were to help me in the house. But to
manage everything--why, it frightens me, and I am two years older."

"But you have so very little spirit, darling. Now it doesn't frighten me
a bit, and that's why I'm so certain I shall succeed splendidly. Look
here, Nell, let me speak to father, myself; if he says 'yes,' you won't
object, will you?"

"Of course not," said Helen.

"You are a darling--I'll soon bring father round. Now, shall we go to
bed?--I am so sleepy."

The next morning at breakfast Polly electrified her brothers and sisters
by the very meek way in which she appealed to Helen on all occasions.

"Do you think, Nell, that I ought to have any more of this marmalade on
fresh bread? I ate half a pot yesterday on three or four slices of hot
bread from the oven, and felt quite a dizzy stupid feeling in my head
afterwards."

"Of course, how could you expect it to agree with you, Polly?" said
Helen, looking up innocently from her place at the tea-tray.

"Had better have a little of this stale bread-and-butter then, dear?"
proceeded Polly in a would-be anxious tone.

"Yes, if you will, dear. But you never like stale bread-and-butter."

"I'll eat it if you wish me to, Helen," answered Polly, in a very meek,
good little voice.

The two boys began to chuckle, and even Dr. Maybright looked at his
second daughter in a puzzled, abstracted way. Helen, too, colored
slightly, and wondered what Polly meant. But the young lady herself
munched her stale bread with the most immovable of faces, and even held
up the slice for Helen to scrutinize, with the gentle, good little
remark--"Have I put too much butter on it, Nell? It isn't right to
waste nice good butter, is it?"

"Oh, Polly, how dreadful you are?" said Fly.

"What do you mean?" said Polly, fiercely.

She dropped her meek manners, gave one quick glare at the small speaker,
and then half turning her back on her, said in the gentlest of voices,
"What would you like me to do this morning, Helen? Shall I look over my
history lesson for an hour, and then practise scales on the piano?"

"You may do just as you please, as far as I am concerned," replied
Helen, who felt that this sort of obedience was far worse for the others
than open rebellion. "I thought you wanted to see father, Polly. He has
just gone into his study, and perhaps he will give you ten minutes, if
you go to him at once."

This speech of Helen's caused Polly to forget her role of the meek,
obedient martyr. Her brow cleared.

"Thank you for reminding me, Nell," she said, in her natural voice, and
for a moment later she was knocking at the Doctor's study door.

"Come in," he said. And when the untidy head and somewhat neglected
person of his second daughter appeared, Dr. Maybright walked towards
her.

"I am going out, Polly, do you want me?" he said.

"Yes, it won't take a minute," said Polly, eagerly. "May I housekeep
every second week instead of Nell? Will you give me the money instead of
her, and let me pay for everything, and buy the food. I am awfully
interested in eggs and butter, and I'll give you splendid puddings and
cakes. Please say yes, father--Nell is quite willing, if you are."

"How old are you, Polly?" said Dr. Maybright.

He put his hand under Polly's chin and raised her childish face to
scrutinize it closely.

"What matter about my age," she replied; "I'm fourteen in body--I'm
twenty in mind--and as to housekeeping, I'm thirty, if not forty."

"That head looks very like thirty, if not forty," responded the Doctor
significantly. "And that dress," glancing at where the hem was torn, and
where the body gaped open for want of sufficient hooks, "looks just the
costume I should recommend for the matron of a large establishment. Do
you know what it means to housekeep for this family, Polly?"

"Buy the bread and butter, and the meat, and the poultry, and the tea,
and the sugar, and the citron, and raisins, and allspice, and nutmegs,
and currants, and flour, and brick-bat, and hearthstone,
and--and----"

Dr. Maybright put his fingers to his ears. "Spare me any more," said he,
"I never ask for items. There are in this house, Polly, nine children,
myself, and four servants. That makes in all fourteen people. These
people have to be fed and clothed, and some of them have to be paid
wages too; they have to be warmed, they have to be kept clean, in short,
all their comforts of body have to be attended to; one of them requires
one thing, one quite another. For instance, the dinner which would be
admirably suited to you would kill baby, and might not be best for
Firefly, who is not strong, and has to be dieted in a particular way. I
make it a rule that servants' wages and all articles consumed in the
house are paid for weekly. Whoever housekeeps for me has to undertake
all this, and has to make a certain sum of money cover a certain
expenditure. Now do you think, Polly--do you honestly think--that you,
an ignorant little girl of fourteen, a very untidy and childish little
girl, can undertake this onerous post? I ask you to answer me quite
honestly--if you undertake it, are you in the least likely to succeed?"

"Oh, father, I know you mean to crush me when you speak like that; but
you know you told Helen that you would like her to try to manage the
housekeeping."

"I did--and, as I know you are fond of domestic things, I meant you to
help her a little. Helen is two years older than you, and--not the
least like you, Polly."

Polly tossed her head.

"I know that," she said. "Helen takes twice as long learning her
lessons. Try my French beside hers, father; or my German, or my music."

"Or your forbearance--or your neatness," added the Doctor.

Here he sighed deeply.

"I miss your mother, Polly," he said. "And poor, poor child! so do you.
There, I can't waste another minute of my time with you now. Come to my
study this evening at nine, and we will discuss the matter further."




CHAPTER VI.

POLLY'S RAID.


Polly spent some hours of that day in a somewhat mysterious occupation.
Instead of helping, as she had done lately, in quite an efficient way,
with the baby, for she was a very bright child, and could be most
charming and attractive to the smallest living creature when she chose,
she left nurse and the little brown-eyed baby to their own devices, and
took up a foraging expedition through the house. She called it her raid,
and Polly's raid proved extremely disturbing to the domestic economy of
the household. For instance, when Susan, the very neat housemaid, had
put all the bedrooms in perfect order, and was going to her own room to
change her dress and make herself tidy, it was very annoying to hear
Polly, in a peremptory tone, desiring her to give her the keys of the
linen-press.

"For," said that young lady, "I'm going to look through the towels this
morning, Susan, to see which of them want darning, and you had better
stay with me, to take away those that have thin places in them."

"Oh, dear me, Miss Polly," said Susan, rather pertly, "the towels is
seen to in the proper rotation. You needn't be a fretting your head
about 'em, miss. This ain't the morning for the linen-press, miss. It's
done at its proper time and hour."

"Give me the key at once, Susan, and don't answer," said Polly. "There,
hold your apron--I'll throw the towels in. What a lot--I don't believe
we want half as many. When I take the reins of office next week, I'll
put away quite half of these towels. There can't be waste going on in
the house--I won't have it, not when I housekeep, at any rate. Susan,
wasn't that a little round speck of a hole in that towel? Ah, I thought
so. You put it aside, Susan, you'll have to darn it this afternoon. Now
then, let me see, let me see."

Polly worked vigorously through the towels, holding them up to the light
to discover their thin places, pinching them in parts, and feeling their
texture between her finger and thumb. In the end she pronounced about a
dozen unworthy of domestic service, and Susan was desired to spend her
afternoon in repairing them.

"I can't, then, Miss Polly," said the much injured housemaid. "It ain't
neither the day nor the hour, and I haven't got one scrap of proper
darning thread left."

"I'll go to the village, then, and get some," said Polly. "It's only a
mile away. Things can't be neglected--it isn't right. Take the towels,
Susan, and let me find them mended to-morrow morning;" and the young
lady tripped off with a very bright color in her cheeks, and the key of
the linen-press in her pocket.

Her next visit was to the kitchen regions.

"Oh, Mrs. Power," she said to the cook, "I've come to see the stores. It
isn't right that they shouldn't be looked into, is it, in case of
anything falling short. Fancy if you were run out of pearl barley, Mrs.
Power, or allspice, or nutmegs, or mace. Oh, dear, it makes me quite
shiver to think of it! What a mess you would be in, if you hadn't all
your ingredients handy, in case you were making a plum-cake, or some of
those dear little tea-cakes, or a custard, or something of that sort.
Now, if you'll just give me the keys, we'll pay a visit to the
store-room, and see what is likely to be required. I have my tablet
here, and I can write the order as I look through."

Mrs. Power was a red-faced and not a very good-humored woman. She was,
however, an excellent cook and a careful, prudent servant. Mrs.
Maybright had found her, notwithstanding her very irascible temper, a
great comfort, for she was thoroughly honest and conscientious, but even
from her late mistress Mrs. Power would never brook much interference;
it is therefore little to be wondered at that Polly's voluminous speech
was not very well received.

Mrs. Power's broad back was to the young lady, as she danced gleefully
into the kitchen, and it remained toward her, with one ear just slightly
turned in her direction, all the time she was speaking.

Mrs. Power was busy at the moment removing the fat from a large vessel
full of cold soup. She has some pepper and salt, and nutmegs and other
flavoring ingredients on the table beside her, and when Polly's speech
came to a conclusion she took up the pepper canister and certainly
flavored the soup with a very severe dose.

"If I was you, I'd get out of the hot kitchen, child--I'm busy, and not
attending to a word you're talking about."

No answer could have been more exasperating to Polly. She, too, had her
temper, and had no idea of being put down by twenty Mrs. Powers.

"Take care, you're spoiling the soup," she said. "That's twice too much
pepper--and oh, what a lot of salt! Don't you know, Mrs. Power, that
it's very wicked to waste good food in that way--it is, really, perhaps
you did not think of it in that light, but it is. I'm afraid you can't
ever have attended any cookery classes, Mrs. Power, or you'd know better
than to put all that pepper into that much soup. Why it ought to be--it
ought to be--let me see, I think it's the tenth of an ounce to half a
gallon of soup. I'm not quite sure, but I'll look up the cookery
lectures and let you know. Now, where's the key of the store-room--we'd
better set to work for the morning is going on, and I have a great deal
on my hands. Where's the key of the store-room, Mrs. Power?"

"There's only one key that I know much about at the present moment,"
replied the exasperated cook, "and that's the key of the kitchen-door;
come, child--I'm going to put you on the other side of it;" and so
saying, before Polly was in the least aware of her intention, she was
caught up in Mrs. Power's stalwart arms, and placed on the flags outside
the kitchen, while the door was boldly locked in her face.

This was really a check, almost a checkmate, and for a time Polly quite
shook with fury, but after a little she sufficiently recovered herself
to reflect that the reins of authority had not yet been absolutely
placed in her hands, and it might be wisest for her to keep this defeat
to herself.

"Poor old Power! you won't be here long when I'm housekeeper," reflected
Polly. "It would not be right--you're not at all a good servant. Why, I
know twice as much already as you do."

She went slowly upstairs, and going to the school-room, where the girls
were all busying themselves in different fashions, sat down by her own
special desk, and made herself very busy dividing a long old-fashioned
rosewood box into several compartments by means of stout cardboard
divisions. She was really a clever little maid in her own way, and the
box when finished looked quite neat. Each division was labeled, and
Polly's cheeks glowed as she surveyed her handiwork.

"What a very queer box," said Dolly, coming forward. "What are you so
long about, Poll Parrot? And, oh, what red cheeks!"

"Never you mind," said Polly, shutting up her box. "It's finished now,
and quite ready for father to see to-night. I'm going to become a very
important personage, Miss Doll--so you'd better begin to treat me with
respect. Oh, dear, where's the cookery book? Helen, do you know where
the "Lectures on Elementary Cookery" is? Just fancy, Nell, cook doesn't
know how much pepper should go to a gallon of soup! Did you ever hear of
such shameful ignorance?"

"Why, you surely have not been speaking to her on the subject?" said
Helen, who was busily engaged darning Bunny's socks; she raised her head
and looked at Polly in some surprise as she spoke.

"Oh, have I not, though?" Polly's charming, merry face twinkled all
over.

"I saw Susan crying just now," interposed Mabel. "She said Polly had
been--why, what is the matter, Poll?"

"Nothing," said Poll, "only if I were you, Mabel, I wouldn't tell tales
out of school. I'm going to be a person of importance, so if you're
wise, all of you, you'll keep at my blind side. Oh dear! where is that
cookery book? Girls, you may each tell me what puddings you like best,
and what cake, and what dish for breakfast, and----"

But here the dinner gong put an end to a subject of much interest.




CHAPTER VII.

THE GROWN-UPS.


In the evening Polly had her interview with her father. Dr. Maybright
had gone through a long and fatiguing day; some anxious cases caused him
disquiet, and his recent sorrow lay heavily against his heart. How was
the father of seven daughters, and two very scampish little sons, to
bring them up alone and unaided? How was a man's own heart to do without
the sympathy to which it had turned, the love which had strengthened,
warmed, and sustained it? Dr. Maybright was standing by the window,
looking out at the familiar garden, which showed shadowy and indistinct
in the growing dusk, when Polly crept softly into the room, and, going
up to his side, laid her pretty dimpled hand on his arm.

"Now, father," she said, eagerly, "about the housekeeping? I'm all
prepared--shall we go into the subject now?"

Dr. Maybright sighed, and with an effort roused himself out of a reverie
which was becoming very painful.

"My little girl," he said, pushing back the tumbled hair from Polly's
sunshiny face. Then he added, with a sudden change of manner, "Oh, what
a goose you are, Polly--you know as much about housekeeping as I do,
and that is nothing at all."

"I wouldn't make bold assertions," replied Polly, saucily--"I wouldn't
really, father dear; I couldn't cure a sick person, of course not, but I
could make a very nice cake for one."

"Well, let's go into the matter," said the Doctor moving to his study
table. "I have a quarter of an hour to give you, my dear, then I want to
go into the village to see Mrs. Judson before she settles for the night;
she has a nasty kind of low fever about her, and her husband is anxious,
so I promised to look in. By the way, Polly, don't any of you go nearer
the Judsons' house until I give you leave; walk at the other side of the
village, if you must go there at all. Now, my dear, about this
housekeeping. Are you seriously resolved to force your attentions upon
us for a week? We shall certainly all be most uncomfortable, and severe
attacks of indigestion will probably be the result. Is your heart set on
this, Polly, child? For, if so--well, your mother never thwarted you,
did she?"

"No, father, never--but don't talk of mother, for I don't think I can
bear it. When I was with mother somehow or other, I don't know why, I,
never wished for anything she did not like."

"Just so, my dear child. Turn up the lamp, if you please, Polly--sit
there, will you--I want to see your face. Now I will reply to the first
part of your last remark. You asked me not to speak of your mother, my
dear; I certainly will mention her name to her children. She has gone
away, but she is still one with us. Why should our dearest household
word be buried? Why should not her influence reach you and Helen and
Dolly from where she now is? She is above--she has gone into the higher
life, but she can lead you up. You understand me, Polly. Thoughts of
your mother must be your best, your noblest thoughts from this out."

"Yes, father, yes," said Polly. Her lips were trembling, her eyes were
brimful, she clasped and unclasped her hands with painful tension.

Dr. Maybright bent forward and kissed her on her forehead.

"Your mother once said to me," he continued, in a lighter tone, "Polly
is the most peculiar and difficult to manage of all my children. She has
a vein of obstinacy in her which no persuasion will overcome. It can
only be reached by the lessons which experience teaches. If possible,
and where it is not absolutely wrong, I always give Polly her own way.
She is a truthful child, and when her eyes are opened she seldom asks to
repeat the experiment."

"Mother was thinking of the hive of honey," said Polly, gravely. "When I
worried her dreadfully she let me go and take some honey away. I thought
I could manage the bees just as cleverly as Hungerford does, but I got
nervous just at the end, and I was stung in four places. I never told
any one about the stings, only mother found out."

"You did not fetch any more honey from that hive, eh, Polly?" asked the
Doctor.

"No, father. And then there was another time--and oh, yes, many other
times. But I did not know mother was just trying to teach me, when she
seemed so kind and sympathizing, and used to say in that voice of
hers--you remember mother's cheerful voice, father?--'Well, Polly, it
is a difficult thing, but do your best.'"

"All right, child," said the Doctor, "I perceive that your mother's plan
was a wise one. Tell me quickly what ideas you have with regard to
keeping this establishment together, for it is almost time for me to run
away to Mrs. Judson. I allow eight pounds a week for all household
expenses, servants' wages, coal, light, food, medicine. I shall not
allow you to begin with so much responsibility, but for a week you may
provide our table."

"And see after the servants, please, father?" interrupted Polly, in an
eager voice.

"Well, I suppose so, just for one week, that is, after Helen has had her
turn. Your mother always managed, with the help of the vegetables and
fruit from the garden, to bring the mere table expenses into four pounds
a week; but _she_ was a most excellent manager."

"Oh, father, I can easily do it too. Why it's a lot of money! four
pounds--eighty shillings! I shouldn't be a bit surprised if I did it
for less."

"Remember, Polly, I allow no stinting; we must have a plentiful table.
No stinting, and no running in debt. Those are the absolute conditions,
otherwise I do not trust you with a penny."

"I'll keep them, father--never fear! Oh, how delighted I am! I know
you'll be pleased; I know what you'll say by-and-by. I'm certain I won't
fail, certain. I always loved cooking and housekeeping. Fancy making
pie-crust myself, and cakes, and custards! Mrs. Power is rather cross,
but she'll have to let me make what things I choose when I'm
housekeeper, won't she, father?"

"Manage it your own way, dear, I neither interfere nor wish to
interfere. Oh, what a mess we shall be in! But thank heaven it is only
for a week. My dear child, I allow you to have your way, but I own it is
with trepidation. Now I must really go to Mrs. Judson."

"But one moment, please, father. I have not shown you my plan. You think
badly of me now, but you won't, indeed you won't presently. I am all
system, I assure you. I see my way so clearly. I'll retrench without
being mean, and I'll economize without being stingy. Don't I use fine
words, father? That's because I understand the subject so thoroughly."

"Quite so, Polly. Now I must be going. Good-night, my dear."

"But my plan--you must stay to hear it. Do you see this box? It has
little divisions. I popped them all in before dinner to-day. There is a
lock and key to the box, and the lock is a strong one."

"Well, Polly?"

The Doctor began to get into his overcoat.

"Look, father, dear, please look. Each little division is marked with a
name. This one is Groceries, this one is Butcher, this is Milk, butter,
and eggs, this is Baker, this is Cheesemonger, and this is Sundries--oh
yes, and laundress, I must screw in a division for laundress somehow.
Now, father, this is my delightful plan. When you give me my four
pounds--my eighty shillings--I'll get it all changed into silver, and
I'll divide it into equal portions, and drop so much into the grocery
department, so much into the butcher's, so much into the baker's. Don't
you see how simple it will be?"

"Very, my dear--the game of chess is nothing to it. Good-night, Polly. I
sincerely hope no serious results will accrue from these efforts on my
part to teach you experience."

The Doctor walked quickly down the avenue.

"I'm quite resolved," he said to himself, "to bring them all up as much
as possible on their mother's plan, but if Polly requires many such
lessons as I am forced to give her to-night, there is nothing for it but
to send her to school. For really such an experience as we are about to
go through at her hands is enough to endanger health, to say nothing of
peace and domestic quiet. The fact is, I really am a much worried man.
It's no joke bringing up seven motherless girls, each of them with
characters; the boys are a simple matter--they have school before them,
and a career of some sort, but the girls--it really is an awful
responsibility. Even the baby has a strong individuality of her own--I
see it already in her brown eyes--bless her, she has got her mother's
eyes. But my queer, wild, clever Polly--what a week we shall have with
you presently! Now, who is that crying and sobbing in the dark?"

The Doctor swooped suddenly down on a shadowy object, which lay prone
under an arbutus shrub. "My dear little Firefly, what _is_ the matter?
You ought to be in bed ages ago--out here in the damp and cold, and
such deep-drawn sobs! What has nurse been about? This is really
extremely careless."

"It wasn't nurse's fault," sobbed Firefly, nestling her head into her
father's cheek. "I ran away from her. I hided from her on purpose."

"Then you were the naughty one. What is the matter, dear? Why do you
make things worse for me and for us all just now?"

Firefly's head sank still lower. Her hot little cheek pressed her
father's with an acute longing for sympathy. Instinct told him of the
child's need. He walked down the avenue, holding her closely.

"Wasn't you going the other way, father?" asked Firefly, squeezing her
arms tight around his neck.

"No matter, I must see you home first. Now what were those sobs about?
And why did you hide yourself from nurse?"

"'Cause I wanted to be downstairs, to listen to the grown-ups."

"The grown-ups? My dear, who are they?"

"Oh, Nell, and Poll Parrot, and Katie; I don't mind about Nell and
Polly, but it isn't fair that Katie should be made a grown-up--and she
is--she is, really, father. She is down in the school-room so
important, and just like a regular grown-up, so I couldn't stand it."

"I see. You wanted to be a grown-up too--you are seven years old, are
you not?"

"I'm more. I'm seven and a half--Katie is only eleven."

"Quite so! Katie is young compared to you, isn't she, Firefly. Still, I
don't see my way. You wished to join the grown-ups, but I found you
sobbing on the damp grass under one of the shrubs near the avenue. Is it
really under a damp arbutus shrub that the grown-ups intend to take
counsel?"

"Oh no, father, no--" here the sobs began again. "They were horrid, oh
they were horrid. They locked me out--I banged against the door, but
they wouldn't open. It was then I came up here. I wouldn't have minded
if it hadn't been for Katie."

"I see, my child. Well, run to bed now, and leave the matter in father's
hands. Ask nurse to give you a hot drink, and not to scold, for father
knows about it."

"_Darling_ father--oh, how good you are! Don't I love you! Just another
kiss--_what_ a good father you are!"

Firefly hugged the tall doctor ecstatically. He saw her disappear into
the house, and once more pursued his way down the avenue.

"Good!" he echoed to himself. "Never did a more harassed man walk. How
am I to manage those girls?"




CHAPTER VIII.

SHOULD THE STRANGERS COME?


Helen and Polly were seated together in the pleasant morning-room. Helen
occupied her mother's chair, her feet were on a high footstool, and by
her side, on a small round table, stood a large basket filled with a
heterogeneous collection of odd socks and stockings, odd gloves, pieces
of lace and embroidery, some wool, a number of knitting needles, in
short, a confused medley of useful but run-to-seed-looking articles
which the young housekeeper was endeavoring to reduce out of chaos into
order.

"Oh, Polly, how you have tangled up all this wool; and where's the
fellow of this gray glove? And--Polly, Polly--here's the handkerchief
you had such a search for last week. Now, how often do you intend me to
put this basket in order for you?"

"Once a week, dear, if not oftener," answered Polly, in suave tones.
"Please don't speak for a moment or two, Nell. I'm so much interested in
this new recipe for pie-crust. You melt equal portions of lard and butter
in so much boiling water--that's according to the size of the pie; then
you mix it into the flour, kneading it very well--and--and--and--"
Polly's voice dropped to a kind of buzz, her head sank lower over the
large cookery-book which she was studying; her elbows were on the table,
her short curling hair fell over her eyes, and a dimpled hand firmly
pressed each cheek.

Helen sighed slightly, and returned with a little gesture of resignation
to the disentangling of Polly's work-basket. As she did so she seated
herself more firmly in her mother's arm-chair. Her little figure looked
slight in its deep and ample dimensions, and her smooth fair face was
slightly puckered with anxiety.

"Polly," she said, suddenly; "Polly, leave that book alone. There's more
in the world than housekeeping and pie-crust. Do you know that I have
discovered something, and I think, I really do think, that we ought to
go on with it. It was mother's plan, and father will always agree to
anything she wished."

Polly shut up Mrs. Beaton's cookery-book with a bang, rose from her seat
at the table, and opening the window sat down where the wind could
ruffle her hair and cool her hot cheeks.

"This is Friday," she said, "and my duties begin on Monday. Helen,
pie-crust is not unimportant when success or failure hangs upon it;
puddings may become vital, Helen, and, as to cheesecakes, I would stake
everything I possess in the world on the manner in which father munches
my first cheesecake. Well, dear, never mind; I'll try and turn my
distracted thoughts in your direction for a bit. What's the discovery?"

"Only," said Helen, "that I think I know what makes father look so gray,
and why he has a stoop, and why his eyes seem so sunken. Of course there
is the loss of our mother, but that is not the only trouble. I think he
has another, and I think also, Polly, that he had this other trouble
before mother died, and that she helped him to bear it, and made plans
to lighten it for him. You remember what one of her plans was, and how
we weren't any of us too well pleased. But I have been thinking lately,
since I began to guess father's trouble, that we ought to carry it out
just the same as if our mother was with us."

"Yes," said Polly. "You have a very exciting way of putting things,
Nell, winding one up and up, and not letting in the least little morsel
of light. What is father's trouble, and what was the plan? I can't
remember any plan, and I only know about father that he's the noblest of
all noble men, and that he bears mother's loss--well, as nobody else
would have borne it. What other trouble has our dear father, Nell? God
wouldn't be so cruel as to give him another trouble."

"God is never cruel," said Helen, a beautiful, steadfast light shining
in her eyes. "I couldn't let go the faith that God is always good. But
father--oh, Polly, Polly, I am dreadfully afraid that father is going
to lose his sight."

"What?" said Polly. "_What?_ father lose his sight? No, I'm not going to
listen to you, Nell. You needn't talk like that. It's perfectly horrid
of you. I'll go away at once and ask him. Father! Why, his eyes are as
bright as possible. I'll go this minute and ask him."

"No, don't do that, Polly. I would never have spoken if I wasn't really
sure, and I don't think it would be right to ask him, or to speak about
it, until he tells us about it himself. But I began to guess it a little
bit lately, when I saw how anxious mother seemed. For she was anxious,
although she was the brightest of all bright people. And after her death
father said I was to look through some of her letters; and I found one
or two which told me that what I suspected was the case, and father
may--indeed, he probably will--become quite blind, by-and-by. That
was--that was--What's the matter, Polly?"

"Nothing," said Polly. "You needn't go on--you needn't say any more.
It's a horrid world, nothing is worth living for; pie-crust, nor
housekeeping, nor nothing. I hate the world, and every one in it, and I
hate _you_ most of all, Nell, for your horrid news. Father blind! No, I
won't believe it; it's all a lie."

"Poor Polly," said Helen. "Don't believe it, dear, I wish _I_ didn't. I
think I know a little bit how you feel. I'm not so hot and hasty and
passionate as you, and oh, I'm not half, nor a quarter, so clever, but
still, I do know how you feel; I--Polly, you startle me."

"Only you don't hate me at this moment," said Polly. "And I--don't I
hate you, just! There, you can say anything after that. I know I'm a
wretch--I know I'm hopeless. Even mother would say I was hopeless if
she saw me now, hating you, the kindest and best of sisters. But I do,
yes, I do, most heartily. So you see you aren't like me, Helen."

"I certainly never hated any one," said Helen. "But you are excited,
Polly, and this news is a shock to you. We won't talk about it one way
or other, now, and we'll try as far as possible not to think of it,
except in so far as it ought to make us anxious to carry out mother's
plan."

Polly had crouched back away from the window, her little figure all
huddled up, her cheeks with carnation spots on them, and her eyes,
brimful of the tears which she struggled not to shed, were partly hidden
by the folds of the heavy curtain which half-enveloped her.

"You were going to say something else dreadfully unpleasant," she
remarked. "Well, have it out. Nothing can hurt me very much just now."

"It's about the strangers," said Helen. "The strangers who were to come
in October. You surely can't have forgotten them, Polly."

Like magic the thunder-cloud departed from Polly's face. The tears dried
in her bright eyes, and the curtain no longer enveloped her slight,
young figure.

"Why, of course," she said. "The strangers, how could I have forgotten!
How curious we were about them. We didn't know their names. Nothing,
nothing at all--except that there were two, and that they were coming
from Australia. I always thought of them as Paul and Virginia. Dear,
dear, dear, I shall have more housekeeping than ever on my shoulders
with them about the place."

"They were coming in October," said Helen, quietly. "Everything was
arranged, although so little was known. They were coming in a sailing
vessel, and the voyage was to be a long one, and mother, herself, was
going to meet them. Mother often said that they would arrive about the
second week in October."

"In three weeks from now?" said Polly, "We are well on in September,
now. I can't imagine how we came to forget Paul and Virginia. Why, of
course, poor children, they must be quite anxious to get to us. I wonder
if I'd be a good person to go and meet them. You are so shy with
strangers, you know, Nell, and I'm not. Mother used to say I didn't know
what _mauvaise honte_ meant. I don't say that I _like_ meeting them,
poor things, but I'll do it, if it's necessary. Still, Helen, I cannot
make out what special plan there is in the strangers coming. Nor what it
has to do with father, with that horrid piece of news you told me a few
minutes ago."

"It has a good deal to say to it, if you will only listen," said Helen.
"I have discovered by mother's letters that the father of the strangers
is to pay to our father £400 a year as long as his children live here.
They were to be taught, and everything done for them, and the strangers'
father was to send over a check for £100 for them every quarter. Now,
Polly, listen. Our father is not poor, but neither is he rich, and
if--if what we fear is going to happen, he won't earn nearly so much
money in his profession. So it seems a great pity he should lose this
chance of earning £400 a year."

"But nobody wants him to lose it," said Polly. "Paul and Virginia will
be here in three weeks, and then the pay will begin. £400 a year--let
me see, that's just about eight pounds a week, that's what father says
he spends on the house, that's a lot to spend, I could do it for much
less. But no matter. What are you puckering your brows for, Helen? Of
course the strangers are coming."

"Father said they were not to come," replied Helen. "He told me so some
weeks ago. When they get to the docks he himself is going to meet them,
and he will take them to another home which he has been inquiring about.
He says that we can't have them here now."

"But we must have them here," said Polly. "What nonsense! We must both
of us speak to our father at once."

"I have been thinking it over," said Helen, in her gentle voice, "and I
do really feel that it is a pity to lose this chance of helping father
and lightening his cares. You see, Polly, it depends on us. Father would
do it if he could trust us, you and me, I mean."

"Well, so he can trust us," replied Polly, glibly. "Everything will be
all right. There's no occasion to make a fuss, or to be frightened. We
have got to be firm, and rather old for our years, and if either of us
puts down her foot she has got to keep it down."

"I don't know that at all," said Helen. "Mother sometimes said it was
wise to yield. Oh, Polly, I don't feel at all wise enough for all that
is laid on me. We have to be examples in everything. I do want to help
father, but it would be worse to promise to help him and then to fail."

"I'm not the least afraid," said Polly. "The strangers must come, and
father's purse must be filled in that jolly manner. I don't believe the
story about his eyes, Nell, but it will do him good to feel that he has
got a couple of steady girls like us to see to him. Now I'm arranging a
list of puddings for next week, so you had better not talk any more.
We'll speak to father about Paul and Virginia after dinner."




CHAPTER IX.

LIMITS.


Even the wisest men know very little of household management, and never
did an excellent and well-intentioned individual put, to use a
well-known phrase, his foot more completely into it than Dr. Maybright
when he allowed Polly to learn experience by taking the reins of
household management for a week.

Except in matters that related to his own profession, Dr. Maybright was
apt to be slightly absent-minded; here he was always keenly alive. When
visiting a patient not a symptom escaped him, not a flicker of timid
eyelids passed unnoticed, not a passing shade of color on the invalid's
countenance but called for his acute observation. In household matters,
however, he was apt to overlook trifles, and very often completely to
forget what seemed to his family important arrangements. He was the kind
of man who was sure to be very much beloved at home, for he was neither
fretful nor fussy, but took large views of all things. Such people are
appreciated, and if his children thought him the best of all men, his
servants also spoke of him as the most perfect of masters.

"You might put anything before him," Mrs. Power would aver. "Bless his
'art, _he_ wouldn't see, nor _he_ wouldn't scold. Ef it were rinsings of
the tea-pot he would drink it instead of soup; and I say, and always
will say, that ef a cook don't jelly the soup for the like of a
gentleman like the doctor what have no mean ways and no fusses, she
ain't fit to call herself a cook."

So just because they loved him, Dr. Maybright's servants kept his table
fairly well, and his house tolerably clean, and the domestic machinery
went on wheels, not exactly oiled, but with no serious clog to their
progress.

These things of course happened since Mrs. Maybright's death. In her day
this gentlest and firmest of mistresses, this most tactful of women,
kept all things in their proper place, and her servants obeyed her with
both will and cheerfulness.

On the Saturday before Polly's novitiate poor Dr. Maybright's troubles
began. He had completely forgotten all about his promise to Polly, and
was surprised when the little girl skipped into his study after
breakfast, with her black frock put on more neatly than usual, her hair
well brushed and pushed off her face, and a wonderful brown holland
apron enveloping her from her throat to her ankles. The apron had
several pockets, and certainly gave Polly a quaint and original
appearance.

"Here I am, father," she said. "I have come for the money, please."

"The--the what, my dear?"

Dr. Maybright put up his eye-glass, and surveyed the little figure
critically.

"Are these pockets for your school-books?" he said. "It is not a bad
idea; only don't lose them, Polly. I don't like untidy books scattered
here and there."

Polly took the opportunity to dart a quick, anxious glance into her
father's eyes--they were bright, dark, clear. Of course Helen's horrid
story was untrue. Her spirits rose, she gave a little skip, and clasped
her hands on the Doctor's arm.

"These are housekeeping pockets, father," she said. "Nothing at all to
say to books. I'm domestic, not intellectual; my housekeeping begins on
Monday, you know, and I've come for the eighty shillings now. Can you
give it to me in silver, not in gold, for I want to divide it, and pop
it into the little box with divisions at once?"

"Bless me," said the Doctor, "I'd forgotten--I did not know that
indigestion week was so near. Well, here you are, Polly, two pounds in
gold and two pounds in silver. I can't manage more than two sovereigns'
worth of silver, I fear. Now my love, as you are strong, be
merciful--give us only small doses of poison at each meal. I beseech of
you, Polly, be temperate in your zeal."

"You laugh at me," said Polly, "Well, never mind. I'm too happy to care.
I don't expect you'll talk about poisoning when you have eaten my
cheesecakes. And father, dear father, you _will_ let Paul and Virginia
come? Nell and I meant to speak to you yesterday about them, but you
were out all day. With me to housekeep, and Nell to look after
everybody, you needn't have the smallest fear about Paul and Virginia;
they can come and they can line your pockets, can't they?"

"My dear child, I have not an idea what you are talking about. Who _are_
Paul and Virginia--have I not a large enough family without taking in
the inhabitants of a desert island? There, I can't wait to hear
explanations now; that is my patients' bell--run away, my dear, run
away."

Dr. Maybright always saw his poorer patients gratis on Saturday morning
from ten to twelve. This part of his work pleased him, for he was the
sort of man who thought that the affectionate and grateful glance in the
eye, and the squeeze of the hand, and the "God bless you, doctor," paid
in many cases better than the guinea's worth. He had an interesting case
this morning, and again Polly and her housekeeping slipped from his
mind. He was surprised, therefore, in the interim between the departure
of one patient and the arrival of another, to hear a somewhat tremulous
tap at his study door, and on his saying "Come in," to see the pretty
but decidedly ruffled face of his housemaid Alice presenting herself.

"Ef you please, Doctor, I won't keep you a minute, but I thought I'd ask
you myself ef it's your wish as Miss Polly should go and give orders
that on Monday morning I'm to turn the linen-press out from top to
bottom, and to do it first of all before the rooms is put straight. And
if I'm to unpick the blue muslin curtains, and take them down from where
they was hung by my late blessed mistress's orders, in the spare room,
and to fit them into the primrose room over the porch--for she says
there's a Miss Virginy and a Master Paul coming, and the primrose room
with the blue curtains is for one of them, she says. And I want to know
from you, please, Doctor, if Miss Polly is to mistress it over me? And
to take away the keys of the linen-press from me, and to follow me
round, and to upset all my work, what I never stood, nor would stand. I
want to know if it's your wish, Doctor?"

"The fact is, Alice," began the Doctor--he put his hand to his brow,
and a dim look came over his eyes--"the fact is--ah, that is my
patients' bell, I must ask you to go, Alice, and to--to moderate your
feelings. I have been anxious to give Miss Polly a lesson in experience,
and it is only for a week. You will oblige me very much, Alice, by
helping me in this matter."

The Doctor walked to the door as he spoke, and opened it courteously.

"Come in, Johnson," he said, to a ruddy-faced farmer, who was
accompanied by a shy boy with a swelled face. "Come in; glad to see you,
my friend. Is Tommy's toothache better?"

Alice said afterwards that she never felt smaller in her life than when
Dr. Maybright opened the study door to show her out.

"Ef I'd been a queen he couldn't have done it more elegant," she
remarked. "Eh, but he's a blessed man, and one would put up with two
Miss Pollys for the sake of serving him."

The Doctor having conquered Alice, again forgot his second daughter's
vagaries, but a much sterner and more formidable interview was in store
for him; it was one thing to conquer Alice, who was impressionable, and
had a soft heart, and another to encounter the stony visage and rather
awful presence of Mrs. Power.

"It's to give notice I've come, Dr. Maybright," she said, dropping a
curtsey, and twisting a corner of her large white apron round with one
formidable red hand. "It's to give notice. This day month, please,
Doctor, and, though I says it as shouldn't, you won't get no one else to
jelly your soups, nor feather your potatoes, nor puff your pastry, as
Jane Power has done. But there's limits, Dr. Maybright; and I has come
to give you notice, though out of no disrespect to you, sir."

"Then why do you do it, Mrs. Power?" said the Doctor. "You are an honest
and conscientious servant, I know that from your late mistress's
testimony. You cook very good dinners too, and you make suitable
puddings for the children, and pastry not too rich. Why do you want to
leave? I don't like change; and, if it is a question of wages, perhaps I
may be able to meet you."

"I'm obligated to you, Doctor; but it ain't that. I has my twenty-two
pounds paid regular, and all found. I ain't grumbling on that score, and
Jane Power was never havaricious nor grasping. I'm obligated too by what
you says with respect to the pastry; but, Doctor, it ain't in mortal
woman to stand a chit of a child being put over her. So I'm going this
day month; and, with your leave, I'll turn the key in the kitchen-door
next week, or else I'll forfeit my wage and go at once."

"Dear, dear," said the Doctor. "This is really embarrassing. I never
thought that Polly's experience would upset the household economy in so
marked a manner. I am really annoyed, for I certainly gave her leave to
housekeep for a week."

"It isn't as I minds youth, Dr. Maybright," continued Mrs. Power. "I
makes due allowances for the young, for I says to myself, 'Jane Power,
you was once, so to speak, like an unfledged chick yourself;' but
there's youth _and_ youth, Dr. Maybright; and Miss Polly's of the kind
as makes your 'air stand on hend."

"Poor Polly," said the Doctor.

"No, sir, begging your parding, if you was in the kitchen, it's 'poor
Mrs. Power' you'd be a-saying. Now I don't say nothing agin Miss
Nelly--she's the elder, and she have nice ways with her--she takes a
little bit after my poor dear mistress; oh, what a nature was hers,
blessed angel!"

Here Mrs. Power rolled her eyes skywards, and the Doctor, turning his
back, walked to the window.

"Be brief," he said, "I am pressed for time."

"Sir, I was never one for long words; agen' Miss Helen I haven't a word
to say. She comes down to the kitchen after breakfast as pretty as you
please, and she says, 'Power,' says she, 'you'll advise me about the
dinner to-day,' says she. 'Shall we have minced collops, or roast beef?
And shall we have fruit tart with custard?' Pretty dear, she don't know
nothink, and she owns it, and I counsel her, as who that wasn't the most
hard-hearted would. But Miss Polly, she's all on wires like, and she
bounds in and she says that I pepper the soup too strong, and that I
ought to go to cookery schools, and ef I'll go with her that blessed
minit she'll tell me what I wants in my own store-room. There's limits.
Dr. Maybright, and Miss Polly's my limits; so, ef you'll have no
objection, sir, I'll go this day month."

"But I have an objection," replied Dr. Maybright. "Even Polly's
experiment must not cost me a valuable servant. Mrs. Power, I have
promised my little girl, and I feel more than convinced that her week's
trial will ensure to you the freedom you desire and deserve in the
future. Listen, I have a plan. Suppose you go for a week's holiday on
Monday?"

"Oh, my word, sir! And are you to be poisoned hout and hout?"

"That is unlikely. Maggie, your kitchen-maid, is fond of cooking, and
she won't quarrel with Miss Polly. Let us consider it arranged, then. A
week's holiday won't do you any harm, cook, and your expenses I will
defray. Now, excuse me, I must go out at once. The carriage has been at
the door for some time."




CHAPTER X.

INDIGESTION WEEK.


It was quite early on the following Monday morning when a light tap was
heard outside the door of the room where Helen and Polly slept. It was a
very light, modest, and uncertain tap, and it has not the smallest
effect upon Helen, who lay in soft slumber, her pretty eyes closed, her
gentle face calm and rounded and child-like, and the softest breathing
coming from her rosy, parted lips.

Another little girl, however, was not asleep. At that modest tap up
sprang a curly head, two dark, bright eyes opened wide, two white feet
sprang quickly but noiselessly on to the floor, and Polly had opened the
bedroom door wide to admit the short, dumpy, but excited little person
of Maggie, the kitchen-maid.

"She's a-going, Miss Polly--she's a-packing her bandbox now, and
putting the strap on. She's in a hawful temper, but she'll be out of the
house in less than half an hour. There's a beautiful fire in the
kitchen, Miss, and the pan for frying bacon is polished up so as you
could 'most see yourself in it. And the egg-saucepan is there all 'andy,
and the kettle fizzing and sputtering. I took cook up her breakfast, but
she said she didn't want none of our poisonous messes, and she'd
breakfast with her cousin in the village if we'd no objection. She'll be
gone in no time now, Miss Polly, and I'm a-wanting to know when you'll
be a-coming down stairs."

"I'm going to dress immediately, Maggie," said Polly. "I've scarcely
slept all night, for this is an anxious moment for me. I'll join you in
half an hour at the latest, Maggie, and have lots of saucepans and
frying-pans and gridirons ready. Keep the fire well up too, and see that
the oven is hot. There, fly away, I'll join you soon."

Maggie, who was only sixteen herself, almost skipped down the passage.
After the iron reign of Mrs. Power, to work for Polly seemed like play
to her.

"She's a duck," she said to herself, "a real cozy duck of a young lady.
Oh, my word, won't we spin through the stores this week! Won't we just!"

Meanwhile Polly was hastily getting into her clothes. She did not wish
to wake Helen, for she was most anxious that no one should know that on
the first morning of her housekeeping she had arisen soon after six
o'clock. Her plans were all laid beforehand, and a wonderfully
methodical and well arranged programme, considering her fourteen years,
was hers; she was all agog with eagerness to carry it out.

"Oh, won't they have a breakfast this morning," she said to herself.
"Won't they open their eyes, and won't Bob and Bunny look greedy. And
Firefly--I must watch Firefly over those hot cakes, or she may make
herself sick. Poor father and Nell--they'll both be afraid at first
that I'm a little too lavish and inclined to be extravagant, but they'll
see by-and-by, and they'll acknowledge deep down in their hearts that
there never was such a housekeeper as Polly."

As the little maid dreamed these pleasant thoughts she scrambled
somewhat untidily into her clothes, gave her hair a somewhat less
careful brush than usual, and finally knelt down to say her morning
prayer. Helen still slept, and Polly by a sudden impulse chose to kneel
by Helen's bed and not her own. She pressed her curly head against the
mattress, and eagerly whispered her petitions. She was excited and
sanguine, for this was to her a moment of triumph; but as she prayed a
feeling of rest and yet of longing overpowered her.

"Oh, I am happy to-day," she murmured--"but oh, mother, oh, mother, I'd
give everything in all the wide world to have you back again! I'd live
on bread and water--I'd spend years in a garret just for you to kiss me
once again, mother, mother!"

Helen stirred in her sleep, for Polly's last impulsive words were spoken
aloud.

"Has mother come back?" she asked.

Her eyes were closed, she was dreaming. Polly bent down and answered
her.

"No," she said. "It is only me--the most foolish of all her children,
who wants her so dreadfully."

Helen sighed, and turned her head uneasily, and Polly, wiping away some
moisture from her eyes, ran out of the room.

Her housekeeping apron was on, her precious money box was under her arm,
the keys of the linen-press jingled against a thimble and a couple of
pencils in the front pocket of the apron. Polly was going down stairs to
fulfill her great mission; it was impossible for her spirits long to be
downcast. The house was deliciously still, for only the servants were up
at present, but the sun sent in some rays of brightness at the large
lobby windows, and the little girl laughed aloud in her glee.

"Good morning, sun! it is nice of you to smile at me the first morning
of my great work. It is very good-natured of you to come instead of
sending that disagreeable friend of yours, Mr. Rain. Oh, how delicious
it is to be up early. Why, it is not half-past six yet--oh, what a
breakfast I shall prepare for father!"

In the kitchen, which was a large, cheerful apartment looking out on the
vegetable garden, Polly found her satellite, Maggie, on the very tiptoe
of expectation.

"I has laid the servants' breakfast in the 'all, Miss Polly; I thought
as you shouldn't be bothered with them, with so to speak such a lot on
your hands this morning. So I has laid it there, and lit a fire for
them, and all Jane has to do when she's ready is to put the kettle on,
for the tea's on the table in the small black caddy, so there'll be no
worriting over them. And ef you please, Miss Polly, I made bold to have
a cup of tea made and ready for you, Miss--here it is, if you please,
Miss, and a cut off the brown home-made loaf."

"Delicious," said Polly; "I really am as hungry as possible, although I
did not know it until I saw this nice brown bread-and-butter. Why, you
have splendid ideas in you, Maggie; you'll make a first-rate cook yet.
But now"--here the young housekeeper thought it well to put on a severe
manner--"I must know what breakfast you have arranged for the servants'
hall. It was good-natured of you to think of saving me trouble, Maggie,
but please understand that during this week you do nothing on your own
responsibility. _I_ am the housekeeper, and although I don't say I am
old, I am quite old enough to be obeyed."

"Very well, Miss," said Maggie, who had gone to open her oven, and poke
up the fire while Polly was speaking; "it's a weight off my shoulders,
Miss, for I wasn't never one to be bothered with thinking. Mother says
as I haven't brains as would go on the top of a sixpenny-bit, so what's
to be expected of me, Miss. There, the oven's all of a beautiful glow,
and 'ull bake lovely. You was asking what breakfast I has put in the
servants' 'all--well, cold bacon and plenty of bread, and a good pat of
the cooking butter. Why, Miss Polly, oh, lor, what is the matter, Miss?"

"Only that you have done very wrong, Maggie," said Polly. "You would not
like to have lots of good things going up to the dining-room, and have
no share yourself. I call it selfish of you, Maggie, for of course you
knew you would be in the kitchen with me, and would be sure to come in
for bits. Cold bacon, indeed! Poor servants, they're not likely to care
for my housekeeping if that is all I provide for them! No, Maggie, when
I made out my programme, I thought of the servants as well as the
family. I will just refer to my tablets, Maggie, and see what breakfast
I arranged for the hall for Monday morning."

While Polly was speaking Maggie opened her eyes and mouth wider and
wider and when the young lady read aloud from her tablets she could not
suppress an expostulatory "oh!"

"Monday--kitchen breakfast," read Polly--"Bacon, eggs, marmalade,
sardines. Hot coffee, fresh rolls, if possible."

"My word, but that is wasteful," said Maggie.

Polly's cheeks flushed. She glanced at her small handmaid, raised her
hand in a reproving manner, and continued to read--

"Dining-room breakfast: Hot scones, baked muffins, eggs and bacon,
deviled kidneys, scrambled eggs, a dish of kippered herrings, marmalade,
honey, jam, tea and coffee. Oh, and chocolate for Firefly."

"My word, Miss," again exclaimed Maggie. "It's seven o'clock now, and
the Doctor likes his breakfast sharp on the table at eight. If we has to
get all this ready in an hour we had better fly round and lose no more
time. I'll see to the 'all, bless your kind 'eart, Miss Polly, but we'd
better get on with the dining-room breakfast, or there'll be nothing
ready in anything like time. Will you mix up the cakes, Miss Polly,
while I sees to the kidneys, and to the bacon and eggs, and the
scrambled eggs, and the kippers. My word, but there'll be a power more
sent up than can be eaten. But whatever goes wrong we should have the
cakes in the oven, Miss Polly."

Polly did not altogether approve of Maggie's tone, but time did press;
the kitchen clock already pointed to five minutes past seven; it was
much easier to write out a programme upstairs at one's leisure in the
pleasant morning-room than to carry it out in a hurry, in the hot
kitchen, particularly when one's own knowledge was entirely theoretical,
not practical. Yes, the kitchen was very hot, and time never seemed to
fly so fast.

"First of all, open the window, Maggie; it is wrong to have rooms so hot
as this," said the young housekeeper, putting on her most authoritative
air.

"No, Miss, that I mustn't," said Maggie, firmly. "You'd cool down the
oven in less than five minutes. Now, shall I fetch you the flour and
things from the store-room, Miss? Why, dear me, your cheeks has peonyed
up wonderful. You're new to it yet, Miss, but you'll soon take it
quiet-like. Cold bacon is a very nice breakfast for the 'all, Miss, and
cooking butter's all that servants is expected to eat of. Now shall I
fetch you the flour and the roller, and the milk, Miss Polly?"

"Yes, get them," said Polly. She felt decidedly annoyed and cross. "I
wish you would not talk so much, Maggie," she said, "go and fetch the
materials for the hot cakes."

"But I don't know yet what I'm to get, Miss. Is it a dripping cake, or
is it a cream cake, or is it a butter-and-egg cake? I'll bring you
things according, Miss Polly, if you'll be so good as to instruct me."

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Polly, "you make my head go round, when you
mention so many kinds of cake, Maggie. I really thought you knew
something of cooking. I just want _hot cakes_. I don't care what kind
they are; oh, I suppose we had better have the richest to-day. Get the
material for the butter-and-egg cake, Maggie, and do be quick."

Thus admonished, Maggie did move off with a dubious look on her face in
the direction of the store-room.

"She don't know nothing, poor dear," she said to herself; "she aims
high--she's eat up with ambition, but she don't know nothing. It's
lucky we in the 'all is to have the cold bacon. _I_ don't know how to
make a butter-and-egg hot cake--oh, my word, a fine scolding Mrs. Power
will give us when she comes back."

Here Maggie approached the store-room door. Then she uttered a loud and
piercing exclamation and flew back to Polly.

"She's gone and done us, Miss Polly," she exclaimed. "She's gone and
done us! Cook's off, and the key of the store-room in her pocket.
There's nothing for breakfast, Miss Polly--no eggs, no butter, no
marmalade, no sugar, no nothing."

Poor Polly's rosy, little face turned white.

"It can't be true," she said. And she flew down the passage to the
store-room herself. Alas! only to peep through the key-hole, for the
inhospitable door was firmly locked, and nowhere could the key be
discovered.




CHAPTER XI.

A--WAS AN APPLE PIE.


The first day of Polly's housekeeping was long remembered in the
household. In the first place, the breakfast, though fairly abundant,
was plain. A large piece of cold bacon graced one end of the board, a
brown loaf stood on a trencher in the center, and when Helen took her
place opposite the tea-tray she found herself provided with plenty of
milk and sugar, certainly, and a large tea-pot of strong tea, but the
sugar was brown. No butter, no marmalade, no jams, no hot cakes, graced
the board. The children spoke of the fare as severe, and the Doctor's
dark brown eyes twinkled as he helped his family to abundant slices of
cold bacon.

"Not a word," he said, in a loud aside to his boys and girls. "I did not
think it was in Polly to be so sensible. Why, we shall get through
indigestion week quite comfortably, if she provides us with plain,
wholesome fare like this."

Polly took her own place at the table rather late. Her cheeks were still
peonyed, as Maggie expressed it, her eyes were downcast, her spirits
were decidedly low, and she had a very small appetite.

After breakfast she beat a hasty retreat, and presently the boys rushed
in in great excitement, to announce to Helen and Katie the interesting
fact that Polly was walking across the fields accompanied by Maggie,
each of them laden with a large market-basket.

"They are almost running, both of them," exclaimed Bunny, "and pretty
Poll is awful cross, for when we wanted to go with her she just turned
round and said we'd have a worse dinner than breakfast if we didn't
leave her alone."

"We ran away quickly enough after that," continued Bob, "for we didn't
want no more cold-bacon and no-butter meals. We had a nasty breakfast
to-day, hadn't we, Nell? And Poll is a bad housekeeper, isn't she?"

"Oh, leave her alone, do," said Helen. "She is trying her very best. Run
out and play, boys, and don't worry about the meals."

The two boys, known in the family as "the scamps," quickly took their
departure, and Katie began to talk in her most grown-up manner to Helen.
Katie was a demure little damsel, she was fond of using long words, and
thought no one in the world like Helen, whom she copied in all
particulars.

"Poll is too ambitious, and she's sure to fail," she began. But Helen
shut her up.

"If Polly does fail, you'll be dreadfully sorry, I'm sure, Katie," she
said. "I know I shall be sorry. It will make me quite unhappy, for I
never saw any one take more pains about a thing than Polly has taken
over her housekeeping. Yes, it will be very sad if Polly fails; but I
don't think she will, for she is really a most clever girl. Now, Katie,
will you read your English History lesson aloud?"

Katie felt crushed. In her heart of hearts she thought even her beloved
Helen a little too lenient.

"Never mind," she said to herself, "won't Dolly and Mabel have a fine
gossip with me presently over the breakfast Polly gave us this morning."

Meanwhile the anxious, small housekeeper was making her way as rapidly
as possible in the direction of the village.

"We haven't a minute to lose, Maggie," she said, as they trudged along.
"Can you remember the list of things I gave you to buy at the grocery
shop? It is such a pity you can't read, Maggie, for if you could I'd
have written them down for you."

"It wasn't the Board's fault, nor my mother's," answered Maggie, glibly.
"It was all on account of my brain being made to fit on the top of a
sixpence. Yes, Miss, I remembers the list, and I'll go to Watson's and
the butcher's while you runs on to the farm for the butter and eggs."

"You have got to get ten things," proceeded Polly; "don't forget, ten
things at the grocer's. You had better say the list over to me."

"All right, Miss Polly, ten; I can tick one off on each finger: white
sugar, coffee, rice, marmalade, strawberry jam, apricot jam, mustard,
pickles--is they mixed or plain, Miss Polly?--raisins, currants.
There, Miss, I has them all as pat as possible."

"Well, stop a minute," said Polly. "I'm going to unlock my box now. Hold
it for me, Maggie, while I open it. Here, I'm going to take
half-a-sovereign out of the grocery division. You must take this
half-sovereign to Watson's, and pay for the things. I have not an idea
how much they cost, but I expect you'll have a good lot of change to
give me. After that, you are to go on to the butcher's, and buy four
pounds of beef-steak. Here is another half-sovereign that you will have
to pay the butcher out of. Be sure you don't mix the change, Maggie. Pop
the butcher's change into one pocket, and the grocer's change into
another. Now, do you know what we are going to have for dinner?"

"No, Miss, I'm sure I don't. I expect it'll sound big to begin with, and
end small, same as the breakfast did. Why, Miss Polly, you didn't think
cold bacon good enough for the servants, and yet you set it down in the
end afore your pa."

Polly looked hard at Maggie. She suddenly began to think her not at all
a nice girl.

"I was met by adversity," she said. "It is wrong of you to speak to me
in that tone, Maggie; Mrs. Power behaved very badly, and I could not
help myself; but she need not think she is going to beat me, and
whatever I suffer, I scorn to complain. To-night, after every one is in
bed, I am going to make lots of pies and tarts, and cakes, and
cheesecakes. You will have to help me; but we will talk of that
by-and-by. Now, I want to speak about the dinner. It must be simple
to-day. We will have a beef-steak pudding and pancakes. Do you know how
to toss pancakes, Maggie?"

"Oh, lor', Miss," said Maggie, "I did always love to see mother at it.
She used to toss 'em real beautiful, and I'm sure I could too. That's a
very nice dinner, Miss, 'olesome and good, and you'll let me toss the
pancakes, won't you, Miss Polly?"

"Well, you may try, Maggie. But here we are at the village. Now, please,
go as quickly as possible to Watson's, and the butcher's, and meet me at
this stile in a quarter of an hour. Be very careful of the change,
Maggie, and be sure you put the butcher's in one pocket and the grocer's
in another. Don't mix them--everything depends on your not mixing them,
Maggie."

The two girls parted, each going quickly in opposite directions. Polly
had a successful time at the farm, and when she once again reached the
turnstile her basket contained two dozen new-laid eggs, two or three
pounds of delicious fresh butter, and a small jug of cream. The farmer's
wife, Mrs. White, had been very pleased to see her, and had complimented
her on her discernment in choosing the butter and eggs. Her spirits were
now once again excellent, and she began to forget the sore injury Mrs.
Power had done her by locking the store-room door.

"It's all lovely," she said to herself; "it's all turning out as
pleasant as possible. The breakfast was nothing, they'd have forgotten
the best breakfast by now, and they'll have such a nice dinner. I can
easily make a fruit tart for father, as well as the pancakes, and won't
he enjoy Mrs. White's nice cream? It was very good of her to give it to
me; and it was very cheap, too--only eighteenpence. But, dear me, dear
me, how I wish Maggie would come!"

There was no sign, however, of any stout, unwieldy young person walking
down the narrow path which led to the stile. Strain her eyes as she
would, Polly could not see any sign of Maggie approaching. She waited
for another five minutes, and then decided to go home without her.

"For she may have gone round by the road," she said to herself,
"although it was very naughty of her if she did so, for I told her to be
sure to meet me at the turnstile. Still I can't wait for her any longer,
for I must pick the fruit for my tart, and I ought to see that Alice is
doing what I told her about the new curtains."

Off trotted Polly with her heavy basket once again across the fields. It
was a glorious September day, and the soft air fanned her cheeks and
raised her already excited spirits. She felt more cheerful than she had
done since her mother died, and many brilliant visions of hope filled
her ambitious little head. Yes, father would see that he was right in
trusting her; Nell would discover that there was no one so clever as
Polly; Mrs. Power would cease to defy her; Alice would obey her
cheerfully; in short, she would be the mainstay and prop of her family.

On her way through the kitchen-garden Polly picked up a number of fallen
apples, and then she went quickly into the house, to be met on the
threshold by Firefly.

"Oh, Poll Parrot, may I come down with you to the kitchen? I'd love to
see you getting the dinner ready, and I could help, indeed I could. The
others are all so cross; that is, all except Nell. Katie _is_ in a
temper, and so are Dolly and Mabel; but I stood up for you, Poll Parrot,
for I said you didn't mean to give us the very nastiest breakfast in the
world. I said it was just because you weren't experienced enough to know
any better--that's what I said, Poll."

"Well, you made a great mistake then," said Polly. "Not experienced,
indeed! as if I didn't know what a good breakfast was like. I had a
misfortune; a dark deed was done, and I was the victim, but I scorn to
complain, I let you all think as you like. No, you can't come to the
kitchen with me, Firefly; it isn't a fit place for children. Run away
now, _do_."

Poor Fly's small face grew longing and pathetic, but Polly was obdurate.

"I can't have children about," she said to herself, and soon she was
busy peeling her apples and preparing her crust for the pie. She
succeeded fairly well, although the water with which she mixed her dough
would run all over the board, and her nice fresh butter stuck in the
most provoking way to the rolling-pin. Still, the pie was made, after a
fashion, and Polly felt very happy, as she amused herself cutting out
little ornamental leaves from what remained of her pastry to decorate
it. It was a good-sized tart, and when she had crowned it with a wreath
of laurel leaves she thought she had never seen anything so handsome and
appetizing. Alas, however, for poor Polly, the making of this pie was
her one and only triumph.

The morning had gone very fast, while she was walking to the village
securing her purchases, and coming home again. She was startled when she
looked at the kitchen clock to find that it pointed to a quarter past
twelve. At the same time she discovered that the kitchen fire was nearly
out, and that the oven was cold. Father always liked the early dinner to
be on the table sharp at one o'clock; it would never, never do for
Polly's first dinner to be late. She must not wait any longer for that
naughty Maggie; she must put coals on the fire herself, and wash the
potatoes, and set them on to boil.

This was scarcely the work of an ordinary lady-like housekeeper; but
Polly tried to fancy she was in Canada, or in even one of the less
civilized settlements, where ladies put their hands to anything, and
were all the better for it.

She had a great hunt to find the potatoes, and when she had washed
them--which it must be owned she did not do at all well--she had
still greater difficulty in selecting a pot which would hold them. She
found one at last, and with some difficulty placed it on the
kitchen-range. She had built up her fire with some skill, but was
dismayed to find that, try as she would, she could get no heat into the
oven. The fact was, she had not the least idea how to direct the draught
in the right direction; and although the fire burned fiercely, and the
potatoes soon began to bubble and smoke, the oven, which was to cook
poor Polly's tart, remained cold and irresponsive.

Well, cold as it was, she would put her pie in, for time was flying as
surely it had never flown before and it was dreadful to think that there
would be nothing at all for dinner but potatoes.

Oh, why did not that wicked Maggie come! Really Polly did not know that
any one could be quite so depraved and heartless as Maggie was turning
out. She danced about the kitchen in her impatience, and began to think
she understood something of the wickedness of those cities described in
the Bible, which were destroyed by fire on account of their sins, and
also of the state of the world before the Flood came.

"They were all like Maggie," she said to herself. "I really never heard
of any one before who was quite so hopelessly bad as Maggie."

The kitchen clock pointed to the half hour, and even to twenty minutes
to one. It was hopeless to think of pancakes now--equally hopeless to
consider the possibilities of a beef-steak pudding. They would be very
lucky if they had steak in any form. Still, if Maggie came at once that
might be managed, and nice potatoes, beef-steak, apple-tart and cream
would be better than no dinner at all.

Just at this moment, when Polly's feelings were almost reduced to
despair, she was startled by a queer sound, which gradually came nearer
and nearer. It was the sound of some one sobbing, and not only sobbing,
but crying aloud with great violence. The kitchen door was suddenly
burst open, and dishevelled, tear-stained, red-faced Maggie rushed in,
and threw herself on her knees at Polly's feet.

"I has gone and done it, Miss Polly," she exclaimed. "I was
distraught-like, and my poor little bit of a brain seemed to give way
all of a sudden. Mother's in a heap of trouble, Miss Polly. I went round
to see her, for it was quite a short cut to Watson's, round by mother's,
and mother she were in an awful fixing. She hadn't nothing for the rent,
Miss Polly, 'cause the fruit was blighted this year; and the landlord
wouldn't give her no more grace, 'cause his head is big and his heart is
small, same as 'tis other way with me, Miss Polly, and the bailiffs was
going to seize mother's little bits of furniture, and mother she was
most wild. So my head it seemed to go, Miss Polly, and I clutched hold
of the half-sovereign in the butcher's pocket, and the half-sovereign in
the grocer's pocket, and I said to mother, 'Miss Polly'll give 'em to
you, 'cause it's a big heart as Miss Polly has got. They was meant for
the family dinner, but what's dinner compared to your feelings.' So
mother she borrowed of the money, Miss Polly, and I hasn't brought home
nothink; I hasn't, truly, miss."

Maggie's narrative was interspersed with very loud sobs, and fierce
catches of her breath, and her small eyes were almost sunken out of
sight.

"Oh, I know you're mad with me," she said, in conclusion. "But what's
dinner compared with mother's feelings. Oh, Miss Polly, don't look at me
like that!"

"Get up," said Polly, severely. "You are just like the people before the
Flood; I understand about them at last. I cannot speak to you now, for
we have not a moment to lose. Can you make the oven hot? There are only
potatoes for dinner, unless the apple tart can be got ready in time."

"Oh, lor'! Miss Polly, I'll soon set that going--why, you has the wrong
flue out, Miss. See now, the heat's going round it lovely. Oh, what an
elegant pie you has turned out, Miss Polly! Why, it's quite wonderful!
You has a gift in the cookery line, Miss. Oh, darling Miss Polly, don't
you be a-naming of me after them Flooders; it's awful to think I'm like
one of they. It's all on account of mother, Miss Polly. It would have
gone to your heart, Miss Polly, if you seen mother a-looking at the
eight-day clock and thinking of parting from it. Her tears made channels
on her cheeks, Miss Polly, and it was 'eart-piercing to view her. Oh, do
take back them words, Miss Polly. Don't say as I'm a Flooder."

Polly certainly had a soft heart, and although nothing could have
mortified her more than the present state of affairs, she made up her
mind to screen Maggie, and to be as little severe to her as she could.




CHAPTER XII.

POTATOES--MINUS POINT.


Dr. Maybright had reason again to congratulate himself when he sat down
to a humble dinner of boiled potatoes.

"If this regimen continues for a week," he said, under his breath, "we
must really resort to tonics. I perceive I did Polly a gross injustice.
She does not mean to make us ill with rich living."

The doctor ate his potatoes with extreme cheerfulness, remarking as he
did so on their nutritive qualities, and explaining to his discontented
family how many people lived on these excellent roots. "The only thing
we want," he said, "is a red herring; we might then have that most
celebrated of all Irish dishes--'potatoes and point.'"

"Do tell us what that is, father," said Helen, who was anxious to draw
the direful glances of the rest of the family from poor Polly.

"'Potatoes and point,'" said Dr. Maybright, raising his head for a
moment, while a droll glance filled his eye, "is a simple but economical
form of diet. The herring is hung by a string over the center of the
board, and each person before he eats his potato points it at the
herring; by so doing a subtle flavor of herring is supposed to be
imparted to the potato. The herring lasts for some time, so the diet is
really a cheap one. Poll, dear, what is the matter? I never saw these
excellent apples of the earth better cooked."

Polly was silent; her blushing cheeks alone betrayed her. She was
determined to make a good meal, and was sustained by the consciousness
that she had not betrayed Maggie, and the hope that the apple-tart would
prove excellent.

It certainly was a noble apple-pie, and the faces of the children quite
cheered up at the sight of it. They were very hungry, and were not
particular as to the quality of the crust. Mrs. White's cream, too, was
delicious, so the second part of Polly's first dinner quite turned out a
success.

After the meal had come to an end, Helen called her second sister aside.

"Polly," she said, "I think we ought to speak to father now about the
strangers' coming. Time is going on, and if they come we ought to begin
to prepare for them, and the more I think of it the more sure I am that
they ought to come."

"All right," said Polly. "Only, is this a good time to speak to father?
For I am quite sure he must be vexed with me."

"You must not think so, Polly," said Helen, kissing her. "Father has
given you a week to try to do your best in, and he won't say anything
one way or another until the time is up. Come into his study now, for I
know he is there, and we really ought to speak to him."

Polly's face was still flushed, but the Doctor, who had absolutely
forgotten the simplicity of his late meal, received both the girls with
equal affection.

"Well, my loves," he said, "can I do anything for you? I am going for a
pleasant drive into the country this afternoon. Would you both like to
come?"

"I should very much," said Helen; but Polly, with a somewhat important
little sigh, remarked that household matters would keep her at home.

"Well, my dear, you must please yourself. But can I do anything for
either of you now? You both look full of business."

"We are, father," said Polly, who was always the impetuous one. "We want
to know if Paul and Virginia may come."

"My dear, this is the second time you have spoken to me of those
deserted orphans. I don't understand you."

"It is this, father," explained Helen. "We think the children from
Australia--the children mother was arranging about--might come here
still. We mean that Polly and I would like them to come, and that we
would do our best for them. We think, Polly and I do, that mother, even
though she is not here, would still like the strangers to come."

"Sit down, Helen," said the Doctor; the harassed look had once again
come across his face, and even Polly noticed the dimness in his eyes.

"You must not undertake too much, you two," he said. "You are only
children. You are at an age to miss your mother at every turn. We had
arranged to have a boy and girl from Australia to live here, but when
your mother--your mother was taken--I gave up the idea. It was too
late to stop their coming to England, but I think I can provide a
temporary home for them when they get to London. You need not trouble
your head about the strange children, Nell."

"It is not that," said Polly. "We don't know them yet, so of course we
don't love them, but we wish them to come here, because we wish for
their money. It will be eight pounds a week; just what you spend on the
house, you know, father."

"What a little economist!" said Dr. Maybright, stretching out his hand
and drawing Polly to him. "Yes, I was to receive £400 a year for the
children, and it would have been a help, certainly it would have been a
help by and by. Still, my dear girls, I don't see how it is to be
managed."

"But really, father, we are so many that two more make very little
difference," explained Helen. "Polly and I are going to try hard to be
steady and good, and we think it would certainly please mother if you
let the strangers come here, and we tried to make them happy. If you
would meet them, father, and bring them here just at first, we might see
how we got on."

"I might," said the Doctor in a meditative voice, "and £400 is a good
deal of money. It is not easily earned, and with a large family it is
always wanted. That's what your mother said, and she was very wise.
Still, still, children, I keep forgetting how old you are. In reality
you are, neither of you, grown up; in reality Polly is quite a child,
and you, my wise little Nell, are very little more. I have offended your
aunt, Mrs. Cameron, as it is, and what will she say if I yield to you on
this point? Still, still----"

"Oh, father, don't mind what that tiresome Aunt Maria says or thinks on
any subject," said Polly. "Why should we mind her, she wasn't mother's
real sister. We scarcely know her at all, and she scarcely knows us. We
don't like her, and we are sure she doesn't like us. Why should she
spoil our lives, and prevent our helping you? For it would help you to
have the strangers here, wouldn't it, father?"

"By and by it would," answered the Doctor. "By and by it would help me
much."

Again the troubled expression came to his face and the dimness was
perceptible in his eyes.

"You will let us try it, father," said Helen. "We can but fail; girls as
young as us have done as much before. I am sure girls as young as we are
have done harder things before, so why should not we try?"

"I am a foolish old man," said the Doctor. "I suppose I shall be blamed
for this, not that it greatly matters. Well, children, let it be as you
wish. I will go and meet the boy and girl in London, and bring them to
the Hollow. We can have them for a month, and if we fail, children,"
added the Doctor, a twinkle of amusement overspreading his face, "we
won't tell any one but ourselves. It is quite possible that in the
future we shall be comparatively poor if we cannot manage to make that
boy and girl from Australia comfortable and happy; but Polly there has
taught us how to economize, for we can always fall back on potatoes and
point."

"Oh--oh--oh, father," came from Polly's lips.

"That is unkind, dear father," said Helen.

But they both hung about his neck and kissed him, and when Dr. Maybright
drove away that afternoon on his usual round of visits, his heart felt
comparatively light, and he owned to himself that those girls of his,
with all their eccentricities, were a great comfort to him.




CHAPTER XIII.

IN THE ATTIC.


There is no saying how Polly's week of housekeeping might have ended,
nor how substantial her castle in the air might have grown, had not a
catastrophe occurred to her of a double and complex nature.

The first day during which Polly and Maggie, between them, catered for
and cooked the family meals, produced a plain diet in the shape of cold
bacon for breakfast, and a dinner of potatoes, minus "point." But on the
Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of that week Maggie quite redeemed her
character of being a Flooder, and worked under Polly with such goodwill
that, as she herself expressed it, her small brains began to grow.
Fortunately, Mrs. Ricketts, Maggie's mother, was not obliged to meet her
rent every day of the week, therefore no more of Polly's four pounds
went in that direction. And Polly read Mrs. Beaton's Cookery-book with
such assiduity, and Maggie carried out her directions with such implicit
zeal and good faith, that really most remarkable meals began to grace
the Doctor's board. Pastry in every imaginable form and guise, cakes of
all descriptions; vegetables, so cooked and so flavored, that their
original taste was completely obliterated; meats cooked in German,
Italian, and American styles; all these things, and many more, graced
the board and speedily vanished. The children became decidedly excited
about the meals, and Polly was cheered and regarded as a sort of queen.
The Doctor sighed, however, and counted the days when Nell and Mrs.
Power should once more peacefully reign in Polly's stead. Nurse asked
severely to have all the nursery medicine bottles replenished. Firefly
looked decidedly pasty, and, after one of Polly's richest plum-cakes,
with three tiers of different colored icings, Bunny was heard crying the
greater part of one night. Still the little cook and housekeeper bravely
pursued her career of glory, and all might have gone well, and Polly
might have worn a chastened halo of well-earned success round her brow
for the remainder of her natural life, but for the catastrophe of which
I am about to speak.

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday the family fared richly, and the
household jogged along somehow, but on Friday morning Dr. Maybright
suddenly surprised his girls by telling them that unexpected business
would call him to London immediately. He could not possibly return
before Monday, but he would get a certain Dr. Strong to see after his
patients, and would start for town by the mid-day train.

The Doctor's portmanteau was quickly packed, and in what seemed a moment
of time after the receipt of the letter he had kissed his family and
bidden them good-by. Then her four younger sisters and the boys came
round Polly with a daring suggestion.

"Let's sit up late, to-night, and have a real, jolly supper," they
begged. "Let's have it at nine o'clock, up in the large garret over the
front of the house; let it be a big supper, all kinds of good things;
ginger-beer and the rest, and let's invite some people to come and eat
it with us. Do Poll--do Poll, darling."

"But," said Polly--she was dazzled by this glorious prospect--"I
haven't got a great deal of money," she said, "and Nurse will be very
angry, and Helen won't like it. For you know, children, you two boys and
Firefly, you are never allowed to sit up as late as nine o'clock."

"But for once, Poll Parrot," exclaimed the three victims; "just for
once. We are sure father would not care, and we can coax Nell to
consent; and Nurse, as to Nurse, she thinks of no one but baby; we won't
choose the garret over baby. Do, do, do say 'yes,' darling Poll."

"The dearest cook in all the world!" exclaimed Bunny, tossing his cap in
the air.

"The queen of cake-makers," said Bob, turning head over heels.

"The darlingest princess of all housekeepers," echoed Firefly, leaping
on her sister, and half-strangling her with a fierce embrace.

"And we'll all subscribe," said the twins.

"And it will really be delightfully romantic; something to remember when
you aren't housekeeper," concluded Katie.

"I'd like it awfully," said Polly, "I don't pretend that I wouldn't, and
I've just found such a recipe for whipped cream. Do you know, girls, I
shouldn't be a bit surprised--I really shouldn't--if I turned out some
meringues made all by myself for supper. The only drawback is the money,
for Mrs. White does charge a lot for cream, and I don't mind owning to
you all, now that you are nice and sympathetic, that the reason you had
only potatoes for dinner on Monday was because Maggie and I met with a
misfortune; it was a money trouble," continued Polly, with an important
air, "and of course children like you cannot understand what money
troubles mean. They are wearing, very, and Maggie says she thinks I'm
beginning to show some crow's feet around my eyes on account of them.
But never mind, I'm not going to cast the shadows of money troubles on
you all, and this thing is not to be spoken of, only it makes me very
short now."

"But we'll help you, Poll," said all the eager voices. "Let's fetch our
purses and see what we can spare."

In a twinkling many odd receptacles for holding money made an
appearance, and the children between them found they could muster the
noble sum of six shillings. All this was handed to Polly, who said,
after profound deliberation, that she thought she could make it go
furthest and make most show in the purchase of cream and ginger-beer.

"I'll scrape the rest together, somehow," she said, in conclusion, "and
Maggie will help me fine. Maggie's a real brick now, and her brains are
growing beautifully."

But there was another point to be decided--Who were to be invited to
partake of the supper, and was Nurse to be told, and was Helen to be
consulted?

Certainly Polly would not have ventured to carry out so daring a scheme
without Helen's consent and cooperation, if it had not happened that she
was away for the day. She had taken the opportunity to drive into the
nearest town five miles away with her father, and had arranged to spend
the day there, purchasing several necessary things, and calling on one
or two friends.

"And it will be much too late to tell Nell when she comes back," voted
all the children. "If she makes a fuss then, and refuses to join, she
will spoil everything. We are bound too, to obey Helen, so we had much
better not give her the chance of saying 'no.' Let us pretend to go to
bed at our usual hour, and say nothing to either Nurse or Helen. We can
tell them to-morrow if we like, and they can only scold us. Yes, that is
the only thing to do, for it would never, never do to have such a jolly
plan spoilt."

A unanimous vote was therefore carried that the supper in the garret was
to be absolutely secret and confidential, and, naughty as this plan of
carrying out their pleasure was, it must be owned that it largely
enhanced the fun. The next point to consider was, who were to be the
invited guests? There were no boys and girls of the children's own class
in life within an easy distance.

"Therefore there is no one to ask," exclaimed Katie, in her shortest and
most objectionable manner.

But here Firefly electrified her family by quoting Scripture.

"When thou makest a supper," she began.

All the others rose in a body and fell upon her. But she had started a
happy idea, and in consequence, Mrs. Ricketts' youngest son and
daughter, and the three very naughty and disreputable sons of Mrs.
Jones, the laundress, were invited to partake of the coming feast.

The rest of the day passed to all appearance very soberly. Helen was
away. The Doctor's carriage neither came nor went; the Doctor himself,
with his kindly voice, and his somewhat brusque, determined manner,
awoke no echoes in the old house. Nurse was far away in the nursery
wing, with the pretty, brown-eyed baby and the children; all the girls
and the little boys were remarkably good.

To those who are well acquainted with the habits and ways of young
folks, too much goodness is generally a suspicious circumstance. There
is a demure look, there is an instant obedience, there is an absence of
fretfulness, and an abnormal, although subdued, cheerfulness, which
arouses the watchful gaze of the knowing among mothers, governesses, and
nurses.

Had Nurse been at dinner that day she might have been warned of coming
events by Bunny's excellent behavior; by Bob's rigid refusal to partake
twice of an unwholesome compound, which went by the name of iced
pudding; by Firefly's anxiety to be all that a good and proper little
girl should be. But Nurse, of course, had nothing to say to the family
dinner. Helen was away, the Doctor was nearing the metropolis, and the
little boys' daily governess was not dining with the family.

These good children had no one to suspect them, and all went smoothly;
in short, the wheels of the house machinery never seemed more admirably
oiled.

True, had any one listened very closely there might have been heard the
stealthy sound of shoeless feet ascending the rickety step-ladder which
led to the large front garret. Shoeless feet going up and down many,
many times. Trays, too, of precious crockery were carried up, baskets
piled with evergreens and flowers were conveyed thither, the linen
cupboard was ruthlessly rifled for snowy tablecloths and table napkins
of all descriptions. Then later in the day a certain savory smell might
have been perceived by any very suspicious person just along this
special passage and up that dusty old ladder. For hot bread and hot
pastry and hot cakes were being conveyed to the attic, and the sober
twins themselves fetched the cream from the farm, and the ginger beer
from the grocer's.

No one was about, however, to suspect, or to tell tales if they did
suspect.

Helen came home about seven o'clock, rather tired, and very much
interested in her purchases, to find a cozy tea awaiting her, and Polly
anxious to serve her. The twin girls were supposed to be learning their
lessons in the school-room, Katie was nowhere to be seen, and Helen
remarked casually that she supposed the young ones had gone to bed.

"Oh, yes," said Polly, in her quickest manner.

She turned her back as she spoke, and the blush which mantled her brown
face was partly hidden by her curly dark hair.

"I am very hungry," said Helen. "Really, Polly, you are turning out an
excellent housekeeper--what a nice tea you have prepared for me. How
delicious these hot cakes are! I never thought, Poll, you would make
such a good cook and manager, and to think of your giving us such
delicious meals on so little money. But you are eating nothing yourself,
love, and how hot your cheeks are!"

"Cooking is hot work, and takes away the appetite," said Polly.

She was listening in agony that moment, for over Helen's head certain
stealthy steps were creeping; they were the steps of children, leaving
their snug beds, and gliding as quietly as possible in the direction of
the savory smells and the dusty ladder and the large dirty,
spidery--but oh, how romantic, how fascinating--front attic. Never
before did Polly realize how many creaky boards there were in the house;
oh, surely Helen would observe those steps; but, no, she cracked her egg
tranquilly, and sipped her tea, and talked in her pleasantest way of
Polly's excellent cooking, and of her day's adventures.

Time was going on; it would soon be eight o'clock. Oh, horrors, why
would the Rickettses and Mrs. Jones's three boys choose the path through
the shrubbery to approach the house! The morning room, where Helen was
taking her tea, looked out on the shrubbery, and although it was now
quite dark in the world of nature, those dreadful rough boys would crack
boughs, and stumble and titter as they walked. Polly's face grew hotter
and her hands colder; never did she bless her sister's rather slow and
unsuspicious nature more than at this moment, for Helen heard no boughs
crack, nor did the stealthy, smothered laughter, so distinctly audible
to poor Polly, reach her ears.

At ten minutes to eight Helen rose from the table.

"I'm going up to Nurse to show her what things I have bought for baby,"
she said. "We are going to short-coat baby next week, so I have a good
deal to show her, and I won't be down again for a little bit."

"All right," said Polly, "I have plenty to do; don't worry about me till
you see me, Nell."

She danced out of the room, and in excellent spirits joined a large and
boisterous party in the front attic. Now, she assured her family and her
guests, all would go well; they were safely housed in a distant and
unused part of the establishment, and might be as merry and as noisy as
they pleased; no one would hear them, no one would miss them, no one
would suspect them.

And all might have gone according to Polly's programme, and to this day
that glorious feast in the attic might have remained a secret in the
private annals of the house of Maybright, but for that untoward thing
which I am about to tell.

At that very moment while the Maybrights, the Rickettses, and the
Joneses were having delightful and perfectly untrammeled intercourse
with each other, a very fidgety old lady was approaching the Hollow,
being carefully conducted thither in a rickety fly. A large traveling
trunk was on the box seat of the fly, and inside were two or three
bandboxes, a couple of baskets, a strap bursting with railway rugs,
cloaks, and umbrellas, and last, but not least, a snarling little toy
terrier, who barked and whined, and jumped about, and licked his
mistress's hand.

"Down, Scorpion," exclaimed Mrs. Cameron; "behave yourself, sir. You
really become more vicious every day. Get in that corner, and don't stir
till I give you leave. Now, then, driver," opening the window and poking
her head out, "when are we getting to Sleepy Hollow? Oh! never, never
have I found myself in a more outlandish place."

"We be a matter of two miles from there, ma'am," said the man. "You set
easy, and keep yourself quiet, for the beast won't go no faster."

Mrs. Cameron subsided again into the depths of the musty old fly with a
groan.

"Outlandish--most outlandish!" she remarked again. "Scorpion, you may
sit in my lap if you like to behave yourself, sir. Well, well, duty
calls me into many queer quarters. Scorpion, if you go on snarling and
growling I shall slap you smartly. Yes, poor Helen; I never showed my
love for her more than when I undertook this journey: never, never. Oh!
how desolate that great moor does look; I trust there are no robbers
about. It's perfectly awful to be in a solitary cab, with anything but a
civil driver, alone on these great moors. Well, well, how could Helen
marry a man like Dr. Maybright, and come to live here? He must be the
oddest person, to judge from the letter he wrote me. I saw at once there
was nothing for me but to make the stupendous effort of coming to see
after things myself. Poor dear Helen! she was a good creature, very
handsome, quite thrown away upon that doctor. I was fond of her; she was
like a child to me long ago. It is my duty to do what I can for her
orphans. Now, Scorpion, what is the matter? You are quite one of the
most vicious little dogs I have ever met. Oh, do be quiet, sir."

But at that moment the fly drew up with a jolt. The driver deliberately
descended from his seat, and opened the door, whereupon Scorpion, with a
snarl and bound, disappeared into the darkness.

"He's after a cat," remarked the man, laconically. "This be the Hollow,
ma'am, if you'll have the goodness to get out."

"Sleepy Hollow," remarked Mrs. Cameron to herself, as she steadily
descended. "Truly I should think so; but I am much mistaken if I don't
wake it up."




CHAPTER XIV.

AUNT MARIA.


"Ef you please, Miss Helen," said Alice, the neat housemaid, putting in
her head at the nursery door, "there's a lady downstairs, and a heap of
luggage, and the nastiest little dog I ever saw. He has almost killed
the Persian kitten, Miss, and he is snarling and snapping at every one.
See, he took this bit out of my apron, miss. The old lady says as her
name is Mrs. Cameron, and she has come to stay; and she'd be glad if
you'd go down to her immediately, Miss Helen."

"Aunt Maria!" said Helen, in an aghast voice. "Aunt Maria absolutely
come--and father away! Nursie, I must fly down--you will understand
about those flannels. Oh! I am sorry Aunt Maria has come. What will
Polly say?"

Helen felt a curious sinking at her heart as she descended the stairs;
but she was a very polite and well-mannered girl, and when she went up
to Mrs. Cameron she said some pretty words of welcome, which were really
not overdone. Mrs. Cameron was a short, stout person; she always wore
black, and her black was always rusty. She stood now in the middle of
the drawing-room, holding Scorpion in her arms, with her bonnet-strings
untied, and her full, round face somewhat flushed.

"No, my dear, you are not particularly glad to see me," she said, in
answer to Helen's gentle dignified greeting. "I don't expect it, child,
nor look for it; and you need not waste untruths upon me, for I always
see through them. You are not glad to see me, and I am not surprised,
for I assure you I intend to make myself disagreeable. Helen, your
father is a perfect fool. Now, my dear, you need not fire up; you would
say so if you were as old as me, and had received as idiotic an epistle
from him."

"But I am not as old as you, and he is my father," said Helen, steadily.
"I don't tell untruths, Aunt Maria, and I am glad to see you
because--because you were fond of mother. Will you come into the
dining-room now, and let me get you some tea?"

Helen's lips were quivering, and her dark blue eyes were slightly
lowered, so that Aunt Maria should not notice the tears that filled
them. The old lady, however, had noticed these signs of emotion, and
brave words always pleased her.

"You aren't a patch on your mother, child," she said. "But you remind me
of her. Yes, take me to my room first, and then get me a good
substantial meal, for I can tell you I am starving."

Helen rang the bell.

"Alice," she said to the parlor maid, who speedily answered the summons,
"will you get the rose room ready as quickly as possible? My aunt, Mrs.
Cameron, will stay here for the night. And please lay supper in the
dining-room. Tell Mrs. Power--oh, I forgot--see and get as nice a
supper as you can, Alice. You had better speak to Miss Polly."

"Yes, Miss," said Alice. Then she paused, hesitated, colored slightly,
and said, in a dubious manner, "Is it the rose room you mean, Miss
Helen? That's the room Miss Polly is getting ready for Miss Virginy, and
there ain't no curtains to the window nor to the bed at present."

"Then I won't sleep in that bed," said Mrs. Cameron. "I must have a
four-poster with curtains all round, and plenty of dark drapery to the
windows. My eyes are weak, and I don't intend to have them injured with
the cold morning light off the moor."

"Oh, Aunt Maria, the mornings aren't very light now," answered Helen.
"They are----"

But Mrs. Cameron interrupted her.

"Don't talk nonsense, child. In a decent place like Bath I own the day
may break gradually, but I expect everything contrary to civilized
existence here. The very thought of those awful commons makes me shiver.
Now, have you, or have you not, a four-poster, in which I can sleep?"

Helen smothered a slight sigh. She turned once again to Alice.

"Will you get my father's room ready for Mrs. Cameron," she said, "and
then see about supper as quickly as possible? Father is away for a few
days," she added, turning to the good lady. "Please will you come up to
Polly's and my room now to take off your things?"

"And where is Polly?" said Mrs. Cameron. "And why doesn't she come to
speak to her aunt? There's Kate, too, she must be a well-grown girl by
now, and scarcely gone to bed yet. The rest of the family are, I
presume, asleep; that is, if there's a grain of sense left in the
household."

"Yes, most of the children are in bed," replied Helen. "You will see
Polly and Katie, and perhaps the twins, later on, but first of all I
want to make you comfortable. You must be very tired; you have had a
long journey."

"I'm beat out, child, and that's the truth. Here, I'll lay Scorpion down
in the middle of your bed; he has been a great worry to me all day, and
he wants his sleep. He likes to get between the sheets, so if you don't
mind I'll open the bed and let him slip down."

"If you want me to be truthful, I do mind very much," said Helen. "Oh,
you are putting him into Polly's bed. Well, I suppose he must stay there
for the present."

Mrs. Cameron was never considered an unamiable person; she was well
spoken of by her friends and relations, for she was rich, and gave away
a great deal of money to various charities and benevolent institutions.
But if ever any one expected her to depart in the smallest particular
from her own way they were vastly mistaken. Whatever her goal, whatever
her faintest desire, she rode roughshod over all prejudices until she
obtained it. Therefore it was that, notwithstanding poor Helen's
protest, Scorpion curled down comfortably between Polly's sheets, and
Mrs. Cameron, well pleased at having won her point, went down to supper.

Alas, and alas! the supper provided for the good lady was severe in its
simplicity. Alice, blushing and uncomfortable, called Helen out of the
room, and then informed her that neither Polly nor Maggie could be
found, and that there was literally nothing, or next to nothing, in the
larder.

"But that can't be the case," said Helen, "for there was a large piece
of cold roast beef brought up for my tea, and a great plate of hot
cakes, and an uncut plum cake. Surely, Alice, you must be mistaken."

"No, Miss, there's nothing downstairs. Not a joint, nor a cake, nor
nothing. If it wasn't that I found some new-laid eggs in the hen-house,
and cut some slices from the uncooked ham, I couldn't have had nothing
at all for supper--and--and----"

"Tut, tut!" suddenly exclaimed a voice in the dining-room. "What's all
this whispering about? It is very rude of little girls to whisper
outside doors, and not to attend to their aunts when they come a long
way to see them. If you don't come in at once, Miss Helen, and give me
my tea, I shall help myself."

"Find Polly, then, as quick as you can, Alice," exclaimed poor,
perplexed Helen, "and tell her that Aunt Maria Cameron has come and is
going to stay."

Alice went away, and Helen, returning to the dining-room, poured out
tea, and cut bread-and-butter, and saw her aunt demolishing with
appetite three new-laid eggs, and two generous slices of fried ham.

"Your meal was plain; but I am satisfied with it," she said in
conclusion. "I am glad you live frugally, Helen; waste is always sinful,
and in your case peculiarly so. You don't mind my telling you, my dear,
that I think it is a sad extravagance wearing crape every day, but of
course you don't know any better. You are nothing in the world but an
overgrown child. Now that I have come, my dear, I shall put this and
many other matters to rights. Tell me, Helen, how long does your father
intend to be away?"

"Until Monday, I think, Aunt Maria."

"Very well; then you and I will begin our reforms to-morrow. I'll take
you round with me, and we'll look into everything. Your father won't
know the house when he comes back. I've got a treasure of a woman in my
eye for him--a Miss Grinsted. She is fifty, and a strict
disciplinarian. She will soon manage matters, and put this house into
something like order. I had a great mind to bring her with me; but I can
send for her. She can be here by Monday or Tuesday. I told her to be in
readiness, and to have her boxes packed. My dear, I wish you would not
poke out your chin so much. How old are you? Oh, sixteen--a very gawky
age. Now then, that I am refreshed and rested, I think that we'll just
go round the house."

"Will you not wait until to-morrow, Aunt Maria? The children are all
asleep and in bed now, and Nurse never likes them to be disturbed."

"My dear, Nurse's likes or dislikes are not of the smallest importance
to me. I wish to see the children asleep, so if you will have the
goodness to light a candle, Helen, and lead the way, I will follow."

Helen, again stifling a sigh, obeyed. She felt full of trepidation and
uneasiness. Why did not Polly come in? Why had all the supper
disappeared? Where were Katie and the twins? How strangely silent the
house was.

"I will see the baby first," said Mrs. Cameron. "In bed? Well, no
matter, I wish to look at the little dear. Ah, this is the nursery; a
nice, cheerful room, but too much light in it, and no curtains to the
windows. Very bad for the dear baby's eyes. How do you do, Nurse? I have
come to see baby. I am her aunt, her dear mother's sister, Maria
Cameron."

Nurse curtseyed.

"Baby is asleep, ma'am," she said. "I have just settled her in her
little crib for the night. She's a good, healthy child, and no trouble
to any one. Yes, ma'am, she has a look of her dear blessed ma. I'll just
hold down the sheet, and you'll see. Please, ma'am, don't hold the light
full in the babe's eyes, you'll wake her."

"My good woman, I handled babies before you did. I had this child's
mother in my arms when she was a baby. Yes, the infant is well enough;
you're mistaken in there being any likeness to your late mistress in
her. She seems a plain child, but healthy. If you don't watch her sight,
she may get delicate eyes, however. I should recommend curtains being
put up immediately to these windows, and you're only using night-lights
when she sleeps. It is not _I_ that am likely to injure the baby with
too much light. Good evening, Nurse."

Nurse muttered something, her brow growing black.

"Now, Helen," continued Mrs. Cameron, "we will visit the other children.
This is the boys' room, I presume. I am fond of boys. What are your
brothers' names, my dear?"

"We call them Bob and Bunny."

"Utterly ridiculous! I ask for their baptismal names, not for anything
so silly. Ah! oh--I thought you said they were in bed: these beds are
empty."

So they were; tossed about, no doubt, but with no occupants, and the
bedclothes no longer warm; so that it could not have been quite lately
that the truants had departed from their nightly places of rest. On
further investigation, Firefly's bed was also found in a sad state of
_déshabillé_, and it was clearly proved, on visiting their apartments,
that the twins and Katie had not gone to bed at all.

"Then, my dear, where are the family?" said Mrs. Cameron. "You and that
little babe are the only ones I have yet seen. Where is Mary? where is
Katharine? Where are your brothers? My dear Helen, this is awful; your
brothers and sisters are evidently playing midnight pranks. Oh, there is
not a doubt of it, you need not tell me. What a good thing it is that I
came! Oh! my poor dear sister; what a state her orphans have been
reduced to! There is nothing whatever for it but to telegraph for Miss
Grinsted in the morning."

"But, my dear auntie, I am sure, oh! I am sure you are mistaken," began
poor Helen. "The children are always very well behaved--they are,
indeed they are. They don't play pranks, Aunt Maria."

"Allow me to use my own eyesight, Helen. The beds are empty--not a
child is to be found. Come, we must search the house!"

Helen never to her dying day forgot that eerie journey through the
deserted house, accompanied by Aunt Maria. She never forgot the
sickening fear which oppressed her, and the certainty which came over
her that Polly, poor, excitable Polly, was up to some mischief.

Sleepy Hollow was a large and rambling old place, and it was some time
before the searchers reached the neighborhood of the festive garret.
When they did, however, there was no longer any room for doubt. Wild
laughter, and high-pitched voices singing many favorite nursery airs and
school-room songs made noise enough to reach the ears even of the
deafest. "John Peel" was having a frantic chorus as Helen and her aunt
ascended the step-ladder.

"For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed,
And the cry of his hounds which he ofttimes led,
Peel's 'View Hulloo!' would awaken the dead,
Or the fox from his lair in the morning."

"_Very_ nice, indeed," said Aunt Maria, as she burst open the garret
door. "Very nice and respectful to the memory of your dear mother! I am
glad, children, that I have come to create decent order in this
establishment. I am your aunt, Maria Cameron."




CHAPTER XV.

PUNISHMENT.


There are occasions when people who are accused wrongfully of a fault
will take it patiently: there was scarcely ever known to be a time when
wrongdoers did so.

The children in the garret were having a wild time of mirth and
excitement. There was no time for any one to think, no time for any one
to do aught but enjoy. The lateness of the hour, the stealthy gathering,
the excellent supper, and, finally, the gay songs, had roused the young
spirits to the highest pitch. Polly was the life of everything; Maggie,
her devoted satellite, had a face which almost blazed with excitement.

Her small eyes twinkled like stars, her broad mouth never ceased to show
a double row of snowy teeth. She revolved round her brothers and
sisters, whispering in their ears, violently nudging them, and piling on
the agony in the shape of cups of richly creamed and sugared tea, of
thick slices of bread-and-butter and jam, and plum cake, topped with
bumpers of foaming ginger-beer.

Repletion had reached such a pass in the case of the Ricketts brother
and sister that they could scarcely move; the Jones brothers were also
becoming slightly heavy-eyed; but the Maybright children fluttered about
here and there like gay butterflies, and were on the point of getting up
a dance when Aunt Maria and the frightened Helen burst upon the scene.

It required a much less acute glance than Aunt Maria's to point out
Polly as the ringleader. She headed the group of mirth-seekers, every
lip resounded with her name, all the other pairs of young eyes turned to
her. When the garret door was flung open, and Aunt Maria in no measured
tones announced herself, the children flew like frightened chickens to
hide under Polly's wing. The Rickettses and Joneses scrambled to their
feet, and ran to find shelter as close as possible to headquarters.
Thus, when Polly at last found her voice, and turned round to speak to
Aunt Maria, she looked like the flushed and triumphant leader of a
little victorious garrison. She was quite carried away by the excitement
of the whole thing, and defiance spoke both in her eyes and manner.

"How do you do, Aunt Maria?" she said. "We did not expect you. We were
having supper, and have just finished. I would ask you to have some with
us, only I am afraid there is not a clean plate left. Is there, Maggie?"

Maggie answered with a high and nervous giggle, "Oh, lor', Miss Polly!
that there ain't; and there's nothing but broken victuals either on the
table by now. We was all hungry, you know, Miss Polly."

"So perhaps," continued Polly, "you would go downstairs again, Aunt
Maria. Helen, will you take Aunt Maria to the drawing-room? I will come
as soon as I see the supper things put away. Helen, why do you look at
me like that? What's the matter?"

"Oh, Polly!" said Helen, in her most reproachful tones.

She was turning away, but Aunt Maria caught her rather roughly by the
shoulder.

"Do _all_ this numerous party belong to the family?" she said. "I see
here present thirteen children. I never knew before that my sister had
such an enormous family."

Helen felt in far too great a state of collapse to make any reply; but
Polly's saucy, glib tones were again heard.

"These are our visitors, Aunt Maria. Allow me to introduce them. Master
and Miss Ricketts, Masters Tom, Jim, and Peter Jones. This is Maggie, my
satellite, and devoted friend, and--and----"

But Aunt Maria's patience had reached its tether. She was a stout,
heavily made woman, and when she walked into the center of Polly's
garrison she quickly dispersed it.

"March!" she said, laying her hand heavily on the girl's shoulder. "To
your room this instant. Come, I shall see you there, and lock you in.
You are a very bad, wicked, heartless girl, and I am bitterly ashamed of
you. To your room this minute. While your father is away you are under
my control, and I _insist_ on being obeyed."

"Oh, lor'!" gasped Maggie. "Run," she whispered to her brother and
sister. "Make for the door, quick. Oh, ain't it awful! Oh, poor dear
Miss Polly! Why, that dreadful old lady will almost kill her."

But no, Polly was still equal to the emergency.

"You need not hold me, Aunt Maria," she said, in a quiet voice, "I can
go without that. Good night, children. I am sorry our jolly time has had
such an unpleasant ending. Now then, I'll go with you, Aunt Maria."

"In front, then," said Aunt Maria. "No loitering behind. Straight to
your room."

Polly walked down the dusty ladder obediently enough; Aunt Maria,
scarlet in the face, stumped and waddled after her; Helen, very pale,
and feeling half terrified, brought up the rear. All went well, and the
truant exhibited no signs of rebellion until they reached the wide
landing which led in one direction to the girl's bedroom, in the other
to the staircase.

Here Polly turned at bay.

"I'm not going to my room at present," she said. "If I've been naughty,
father can punish me when he comes home. You can tell anything you like
to father when he comes back on Monday. But I'm not going to obey you.
You have no authority over me, and I'm not responsible to you. Father
can punish me as much as he likes when you have told him. I'm going
downstairs, now; it's too early for bed. I've not an idea of obeying
you."

"We will see to that," said Aunt Maria. "You are quite the naughtiest
child I ever came across. Now then, Miss, if you don't go patiently, and
on your own feet, you shall be conveyed to your room in my arms. I am
quite strong enough, so you can choose."

Polly's eyes flashed.

"If you put it in that way, I don't want to fuss," she said. "I'll go
there for the present, but you can't keep me there, and you needn't
try."

Aunt Maria and Polly disappeared round the corner, and poor Helen stood
leaning against the oak balustrade, silently crying. In three or four
minutes Aunt Maria returned, her face still red, and the key of the
bedroom in her pocket.

"Now, Helen, what is the matter? Crying? Well, no wonder. Of course, you
are ashamed of your sister. I never met such a naughty, impertinent
girl. Can it be possible that Helen should have such a child? She must
take entirely after her father. Now, Helen, stop crying, tears are most
irritating to me, and do no good to any one. I am glad I arrived at this
emergency. Matters have indeed come to a pretty crisis. In your father's
absence, I distinctly declare that I take the rule of my poor sister's
orphans, and I shall myself mete out the punishment for the glaring act
of rebellion that I have just witnessed. Polly remains in her room, and
has a bread and water diet until Monday. The other children have bread
and water for breakfast in the morning, and go to bed two hours before
their usual time to-morrow. The kitchen-maid I shall dismiss in the
morning, giving her a month's wages in lieu of notice. Now, Helen, come
downstairs. Oh, there is just one thing more. You must find some other
room to sleep in to-night. I forbid you to go near your sister. In fact,
I shall not give you the key. You may share my bed, if you like."

"I cannot do that, Aunt Maria," said Helen. "I respect you, and will
obey you as far as I can until father returns, and tells us what we
really ought to do. But I cannot stay away from Polly to-night for any
one. I know she has been very naughty. I am as shocked as you can be
with all that has happened, but I know too, Aunt Maria, that harsh
treatment will ruin Polly; she won't stand it, she never would, and
mother never tried it with her. She is different from the rest of us,
Aunt Maria; she is wilder, and fiercer, and freer; but mother often
said, oh, often and often, that no one might be nobler than Polly, if
only she was guided right. I know she is troublesome, I know she was
impertinent to you, and I know well she did very wrong, but she is only
fourteen, and she has high spirits. You can't bend, nor drive Polly,
Aunt Maria, but gentleness and love can always lead her. I _must_ sleep
in my own bed to-night, Aunt Maria. Oh, don't refuse me--please give me
up the key."

"You are a queer girl," said Aunt Maria. "But I believe you are the best
of them, and you certainly remind me of your mother when you speak in
that earnest fashion. Here, take the key, then, but be sure you lock the
door when you go in, and when you come out again in the morning. I trust
to you that that little wild, impertinent sister of yours doesn't
escape--now, remember."

"While I am there she will not," answered Helen. "Thank you, auntie. You
look very tired yourself, won't you go to bed now?"

"I will, child. I'm fairly beat out. Such a scene is enough to disturb
the strongest nerves. Only what about the other children? Are they still
carousing in that wicked way in the garret?"

"No. I am sure they have gone to bed, thoroughly ashamed of themselves.
But I will go and see to them."

"One thing more, child. Before I go to bed I should like to fill in a
telegraph form to Miss Grinsted. If she gets it the first thing in the
morning she can reach here to-morrow night. Well, Helen, again
objecting; you evidently mean to cross me in everything; now what is the
matter? Why has your face such a piteous look upon it?"

"Only this, Aunt Maria. Until father returns I am quite willing to obey
you, and I will do my best to make the others good and obedient. But I
do think he would be vexed at your getting Miss Grinsted until you have
spoken to him. Won't you wait until Monday before you telegraph for
her?"

"I'll sleep on it, anyhow," replied Mrs. Cameron. "Good night, child.
You remind me very much of your mother--not in appearance, but in the
curious way you come round a person, and insist upon having everything
done exactly as you like. Now, my dear, good night. I consider you all
the most demoralized household, but I won't be here long before matters
are on a very different footing."

The bedroom door really closed upon Aunt Maria, and Helen drew a long
breath.

Oh, for Monday to arrive! Oh, for any light to guide the perplexed child
in this crisis! But she had no time to think now. She flew to the
garret, to find only the wreck of the feast and one or two candles
flickering in their sockets. She put the candles out, and went next to
the children's bedrooms. Bob and Bunny, with flushed faces, were lying
once more in their cribs, fast asleep. They were dreaming and tossing
about, and Nurse stood over them with a perplexed and grave face.

"This means nightmare, and physic in the morning," said the worthy
woman. "Now, don't you fret and worry your dear head, Miss Helen, pet.
Oh, yes, I know all about it, and it _was_ a naughty thing to do, only
children will be children. Your aunt needn't expect that her old crabbed
head and ways will fit on young shoulders. You might go to Miss Firefly,
though, for a minute, Miss Helen, for she's crying fit to break her
heart."

Helen went off at once. Firefly was a very excitable and delicate child.
She found the little creature with her head buried under the clothes,
her whole form shaken with sobs.

"Lucy, darling," said Helen.

The seldom-used name aroused the weeping child; she raised her head, and
flung two thin arms so tightly round Helen's neck that she felt half
strangled.

"Oh, it's so awful, Nell; what will she do to poor Polly! Oh, poor
Polly! Will she half kill her, Nell?"

"No, Fly--how silly of you to take such an idea into your head. Fly,
dear, stop crying at once--you know you have all been naughty, and
Polly has hurt Aunt Maria, and hurt me, too. You none of you knew Aunt
Maria was coming, but I did not think you would play such a trick on me,
and when father was away, too."

"It wasn't Polly's fault," said Firefly, eagerly. "She was tempted, and
we were the tempters. We all came round her, and we did coax, so hard,
and Polly gave way, 'cause she wanted to make us happy. She's a darling,
the dearest darling in all the world, and if Aunt Maria hurts her and
she dies, I--I----"

The little face worked in a paroxysm of grief and agony.

"Don't, Fly," said Helen. "You are much too tired and excited for me to
talk calmly to you to-night. You have been naughty, darling, and so has
Polly, and real naughtiness is always punished, always, somehow or
another. But you need not be afraid that any real harm will happen to
Polly. I am going to her in a moment or two, so you need not be in the
least anxious. Now fold your hands, Fly, and say 'Our Father.' Say it
slowly after me."

Firefly's sobs had become much less. She now lay quiet, her little chest
still heaving, but with her eyes open, and fixed with a pathetic longing
on Helen's face.

"You're nearly as good as mother," she said. "And I love you. But Polly
always, always must come first. Nell, I'll say 'Our Father,' only not
the part about forgiving, for I can't forgive Aunt Maria."

"My dear child, you are talking in a very silly way. Aunt Maria has done
nothing but her duty, nothing to make you really angry with her. Now,
Fly, it is late, and Polly wants me. Say those dear words, for mother's
sake."

There was no child at Sleepy Hollow who would not have done anything for
mother's sake, so the prayer was whispered with some fresh gasps of pain
and contrition, and before Helen left the room, little Lucy's pretty
dark eyes were closed, and her small, sallow, excitable face was
tranquil.




CHAPTER XVI.

DR. MAYBRIGHT _versus_ SCORPION.


Dr. Maybright returned to his home on Monday evening in tolerably good
spirits. He had gone up to London about a money matter which caused him
some anxiety; his fears were, for the present at least, quite lulled to
rest, and he had taken the opportunity of consulting one of the greatest
oculists of the day with regard to his eyesight. The verdict was more
hopeful than the good Doctor had dared to expect. With care, total
blindness might be altogether avoided; at the worst it would not come
for some time. A certain regimen was recommended, overwork was
forbidden, all great anxiety was to be avoided, and then, and
then--Well, at least the blessed light of day might be enjoyed by the
Doctor for years to come.

"But you must not overwork," said the oculist, "and you must not worry.
You must read very little, and you must avoid chills; for should a cold
attack your eyes now the consequences would be serious."

On the whole this verdict was favorable, and the Doctor returned to
Sleepy Hollow with a considerable weight lifted from his mind. As the
train bore him homeward through the mellow, ripened country with the
autumn colors glorifying the landscape, and a rich sunlight casting a
glow over everything, his heart felt peaceful. Even with the better part
of him gone away for ever, he could look forward with pleasure to the
greeting of his children, and find much consolation in the love of their
young hearts.

"After all, there never were girls quite like Helen and Polly," he said
to himself. "They both in their own way take after their mother. Helen
has got that calm which was always so refreshing and restful in her
mother; and that little scapegrace of a Polly inherits a good deal of
her brilliancy. I wonder how the little puss has managed the
housekeeping. By the way, her week is up to-day, and we return to Nell's
and Mrs. Power's steadier regime. Poor Poll, it was shabby of me to
desert the family during the end of Indigestion week, but doubtless
matters have gone fairly well. Nurse has all her medicine bottles
replenished, so that in case of need she knew what to do. Poor Poll, she
really made an excellent cake for my supper the last evening I was at
home."

The carriage rolled down the avenue, and the Doctor alighted on his own
doorsteps; as he did so he looked round with a pleased and expectant
smile on his face. It was six o'clock, and the evenings were drawing in
quickly; the children might be indoors, but it seemed scarcely probable.
The little Maybrights were not addicted to indoor life, and as a rule
their gay, shrill voices might have been heard echoing all over the old
place long after sunset. Not so this evening; the place was almost too
still; there was no rush of eager steps in the hall, and no clamor of
gay little voices without.

Dr. Maybright felt a slight chill; he could not account for it. The
carriage turned and rolled away, and he quickly entered the house.

"Polly, where are you? Nell, Firefly, Bunny," he shouted.

Still there was no response, unless, indeed, the rustling of a silk
dress in the drawing-room, a somewhat subdued and half-nervous cough,
and the unpleasant yelping of a small dog could have been construed into
one.

"Have my entire family emigrated? And is Sleepy Hollow let to
strangers?" murmured the Doctor.

He turned in the direction of the rustle, the cough, and the bark, and
found himself suddenly in the voluminous embrace of his sister-in-law,
Mrs. Cameron.

"My dear Andrew, I am pleased to see you. You have been in the deep
waters of affliction, and if in my power I would have come to you
sooner. I had rheumatism and a natural antipathy to solitude. Still I
made the effort, although a damper or more lonely spot would be hard to
find. I don't wonder at my poor sister's demise. I got your letter,
Andrew, and it was really in reply to it that I am here. Down, Scorpion;
the dog will be all right in a moment or two, my dear brother, he is
only smelling your trousers."

"He has a very marked way of doing so," responded the Doctor, "as I
distinctly feel his teeth. Allow me, Maria, to put this little animal
outside the window--a dog's bite given even in play is not the most
desirable acquisition. Well, Maria, your visit astonishes me very much.
Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. Did you arrive to-day? How did you find the
children?"

"I came here on Friday evening, Andrew. The children are as well as such
poor neglected lambs could be expected to be."

Dr. Maybright raised his eyebrows very slightly.

"I was not aware they were neglected," he said. "I am sorry they strike
you so. I also have a little natural antipathy to hearing children
compared to sheep. But where are they? I have been away for four days,
and am in the house five minutes, and not the voice of a child do I
hear? Where is Helen--where is my pretty Poll? Don't they know that
their father has arrived?"

"I cannot tell you, Andrew. I have been alone myself for the last two or
three hours, but I ordered your tea to be got ready. May I give you
some? Shall we come to the dining room at once? Your family were quite
well three hours ago, so perhaps you and I may have a quiet meal
together before we trouble about them any further. I think I may claim
this little indulgence, as only properly respectful to your wife's
sister, Andrew."

"Yes, Maria, I will have tea with you," said the Doctor. The pleased,
bright look of anticipation had altogether now left his face; it was
careworn, the brow slightly puckered, and many lines of care and age
showed round the lips.

"I will just go upstairs and wash my hands," said Dr. Maybright. "Then I
will join you in the dining-room."

He ran up the low stairs to his own room; it was not only full of Aunt
Maria's possessions, but was guarded by the faithful Scorpion, who had
flown there in disgust, and now again attacked the Doctor's legs.

"There is a limit," he murmured, "and I reach it when I am bitten by
this toy terrier."

He lifted Scorpion by his neck, and administered one or two short slaps,
which sent the pampered little animal yelping under the bed; then he
proceeded down the passage in search of some other room where he might
take shelter.

Alice met him; her eyes glowed, and the color in her face deepened.

"We are all so glad you are back, sir," she said, with an affectionate
tone in her voice. "And Miss Helen has got the room over the porch
ready, if you'd do with it for a night or two, sir. I've took hot water
there, sir, for I saw the carriage coming up the drive."

"Thank you, Alice; the porch room will do nicely. By the way, can you
tell me where all the children are?"

But Alice had disappeared, almost flown down the passage, and the Doctor
had an uncomfortable half suspicion that he heard her sob as she went.

Dr. Maybright, however, was not a fanciful person--the children, with
the exception of baby, were all probably out. It was certainly rather
contrary to their usual custom to be away when his return was expected,
still, he argued, consistency in children was the last thing to be
expected. He went downstairs, therefore, with an excellent appetite for
whatever meal Mrs. Cameron might have provided for him, and once more in
tolerably good spirits.

There are some people who habitually, and from a strong sense of duty,
live on the shady side of life. Metaphorically speaking, the sunshine
may almost touch the very path on which they are treading, but they
shrink from and avoid it, having a strong preference for the shade, but
considering themselves martyrs while they live in it. Mrs. Cameron was
one of these people. The circumstances of her life had elected plenty of
sunshine for her; she had a devoted and excellent husband, an abundant
income, and admirable health. It is true she had no children, and it is
also true that she had brought herself by careful cultivation to a state
of chronic ill-temper. Every one now accepted the fact that Mrs. Cameron
neither wished to be happy, nor was happy; and when the Doctor sat down
to tea, and found himself facing her, it was with very somber and
disapproving eyes that she regarded him.

"Well, Andrew, I must say you look remarkably well. Dear, dear, there is
no constancy in this world, that is, amongst the male sex."

Here she handed him a cup of tea, and sighed lugubriously. The Doctor
accepted the tea with a slight frown; he was a peaceable man, but as he
said, when chastising Scorpion, "there are limits."

"If you have no objection, Maria," he said, curtly, "we will leave the
subject of my personal appearance and the moral question which you have
brought forward out of our conversation."

Then his voice and manner changed; he put on a company smile, and
continued, without any pause, "How is your husband? Is he as great an
antiquary as ever? And do you both continue to like living in Bath?"

Mrs. Cameron was a strong and determined woman, but she was no match for
the Doctor when he chose to have his own way. For the remainder of the
meal conversation was languid, and decidedly commonplace; once only it
brightened into animation.

"I wonder where Scorpion can be?" said the good lady; "I want to give
him his cream."

"I fear he is under punishment," said the Doctor. "If I judge of him
aright, Scorpion is something of a coward, and is not likely to come
into the same room where I am for some time."

"What do you mean? Surely you have not been cruel to him?"

"Cruel to be kind. Once again he attempted to eat my legs, and I was
obliged to administer one or two sharp slaps--nothing to hurt; you will
find him under your bed. And now I really must go to look for my
family."

Dr. Maybright left the room, and Mrs. Cameron sat still, scarlet with
annoyance and indignation.

"How could Helen have married such a man?" she said to herself. "I never
can get on with him--never. How cowardly it was of him to hurt the
little dog. If it was not for the memory of poor dear Helen I should
leave here by the first train in the morning; but as it is, I will not
stir until I have established Miss Grinsted over this poor, misguided
household. Ah, well! duty is ever hard, but those who know Maria Cameron
are well acquainted with the fact that she never shirked it. Yes, I will
stay; it will be very unpleasant, but I must go through it. What very
abrupt manners the Doctor has! I was just preparing to tell him all
about that wicked Polly when he jumped up and left the room. Now, of
course, he will get a wrong impression of the whole thing, for the other
children all take her part. Very bad manners to jump up from the tea
table like that. And where _is_ Helen?--where are they all? Now that I
come to think of it, I have seen nothing of any one of them since the
early dinner. Well, well, if it were not for poor Helen I should wash my
hands of the whole concern. But whoever suffers, dear little Scorpion
must have his cream."

Accordingly Mrs. Cameron slowly ascended the stairs, armed with a saucer
and a little jug, and Scorpion forgot the indignities to which he had
been subjected as he lapped up his dainty meal.

Meanwhile, the Doctor having explored the morning room and the
schoolrooms, having peeped into the conservatory, and even peered with
his rather failing sight into the darkness outside, took two or three
strides upstairs, and found himself in the presence of Nurse and baby.

"Well, Pearl," he said, taking the little pure white baby into his arms,
looking into its wee face earnestly, and then giving it a kiss, which
was sad, and yet partook of something of the nature of a blessing.

"Baby goes on well, Nurse," he said, returning the little creature to
the kind woman's arms. Then he looked into her face, and his own
expression changed.

"What is the matter?" he said, abruptly. "You have been crying. Is
anything wrong? Where have all the children vanished to?"

"You have had your tea, sir?" said Nurse, her words coming out in jerks,
and accompanied by fresh sobs. "You have had your tea, and is partial
rested, I hope, so it's but right you should know. The entire family,
sir, every blessed one of them, with the exception of the babe, has took
upon themselves to run away."




CHAPTER XVII.

WHERE ARE THE CHILDREN?


Nurse's news astonished the Doctor very much. He was not a man, however,
to show all he felt. He saw that Nurse was on the verge of hysterics,
and he knew that if he did not take this startling and unpleasant piece
of information in the most matter-of-fact way, he would get nothing out
of her.

"I hope matters are not as bad as you fear," he said. "Sit down in this
chair, and tell me what has occurred. Don't hurry yourself; a few
moments more or less don't signify. Tell your tale quietly, in your own
way."

Thus administered, Nurse gasped once or twice, looked up at the Doctor
with eyes which plainly declared "there never was your equal for
blessedness and goodness under the sun," and commenced her story in the
long-winded manner of her class.

The Doctor heard a garbled account of the supper in the attic, of the
arrival of Mrs. Cameron, of the prompt measures which that good lady
took to crush Polly, of Firefly's grief, of the state of confusion into
which the old house was thrown. She then went on to tell him further
that Polly, having refused to submit or repent in any way, Mrs. Cameron
had insisted on her remaining in her own room, and had at last,
notwithstanding all Helen's entreaties, forbidden her to go near her
sister. The housekeeping keys were taken away from Polly, and Mrs.
Cameron had further taken upon herself to dismiss Maggie. She had sent a
telegram to Mrs. Power, who had returned in triumph to Sleepy Hollow on
Saturday night.

"Miserable is no word for what this household has been," said Nurse.
"There was Miss Polly--naughty she may have been, dear lamb, but
vicious she ain't--there was Miss Polly shut up in her room, and nobody
allowed to go near her; and Mrs. Cameron poking her nose into this
corner and into that, and ordering _me_ about what I was to do with the
babe; and poor Miss Helen following her about, for all the world like a
ghost herself, so still and quiet and pitiful looking, but like a dear
angel in her efforts to keep the peace; and there was Alice giving
warning, and fit to fly out of the house with rage, and Mrs. Power
coming back, and lording it over us all, more than is proper for a cook
to do. Oh, sir, we has been unhappy! and for the first time we really
knew what we had lost in our blessed mistress, and for the first time
the children, poor darlings, found out what it was to be really
motherless. The meals she'd give 'em, and the way she'd order them--oh,
dear! oh, dear! it makes me shiver to think of it!"

"Yes, Nurse," interrupted the Doctor. "It was unfortunate Mrs. Cameron
arriving when I was absent. I have come back now, however, and all the
troubles you have just mentioned are, of course, at an end. Still you
have not explained the extraordinary statement you made to me when I
came into the room. Why is it that the children have run away?"

"I'm a-coming to that, sir; that's, so to speak, the crisis--and all
brought about by Mrs. Cameron. I said that Miss Polly was kept in her
room, and after the first day no one allowed to go near her. Mrs.
Cameron herself would take her up her meals, and take the tray away
again, and very little the poor dear would eat, for I often saw what
come out. It would go to your heart, sir, that it would, for a healthier
appetite than Miss Polly's there ain't in the family. Well, sir, Miss
Helen had a letter from you this morning, saying as how you'd be back by
six o'clock, and after dinner she went up to Miss Polly's door, and I
heard her, for I was walking with baby up and down the passage. It was
beautiful to hear the loving way Miss Helen spoke, Doctor; she was
kneeling down and singing her words through the key-hole. 'Father'll be
home to-night, Polly,' she said--'keep up heart, Poll dear--father'll
be home to-night, and he'll make everything happy again.' Nothing could
have been more tender than Miss Helen's voice, it would have moved
anybody. But there was never a sound nor an answer from inside the room,
and just then Miss Firefly and Master Bunny came rushing up the stairs
as if they were half mad. 'O Nell, come, come quick!' they said,
'there's the step-ladder outside Poll's window, and a bit of rope and
two towels fastened together hanging to the sill, and the window is wide
open!' Miss Helen ran downstairs with a face like a sheet, and by and by
Alice came up and told me the rest. Master Bunny got up on the
step-ladder, and by means of the rope and the bedroom towels managed to
climb on to the window sill, and then he saw there wasn't ever a Miss
Polly at all in the room. Oh, poor dear! he might have broke his own
neck searching for her, but--well, there's a Providence over children,
and no mistake. Miss Polly had run away, that was plain. When Miss Helen
heard it, and knew that it was true, she turned to Alice with her face
like a bit of chalk, and tears in her eyes, and, 'Alice,' she said, 'I'm
going to look for Polly. You can tell Nurse I'll be back when I have
found Polly.' With that she walked down the path as fast as she could,
and every one of the others followed her. Alice watched them getting
over the little turnstile, and down by the broad meadow, then she came
up and let me know. I blamed her for not coming sooner, but--what's the
matter, Doctor?"

"I am going to find Polly and the others," said Dr. Maybright. "It's a
pity no older person in the house followed them; but so many can
scarcely come to harm. It is Polly I am anxious about--they cannot have
discovered her, or they would be home before now."

The Doctor left the nursery, ran downstairs, put on his hat, and went
out. As he did so, he heard the dubious, questioning kind of cough which
Mrs. Cameron was so fond of making--this cough was accompanied by
Scorpion's angry snarling little bark. The Doctor prayed inwardly for
patience as he hurried down the avenue in search of his family. He was
absolutely at a loss where to seek them.

"The broad meadow only leads to the high-road," he said to himself, "and
the high-road has many twists and turns. Surely the children cannot have
ventured on the moor; surely Polly cannot have been mad enough to try to
hide herself there."

It was a starlight night, and the Doctor walked quickly.

"I don't know where they are. I must simply let instinct guide me," he
said to himself; and after walking for three quarters of an hour
instinct did direct him to where, seated on a little patch of green turf
at one side of the king's highway, were three solitary and
disreputable-looking little figures.

"Father!" came convulsively from three little parched throats; there was
a volume in the cry, a tone of rapture, of longing, of pain, which was
almost indescribable. "Father's come back again, it's all right now,"
sobbed Firefly, and immediately the boys and the little girl had cuddled
up to him and were kissing him, each boy taking possession of a hand,
and Firefly clasping her arms round his neck.

"I know all about it, children," explained the Doctor. "But tell me
quickly, where are the others? where is Polly?"

"Oh, you darling father!" said Firefly, "you darling, you darling! let
me kiss you once again. There, now I'm happy!"

"But tell me where the others are, dear child."

"Just a little way off. We did get so tired, and Helen said that Polly
must have gone on the moor, and she said she must and would follow her."

"We were so tired," said Bunny.

"And there was a great nail running into my heel," explained Bob.

"So we sat down here, and tried to pretend we were gipsies," continued
Firefly. "The moon was shining, and that was a little wee bit of
comfort, but we didn't like it much. Father, it isn't much fun being a
gipsy, is it?"

"No, dear; but go on. How long is it since you parted from the others?"

"Half an hour; but it's all right. Bunny, you can tell that part."

Bunny puffed himself out, and tried to speak in his most important
manner.

"Nell gave me the dog-whistle," he said, "and I was to whistle it if it
was real necessary, not by no means else. I didn't fancy that I was a
gipsy. I thought perhaps I was the driver of a fly, and that when I blew
my whistle Nell would be like another driver coming to me. That's what I
thought," concluded Bunny. But as his metaphors were always extremely
mixed and confusing, no one listened to him.

"You have a whistle?" said the Doctor. "Give it to me. This is a very
dangerous thing that you have done, children. Now, let me see how far I
can make the sound go. Oh, that thing! I can make a better whistle than
that with my hand."

He did so, making the moor, on the borders of which they stood, resound
with a long, shrill, powerful blast. Presently faint sounds came back in
answer, and in about a quarter of an hour Helen and her three sisters,
very tired and faint, and loitering in their steps, came slowly into
view.

Oh, yes; they were all so glad to see father, but they had not seen
Polly; no, not a trace nor sound could be discovered to lead to Polly's
whereabouts.

"But she must not spend the night alone on the moor," said the Doctor.
"No, that cannot be. Children, you must all go home directly. On your
way past the lodge, Helen, desire Simpkins and George to come with
lanterns to this place. They are to wait for me here, and when they
whistle I will answer them. After they have waited here for half an
hour, and I do not whistle back, they are to begin to search the moor on
their own account. Now go home as fast as you can, my dears. I will
return when I have found Polly, not before."

The moon was very brilliant that night, and Helen's wistful face, as she
looked full at her father, caused him to bend suddenly and kiss her.
"You are my brave child, Nell. Be the bravest of all by taking the
others home now. Home, children; and to bed at once, remember. No
visiting of the drawing-room for any of you to-night."

The Doctor smiled, and kissed his hand, and a very disconsolate little
party turned in the direction of Sleepy Hollow.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE WIFE OF MICAH JONES.


If ever there was a girl whose mind was in a confused and complex state,
that girl was Polly Maybright. Suddenly into her life of sunshine and
ease and petting, into her days of love and indulgence, came the cold
shadow of would-be justice. Polly had done wrong, and a very stern
judge, in the shape of Aunt Maria Cameron, was punishing her.

Polly had often been naughty in her life; she was an independent,
quick-tempered child; she had determination, and heaps of courage, but
she was always supposed to want ballast. It was the fashion in the house
to be a little more lenient to Polly's misdemeanors than to any one
else's. When a very little child, Nurse had excused ungovernable fits of
rage with the injudicious words, "Poor lamb, she can't help herself!"
The sisters, older or younger, yielded to Polly, partly because of a
certain fascination which she exercised over them, for she was extremely
brilliant and quick of idea, and partly because they did not want her to
get into what they called her tantrums. Father, too, made a pet of her,
and perhaps slightly spoiled her, but during mother's lifetime all this
did not greatly matter, for mother guided the imperious, impetuous,
self-willed child, with the exquisite tact of love. During mother's
lifetime, when Polly was naughty, she quickly became good again; now
matters were very different.

Mrs. Cameron was a woman who, with excellent qualities, and she had
many, had not a scrap of the "mother-feel" within her. There are women
who never called a child their own who are full of it, but Mrs. Cameron
was not one of these. Her rule with regard to the management of young
people was simple and severe--she saw no difference between one child
and another. "Spare the rod and spoil the child," applied equally in
every case, so now, constituting herself Polly's rightful guardian in
the absence of her father, she made up her mind on no account to spare
the rod. Until Polly humbled herself to the very dust she should go
unforgiven. Solitary confinement was a most safe and admirable method of
correction. Therefore unrepentant Polly remained in her room.

The effects, as far as the culprit was concerned, were not encouraging.
In the first place she would not acknowledge Mrs. Cameron's right to
interfere in her life; in the next harshness had a very hardening effect
on her.

It was dull in Polly's room. The naughtiest child cannot cry all the
time, nor sulk when left quite to herself, and although, whenever Mrs.
Cameron appeared on the scene, the sulks and temper both returned in
full force, Polly spent many long and miserable hours perfectly
distracted with the longing to find something to do. The only books in
the room were Helen's little Bible, a copy of "Robinson Crusoe," and the
Dictionary. For obvious reasons Polly did not care to read the Bible at
present. "Robinson Crusoe" she knew already by heart, but found it
slightly amusing trying to make something of the sentences read
backwards. The Dictionary was her final resource, and she managed to
pass many tedious hours working straight through it page after page. She
had got as far as M, and life was becoming insupportable, when about the
middle of the day, on Monday, she was startled by a cautious and
stealthy noise, and also by a shadow falling directly on her page. She
looked up quickly; there was the round and radiant face of Maggie glued
to the outside of the window, while her voice came in, cautious but
piercing, "Open the window quick, Miss Polly, I'm a-falling down."

Polly flew to the rescue, and in a moment Maggie was standing in the
room. In her delight at seeing a more genial face than Aunt Maria's,
Polly flung her arms round Maggie and kissed her.

"How good of you to come!" she exclaimed. "And you must not go away
again. Where will you hide when Aunt Maria comes to visit me? Under the
bed, or in this cupboard?"

"Not in neither place," responded Maggie, who was still gasping and
breathless, and whose brown winsey frock showed a disastrous tear from
hem to waist.

"Not in neither place," she proceeded, "for I couldn't a-bear it any
longer, and you ain't going to stay in this room no longer, Miss Polly;
I nearly brained myself a-clinging on to the honeysuckle, and the
ivy-roots, but here I be, and now we'll both go down the ladder and run
away."

"Run away--oh!" said Polly, clasping her hands, and a great flood of
rose-color lighting up her face.

She ran to the window. The housemaid's step-ladder stood below, but
Polly's window was two or three feet above.

"We'll manage with a bit of rope and the bedroom towels," said Maggie,
eagerly. "It's nothing at all, getting down--it's what I did was the
danger. Now, be quick, Miss Polly; let's get away while they're at
dinner."

It did not take an instant for Polly to decide. Between the delights of
roaming the country with Maggie, and the pleasure of continuing to read
through the M's in Webster's Dictionary, there could be little choice.
On the side of liberty and freedom alone could the balance fall. The
bedroom towels were quickly tied on to the old rope, the rope secured
firmly inside the window-sill, and the two girls let themselves swing
lightly on to the step-ladder. They were both agile, and the descent did
not terrify them in the least. When they reached the ground they took
each other's hands, and looked into each other's faces.

"You might have thought of bringing a hat, Miss Polly."

"Oh, never mind, Maggie. You do look shabby; your frock is torn right
open."

"Well, Miss, I got it a-coming to save you. Miss Polly, Mrs. Power's
back in the kitchen. Hadn't we better run? We'll talk afterwards."

So they did, not meeting any one, for Mrs. Cameron and the children were
all at dinner, and the servants were also in the house. They ran through
the kitchen garden, vaulted over the sunken fence, and found themselves
in the little sheltered green lane, where Polly had lain on her face and
hands and caught the thrushes on the July day when her mother died. She
stood almost in the same spot now, but her mind was in too great a
whirl, and her feelings too excited, to cast back any glances of memory
just then.

"Well, Maggie," she said, pulling up short, "now, what are your plans?
Where are we going to? Where are we to hide?"

"Eh?" said Maggie.

She had evidently come to the end of her resources, and the intelligent
light suddenly left her face.

"I didn't think o' that," she said: "there's mother's."

"No, that wouldn't do," interrupted Polly. "Your mother has only two
rooms. I couldn't hide long in her house; and besides, she is poor, I
would not put myself on her for anything. I'll tell you what, Maggie,
we'll go across Peg-Top Moor, and make straight for the old hut by the
belt of fir-trees. You know it, we had a picnic there once, and I made
up a story of hermits living in the hut. Well, you and I will be the
hermits."

"But what are we to eat?" said Maggie, whose ideas were all practical,
and her appetite capacious.

Polly's bright eyes, however, were dancing, and her whole face was
radiant. The delight of being a real hermit, and living in a real hut,
far surpassed any desire for food.

"We'll eat berries from the trees," she said, "and we'll drink water
from the spring. I know there's a spring of delicious water not far from
the hut. Oh! come along, Maggie, do; this is delightful!"

An old pony, who went in the family by the stately name of Sultan, had
been wont to help the children in their long rambles over the moor. They
were never allowed to wander far alone, and had not made one expedition
since their mother's death. It was really two years since Polly had been
to the hut at the far end of Peg-Top Moor. This moor was particularly
lonely, it was interspersed at intervals with thickets of rank
undergrowth and belts of trees, and was much frequented on that account
by gipsies and other lawless people. Polly, who went last over the moor,
carried the greater part of the way on Sultan's friendly back, had very
little idea how far the distance was. It was September now, but the sun
shone on the heather and fern with great power, and as Polly had no hat
on her head, having refused to take Maggie's from her; she was glad to
take shelter under friendly trees whenever they came across her path.

At first the little girls walked very quickly, for they were afraid of
being overtaken and brought back; but after a time their steps grew
slow, their movement decidedly languid, and Maggie at least began to
feel that berries from the trees and water from the spring, particularly
when neither was to be found anywhere, was by no means a substantial or
agreeable diet to dwell upon.

"I don't think I like being a hermit," she began. "I don't know nought
what it means, but I fancy it must be very thinning and running down to
the constitootion."

Polly looked at her, and burst out laughing.

"It is," she said, "that's what the life was meant for, to subdue the
flesh in all possible ways; you'll get as thin as a whipping-post, Mag."

"I don't like it," retorted Maggie. "Maybe we'd best be returning home,
now, Miss Polly."

Polly's eyes flashed. She caught Maggie by the shoulder.

"You are a mean girl," she said. "You got me into this scrape, and now
you mean to desert me. I was sitting quietly in my room, reading through
the M's in Webster's Dictionary, and you came and asked me to run away;
it was your doing, Maggie, you know that."

"Yes, miss! yes, Miss!"

Maggie began to sob. "But I never, never thought it meant berries and
spring-water; no, that I didn't. Oh, I be so hungry!"

At this moment all angry recriminations were frozen on the lips of both
little girls, for rising suddenly, almost as it seemed from the ground
at their feet, appeared a gaunt woman of gigantic make.

"Maybe you'll be hungrier," she said in a menacing voice. "What
business have you to go through Deadman's Copse without leave?"

Maggie was much too alarmed to make any reply, but Polly, after a moment
or two of startled silence, came boldly to the rescue.

"Who are you?" she said. "Maggie and I know nothing of Deadman's Copse;
this is a wood, and we are going through it; we have got business on the
other side of Peg-Top-Moor."

"That's as it may be," replied the woman, "this wood belongs to me and
to my sons, Nathaniel and Patrick, and to our dogs, Cinder and Flinder,
and those what goes through Deadman's Copse must pay toll to me, the
wife of Micah Jones. My husband is dead, and he left the wood to me, and
them as go through it must pay toll."

The woman's voice was very menacing; she was of enormous size, and going
up to the little girls, attempted to place one of her brawny arms on
Polly's shoulder. But Polly with all her faults possessed a great deal
of courage; her eyes flashed, and she sprang aside from the woman's
touch.

"You are talking nonsense," she said. "Father has over and over told me
that the moor belongs to the Queen, so this little bit couldn't have
been given to your husband, Micah Jones, and we are just as free to walk
here as you are. Come on, Maggie, we'll be late for our business if we
idle any longer."

But the woman with a loud and angry word detained her.

"Highty-tighty!" she said. "Here's spirit for you, and who may your
respected papa be, my dear? He seems to be mighty wise. And the wife of
Micah Jones would much like to know his name."

"You're a very rude unpleasant woman," said Polly. "Don't hold me, I
won't be touched by you. My father is Dr. Maybright, of Sleepy Hollow,
you must know his name quite well."

The wife of Micah Jones dropped a supercilious curtsey.

"Will you tell Dr. Maybright, my pretty little dear," she said, "that in
these parts might is right, and that when the Queen wants Deadman's
Copse, she can come and have a talk with me, and my two sons, and the
dogs, Cinder and Flinder. But, there, what am I idling for with a chit
like you? You and that other girl there have got to pay toll. You have
both of you got to give me your clothes. There's no way out of it, so
you needn't think to try words, nor blarney, nor nothing else with me, I
have a sack dress each for you, and what you have on is mine. That's the
toll, you will have to pay it. My hut is just beyond at the other side
of the wood, my sons are away, but Cinder and Flinder will take care of
you until I come back, at nine o'clock. Here, follow me, we're close to
the hut. No words, or it will be the worse for you. On in front, the two
of you, or you, little Miss," shaking her hand angrily at Polly, "will
know what it means to bandy words with the wife of Micah Jones."

The woman's face became now very fierce and terrible, and even Polly was
sufficiently impressed to walk quietly before her, clutching hold of
poor terrified Maggie's hand.

The hut to which the woman took the little girls was the very hermit's
hut to which their own steps had been bent. It was a very dirty place,
consisting of one room, which was now filled with smoke from a fire made
of broken faggots, fir-cones, and withered fern. Two ugly, lean-looking
dogs guarded the entrance to the hut. When they saw the woman coming,
they jumped up and began to bark savagely; poor Maggie began to scream,
and Polly for the first time discovered that there could be a worse
state of things than solitary confinement in her room, with Webster's
Dictionary for company.

"Sit you there," said the woman, pushing the little girls into the hut.
"I'll be back at nine o'clock. I'm off now on some business of my own.
When I come back I'll take your clothes, and give you a sack each to
wear. Cinder and Flinder will take care of you; they're very savage
dogs, and can bite awful, but they won't touch you if you sit very
quiet, and don't attempt to run away."




CHAPTER XIX.

DISTRESSED HEROINES.


If ever poor little girls found themselves in a sad p

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