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The School Queens

by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #28819 · 495,080 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The School Queens

Author: L. T. Meade


        
Release date: May 15, 2009 [eBook #28819]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCHOOL QUEENS ***




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









THE SCHOOL QUEENS

BY

L T. MEADE

Author of "Polly, a New-Fashioned Girl," "Sue, a Little Heroine,"
"Daddy's Girl," "A Sweet Girl Graduate," etc.

NEW YORK

THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY

1910




                      BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

L. T. Meade (Mrs. Elizabeth Thomasina Smith), English novelist, was
born at Bandon, County Cork, Ireland, 1854, the daughter of Rev. R. T.
Meade, Rector of Novohal, County Cork, and married Toulmin Smith in
1879. She wrote her first book, _Lettie's Last Home_, at the age of
seventeen and since then has been an unusually prolific writer, her
stories attaining wide popularity on both sides of the Atlantic.

She worked in the British Museum, living in Bishopsgate Without,
making special studies of East London life which she incorporated in
her stories. She edited _Atlanta_ for six years. Her pictures of
girls, especially in the influence they exert on their elders, are
drawn with intuitive fidelity; pathos, love, and humor, as in _Daddy's
Girl_, flowing easily from her pen. She has traveled extensively,
being devoted to motoring and other outdoor sports.

Among more than fifty novels she has written, dealing largely with
questions of home life, are: _David's Little Lad; Great St.
Benedict's; A Knight of To-day (1877); Miss Toosey's Mission;
Bel-Marjory (1878); Laddie; Outcast Robbin: or, Your Brother and Mine;
A Cry from the Great City; White Lillie and Other Tales; Scamp and I;
The Floating Light of Ringfinnan; Dot and Her Treasures; The
Children's Kingdom: the Story of Great Endeavor; The Water Gipsies; A
Dweller in Tents; Andrew Harvey's Wife; Mou-setse: A Negro Hero
(1880); Mother Herring's Chickens (1881); A London Baby: the Story of
King Roy (1883); Hermie's Rose-Buds and Other Stories; How it all Came
Round; Two Sisters (1884); Autocrat of the Nursery; Tip Cat; Scarlet
Anemones; The Band of Three; A Little Silver Trumpet; Our Little Ann;
The Angel of Love (1885); A World of Girls (1886); Beforehand; Daddy's
Boy; The O'Donnells of Inchfawn; The Palace Beautiful; Sweet Nancy
(1887); Deb and the Duchess (1888); Nobody's Neighbors; Pen (1888); A
Girl from America (1907)._




THE SCHOOL QUEENS

CHAPTER I

THE FASCINATING MAGGIE


Cicely Cardew and her sister Merry were twins. At the time when this
story opens they were between fifteen and sixteen years of age. They
were bright, amiable, pretty young girls, who had never wanted for any
pleasure or luxury during their lives. Their home was a happy one.
Their parents were affectionate and lived solely for them. They were
the only children, and were treated--as only children often are--with
a considerable amount of attention. They were surrounded by all the
appliances of wealth. They had ponies to ride and carriages to drive
in, and each had her own luxurious and beautifully furnished bedroom.

It was Mr. Cardew's wish that his daughters should be educated at
home. In consequence they were not sent to any school, but had daily
masters and governesses to instruct them in the usual curriculum of
knowledge. It might be truly said that for them the sun always shone,
and that they were carefully guarded from the east wind. They were
naturally bright and amiable. They had their share of good looks,
without being quite beautiful. They had not the slightest knowledge of
what the world meant, of what sorrow meant, or pain. They were brought
up in such a sheltered way that it seemed to them that there were no
storms in life. They were not discontented, for no one ever breathed
the word in their presence. Their requests were reasonable, for they
knew of no very big things to ask for. Even their books were carefully
selected for them, and their amusements were of a mild and orderly
character.

Such were the girls when this story opens on a bright day towards the
end of a certain July. Their home was called Meredith Manor, and Merry
was called after an old ancestor on their mother's side to whom the
house had at one time belonged.

Mr. Cardew was a merchant-prince. Mrs. Cardew belonged to an old
county family. If there was one thing in the world that Cicely and
Merry thought nothing whatever about, it was money. They could
understand neither poverty nor the absence of gold.

The little village near Meredith Manor was a model place, for Mr.
Cardew, to whom it belonged, devoted himself absolutely to it. The
houses were well drained and taken great care of. Prizes were offered
for the best gardens; consequently each cottager vied with the other
in producing the most lovely flowers and the most tempting fruits. The
village consisted entirely of Mr. Cardew's laborers and the different
servants on his estate. There were, therefore, no hardships for the
girls to witness at Meredith village. They were fond of popping in and
out of the cottages and talking to the young wives and mothers, and
playing with the babies; and they particularly enjoyed that great
annual day when Mr. Cardew threw open the grounds of Meredith to the
entire neighborhood, and when games and fun and all sorts of
amusements were the order of the hour.

Besides the people who lived in the village, there was, of course, the
rector, who had a pretty, picturesque, old brown house, with a nice
garden in one corner of the grounds. He had a good-natured,
round-faced, happy wife, and a family of four stalwart sons and
daughters. He was known as the Reverend William Tristram; and, as the
living was in the gift of the Meredith family, he was a distant
connection of Mrs. Cardew, and had been appointed by her husband to
the living of Meredith at her request.

The only playfellows the girls had ever enjoyed were the young
Tristrams. There were two boys and two girls. The boys were the
younger, the girls the elder. The boys were not yet in their teens,
but Molly and Isabel Tristram were about the same age as the young
Cardews. Molly was, in fact, a year older, and was a very sympathetic,
strong-minded, determined girl. She and her sister Isabel had not been
educated at home, but had been sent to foreign schools both in France
and Germany; and Molly, in her heart of hearts, rather looked down
upon what she considered the meager attainments of the young Cardews
and their want of knowledge of the world.

"It is ridiculous!" she was heard to say to Isabel on that very July
morning when this story opens. "Of course they are nice girls, and
would be splendid if they could do anything or knew what to do; but,
as it is, they are nothing whatever but half-grown-up children, with
no more idea of the world than has that baby-kitten disporting itself
at the present moment on the lawn."

"Oh, they're right enough," said Isabel. "They will learn by-and-by. I
don't suppose Mr. and Mrs. Cardew mean to keep them always shut up in
a nutshell."

"I don't know," replied Molly. "Mr. and Mrs. Cardew are like no other
people. I have heard father say that he thinks it a great pity that
girls should be so terribly isolated."

"Well, as to that," replied Isabel, "I wouldn't be in their shoes for
creation. I have so enjoyed my time at Hanover and in France; and now
that we are to have two years at Aylmer House, in Kensington, I
cannot tell you how I look forward to it."

"Yes, won't it be fine?" replied Molly. "But now we had better go up
at once to Meredith Manor and ask the girls if we may bring Maggie
Howland with us this afternoon. Father has sent the pony-trap to the
station to meet her, and she may arrive any moment."

"All right," said Isabel; "but one of us had better stay at home to
receive her. You, Molly, can run up to the Manor and ask the girls if
we may bring our visitor."

"All right," replied Molly. Then she added "I wonder if Maggie is as
fascinating as ever. Don't you remember, Belle, what a spell she cast
over us at our school at Hanover? She was like no one else I ever met.
She seems to do what she likes with people. I shall be deeply
interested to know what she thinks of Cicely and Merry."

"Thinks of them!" replied Isabel. "It's my opinion she won't tolerate
them for a minute; and we are bound to take her with us, for of course
they will give permission."

"Well," said Molly, "I'll be off at once and secure that permission.
You' look after Maggie--won't you, Isabel?--and see that her bedroom
is all right." As Molly spoke she waved her hand to her sister, then
departed on her errand.

She was a bright, fairly good-looking girl, with exceedingly handsome
eyes and curling dark-brown hair. She was somewhat square in build and
athletic in all her movements. In short, she was as great a contrast
to the twin Cardew girls as could be found. Nevertheless she liked
them, and was interested in them; for were not the Cardews the great
people of the place? There was nothing of the snob about Molly; but it
is difficult even for the most independent English girl to spend the
greater part of her life in a village where one family reigns as
sovereign without being more or less under its influence.

Mr. Tristram, too, was a very great friend of Mr. Cardew's; and
Molly's fat, round, good-natured mother, although a little afraid of
Mrs. Cardew, who was a very stately lady in her way, nevertheless held
her in the greatest respect and admiration. It was one of the rules of
the house of Tristram that no invitation sent to them from Meredith
Manor should be refused. They must accept that invitation as though it
were the command of a king.

The girls, brought up mostly at foreign schools, had in some ways
wider ideas of life than had their parents. But even they were more or
less influenced by the fact that the Cardews were the great people of
the place.

The day was a very hot one; rather oppressive too, with thunder-clouds
in the distance. But Molly was very strong, and did not feel the heat
in the least. The distance from the rectory to the Manor was a little
over a mile. In addition, it was all uphill. But when you passed the
village--so exquisitely neat, such a model in its way--you found
yourself entering a road shaded by overhanging elm-trees. Here it was
cool even on the hottest summer day. There were deep pine-woods at
each side of the road, and the road itself had been cut right through
a part of the forest, which belonged to the Meredith estate. After
going uphill for nearly three-quarters of a mile you arrived at the
handsome wrought-iron gates which led to the avenue that brought you
to the great front door of Meredith Manor.

Molly often took this walk, but she generally did so in the company of
her sister Isabel. Isabel's light chatter, her gay, infectious
laughter, her merry manner, soothed the tedium of the road. To-day
Molly was alone; but by no means on this account did she feel a sense
of weariness; her mind was very busy. She was greatly excited at the
thought of seeing Maggie Howland again. Maggie had made a remarkable
impression on her. She made that impression on all her friends.
Wherever she went she was a leader, and no one could quite discover
where her special charm or magnetism lay; for she was decidedly plain,
and not specially remarkable for cleverness--that is, she was not
remarkable for what may be termed school-cleverness. She was
indifferent to prizes, and was just as happy at the bottom of her form
as at the top; but wherever she appeared girls clustered round her,
and consulted her, and hung on her words; and to be Maggie Howland's
friend was considered the greatest honor possible among the girls
themselves at any school where she spent her time.

Maggie was the daughter of a widow who lived in London. Her father had
died when she was a very little girl. He was a man of remarkable
character. He had great strength of will and immense determination;
and Maggie, his only child, took after him. She resembled him in
appearance also, for he was very plain of face and rather ungainly of
figure. Maggie's mother, on the other hand, was a delicate, pretty,
blue-eyed woman, who could as little manage her headstrong young
daughter as a lamb could manage a young lion. Mrs. Howland was
intensely amiable. Maggie was very good to her mother, as she
expressed it; and when she got that same mother to yield to all her
wishes the mother thought that she was doing the right thing. She had
a passionate love for her daughter, although she deplored her plain
looks, and often told the girl to her face that she wished she had
taken after her in personal appearance. Maggie used to smile when this
was said, and then would go away to her own room and look at her
queer, dark face, and rather small eyes, and determined mouth, and
somewhat heavy jaw, and shake her head solemnly. She did not agree
with her mother; she preferred being what she was. She liked best to
take after her father.

It was Maggie Howland who had persuaded Mr. Tristram, during a brief
visit which he had made to town at Christmas, to send his daughters to
Aylmer House. Maggie was fond of Molly and Isabel. With all her
oddities, she had real affection, and one of her good qualities was
that she really loved those whom she influenced.

Mr. Tristram went to see Mrs. Ward, the head-mistress of that most
select establishment for young ladies at Kensington. Mrs. Ward was all
that was delightful. She was a noble-minded woman of high aspirations,
and her twenty young boarders were happy and bright and contented
under her influence.

Maggie joined the school at Easter, and spent one term there, and was
now coming on a visit to the rectory.

"I wonder what she will have to tell us! I wonder if she is as
fascinating as ever!" thought Molly Tristram as she hurried her
steps.

She had now reached that point in the avenue which gave a good view of
the old Manor, with its castellated walls and its square towers at
each end. The gardens were laid out in terraces after an old-world
fashion. There was one terrace devoted to croquet, another to tennis.
As Molly approached she saw Cicely and Merry playing a game of croquet
rather languidly. They wore simple white frocks which just came down
above their ankles, and had white washing-hats on their heads. Their
thick, rather fair hair was worn in a plait down each young back, and
was tied with a bunch of pale-blue ribbon at the end.

"Hello!" shouted Molly.

The girls flung down their rackets and ran joyfully to meet her.

"Oh, I am so glad you have come!" said Cicely. "It's much too hot to
play tennis, and even croquet is more than we can manage. Are you
going to stay and have lunch with us, Molly?"

"No," replied Molly; "I must go back immediately."

"Oh dear! I wish you would stay," continued Merry. "We could go and
sit in the arbor, and you could tell us another fascinating story
about that school of yours at Hanover."

"Yes, yes," said Cicely; "do stay--do, Molly! We want to hear a lot
more about that remarkable girl Maggie Howland."

"I can't stay," said Molly in a semi-whisper; "but I tell you what,
girls." She seized a hand of both as she spoke. "I have come with
news."

"What?" "What?" asked the twins eagerly.

"There's very seldom much news going on here," said Cicely. "Not that
we mind--not a little bit; we're as happy as girls can be."

"Of course we are," said Merry. "We haven't a care in the world."

"All the same," said Cicely, "tell us your news, Molly, for you do
look excited."

"Well," said Molly, who enjoyed the pleasure of giving her friends a
piece of information which she knew would interest them intensely,
"you know we are to come up here this afternoon to have tea and buns,
aren't we?"

"Oh, don't talk in that way!" said Merry. "One would suppose you were
school children, when you are our darling, dear friends."

"Our only friends," said Cicely. "You are the only girls in the world
father allows us to be the least bit intimate with."

"Oh, well," said Molly, "of course Belle and I are very fond of you
both, naturally."

"Naturally!" echoed Cicely. But then she added, "How queer you look,
Molly, as though you were keeping something back!"

"Well, yes, I am," said Molly; "but I'll have it out in a minute."

"Oh, please, be quick!" said Merry. "Anything a little bit out of the
common is very interesting.--Isn't it, Cicely?"

"Very," said Cicely; "more particularly in the holidays. When we are
busy with our lessons things don't so much matter, you know.--But do
be quick, Molly; what is it?"

"Well," said Molly, "you've asked us to spend the afternoon with
you."

"Of course, and you're both coming, surely?"

"We are--certainly we are--that is, if you will allow us to
bring"----

"To bring"----interrupted Cicely. "Oh Molly, do speak!"

"Well, I will; only, don't jump, you two girls. To bring Maggie
Howland!"

Cicely's face grew very pink. Merry, on the contrary, turned a little
pale. They were both silent for a brief space. Then Merry said
excitedly, "Maggie Howland--_the_ Maggie Howland?"

"Yes, _the_ Maggie Howland; the one who has got the power, the charm,
the fascination."

"Oh, oh!" said Cicely. "But why is she with you? How has it
happened?"

"She is not absolutely with us yet; and as to how it happened I cannot
exactly tell you. We had a telegram from her late last night asking if
she might come to-day to spend a week or fortnight, and of course we
wired back 'Yes.' We are delighted; but of course you may not like
her, girls."

"Like her! like her!" said Cicely; "and after all you have said too!
We shall be certain to more than like her."

"She's not a bit pretty, so don't expect it," said Molly.

"We were brought up," said Merry a little stiffly, "not to regard
looks as anything at all."

"Nonsense!" replied Molly. "Looks mean a great deal. I'd give I don't
know what to be beautiful; but as I am not I don't mean to fret about
it. Well, Maggie's downright plain; in fact--in fact--almost ugly, I
may say; and yet--and yet, she is just Maggie; and you are not five
minutes in her society before you'd rather have her face than any
other face in the world. But the immediate question is: may she come
this afternoon, or may she not?"

"Of course--of course she may come," said Cicely; "we'll be delighted,
we'll be charmed to see her. This _is_ pleasant news!"

"I think, perhaps," said Merry, "we ought to go and ask mother. Don't
you think so, Cis?"

"Of course we ought," said Cicely. "I forgot that. Just stay where you
are, Molly, and I'll run to the house and find mother. It's only to
ask her, for of course she will give leave."

Cicely ran off at once, and Merry and Molly were left alone.

"I know you'll be delighted with her," said Molly.

"It will be very delightful to see her," replied Merry.

"You must expect to be disappointed at first, all the same," continued
Molly.

"Oh, looks do not matter one scrap," said Merry.

"Isabel and I are going to her school; you know that, don't you,
Merry?"

"Yes," said Merry with a sigh. "What fun you do have at your different
schools! Don't you, Molly?"

"Well, yes," said Molly rather gravely; "but it isn't only the fun; we
see a lot of the world, and we mix with other girls and make
friends."

"Mother prefers a home education for us, and so does father," remarked
Merry. "Ah! here comes Cicely. She is flying down the terrace. Of
course mother is delighted."

This proved to be the case. Mrs. Cardew would welcome any girl
introduced to her daughters through her dear friend Mr. Tristram. She
sent a further invitation for the three young people to remain to an
impromptu supper, which was pleasanter than late dinner in such hot
weather, and asked if Mr. and Mrs. Tristram would join them at the
meal.

"Hurrah!" cried Molly. "That will be fun! I must be off now, girls.
We'll be with you, all three of us, between four and five o'clock."




CHAPTER II.

SPOT-EAR.


Isabel took great pains arranging Maggie Rowland's bedroom. At the
Castle (or Manor) there were always troops of servants for every
imaginable thing; but at the rectory the servants were few, and the
girls did a good many odds and ends of work themselves. They were
expected to dust and keep in perfect order their exceedingly pretty
bedrooms, they were further required to make their own beds, and if a
young visitor arrived, they were obliged to wait on her and see to her
comfort. For the Tristrams had just an income sufficient to cover
their expenses, with nothing at all to put by. Mr. Tristram had his
two little boys to think of as well as his two girls. His intention
was to give his children the best education possible, believing that
such a gift was far more valuable to them than mere money. By-and-by,
when they were old enough, the girls might earn their own living if
they felt so inclined, and each girl might become a specialist in her
way.

Molly was exceedingly fond of music, and wished to excel in that
particular. Isabel, on the contrary, was anxious to obtain a post as
gymnasium teacher with the London County Council. But all these things
were for the future. At present the girls were to study, were to
acquire knowledge, were to be prepared for that three-fold battle
which includes body, soul, and spirit, and which needs triple armor in
the fight.

Mr. Tristram was a man of high religious principles. He taught his
children to love the good and refuse the evil. He wanted his girls to
be useful women by-and-by in the world. He put usefulness before
happiness, assuring his children that if they followed the one they
would secure the other.

Belle, therefore, felt quite at home now as she took out pretty mats
and laid them on little tables in the neat spare room which had been
arranged for the reception of Maggie Howland. She saw that all the
appointments of the room were as perfect as simplicity and cleanliness
could effect, and then went out into the summer garden to pick some
choice, sweet-smelling flowers. She selected roses and carnations,
and, bringing them in, arranged them in vases in the room.

Hearing the sound of wheels, she flew eagerly downstairs and met her
friend as she stepped out of the little governess-cart.

"Well, here I am!" said Maggie. "And how is Belle? How good-natured of
you all to have me, and how delightful it is to smell the delicious
country air! Mother and I find town so hot and stuffy. I haven't
brought a great lot of luggage, and I am not a bit smart; but you
won't mind that--will you, dear old Belle?"

"You always talk about not being smart, Maggie; but you manage to look
smarter than anyone else," said Isabel, her eager brown eyes devouring
her friend's appearance with much curiosity. For Maggie looked, to use
a proverbial phrase, as if she had stepped out of a bandbox. If she
was plain of face she had an exceedingly neat figure, and there was a
fashionable, trim look about her which is uncommon in a girl of her
age; for Maggie was only just sixteen, and scarcely looked as much. In
some ways she might almost have been a French girl, so exceedingly
neat and _comme il faut_ was her little person. She was built on a
_petite_ scale, and although her face was so plain, she had lovely
hands and beautiful small feet. These feet were always shod in the
most correct style, and she took care of her hands, never allowing
them to get red or sunburnt.

"Where's Molly?" was her remark, as the two girls, with their arms
twined round each other, entered the wide, low hall which was one of
the special features of the old rectory.

"She has gone up to see the Cardews."

"Who are the Cardews?"

"Why, surely, Mags, you must have heard of them?"

"You don't mean," said Maggie with a laugh, and showing a gleam of
strong white teeth, "the two little ladies who live in a bandbox?"

"Oh, you really must not laugh at them," said Isabel, immediately on
the defensive for her friends; "but they do lead a somewhat exclusive
life. Molly has gone up to the Castle, as we always call Meredith
Manor, to announce your arrival, and to ask permission to bring you
there to a tennis-party this afternoon; so you will soon see them for
yourself. Now, come in and say good-morning to the mater; she is
longing to see you."

"Hello, Peterkins!" called out Maggie at that moment, as a small boy
with a smut across his face suddenly peeped round a door.

"I'm not Peterkins!" he said angrily.

Maggie laughed again. "I am going to call you Peterkins," she said.
"Is this one of the little brothers, Belle?"

"Yes.--Come here at once, Andrew, and speak to Miss Howland."

The boy approached shyly. Then his eyes looked up into the queer face
of the girl who looked down at him. The sulkiness cleared away from
his brow, and he said, in an eager, hurried, half-shy,
half-confidential way, "I say, do you like rabbits?"

"Dote on 'em," said Maggie.

"Then I'm your man, and I don't mind being Peterkins to you; and will
you--will you come and see mine? I've got Spot-ear, and Dove, and
Angelus, and Clover. And Jack, he has five rabbits, but they're not
near as nice as mine. You'll come and see my rabbits, won't you,
Miss--Miss-----"

"Oh, I am Maggie," said the girl. "I'll come and see your rabbits,
Peterkins, in a minute; and I won't look at Jack's; but you must let
me talk to your mother first."

"There you are, Maggie," said Belle when the boy had disappeared;
"fascinating Andrew in your usual way; and Jack will be just furious,
for he's the elder, you know, and he has a temper, and you mustn't set
one of them against the other--promise you won't."

"Trust me," said Maggie. "Peterkins is a nice little fellow, and I'll
manage Jackdaw too."

"You don't mean to say you'll call them by those names?"

"Yes, yes. I always have my own way with people, as you know."

"Indeed I do. Oh, come along, you queer creature. Here's the darling
mums. Mater dearest, here is Maggie Howland."

"Delighted to see you, my dear," said Mrs. Tristram. "I hope you are
not tired after your journey from town."

"Not in the least, thank you, Mrs. Tristram," said Maggie, speaking in
a voice of very peculiar quality; it was sweet and rich and full of
many intonations. She had the power of putting a world of meaning into
the most commonplace expressions.

Mrs. Tristram had not seen Maggie before, and it was Mr. Tristram who
had been completely bowled over by the young lady just at
Christmas-time.

"I bid you a hearty welcome to the rectory," said the good clergyman's
wife, "and I hope you will have a pleasant time with my children."

"I'll have a fascinating time," said Maggie. "I'm just too delighted
to come. It was sweet of you to have me; and may I, please, give you a
kiss?"

"Of course you may, dear child," said Mrs. Tristram.

Maggie bestowed the kiss, and immediately afterward was conducted to
her room by the worshiping Belle.

"I do hope you'll like it," said Belle in an almost timorous voice. "I
prepared it for you myself."

"Why, it's sweet," said Maggie, "and so full of the country! Oh, I
say, what roses! And those carnations--Malmaisons, aren't they? I must
wear a couple in this brown holland frock; they'll tone with it
perfectly. What a delicious smell!"

Maggie sniffed at the roses. Belle lounged on the window-seat.

"Molly will be jealous," she said. "Think of my having you these few
moments all to myself!"

"I am delighted to come, as you know quite well," replied Maggie.
"It's all right about school, isn't it, Belle?"

"Yes, quite, quite right. We are to join you there in September."

"It's a perfectly splendid place," said Maggie. "I will describe it to
you later on."

"But can it be nicer," said Belle, "than our darling school at
Hanover?"

"Nicer!" exclaimed Maggie. "You couldn't compare the two places. I
tell you it's perfect. The girls--well, they're aristocratic; they're
girls of the Upper Ten. It's the most select school. You are in luck
to be admitted, I can tell you. You will learn a lot about society
when you are a member of Mrs. Ward's school."

"But what possible good will that do us when we are never going into
it?" said Belle.

Maggie slightly narrowed her already narrow eyes, took off her hat,
and combed back her crisp, dark hair from her low, full, very broad
forehead. Then she said, with a smile, "You are to stay two years at
Mrs. Ward's, are you not?"

"Yes, I think that is the arrangement."

"And I am to stay there for two years," said Maggie; "I mean two
more. I will ask you, Isabel Tristram, what good society is worth at
the end of your two years. I expect you will tell me a very different
story then."

At this moment there came a hurried, nervous, excited knock at the
room door.

"Aren't you coming, Miss--Miss--Maggie? Clover and Dove and Spot-ear
and Angelus are all waiting. Their hutch is beautiful and clean, and I
have all their lettuces waiting for them just outside, so they sha'n't
begin to nibble till you come. Do, do come, please, Miss Maggie."

"Of course I will, my darling Peterkins," replied Maggie in her joyful
voice. "Oh, this is--this is--this _is_ fun!--Come along, Belle; come
along."

"But don't let poor Jack get into a temper," said Isabel in a
half-frightened whisper.

Maggie took no notice of her. She opened the bedroom door and flew
downstairs, holding the dirty, hot little hand of Andrew, _alias_
Peterkins, while Isabel followed in their wake.

In a far-away part of the rectory garden, on a bit of waste land at
the other side of the great vegetable garden, were two hutches which
stood side by side, and these hutches contained those most adorable
creatures, the pets, the darlings of the Tristram boys.

The Tristram boys were aged eleven and ten years respectively. Jack
was eleven, Andrew ten. They were very sturdy, healthy, fine little
fellows. At present they went to a good day-school in the
neighborhood, but were to be sent to a boarding-school about the same
time as their sisters were to begin their education at Aylmer House in
Kensington. Their passion above all things was for pets. They had
tried every sort: white mice (these somehow or other were sacrificed
to the reigning cat) and waltzing mice (that shared an equally
luckless fate); these were followed by white rats, which got into the
garden and did mischief, and were banished by order of the rector, who
was a most determined master in his own house. Dogs were also
forbidden, except one very intelligent Airedale, that belonged to the
whole family and to no one in particular. But the boys must find vent
for their passion in some way, and rabbits were allowed them. At the
present moment Jack owned five, Andrew four.

In trembling triumph, Andrew brought his new friend to see his
darlings. He greatly hoped that Jack would not appear on the scene
just now. While Maggie was up in her bedroom taking off, her hat, he
had, with herculean strength, managed to move an old wooden door and
put it in such a position that Jack's hutch was completely hidden,
while his hutch shone forth in all its glory, with those fascinating
creatures Spot-ear, Angelus, Dove, and Clover looking through their
prison-bars at the tempting meal that awaited them.

"Here they are! here they are!" said Andrew. "Beauties, all four; my
own--my very own! Maggie, you may share one of them with me while you
are here. He must live in his hutch, but he shall be yours and mine.
Would you like Spot-ear? He is a character. He's the finest old cove
you ever came across in your life. Look at him now, pretending he
doesn't care anything at all for his lettuce, and he's just dying for
it. Clover is the greedy one. Clover would eat till he-burst if I let
him. As to Angelus, she squeaks sometimes--you'll hear her if you
listen hard--that's why I called her Angelus; and Dove--why, she's a
dear pet; but the character of all is Spot-ear. You'd like to share
him with me, wouldn't you, Maggie?"

"Yes, yes; he is so ugly; he is quite interesting," said Maggie. She
flung herself on the ground by the side of the hutch, and gazed in at
the occupants as though her only aim in life was to worship rabbits.

"You take that leaf of lettuce and give it to Spot-ear your very own
self," said Peterkins. "He'll love you ever after; he's a most
affectionate old fellow."

Maggie proceeded to feed the rabbit. Peterkins hopped about in a state
of excitement which he had seldom experienced before. Maggie asked
innumerable questions. Belle seated herself on the fallen trunk of an
old oak-tree and looked on in wonder.

Maggie was a curious girl. She seemed to have a power over every one.
There was Andrew--such a shy little fellow as a rule--simply pouring
out his heart to her.

Suddenly Belle rose. "It's time for lunch," she said, "and you must be
hungry. Andrew, go straight to the house and wash your face and hands.
No lady would sit down to lunch with such a dirty boy as you are."

"Oh, I say, am I?" said Andrew. "Do you think so, Maggie?"

"You are a most disreputable-looking little scamp," said Maggie.

"Then I won't be--I won't, most truly. I'll run off at once and get
clean, and I'll get into my Sunday best if you wish it."

"Dear me, no!" said Maggie; "I don't wish it. But clean hands and
face--well, they are essential to the ordinary British boy, if he's a
gentleman."

"I am your gentleman--for evermore," said Andrew.

"I think you are, Peterkins."

"Then I'm off to clean up," said the small boy.

"I say, Andrew," cried his sister; "before you go take that door away
from Jack's hutch. He'll be so furious at your keeping the light and
air away from his rabbits."

"Not I. I can't be bothered," said Peterkins.

"Please take it away at once," said Maggie.

Andrew's brow puckered into a frown.

"But you'll see 'em, and he's got five!" he said in a most distressed
voice.

"Honor bright," said Maggie, "I'll turn my back and shut my eyes.
Jackdaw shall show me his rabbits himself."

Peterkins immediately removed the door, dragging it to its former
place, where it leaned against a high wall. He then rushed up to
Maggie.

"I've done it," he said. "Promise you won't like his bunnies."

"Can't," said Maggie, "for I'll love 'em."

"Well, at least promise you won't love him."

"Can't," said Maggie again, "for I shall."

"I'll die of raging jealousy," said Peterkins.

"No, you won't, you silly boy. Get off to the house and make yourself
tidy. Come along, Belle."

"I say, Maggie," said Belle, "you mustn't set those two boys by the
ears. They're fond enough of each other."

"Of course I'll do nothing of the kind," said Maggie. "That's a
charming little chap, and Spot-ear is my rabbit as well as his.
Jackdaw shall share two of his rabbits with me. Oh, it is such fun
turning people round your little finger!"

Just then Molly, rather red in the face, ran up.

"Oh, you darling, darling Maggie!" she said. "So you've come!"

"Come!" cried Maggie. "I feel as if I'd been here for ever."

"I am delighted to see you," said Molly.

She kissed her friend rapturously. Maggie presented a cool, firm,
round cheek.

"Oh, how sweet you look, Mags!"

"Don't talk nonsense, Molly; I'm not a bit sweet-looking."

"To me," said Molly with fervor, "You're the loveliest girl in all the
wide world."

"I'm very ugly, and you know that perfectly well," said Maggie; "but
now don't let's talk of looks."

"Whatever were you doing in this part of the garden?" inquired Molly.

"Oh, she was making love to Andrew," remarked Belle. "She calls him
Peterkins, and he allows it, and he has given her one-half of
Spot-ear; and she means to make love to Jack, and he's to give her a
couple of his rabbits--I mean, to share them with her. She's more
extraordinary than ever, more altogether out of the common."

"As if I didn't know that," said Molly. "It's all right about this
afternoon, Maggie. Oh, what do you think? We're to stay to supper, and
I have a special invitation for father and mother to come and join us
then. Won't it be fun! I do wonder, Maggie, if you will like the
Cardew girls."

"Probably not," replied Maggie in a very calm voice; "but at least I
can promise you one thing: they'll both like me."

"No doubt whatever on that point," replied Belle with fervor.

They entered the house, and soon found themselves seated round the
table. Mr. Tristram greeted Maggie with his usual gentle dignity.
Molly delivered herself of her message from the Castle. Mr. and Mrs.
Tristram said that they would be delighted to join the Cardews at
supper.

The meal was proceeding cheerfully, and Maggie was entertaining her
host and hostess by just those pleasant little pieces of information
which an exceedingly well-bred girl can impart without apparently
intending to do so, when a shy and very clean little figure glided
into the room, a pair of bright-brown eyes looked fixedly at Maggie,
and then glared defiance at Belle, who happened to be seated near that
adorable young person.

Peterkins was making up his mind that in future that coveted seat
should be his--for he and Maggie could talk in whispers during the
meal about Spot-ear, Angelus, and the rest--when his father said, "Sit
down, my boy; take your place at once. You are rather late."

The boy slipped into his seat.

"I am glad to see you looking so tidy, Andrew," said his mother
approvingly.

Andrew looked across at Maggie. Maggie did not once glance at him. She
was talking in her gentle, lady-like tone to the rector.

Presently another boy came in, bigger and broader than Andrew.

Andrew said in a raised voice, "Here's Jack, and his hands aren't a
bit clean."

"Hush!" said the rector.

Jack flushed and looked defiantly at Maggie.

Maggie raised her eyes and gave him a sweet glance. "Are you really
Jack?" she said. "I am so glad to know you. I have been making friends
with your brother Andrew, whom I call Peterkins. I want to call you
Jackdaw. May I?"

Jack felt a great lump in his throat. His face was scarlet. He felt
unable to speak, but he nodded.

"I have been looking at Peterkins's rabbits," continued Maggie. "I
want to see yours after lunch."

"They're beauties!" burst from Jack. "They're ever so many times
better than Andrew's. I've got a cream-colored Angora. His name is
Fanciful, and I've got----"

"Hush, my boy, hush!" said the rector. "Not so much talking during
meals. Well, Maggie, my dear--we must, of course, call you by your
Christian name----"

"Of course, Mr. Tristram; I should indeed feel strange if you
didn't."

"We are delighted to see you," continued the rector, "and you must
tell the girls all about your new school."

"And you too, sir," said Maggie, in her soft, rich voice. "Oh! you'll
be delighted--delighted; there never was such a woman as Mrs. Ward."

"I took a very great liking to her," said the rector. "I think my
girls fortunate to be placed under her care. She has been good, very
good and kind, to me and mine."

"I wonder what he means by that," thought Maggie; but she made no
remark aloud.




CHAPTER III.

LADY LYSLE.


At about a quarter to four that same afternoon three girls prepared to
walk over to Meredith Manor. It was for such golden opportunities that
Molly and Isabel kept their best frocks; it was for just such
occasions that they arrayed themselves most neatly and becomingly.
Their dress, it must be owned, was limited in quantity and also in
quality; but on the present occasion, in their pretty white spotted
muslins, with pale-blue sashes round their waists and white muslin
hats to match, they looked as charming a young pair of English girls
as could be found in the length and breadth of the land. It is true
their feet were not nearly as perfectly shod as Maggie's, nor were
their gloves quite so immaculate; but then they were going to play
tennis, and shoes and gloves did not greatly matter in the country.
Maggie thought otherwise. Her tan tennis-shoes exactly toned with her
neatly fitting brown holland dress. The little hat she wore on her
head was made of brown straw trimmed very simply with ribbon; it was
an ugly hat, but on Maggie's head it seemed to complete her dress, to
be a part of her, so that no one noticed in the least what she wore
except that she looked all right.

Two boys with worshiping eyes watched the trio as they stepped down
the rectory avenue and disappeared from view. Two boys fought a little
afterward, but made it up again, and then lay on the grass side by
side and discussed Maggie, pulling her to pieces in one sense, but
adoring her all the same.

Meanwhile the girls themselves chatted as girls will when the heart is
light and there is no care anywhere. It was very hot, even hotter than
it had been in the morning; but when they reached the road shaded so
beautifully by the elm-trees they found a delicious breeze which
fanned their faces. Somehow, Maggie never seemed to suffer from
weather at all. She was never too cold; she was never too hot; she was
never ill; no one had ever heard her complain of ache or pain. She was
always joyous, except when she was sympathizing with somebody else's
sorrow, and then her sympathy was detached--that is, it did not make
her personally sad, although it affected and helped the person who was
the recipient of it to a most remarkable extent. One of Maggie's great
attractions was her absolute health, her undiminished strength, the
fact that she could endure almost any exertion without showing a trace
of fatigue.

Molly and Isabel were also strong, hearty, well-made girls, and the
excitement of this expedition caused them to chatter more volubly than
usual. Maggie had a good deal to tell them with regard to the new
school, and they had a great deal to tell her with regard to the
Cardews.

Just as they were entering the avenue Maggie turned and faced her two
companions. "May I say something?" she asked eagerly.

"Why, of course, Mags," said Molly.

"Well, it's this: from what you told me of your friends, they must be
the most profoundly uninteresting girls."

"Oh no, indeed they are not!" said Isabel stanchly. "Merry has a great
deal in her, and Cicely is so nice-looking! We think she will be
beautiful by-and-by; but Merry undoubtedly has the most character.
Then there is something dignified and aristocratic about them, and yet
they are not really proud, although they might be, for they are so
rich, and Meredith Manor is such a wonderful old house."

"Didn't you tell me," said Maggie, "that Meredith Manor belonged to
Mrs. Cardew?"

"Did I?" said Isabel, coloring in some confusion. "I am sure I don't
know; I don't remember saying it. I don't think Mrs. Cardew is the
sort of woman who would call anything hers apart from her husband. She
is devoted to him, and no wonder, for he is quite charming. He is
nearly as charming as father, and that's saying a great deal."

"Do let's come on. We'll be late!" said Molly impatiently.

"No, not quite yet, please," said Maggie. "I want to understand the
position. Mrs. Cardew was a Miss Meredith?"

"Yes, dear Maggie; but what does that matter?"

"And," continued Maggie, "she was the heiress of Meredith Manor?"

"I suppose so. Father can tell you exactly."

"Oh, I don't want to question him, but I want to get my bearings. On
the mother's side, the Cardew girls belong to the country. Isn't that
so?"

"Yes, yes, yes. Do come on."

"But their father," continued Maggie, "he is in trade, isn't he?"

"He's a perfect gentleman," said Isabel stoutly; "no one looks down on
trade in these days."

"Of course not. I adore trade myself," said Maggie. She now proceeded
to walk very slowly up the avenue. She was evidently thinking hard.
After a time she said, "I mean to get those girls to come to school
with you, Molly, and with you, Isabel, in September."

Both the Tristrams burst into a peal of merry laughter. "Oh Mags!"
they cried, "we never did think before that you were conceited. You
certainly overrate even your powers when you imagine that you will get
Mr. Cardew to change his mind."

"What do you mean by his changing his mind?"

"Why, this," said Belle. "He has set his face from the very first
against his girls leaving home. He wishes them to have a home
education, and that alone."

"Oh, that is all right," said Maggie cheerfully. "Well, what will you
bet, girls, that I have my way?"

"We don't want you to lose, Maggie; but you certainly will not get
your way in this particular."

"Well, now, I am going to be generous. I am not rich; but I have got
two gold bracelets at home, and I will give one to each of you for
your very own if I succeed in bringing Cicely and Merry Cardew to Mrs.
Ward's school."

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed both the Tristram girls.

"You'll get your bracelets," said Maggie in a most confident tone,
"and I can assure you they are beauties; my darling father brought
them from India years and years ago. He brought a lot of jewels for
mother and me, and I will get the bracelets for you--one each--if I
succeed; but you must allow me to manage things my own way."

"But you won't do anything--anything--to upset the Cardews?" said
Isabel.

"Upset them!" said Maggie. "Well, yes, I do mean to upset them. I mean
to alter their lives; I mean to turn things topsyturvy for them; but
I'll manage it in such a fashion that neither you, nor Molly, nor your
father, nor your mother, nor anyone will suspect how I have got my
way, but get it I will. I thought I'd tell you, that's all. You'd like
to have them at school with you, wouldn't you?"

"Oh yes, very much indeed," said Molly.

"I am not so sure," said Isabel. "It's rather fun coming back to the
rectory in the holidays and telling the Cardew girls all about what we
do and how we spend our time. There'll be nothing to tell them if we
all go to the same school."

"Well," said Maggie, "I don't agree with you. I expect, on the
contrary, you'll find a vast lot more to talk about. But come, let's
hurry now; I want to be introduced to them, for I have no time to
lose."

Neither Isabel nor Molly could quite make out why they felt a certain
depression after Maggie Howland had explained her views. The thought
of the possible possession of the bracelets did not greatly elate
them. Besides, there was not the most remote chance of even such a
fascinating young person as Maggie succeeding in her project. She
would meet her match, if not in Mrs. Cardew, then in Mr. Cardew. There
was no doubt whatever on that point. But they greatly wished she would
not try. They did not want her to upset the placid existence of their
young friends. The girls who lived at the Castle, the girls who
pursued their sheltered, happy, refined life, were in a manner
mysterious and remote to the young Tristrams, and they thought that
they would not love them any more if they were brought into closer
contact with them.

A turn in the avenue now brought the old manor-house into view. Some
friends of Mrs. Cardew's had arrived, but there were no other young
people to be seen. Cicely and Merry were standing talking to a lady of
middle age who had come to pay an afternoon call, when Cicely found
herself changing color and glancing eagerly at Merry.

"Oh, will you excuse me?" she said in her pretty, refined voice. "Our
special friends the Tristrams, the rector's daughters, and a friend of
theirs, a Miss Howland, are coming up the avenue."

"Certainly, my dear," said Lady Lysle; and Cicely and Merry were off
down the avenue like arrows from the bow to meet their friends.

Lady Lysle watched the two girls, and then turned to speak to Mrs.
Cardew.

"What name was that I heard Cicely say?" was her remark. "Of course I
know the Tristrams, but who was the girl who was with them?"

"A special friend of theirs, a Miss Howland. She has been their school
companion abroad. She is staying with them at the rectory. Why, what
is the matter, Lady Lysle? Do you know anything about her?"

"I don't know her," said Lady Lysle, "but I know a little bit about
her mother. I should not have supposed the Tristram girls and Miss
Howland were in the same set."

"Why, what is wrong?" said Mrs. Cardew, who was exceedingly particular
as regarded the people whom her daughters knew.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," said Lady Lysle. "I happen not particularly to
like Mrs. Howland; but doubtless I am prejudiced."

She turned to talk to a neighbor, and by this time the five girls had
met. There was an eager interchange of greetings, and then Maggie
found herself walking up the avenue by Merry's side, while Cicely
found a place between the two Tristram girls.

"I am so glad you've come!" said Merry in her gentle, polite voice.

"It is kind of you to ask me," replied Maggie. "Do you know," she
added, turning and fixing her curious eyes on her companion's face,
"that I am one of those poor girls who have never seen a beautiful
house like yours before."

"I am so glad you like our house," said Merry; "but you haven't seen
it yet."

"I am looking at it now. So this is what I am accustomed to hear
spoken of as one of the 'Homes of England'?"

"It certainly is a home," said Merry, "and an old one, too. Parts of
the Manor have been centuries in existence, but some parts, of course,
are comparatively new."

"Will you take me all over it, Miss Cardew?" asked Maggie.

"Indeed, I shall be delighted; but you must come another day for
that, for we want to make up some sets of tennis without any delay. We
have all our afternoon planned out. There are three or four young
people who may arrive any moment, so that we shall be able to make two
good sets."

"How wonderful it all is!" said Maggie, who kept on looking at the
house with ever-increasing admiration, and did not seem particularly
keen about tennis.

"Don't you like tennis, Miss--Miss Howland?" said Merry.

"Oh yes," replied Maggie after a pause; "but then I think," she added,
after yet another pause, "that I like every nice thing in all the
world."

"How delightful that must be!" said Merry, becoming more and more
attracted by Maggie each moment. "And you know a lot, too, don't you?
For you have seen so much of the world."

"I know very little," replied Maggie; "and as to having seen the
world, that is to come. I am quite young, you know--only just
sixteen."

"But Isabel and Molly told me that you knew more than any other girl
of their acquaintance."

Maggie gave a cheerful laugh, and said, "You mustn't mind what they
say, poor darlings! The fact is, they're fond of me, and they magnify
my knowledge; but in reality it doesn't exist. Only, I must tell you,
Miss Cardew, I mean to see everything, and to know everything. I mean
to have a glorious future."

The enthusiasm in the charming voice was also seen, to shine through
those queer, narrow eyes. Merry felt her heart beat. "I am going to
tell you something in return," she said, speaking, for a wonder,
without diffidence, for she was naturally very shy and retiring. "I
wish with all my heart that I could live a glorious life such as you
describe."

"And surely you can?" said Maggie.

"No, I must be satisfied with a very quiet life. But we won't talk of
it now. I am really very happy. I should consider myself a most
wicked, discontented girl were I anything else. And, please, may I
take you to see mother?"

Merry brought up her new friend to introduce her to Mrs. Cardew, who
for the first moment, remembering what Lady Lysle had said, was a
trifle stiff to Maggie Howland, but two minutes afterward was chatting
to her in a pleasant and very friendly manner. She even went the
length of personally introducing Maggie to Lady Lysle, excusing
herself for the act by saying that Lady Lysle knew her mother.

Maggie also succeeded in charming Lady Lysle, who said to Mrs. Cardew
afterward, "I am glad you have introduced the girl to me. She is not
in the least like her commonplace, affected mother. She seems a very
good sort, and I like plain girls."

"But is she plain?" said Mrs. Cardew in some astonishment. "Do you
know, I never noticed it."

Lady Lysle laughed. "You never noticed how remarkably plain that girl
is, my dear friend?" she said.

"To be frank with you," said Mrs. Cardew, "I didn't think of her face
at all. She has a pretty manner and a nice, sensible, agreeable way of
talking. I do not think my girls can suffer injury from her."

"They seem to like her, at any rate," said Lady Lysle, looking
significantly as she spoke at the distant part of the grounds, where
Maggie, with Cicely at one side of her and Merry at the other, was
talking eagerly. "Oh yes, she seems a nice child," continued the great
lady, "and it would be unfair to judge a girl because her mother is
not to one's taste."

"But is there anything really objectionable in the mother?" asked Mrs.
Cardew.

"Nothing whatsoever, except that she is pushing, vulgar, and shallow.
I am under the impression that the Howlands are exceedingly poor. Of
course they are not to be blamed for that, but how the mother can
manage to send the girl to expensive schools puzzles me."

"Ah, well," said Mrs. Gardew in her gentle voice, "the child is
evidently very different from her mother, and I must respect the
mother for doing her best to get her girl well educated."

"Your girls are not going to school, are they, Sylvia?" asked Lady
Lysle.

"Mine? Of course not. Their father wouldn't hear of it."

"On the whole, I think he is right," said Lady Lysle, "though there
are advantages in schools. Now, that school at Kensington, Aylmer
House, which my dear friend Mrs. Ward conducts with such skill and
marvelous dexterity, is a place where any girl might receive
advantages."

"Is it possible," said Mrs. Cardew, "that Mrs. Ward is your friend?"

"My very great friend, dear. I have known her all my life. Aylmer
House is particularly select. My niece Aneta is at the school, and her
mother is charmed with it."

"But that is very strange," said Mrs. Gardew after a pause. "You must
talk to-night to our rector when he comes. Oh yes, of course you'll
stay to supper."

"I cannot, I regret to say."

"Well, then, if you won't, there's no use in pressing you. But I have
something curious to say. The rector's two little girls are going to
Aylmer House in September, and that little Miss Howland whom I just
introduced to you is also one of the girls under Mrs. Ward's care."

"Then she will do well," said Lady Lysle alter a pause, during which
her face looked very thoughtful.

"I wonder if she knows your niece," said Mrs. Cardew.

Lady Lysle laughed. "I presume she does. The school only contains
twenty boarders--never any more. I happen to know that there are two
vacancies at the present moment. Really, if I were you, Sylvia, I
would give your girls a couple of years there. It would do them a
world of good, and they would acquire some slight knowledge of the
world before they enter it."

"Impossible! quite impossible!" said Mrs. Cardew; "their father would
never consent."




CHAPTER IV.

POWER WAS EVERYTHING TO MAGGIE.


Meanwhile the young people enjoyed themselves vastly. Maggie was very
modest with regard to her tennis, but she quickly proved that she
could play better than any one else at the Manor that day. The
visitors walking about the grounds paused to remark on her excellent
play and to inquire who she was. She took her little triumph very
modestly, saying that she was rather surprised at herself, and
supposed that it was the fresh and delicious air of the country which
had put her into such good form.

"She is ridiculously overmodest," said Isabel Tristram to Merry, "for
she always did play every sort of game better than the rest of us. She
is not quite so good at her books; except, indeed, at certain things,
such as recitation. I wish you could see and hear her then. She is
almost a genius. She looks like one inspired."

"I think her quite delightful," said Merry; "and as to being
plain----"

"I told you, didn't I?" said Belle, "that you'd never notice her looks
after you had seen her for a minute or two."

By-and-by it was time for the family to go into the house for supper
at Meredith Manor. The three girls from the rectory were taken
upstairs, to a spacious bedroom to wash their hands and brush their
hair. Molly and Isabel were both most anxious to know what Maggie
thought of Cicely and Merry.

"What I think of them?" said Maggie. "Oh, they're first-rate, and not
really dull at all; and the whole place is lovely, and all the people
I met to-day were so nice, except, indeed, that Lady Lysle."

"Lady Lysle!" exclaimed Molly in a tone of astonishment. "Why, she is
Mrs. Cardew's greatest friend. Do you mean to say you were introduced
to her?"

"Yes, Mrs. Cardew was kind enough to do so, though I am sure I didn't
want it at all."

"But I can't imagine why she did it," said Molly in a tone of
astonishment. "Mrs. Cardew never introduces either of us to the
grown-up people."

"Well, her ostensible reason," said Maggie, "was that Lady Lysle knows
my mother."

"Does she, indeed?" said Isabel in a tone of great respect.

"But that doesn't make me like her any the better," said Maggie. "And
now I will tell you why, girls, only you must faithfully promise you
won't repeat it to any one."

"Of course not," said the girls eagerly, who were accustomed to
receive secrets from their schoolfellows, though Maggie, as a rule,
never gave her secrets to anyone.

"Well, I will tell you," said Maggie, the color flushing into her face
and then leaving it pale again. "Aneta Lysle is one of the girls at
Aylmer House. She is Lady Lysle's niece; and--well--you know I am
tolerant enough, but I can't bear Aneta Lysle."

Molly and Isabel were silent for a minute.

"If _you_ can't bear her," said Isabel, "then I don't suppose we'll
like her either when we go to the school."

"Oh yes, you will; you'll adore her--sure to. Now promise once again
that you will never repeat this."

"We certainly will not," said Molly.

Isabel nodded emphatically. "We don't tell secrets," she said. Then
she added, "We had best go downstairs now, if you're quite tidy,
Mags."

During supper that night Mrs. Cardew, who found herself seated near
her favorite rector, began to ply him with questions with regard to
Aylmer House. How had he heard of it, and why had he specially fixed
on that establishment for his daughters?

The rector smiled. He had twinkling dark eyes, and they now looked
down the long table until they rested for a brief moment on Maggie's
young figure. She was talking to Mr. Cardew, who, stately and reserved
as he was, took her remarks with good-natured tolerance.

"A nice, unaffected child," he kept saying to himself, and neither did
he remark how plain she was.

"That young person yonder," said Mr. Tristram to Mrs. Cardew, "is the
influence that has induced me to make arrangements for my girls at
Aylmer House."

"Miss Howland! You don't mean to say that you are influenced by a
schoolgirl?"

Mr. Tristram looked grave. "In this case I may as well confess at once
that I have been influenced," he said. "I have heard a great deal of
the child from Molly and Isabel, for they were all three at the same
excellent school in Hanover. I met little Miss Howland when I was in
London at Christmas. Being such a great friend of my children's, I
naturally talked to her. She told me of Mrs. Ward and of the new
delightful school to which she was going. She certainly never once
pressed me to send my girls there, but it occurred to me that I would
visit Mrs. Ward and see if it could be arranged. My girls are quite
proficient for their ages in foreign languages; but I want them now
thoroughly to learn literature and English history, and also those
numerous small accomplishments which are so necessary for a
gentlewoman. There is also no place in the world like London, in my
opinion, for hearing good music and seeing good art. I saw Mrs. Ward.
A short interview with her was all-sufficient. I could not desire to
put my girls in safer hands."

Mrs. Cardew listened very attentively.

"Then you think, Mr. Tristram," she said after a pause, "that
school-life is really good for girls?"

"In my humble opinion, Mrs. Cardew, it is essential. A girl must find
her level. She can only find it at school."

"Then what about my dear girls?" said Mrs. Cardew.

The rector bowed in a very courteous manner. "School-life may not be
really necessary for them," he said; "although you know my opinion--in
short you know what I would do with them did they belong to me."

Mrs. Cardew was silent for a minute or two. Then she continued the
conversation by saying, "It is really a curious fact that Lady Lysle,
my great friend, who was here this afternoon, spoke to me in terms of
the warmest approbation with regard to Mrs. Ward and Aylmer House. She
says that her own niece Aneta is a member of the school. She further
said that there were two vacancies at present, and she urged me to
send my girls there. But, alas I cannot do that, for their father
would not hear of it."

"I do wish he would hear of it," said Mr. Tristram with some feeling.
"You will never have your girls properly taught unless they go to
school. It is impossible at this distance from London to command the
services of the best masters and governesses. You will not have a
resident governess in the house--forgive me if I speak freely, dear
lady, but I love your children as though they were my own--and if you
could persuade Mr. Cardew to seize this opportunity and let them go to
school with Molly and Isabel I am certain you would never regret it."

"I wish I could persuade him," said Mrs. Cardew; "more particularly as
that excellent music master, Mr. Bennett, has just written to say he
must discontinue giving his music-lessons, as the distance from
Warwick is too far for his health, and Miss Beverley, their daily
governess, has also broken down. But there, I know my husband never
will agree to part with the girls."

"Then the next best thing," said Mr. Tristram, speaking in a cheerful
tone, "is for you to take up your abode in your London house, and give
the girls the advantages of masters and mistresses straight from the
Metropolis. Why, you will be bringing them out in a couple of years,
Mrs. Cardew, and you would like them to have all possible advantages
first."

"Something must be done, certainly," said Mrs. Cardew; "and I like
that girl, Miss Howland, although Lady Lysle seemed prejudiced against
her at first."

"Oh, she is a girl in a thousand," said Mr. Tristram; "so
matter-of-fact and amiable and agreeable. See how she is talking to
your husband at this very moment! I never saw a nicer or more modest
young creature, but she is so exceedingly clever that she will push
her own way anywhere. She has bowled over my two young urchins
already, although she has been only a few hours at the rectory. What
could Lady Lysle have to say against Maggie Howland?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing at all, and I ought not to have spoken; but it
seems she does not much care for Mrs. Howland."

"I think I can explain that," said Mr. Tristram. "Mrs. Howland means
well, but is a rather silly sort of woman. The girl manages her in the
sweetest way. The girl herself takes after her father, poor Howland
the African explorer, who lost his life in his country's cause. He
had, I am told, a most remarkable personality."

When Molly and Isabel Tristram, accompanied by Maggie Howland, the
rector, and his wife, walked back to the rectory that evening, Maggie
was in excellent spirits. It was natural that the three young people
should start on in front. Maggie talked on various subjects; but
although the Tristrams were most anxious to get opinions from her with
regard to the Cardews, she could not be led to talk of them until they
were approaching the house.

It was now nearly eleven o'clock, and a perfect summer night. The
boys, Jack and Andrew, had gone to bed, but a few lights were
twinkling here and there in the dear old rectory.

"Oh, I am not a scrap sleepy", said Maggie. "This air stimulates one;
it is splendid. By the way, girls," she added, suddenly turning and
facing her companions, "would you like your bracelets to have rubies
in them or sapphires?"

"Nonsense!" said Molly, turning crimson.

Belle laughed. "You don't suppose you are accomplishing that?" she
said.

Maggie spoke rather slowly. "Mother has one dozen bracelets in her
jewelry-case. Father brought them to her in the course of his travels.
Some he got in India and some in Africa. They are very valuable and
exceedingly quaint, and I recall now to my memory, and can-see clearly
in my mind's eye one lovely gold bracelet fashioned like a snake and
with eyes of ruby, and another (which I think he must have got at
Colombo) that consists of a broad gold band studded here and there
with sapphires. How pretty those bracelets would look on your dear
little arms, Molly and Isabel; and how glad--how very, very glad--your
Maggie will be to give them to you!"

"And, of course, when you do give them to us we'll be delighted to
have them," said Molly and Isabel.

Then Isabel laughed and said, "But what is the good of counting your
chickens before they're hatched?"

"I consider my chickens hatched," was Maggie's remark, "What fun we
shall all have together next winter! Aneta won't have much chance
against us. Yes, girls, of course I like your friends Cicely and
Merry; but they'll be twice three times--the girls they are when they
have been for a short time at Mrs. Ward's school."

"Aren't you tired, Maggie?" was Molly's remark. "Wouldn't you like to
go to bed?"

"I am not a scrap tired, and I don't want to go to bed at all; but I
suppose that means that you would?"

"Well, I must own to feeling a little sleepy," said Molly.

"And so am I," said Belle.

"Girls, girls, come in; your father wants to lock up," called Mrs.
Tristram at that moment.

The girls all entered the house, lit their candles, and went upstairs
to their rooms.

As Maggie was wishing her two dear friends good-night she said
quietly, "I hope you won't mind; but Merry Cardew--or, as I ought to
call her, Miss Cardew--has asked me to go over to the Manor to-morrow
morning in order to show me the old house. I said I'd be there at ten
o'clock, and could then get back to you in time for lunch. I do trust
you don't mind."

"Of course we don't," said Molly in a hearty tone. "Now, good-night,
Mags."

"But if you think, Maggie," said Isabel, "that you will succeed in
that scheme of yours you will find yourself vastly mistaken."

Maggie smiled gently, and the next moment she found herself alone. She
went and stood by the open window. There was a glorious full moon in
the sky, and the garden, with its deep shadows and brilliant avenues
of light, looked lovely. But Maggie was not thinking of the scenery.
Her thoughts were busy with those ideas which were always running riot
in her busy little head. She was not unamiable; she was in reality a
good-hearted girl, but she was very ambitious, and she sighed, above
all things for power and popularity.

When she came to visit Molly and Isabel she had not the faintest idea
of inducing Cicely and Merry to join that select group who were taught
by Mrs. Ward at Aylmer House. But when once the idea had entered her
brain, she determined, with her accustomed quickness, to carry it into
execution. She had never yet, in the whole course of her life, met
with defeat. At the various schools where she had been taught she had
always been popular and had won friends and never created an enemy-but
at Aylmer House, extraordinary and delightful as the life was, there
was one girl who excited her enmity--who, in short, roused the worst
that was in her. That girl's name was Aneta Lysle. No sophistries on
the part of Maggie, no clever speeches, no well-timed and courteous
acts, could win the approval of Aneta; and just because she was
impossible to get at, because she carried her young head high, because
she had that which Maggie could never have--a stately and wonderful
beauty--Maggie was jealous of her, and was determined, if she could
not win Aneta over to be her friend, to use her own considerable
powers against the girl. She had not for a single moment, however,
thought that she could be helped by Cicely and Merry in this
direction, and had intended to get them to come to the school simply
because they were aristocratic and rich, in the first instance. But
when she saw Lady Lysle--Lady Lysle, who hated her mother and before
whom her mother trembled and shrank; Lady Lysle, who was Aneta's
aunt--she knew that Cicely and Merry might be most valuable aids to
her in carrying out her campaign against Aneta, and would help her to
establish herself once and for all as the most powerful and important
person in Mrs. Ward's school.

Power was everything to Maggie. By power she meant to rule her small
school-world, and eventually by the aid of that same gift to take her
position in the greater world that lies beyond school. In her heart of
hearts she considered Cicely and Merry tiresome, silly, ignorant
little girls; but they could be made to play into her hands. They must
come to Aylmer House--oh yes! and already she felt certain she had put
the thin end of the wedge beneath that opposition which she knew she
must expect from Mr. Cardew. She would see him again on the morrow.
Indeed, greater schemes than hers could be carried into effect within
a fortnight.

Maggie was the soul of common-sense, however, and had no idea of
wearing herself out thinking when she ought to be asleep. She
accordingly soon turned from the window, and, getting into bed,
dropped at once into healthy slumber.

When she awoke she felt remarkably light-hearted and cheerful. She got
up early, and went with Andrew and Jack to see the adorable rabbits.
So judicious was she on this occasion that both boys returned with her
to breakfast in the highest good-humor.

"Mother, mother," cried Jackdaw, "she loves Fanciful because he's so
beautiful."

"And she adores Spot-ear because he's so ugly," said Peterkins.

The boys were exceedingly happy at being allowed to sit at breakfast
one on each side of Maggie, who, when she did not speak to them--for
she wanted to ingratiate herself with every one present, and not with
them alone--contrived to pat their hands from time to time, and so
keep them in a subdued state of exceeding good-humor.

Soon after breakfast she flew up to her room, put on that strangely
becoming brown hat, which would have suited no other girl but herself,
and went off to the Manor. She was met at the gate by Merry, who was
anxiously waiting for her appearance.

"I am so sorry that Cicely isn't here too," said Merry; "but mother
wanted Cicely to drive into Warwick with her this morning. We're
going for a long motor-ride this afternoon. Don't you love motors?"

"I have never been in one in my life," replied Maggie.

"Oh dear!" said Merry; "then you shall come with us, although I know I
can't ask you to-day, but perhaps to-morrow we could manage."

"I must not be too much away from Molly and Isabel, for it would not
be kind--would it, Miss Cardew?"

"Do call me Merry. 'Miss Cardew' sounds so stiff, and you know I feel
that I have known you all my life, for Molly and Isabel have always
been talking about you. Mother was so pleased when she heard that you
wanted to see the old house; and, do you know, Maggie----You don't
mind my saying Maggie?"

"Of course not, Merry--dear Merry."

"Well--would you believe it?--father is going to show you the
manuscript-room himself. I can tell you that is an honor."

"I am so delighted!" said Maggie. "Your father is a most charming
man."

"Indeed, that he is," said Merry; "but I never saw him get on so well
with a young girl before."

"Oh," said Maggie in her modest way, "it was just that I wanted to
listen to him; what he said was so very interesting."

The girls were now walking up the avenue.

"Please," said Merry suddenly, "tell me more about your school--I mean
that new, wonderful school you are at in London."

"Aylmer House?" said Maggie.

"Yes, Aylmer House. Mother was talking about it this morning. She was
quite interested in it."

"Your mother was talking about it?"

"Yes. It seems Mr. Tristram had been praising it to her like anything
last night."

"Well, he can't say too much in its favor," said Maggie. "Any girl who
didn't get good from it ought to be ashamed of herself."

"What is that you are saying, Miss Howland?" said the voice of Mr.
Cardew at that moment.

"Oh father! I never saw you," cried Merry.

Mr. Cardew came up and shook hands with Maggie. "I was walking just
behind you on the grass," he said, "and I heard your enthusiastic
remarks with regard to the school that the young Tristrams are going
to. I am heartily pleased; I take a great interest in the Tristrams."

"Oh sir," said Maggie suddenly, "I only wish--oh! I hardly dare to say
it--but I only do wish that your girls were coming too!"

Merry turned crimson and then grew pale. "Father doesn't approve of
schools," she said in a faint voice.

"As a rule, I do not," said Mr. Cardew decidedly; "but of course I am
bound to say there are schools and schools. You shall tell me all
about your school presently, Miss Howland. And now, I will allow my
daughter to entertain you."

"But, father darling, you promised to show Maggie the manuscript-room
yourself."

"Are you interested in black-letter?" said Mr. Cardew.

"I am interested in everything old," replied Maggie.

"Well, then, I will show you the manuscript-room with pleasure; but if
you want to go over the Manor you have a heavy morning's work before
you, and Merry is an excellent guide. However, let me see. I will meet
you in the library at a quarter to twelve. Until then, adieu."




CHAPTER V.

"WHAT DID YOU TALK ABOUT?"


Maggie and Merry had now reached the great porch which overshadowed
the entrance to the old house. The next instant they found themselves
in the hall. This, supported by graceful pillars, was open up to the
roof of the house. It was a magnificent hall, and Merry began
enthusiastically to explain its perfections. Maggie showed not a
pretended but a real interest. She asked innumerable and sensible
questions. Her queer, calm, narrow eyes grew very bright. She smiled
now and then, and her face seemed the personification of intelligence.
With that smile, and those gleaming white teeth, who could have
thought of Maggie Howland as plain?

They went from the hall into the older part of the house, and there
Merry continued her duties as guide. Never before had she been in the
company of so absolutely charming a companion. Maggie was the best
listener in the world. She never interrupted with tiresome or
irrelevant questions. When she did speak it was with the utmost
intelligence, showing clearly that she understood what she was being
told.

By-and-by they found themselves in the picture-gallery. There Merry
insisted on their sitting down for a time and taking a rest. She
touched a bell as she spoke, and then motioned Maggie to recline in a
deep arm-chair which faced the picture of a beautiful lady who was the
grandmother of the present Mrs. Cardew.

"That lady's name," said Merry, "was Cicely Meredith, and she was the
wife of the last Meredith but one who owned the Manor. It was little
supposed in those days that my darling mother would inherit the place,
and that Cardews should live at Meredith Manor after all. Ah, here
comes Dixon!--Dixon, will you put our lunch on that small table? Thank
you very much."

One of the servants in the Cardew livery had appeared. He was bearing
a small tray of tempting drinks, fruit, and cake.

"Now, Maggie, eat; do eat," said Merry.

"I declare I am as hungry as a hawk," said Maggie, and she munched
cake and ate fruit and felt that she was, as she expressed it to
herself--although she would not have used the words aloud--in clover.

Nevertheless, she was not going to lose sight of that mission which
she had set herself. She turned and looked thoughtfully at Merry.
Merry had a pretty profile, with the short upper-lip and the graceful
appearance of a very high-bred girl.

"Do you," said Maggie after a pause, "happen to know Aneta Lysle?"

"Why, of course," said Merry. "Do you mean Lady Lysle's niece?"

"Yes," replied Maggie.

"I don't know her well, but she has stayed here once or twice. Is she
a friend of yours, Maggie?"

"Oh no; scarcely a friend, although we are schoolfellows."

"How stupid of me!" said Merry, speaking with some warmth. "Of course,
I quite forgot that she is at Mrs. Ward's school. She is older than
you, isn't she, Maggie?"

"Yes, a year older, as days are counted; but she appears even more
than her age, which is just seventeen. Don't you think her very
beautiful, Merry?"

"Now that I recall her, I do; but she never made a special impression
on me. She never stayed here long enough."

"Nevertheless, she is a sort of cousin of yours?"

"Yes, Lady Lysle is mother's cousin; but then one doesn't love all
one's relations," said Merry carelessly. "Have another piece of cake,
Maggie."

"Thanks," said Maggie, helping herself. "How delicious it is!"

"And put some more cream over your raspberries. The raspberries at
Meredith Manor are celebrated."

Maggie helped herself to some more cream. "I do wish" she said
suddenly.

"That I would go on telling you about the pictures?" said Merry. "But
you must be tired. I never knew any one take in interesting things so
quickly."

"I am glad you think I do; but it so happens that I do not want to
hear about the pictures this morning. I think perhaps I am, after all,
a bit tired. It is the pleasure, the delight of knowing you and your
sister, and of being with those sweet girls Molly and Isabel."

"Yes, aren't they darlings'?" said Merry.

"I want you to tell me a lot about yourself," said Maggie.

"We have half-an-hour yet before I am to meet your father in the
manuscript-room. Begin at the beginning, and tell me just everything.
You are not schoolgirls?"

"Oh, no," said Merry, speaking slowly. "We are taught at home."

"But have you a resident governess?"

"No; father objects. This is holiday-time of course; but as a rule we
have a daily governess and masters."

"It must be dull," said Maggie, speaking in a low tone--so low that
Merry had to strain her ears to hear it.

She replied at once, "'Tisn't nearly so interesting as school; but
we--we are--quite--_quite_ satisfied."

"I wonder you don't go to school," said Maggie.

"Father doesn't wish it, Maggie."

"But you'd like it, wouldn't you?"

"Like it!" said Merry, her eyes distended a little. "Like to see the
world and to know other girls? Well, yes, I should like it."

"There'd be discipline, you know," said Maggie. "It wouldn't be all
fun."

"Of course not," said Merry. "How could one expect education to be all
fun?"

"And you would naturally like to be very well educated, wouldn't you?"
said Maggie.

"Certainly; but I suppose we are--that is, after a fashion."

"Yes," said Maggie, "after a fashion, doubtless; but you will go into
society by-and-by, and you'll find--well, that home education leaves
out a great many points of knowledge which cannot possibly be attained
except by mixing with other girls."

"I suppose so," said Merry, speaking with a slight degree of
impatience; "but then Cicely and I can't help it. We have to do what
father and mother wish."

"Yes, exactly, Merry; and it's so awfully sweet and amiable of you!
Now, may I describe to you a little bit of school-life?"

"If you like, Maggie. Molly and Isabel have often told me of what you
did in Hanover."

"Oh, Hanover?" said Maggie with a tone of slight contempt. "We don't
think of Hanover now in our ideas of school-life. We had a fairly good
time, for a German school; but to compare it with Mrs. Ward's house!
Oh, I cannot tell you what a dream of a life I have lived during the
last term! It is only to see Mrs. Ward to love her; and all the other
mistresses are so nice, and the girls are so very select and
lady-like. Then we take a keen interest in our lessons. You're the
musical one, aren't you, Merry?"

"Yes. How ever did you find that out?"

"Well," said Maggie, "I looked at you, and I guessed it. Besides, I
heard you hum an air under your breath yesterday, and I knew at once
that you had a lovely voice."

"I am sure I haven't; and I'm too young to begin singing-lessons."

"Not a bit of it. That's quite an exploded idea. If, for
instance----Oh, of course I know you won't be there; but if you
were so lucky as to be a pupil at Mrs. Ward's you would be
taught to sing, and, what is more valuable, you would hear
good, wonderful, beautiful singing, and wonderful, beautiful
music of all sorts. Once a week we all go to a concert at
Queen's Hall. Have you ever been there?"

"No! I don't know London at all."

"Well, then, another day in the week," continued Maggie, "we go to
the different museums and picture-galleries, and we get accustomed to
good art, and we are taught to discern good from bad. We learn
architecture at St. Paul's and the Abbey and some of the other
churches. You see, Mrs. Ward's idea is to teach us everything
first-hand, and during the summer term she takes us on long
expeditions up the river to Kew and Hampton Court and all those dear
old places. Then, in addition, she has what she calls reunions in
the evenings. We all wear evening-dress, and she invites two or
three friends, and we sing and play among ourselves, and we are taught
the little observances essential to good society; and, besides all
the things that Mrs. Ward does, we have our own private club and our
own debating society, and--oh, it is a full life!--and it teaches
one, it helps one."

Merry's soft brown eyes were very bright, and her cheeks had a
carnation glow on them, and her pretty red lips were slightly parted.
"You do all these things at school--at school?" she said.

"Why, of course; and many, many more things that you can't even
imagine, for it's the whole influence of the place that is so
delightful. Then you make friends--great friends--and you get to
understand character, and you get to understand the value of real
discipline, and you are taught also that you are not meant to live a
worldly and selfish life, for Mrs. Ward is very philanthropic. Each
girl in her school has to help a poor girl in East London, and the
poor girl becomes in a sort of manner her property. I have got a dear
little lame girl. Her name is Susie Style. I am allowed to see her
once or twice a year, and I write her a letter every week, and she
writes back to me, and I collect enough money to keep her in a
cripples' home. I haven't enough of my own, for I am perhaps the
poorest girl in the school; but that makes no difference, for Mrs.
Ward doesn't allow the word money or rank to be spoken of--she lives
above all that. She says that money is a great talent, and that people
who are merely purse-proud are detestable. Oh, but I've told you
enough, haven't I?"

"Yes, oh yes!" said Merry. "Thanks very, very much. And so Aneta is
there; and as Molly and Isabel will be there, they will tell me more
at Christmas. Perhaps we ought to go down now to meet father in the
manuscript-room."

Maggie rose with alacrity. She followed her companion quite
cheerfully. She felt assured within herself that the thin end of the
wedge had been well inserted by now.

Mr. Cardew was exceedingly courteous and pleasant, and Maggie charmed
him by her intelligence and her marvellous gift of assimilating
knowledge. Not a word was said with regard to the London school, and
at ten minutes to one Maggie bade good-bye to Mr. Cardew and Merry,
and went back to the rectory in considerable spirits.

Molly and Isabel were all impatience for her return.

"Well, what did you do?" said Molly. "Who was there to meet you?"

"Only Merry. Cicely had gone with Mrs. Cardew to Warwick."

"Oh, well, Merry is the jollier of the two, although they are both
perfectly sweet," said Molly. "And did she show you all the house,
Maggie?"

"No," said Maggie; "I really couldn't take it all in; but she took me
round the armory and into the old tower, and then we went into the
picture-gallery."

"Oh, she took you into the picture-gallery! There are Romneys and
Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshua Reynoldses, and all sorts of magnificent
treasures there."

"Doubtless," said Maggie. "But when I tell you what we did you will
laugh."

"What did you do? Do tell us, Mags."

"We sat in easy-chairs. I faced the portrait of a very beautiful lady
after whom Cicely Cardew is called."

"Of course I know her well--I mean her picture," said Isabel. "That is
a Gainsborough. Didn't you admire it?"

"Yes; but I want to look at it again; I'm going to do the gallery
another day, and on that occasion I think I shall ask Cicely to
accompany me."

"Why, what do you mean? Don't you like our sweet little Merry?"

"Like her? I quite love her," said Maggie; "but the fact is, girls, I
did my duty by her this morning, and now I want to do my duty by
Cicely."

"Oh Mags, you are so mysterious!" said Molly; "but come upstairs and
take off your hat, for the gong will sound for lunch in a moment."

Maggie went upstairs, Molly and Isabel following her. "Come into my
room, girls," she said. Then she added, dropping her voice, "I think
those bracelets are pretty secure."

Molly colored. Isabel looked down.

"You will never succeed," said Molly.

Then Isabel said, "Even if you do, I don't think we ought, perhaps,
to--to take them, for it would seem as though they were a sort
of--sort of--bribe."

"Oh, you old goose!" said Maggie, kissing her. "How could they be a
bribe when I don't ask you to do anything at all? But now, listen. We
were tired when we got to the gallery; therefore that sweet little
Merry of yours ordered fruit and milk and cake, and we ate and
talked."

"What did you talk about?"

"School, dear."

"What was the good of your talking about school to Merry when she
can't go?"

"Can't go?" said Maggie. "Why, she is going; only, it was my bounden
duty to make her want to go. Well, I succeeded in doing that this
morning. There's the gong, and, notwithstanding my lunch, I am quite
hungry."

"Well, Andrew and Jack are perfectly mad to see you; you'll have to
devote a bit of your time to them. Dear me, Mags!" said Molly, "it
must be tiresome to be a sort of universal favorite, as you are."

"Tiresome!" said Maggie, glancing round with her queer, expressive
eyes, "when I love it like anything? Let's get up a sort of play
between ourselves this afternoon, and let the boys join in; and, oh!
couldn't we--don't you think we might--get your two friends Cicely and
Merry to join us, just for an impromptu thing that we could act
beautifully in the hay-field? Wouldn't their father consent?"

"Why, of course he would. I'll run round the minute lunch is over and
get them," said Isabel. "You are a girl for planning things, Mags!
It'll be quite glorious."

"We might have tea in the hay-field too," continued Maggie. "I am sure
Peterkins and Jackdaw will help us."

"Capital! capital! and we'll get David"--David was the gardener's
boy--"to pick lots of fruit for the occasion."




CHAPTER VI.

FORBIDDEN FRUIT.


Meanwhile a little girl stood all alone on one of the terrace walks at
Meredith Manor. Mrs. Cardew and Cicely would not arrive until rather
late for lunch, and Merry and her father were to partake of it alone.
Merry paced up and down very slowly. What a lovely day it was, and how
beautiful the place looked with its long lines of stately trees, and
its background of woods, and its terraces of bright flowers and green,
green grass!

As far as the eye could reach the land belonged to the Cardews, and
yet Merry Cardew, the joint-heiress with Cicely of all this wealth,
did not feel either happy or contented at that moment. A girl had come
into her life who had suddenly turned her gold to gray, her sunshine
to shadow. She was a very nice girl, too--exceedingly nice. There was
something about her which Merry found impossible to define, for Merry
had no acquaintances just then in her sheltered life who possessed the
all-important and marvelous power of charm. Merry knew quite well that
Maggie Howland was neither rich nor beautiful. She was just a little
schoolgirl, and yet she could not get Maggie out of her head. She
sighed for the girl's companionship, and she sighed yet more for the
forbidden fruit which Maggie had placed so enticingly before her
mental vision: the school-life, the good life, the energetic,
purposeful life. Music--oh, how passionately Merry loved the very
little music she had ever heard! And art--Merry and Cicely had learned
a little bit of art in their own picture-gallery; but of all there was
outside they knew nothing. Then that delightful, wonderful scheme of
having an East End girl for your very own to train, and help, and
write to, and support; and the companionship, and all the magical
things which the Tristrams had more or less enjoyed in foreign
schools, but which seemed to have reached a delicacy of perfection at
Aylmer House!

Yes, doubtless these were forbidden fruits; but she could not help, as
she paced alone on the terrace, contrasting her mode of education with
that which was put within the reach of her friends Molly and Isabel,
and of Maggie herself. How dull, after all, were her lessons! The
daily governess, who was always tired when she arrived, taught her out
of books which even Molly and Isabel declared to be out of date; who
yawned a good deal; who was always quite, quite kind, but at the same
time had no enthusiasm; who said, "Yes, my dears; very nicely done,"
but never even punished; and who only uttered just that mild phrase
which was monotonous by reason of its repetition. Where was the good
of reading Racine aloud to Miss Beverley day after day, and not being
able to talk French properly at all? And where was the use of
struggling through German with the same instructress?

Then the drawing-master who came from Warwick: he was better than Miss
Beverley; but, after all, he taught what Molly and Isabel said was now
quite exploded--namely, freehand--and he only came once a week.
Merry's passion was for music more than for drawing; it was Cicely who
pleased Mr. Vaughan, the drawing-master, best. Then there was the
music-master, Mr. Bennett; but he never would allow her to sing a
note, and he taught very dull, old-fashioned pieces. How sick she was
of pieces, and of playing them religiously before her father at least
once a week! Her dancing was better, for she had to go to Warwick to a
dancing-class, and there were other girls, and they made it exciting.
But compared to school, and in especial Mrs. Ward's school, Merry's
mode of instruction was very dull. After all, Molly and Isabel,
although they would be quite poor girls, had a better time than she
and Cicely with all their wealth.

"A penny for your thoughts, my love," said her father at that moment,
and Merry turned her charming little face towards him.

"I ought not to tell them to you, dad," she said, "for they are--I'm
ever so sorry--they are discontented thoughts."

"You discontented, my dear child! I did feel that I had two little
girls unacquainted with the meaning of the word."

"Well, I'll just tell you, and get it over, dad. I'll be perfectly all
right once I have told you."

"Then talk away my child; you know I have your very best interests at
heart."

"Indeed I know that, my darling father. The fact is this," said Merry;
"I"----She stopped; she glanced at her father. He was a most
determined and yet a most absolutely kind man. Merry adored him;
nevertheless, she was a tiny little bit in awe of him.

"What is the matter?" he said, looking round at her. "Has your
companion, that nice little Miss Howland, been putting silly thoughts
into your head? If so, she mustn't come here again."

"Oh father, don't say that! You'll make me quite miserable. And indeed
she has not been putting silly thoughts into my head."

"Well, then, what are you so melancholy about?"

"The fact is--there, I will have it out," said Merry--"I'd give
anything in the world to go to school."

"What?" said Mr. Cardew.

"Yes," said Merry, gaining courage as she spoke; "Molly and Isabel are
going, and Aneta Lysle is there, and Maggie Howland is there, and I'd
like to go, too, and I'm sure Cicely would; and, oh, father! I know it
_can't_ be; but you asked me what was the matter. Well, that's the
matter. I do want most awfully to go to school!"

"Has that girl Miss Howland been telling you that you ought to go to
school?"

"Indeed no, she has not breathed such a word. But I am always
interested, as you know--or as perhaps you don't know--in schools; and
I have always asked--and so has Cicely--Molly and Isabel to tell us
all about their lives at school."

"I did not know it, my little Merry."

"Well, yes, father, Cicely and I have been curious; for, you see, the
life is so very different from ours. And so to-day, when Maggie and I
were in the picture-gallery, I asked her to tell me about Aylmer
House, and she--she did."

"She made a glowing picture, evidently," said Mr. Cardew.

"Oh father, it must be so lovely! Think of it, father--to get the best
music and the best art, and to be under the influence of a woman like
Mrs. Ward. Oh, it must be good! Do you know, father, that every girl
in her school has an East End girl to look after and help; so that
some of the riches of the West should be felt and appreciated by those
who live in the East. Oh father! I could not help feeling a little
jealous."

"Yes, darling, I quite understand. And you find your life with Miss
Beverley and Mr. Vaughan and Mr. Bennett a little monotonous compared
to the variety which a school-life affords?"

"That is it, father darling."

"I don't blame you in the least, Merry--not in the very least; but the
fact is, I have my own reasons for not approving of school-life. I
prefer girls who are trained at home. If, indeed, you had to earn your
living it would be a different matter. But you will be rich, dear,
some day, and----Well, I am glad you've spoken to me. Don't think
anything more about it. Come in to lunch now."

"I'll try not to think of it, father; and you're not really angry?"

"Angry!" said Mr. Gardew. "I'll never be angry with you, Merry, when
you tell me all the thoughts of your heart."

"And you won't--you won't," said Merry in an anxious tone--"vex
darling mother by talking to her about this?"

"I make no promises whatsoever You have trusted me; you must continue
to trust me."

"I do; indeed I do! You are not angry with dear, nice Miss Howland,
are you, father?"

"Angry with her! Why should I be? Most certainly not. Now, come in to
lunch, love."

At that meal Mr. Cardew did his very utmost to be pleasant to Merry;
and as there could be no man more charming when he pleased, soon the
little girl was completely under his influence, and forgot that
fascinating picture of school-life which Maggie had so delicately
painted for her edification.

Soon after lunch Mrs. Cardew and Cicely returned; and Merry, the
moment she was with her sister, felt her sudden fit of the blues
departing, and ran out gaily with Cicely into the garden. They were
seated comfortably in a little arbor, when Isabel's voice was heard
calling them. She was hot and panting. She had come up to tell them of
the proposed arrangements for the afternoon, and to beg of them both
to come immediately to the rectory.

"How more than delightful!" said Merry.--"Cicely, you stay still, for
you're a little tired. I'll run up to the house at once and ask father
and mother if we may go."

"Yes, please do," said Isabel; "and I'll rest here for a little, for
really the walk up to your house is somewhat fatiguing." She mopped
her hot forehead as she spoke. "You might as well come back with me,
both of you girls," she added. But she only spoke to Cicely, for Merry
had already vanished.

"Father! mother!" said the young girl, bursting abruptly into their
presence. "Belle Tristram has just come up to ask us to spend the
afternoon at the rectory. Tea in the hay-field, and all kinds of fun!
May we go?"

"Of course you may, dears," said Mrs. Cardew at once. "We intended
motoring, but we can do that another day."

Mr. Cardew looked dubious for a moment. Then he said, "All right, only
you must not be out too late. I'll send the pony-trap down to the
rectory for you at half-past eight o'clock."

"Oh, but, father," said Merry, "we can walk home."

"No dear; I will send the little carriage. Now, go and enjoy yourself,
my child."

He looked at her with great affection, and she felt herself reddening.
Had she hurt that most dear father after all? Oh! no school that ever
existed was worth that.




CHAPTER VII.

DISCONTENT.


On that special afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Cardew happened to be alone.
The girls had gone down to the rectory. This was not Mrs. Cardew's At
Home day, and she therefore did not expect any visitors. She was a
little tired after her long drive to Warwick, and was glad when her
husband suggested that they should go out and have tea all alone
together under one of the wide-spreading elm-trees.

Mrs. Cardew said to herself that this was almost like the old, old
times of very long ago. She and her husband had enjoyed an almost
ideal married life. They had never quarreled; they had never even had
a small disagreement. They were blessed abundantly with this world's
good things, for when Sylvia Meredith of Meredith Manor had accepted
the hand of Cyril Cardew she had also given her heart to him.

He and she were one in all particulars. Their thoughts were almost
identical. She was by no means a weak-minded woman--she had plenty of
character and firmness; but she deferred to the wishes of her husband,
as a good wife should, and was glad! to feel that he was slightly her
master. Never, under any circumstances, did he make her feel the yoke.
Nevertheless, she obeyed him, and delighted in doing so.

The arrival of their little twin-daughters was the crown of their
bliss. They never regretted the fact that no son was born to them to
inherit the stately acres of Meredith Manor; they were the last sort
of people to grumble. Mrs. Cardew inherited the Meredith property in
her own right, and eventually it would be divided between her two
daughters.

Meanwhile the children themselves absorbed the most loving care of
their parents. Mr. Cardew was, as has already been said, a great
merchant-prince. He often went to London to attend to his business
affairs, but he spent most of his time in the exquisite country home.
It was quite true that discontent seemed far, very far away from so
lovely a spot as Meredith Manor. Nevertheless, Mr. Cardew had seen it
to-day on the face of his best-loved child, his little Merry. The
look had hurt him; and while he was having lunch with her, and joking
with her, and talking, in his usually bright and intelligent way, her
words, and still more the expression of her face and the longing look
in her sweet brown eyes, returned to him again and again.

He was, therefore, more thoughtful than usual as he sat by his wife's
side now under the elm-tree. He had a pile of newspapers and magazines
on the grass at his feet, and his favorite fox-terrier Jim lay close
to his master. Mrs. Cardew had her invariable knitting and a couple of
novels waiting to occupy her attention when Mr. Cardew took up one of
the newspapers. But for a time the pair were silent. Mrs. Cardew was
thinking of something which she wanted to say, and Mr. Cardew was
thinking of Merry. It was, as is invariably the case, the woman who
first broke the silence.

"Well, Cyril," said his wife, "to find ourselves seated here all
alone, without the children's voices to listen to reminds me of the
old times, the good times, the beautiful times when we were first
married."

"My dear," he answered, starting slightly as she spoke, "those were
certainly good and beautiful times, but surely not more good and
beautiful than now, when our two dear little girls are growing up and
giving us such great happiness."

"That is true. Please don't misunderstand me, love; but you come even
before the children."

He felt touched as she said this, and glancing at her, said to himself
that he was indeed in luck to have secured so priceless a woman as his
wife.

"We have had happy times together, Cyril," she said, returning his
glance.

"Yes, Sylvia," he answered, and once again he thought of Merry's
face.

"Nothing can alter that," she continued.

"Nothing, my love," he said.

Then he looked at her again, and saw that she was a little troubled
about something; and, as was his custom, he determined to take the
bull by the horns.

"You have something on your mind, Sylvia. What is it?"

"I have," she said at once; "and something of very great importance. I
have a sort of fear that to talk of it with you may possibly trouble
you a little. Shall we defer it, dear? The day is so peaceful, and we
are so happy."

"No, no," he replied at once. "We will take the opportunity of the
children being perfectly happy at the rectory to discuss the thing
that worries you. But what can it be?" he continued. "That is more
than I can imagine. I have never seen you worried before."

Again he thought of Merry, but it was impossible to connect his wife's
trouble with his child's discontent.

"Well, I will tell you just out, Cyril," said his wife. "I urge
nothing, but I feel bound to make a suggestion. I know your views with
regard to the girls."

"My views, dear! What do you mean?"

"With regard to their education, Cyril."

"Yes, yes, Sylvia; we have done our very best. Have you any reason to
find fault with Miss Beverley or with Vaughan or Bennett?"

"Unfortunately," said Mrs. Cardew, "Miss Beverley, who, you know, is
an admirable governess, and whom we can most thoroughly trust, wrote
to me yesterday morning saying that she was obliged to resign her post
as daily governess to our girls. She finds the distance from Warwick
too far; in fact, she has her physician's orders to take work nearer
home. She regrets it immensely, but feels that she has no
alternative."

"Provoking!" said Mr. Cardew; "but really, Sylvia, I wouldn't allow it
to upset me if I were you. Surely there are plenty of other Miss
Beverleys in the world; and"--again he thought of Merry--"we might
perhaps find some one a little less old-fashioned."

"I am afraid, dear, that is impossible, for you will not allow a
resident governess in the house."

"I will not," said Mr. Cardew with decision. "Such an arrangement
would break in on our family life. You know my views."

"Yes, dear; and I must say I approve of them."

"You must find some one else in Warwick who is not too tired to take
the train journey. Doubtless it would be quite easy," said Mr.
Cardew.

"I went to Warwick this morning in order to make inquiries," said Mrs.
Cardew in her gentle voice, "and I grieve to say there is no one who
can in the least take the post which dear Miss Beverley has so
worthily filled. But I have further bad news to give you. Mr. Bennett
is leaving Warwick for a better post in London, and we shall be at our
wits' end to get the girls good music-lessons for next term."

"How provoking! how annoying!" said Mr. Cardew, and his irritation was
plainly shown in his face. "It does seem hard," he said after a
moment's pause, "that we, with all our wealth, should be unable to
give our girls the thorough education they require."

"The fact is this, dear," said Mrs. Cardew, "and I must speak out
plainly even at the risk of displeasing you--Cicely and Merry are
exceedingly clever girls, but at the present moment they are very far
behind other girls of their age. Their knowledge of foreign languages
is most deficient. I have no doubt Miss Beverley has grounded them
well in English subjects; but as to accomplishments, they are not
getting the advantages their rank in life and their talent demand.
Dear Cyril, we ought to forget ourselves and our interests for the
children."

"What has put all this into your head?" said Mr. Cardew. "As, for
instance--" He paused. "It seemed impossible----"

"What, dear?" asked his wife very earnestly.

"Well, I may as well say it. Has Merry been talking to you?"

"Our little Merry!" said Mrs. Cardew in astonishment. "Of course not.
What in the world do you mean?"

"I will not explain just at present, dear. You have some idea in your
head, or you wouldn't speak to me as you do."

"Well, the fact is, when my cousin, Lucia Lysle, was here yesterday
she spoke very strongly to me on the subject of the girls' education,
and urged me to do what I knew you would never for a moment consent
to."

"And what is that?" asked Mr. Gardew. "I seem to be an awful bugbear
in this business."

"No, dear, no. I quite understand your scruples, and--and--respect
them. But Lucia naturally wanted us to seize the opportunity of two
vacancies at Aylmer House, Mrs. Ward's school."

"I shall soon begin to hate the name of Mrs. Ward," said Cardew with
some asperity.

"My cousin spoke most highly of the school," continued Mrs. Cardew.
"She said that two years there, or perhaps a little longer, would give
the girls that knowledge of life which will be all-essential to them
in the future."

"Home education is best; I know it is best," said Mr. Cardew. "I hate
girls' schools."

"I gave her to understand, dear, that those were your views; but I
have something else to tell you. You know how attached we both are to
the dear Tristrams."

"Of course, of course," said Mr. Cardew with impatience.

"Well, at supper yesterday evening Mr. Tristram began to talk to me on
the very same subject as my cousin, Lady Lysle, had spoken of earlier
in the day."

"Very interfering of Tristram," replied Mr. Cardew.

"He didn't mean it in that way, I assure you, my love; nothing could
be nicer than the way he spoke. I was telling him--for I had not
mentioned the fact to you, and it was troubling me a little--about
Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett, and asking his advice, as I often do.
He immediately urged Aylmer House as the best possible substitute for
Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett. I repeated almost the same words I had
used to Lucia Lysle--namely, that you were dead-set against girls'
schools."

"That was scarcely polite, my love, seeing that he sends his own
daughters to school."

"Well, yes," said Mrs. Cardew; "but of course their circumstances are
very different."

"I would be sorry if he should feel that difference, Sylvia. Tristram
is a most excellent fellow."

"He is--indeed he is!" said Mrs. Cardew. "Feeling for him, therefore,
as you do, dear, you may perhaps be more inclined to listen to an
alternative which he proposed to me."

"And what is that, my dear?"

"Well, he thinks we might occupy our house in London during the school
terms of each year----"

"During the school terms of each year!" echoed Mr. Cardew in a voice
of dismay. "But I hate living in London."

"Yes, dearest; but you see we must think of our girls. If you and I
took the children to town they could have governesses and masters--the
very best--and would thus be sufficiently educated to take their place
in society."

Mr. Cardew was quite silent for a full minute after his wife had made
this suggestion. To tell the truth, she had done a somewhat
extraordinary thing. Amongst this great lady's many rich possessions
was a splendid mansion in Grosvenor Street; but, as she hated what is
called London society, it had long been let to different tenants, for
nothing would induce the Cardews to leave their delightful home, with
its fresh air and country pursuits, for the dingy old house in town.
They knew that when the girls came out--a far-distant date as
yet--they would have to occupy the house in Grosvenor Street for the
season; but Mrs. Cardew's suggestion that they should go there almost
immediately for the sake of their daughters' education was more
annoying to her husband than he could possibly endure.

"I consider the rector very officious," he said. "Nothing would induce
me to live in town."

"I thought you would feel like that, dear. I was certain of it."

"You surely would not wish it yourself, Sylvia?"

"I should detest it beyond words," she replied.

"Besides, the house is occupied," said Mr. Cardew, catching at any
excuse not to carry out this abominable plan, as he termed it.

"Well, dear, at the present moment it is not. I had a letter a week
ago from our agent to ask if he should relet it for the winter and
next season, and I have not yet replied to him."

"Nonsense, nonsense, Sylvia! We cannot go to live there."

"I don't wish it, my love."

The pair sat quite silent after Mrs. Cardew had made this last
remark.

After a time her husband said, "We're really placed in a very cruel
dilemma; but doubtless there are schools and schools. Now, I feel that
the time has arrived when I ought to tell you about Merry."

"What about the dear child?" asked her mother. "Isn't she well?"

"Absolutely and perfectly well, but our dear little girl is consumed
by the fever of discontent."

"My dear, you must be mistaken."

"I am not. Listen, and I will tell you what has happened."

Mr. Cardew then related his brief interview with Merry, and Merry's
passionate desire to go to Aylmer House.

"And what did you say to her, love?" asked his wife.

"I told her it was impossible, of course."

"But it really isn't, dear, you know," said Mrs. Cardew in a low tone;
"and as you cannot make up your mind to live in London, those two
vacancies at Aylmer House seem providential."

At these words Mr. Cardew sprang to his feet. "Nothing will ever shake
my opinion with regard to school-life," he said.

"And yet the life in town----"

"That is impossible. Look me straight in the face, Sylvia. If by any
chance--don't, please, imagine that I'm giving way--but if, by any
possible chance, I were to yield, could you, my darling, live without
your girls?"

"With you--I could," she answered, and she held out her hand to him,
which he raised to his lips and kissed.

"Well, I am upset," he said. "If only Miss Beverley and Bennett were
not so silly, we should not be in this awkward fix. I'll go for a
ride, if you don't mind, Sylvia, and be back with you in an hour's
time."

During that ride Mr. Cardew felt as a strong man does when his most
cherished wishes are opposed, and when circumstance, with its
overpowering weight, bears down every objection. Beyond doubt the
girls must be educated. Beyond doubt the scheme of living in London
could not be entertained. Country life was essential. Meredith Manor
must not be deserted for the greater part of the year. He might visit
the girls whenever he went to London; but, after all, he was now more
or less a sleeping partner in his great firm. There was no necessity
for him to go to London more than four or five times a year. Oh!
school was hateful, but little Merry had longed for it. How
troublesome education was! Surely the girls knew enough.

He was riding home, his thoughts still in a most perturbed condition,
when he suddenly drew up just in front of a little figure who stood by
the roadside, attired as a gipsy, with a scarlet bandana handkerchief
twisted round her head, a short skirt reaching not quite to her ankles
made also of scarlet, and a little gay blue shawl across her
shoulders. She was carrying a tambourine in one hand and in the other
a great bunch of many-colored ribbons.

This little, unexpected figure was seen close to the rectory grounds,
and Mr. Cardew was so startled by it, and so also was his horse, that
he drew up abruptly and looked imperiously at the small suppliant for
his favor.

"If you please, sir," said Maggie Howland, speaking in her most
enticing voice, and knowing well that her dress magnified her charms,
"will you, kind sir, allow me to cross your hand with silver and let
me tell your fortune?"

Mr. Cardew now burst into a merry laugh.

"Why, Miss Howland," he said, "I beg your pardon; I did not recognize
you."

Maggie dropped a low curtsy. "I'm the gipsy girl Caranina, and I
should like to tell your fortune, kind and generous sir."

Just then the pretty face of Cicely was seen peeping over the rectory
grounds. She was dressed as a flower-girl, and looked more lovely than
he had ever seen her before.

"Why, dad, dad," she cried, "oh! you must come in and join our fun.
Mustn't he, Maggie?"

"I am Caranina, the gipsy girl," said Maggie, dropping another low
curtsy, and holding her little tambourine in the most beseeching
attitude; "and you are Flora, queen of the flowers."

"Well, really, this is entertaining," said Mr. Cardew. "What queer
little minxes you all are! And may I really come in and see the fun?"

"Indeed you may, dad," said the flower-girl. "Oh, and please we want
you to look at Merry. Merry's a fairy, with wings. We're going to have
what we call an evening revel presently, and we are all in our dress
for the occasion. But Maggie--I mean Caranina--is telling our
fortunes--that is, until the real fun begins."

"Do please come in, Mr. Cardew. This is the height of good luck," said
Mrs. Tristram, coming forward herself at this moment. "Won't you join
my husband and me under the shadow of the tent yonder? The young
people are having such a good time."

"I will come for a minute or two," said Cardew, dismounting as he
spoke. "Can some one hold Hector for me?"

David was quickly summoned, and Mr. Cardew walked across the hay-field
to where the hastily improvised tent was placed.

"No one can enter here who doesn't submit to the will of the gipsy,"
remarked Caranina in her clear and beautiful voice. "This is my tent,
and I tell the fortunes of all those kind ladies and gentlemen who
will permit me to do so."

"Then you shall tell mine, with pleasure, little maid," said Mr.
Cardew, who felt wonderfully cheered and entertained at this _al
fresco_ amusement.

Quick as thought Maggie had been presented with a silver coin. With
this she crossed the good gentleman's palm, and murmured a few words
with regard to his future. There was nothing whatever remarkable in
her utterance, for Maggie knew nothing of palmistry, and was only a
very pretense gipsy fortune-teller. But she was quick--quicker than
most--in reading character; and as she glanced now into Mr. Cardew's
face an inspiration seized her.

"He is troubled about something," thought the girl. "It's the thin end
of the wedge; I'll push it in a little farther."

Her voice dropped to a low tone. "I see in your hand, kind sir," she
said, "all happiness, long life, and prosperity; but I also see a
little cross, just here--" she pointed with her pretty finger--"and it
means self-sacrifice for the sake of a great and lasting good. Kind
sir, I have nothing more to add."

Mr. Cardew left the tent and sat down beside the rector and his wife.
Maggie's words were really unimportant. As one after the other the
merry group of actors went to have their fortunes told he paid no
attention whatever to them. Gipsy fortune-tellers always mixed a
little sorrow with their joyful tidings. It was a bewitching little
gipsy after all. He could not quite make out her undefined charm, but
he was interested in her; and after a time, when the fortune-telling
had come to an end and Maggie was about to change her dress for what
they called the evening revels, he crossed the field and stood near
her.

"So you, Miss Howland, have been telling my daughter Merry a good many
things with regard to your new school?"

She raised her queer, bright eyes, and looked him full in the face. "I
have told Merry a few things," she said; "but, most of all, I have
assured her that Aylmer House is the happiest place in the world."

"Happier than home? Should you say it was happier than home, Miss
Howland?"

"Happier than my home," said Maggie with a little sigh, very gentle
and almost imperceptible, in her voice. "Oh, I love it!" she continued
with enthusiasm; "for it helps--I mean, the life there helps--to make
one good."

Mr. Cardew said nothing more. After a time he bade his friends good-by
and returned to Meredith Manor. In course of time the little
pony-carriage was sent down to the rectory for the Cardew girls, who
went back greatly elated.

How delightful their evening had been, and what a marvelous girl
Maggie Howland was.'

"Why, she even manages to subdue and to rule those really tiresome
boys," said Cicely.

"Yes," remarked Merry, "she is like no one else."

"You have quite fallen in love with her, haven't you, Merry?"

"Well, perhaps I have a little bit," said Merry. She looked
thoughtful. She longed to say to Cicely, "How I wish beyond all things
on earth that I were going to the same school!" But a certain fidelity
to her father kept her silent.

She was startled, therefore, when Cicely herself, who was always
supposed to be much calmer than Merry, and less vehement in her
desires, clasped her sister's hand and said with emphasis, "I don't
know, after all, if it is good for us to see too much of Maggie
Howland."

"Why, Cissie? What do you mean?"

"I mean this," said Cicely: "she makes me--yes, I will say
it--discontented."

"And me too," said Merry, uttering the words with an emphasis which
astonished herself.

"We have talked of school over and over again," said Cicely, "with
Molly and Belle; but notwithstanding their glowing accounts we have
been quite satisfied with Miss Beverley, and dear, gray-haired Mr.
Bennett, and Mr. Vaughan; but now I for one, don't feel satisfied any
longer." "Nor do I," said Merry.

"Oh Merry!"

"It is true," said Merry. "I want to go to Aylmer House."

"And I am almost mad to go there," said Cicely.

"I'll tell you something, Cissie. I spoke to father about it to-day."

"Merry! you didn't dare?"

"Well, I just did. I couldn't help myself. It is hateful to be
under-educated, and you know we shall never be like other girls if we
don't see something of the world."

"He didn't by any chance agree with you?" said Cicely.

"Not a bit of it," said Merry. "We must bear with our present life,
only perhaps we oughtn't to see too much of Maggie Howland."

"Well," said Cicely, "I've something to tell you, Merry."

"What's that?"

"You don't know just at present why mother and I went to Warwick this
morning?"

"No," said Merry, who was rather uninterested. "I had a very good time
with Maggie, and didn't miss you too dreadfully."

"Well, you will be interested to know why we did go, all the same,"
said Cicely. "It's because Miss Beverley is knocked up and can't teach
us any more, and Mr. Bennett is going to London. Mother can't hear of
anyone to take Miss Beverley's place, or of any music-teacher equal to
Mr. Bennett; so, somehow or other, I feel that there are changes in
the air. Oh Merry, Merry! suppose----"

"There's no use in it," said Merry. "Father will never change. We'll
get some other dreadfully dull daily governess, and some other
fearfully depressing music-master, and we'll never be like Molly and
Belle and Maggie and our cousin Aneta. It does seem hard."

"We must try not to be discontented," said Cicely.

"Then we had best not ask Maggie here too often," replied Merry.

"Oh, but they're all coming up to-morrow morning, for I have asked
them," said Cicely.

"Dear, dear!" replied Merry.

"We may as well have what fun we can," remarked Cicely, "for you know
we shall be going to the seaside in ten days."




CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. WARD'S SCHOOL.


It is to be regretted that Mr. Cardew spent a restless night. Mrs.
Cardew, on the contrary, slept with the utmost peace. She trusted so
absolutely in her husband's judgment and in in his power to do the
very best he could on all possible occasions for her and hers that she
was never deeply troubled about anything. Her dear husband must not be
forced to live in London if he did not like to do so, and some
arrangement must be made for the girls' home education if he could not
see his way to sending them to school.

Great, therefore, was her astonishment on the following morning when
he came hastily into her room.

"My dear," he said, "I am off to London for the day."

"What for?" she asked.

"I will tell you, darling, when I return to-night."

"Cyril, may I not come with you?"

"I think not, my love. Make all the young people as happy as you can.
I'm just off to the station, in the motor-car."

Mr. Cardew left his wife's room. The girls were told at breakfast that
their father had gone to London; but as this frequently happened, and
was invariably connected with that business which they knew nothing
whatever about, they were not keenly interested. As a matter of fact,
they were much more absorbed in getting things ready for the
entertainment of their friends; and in this Mrs. Cardew very heartily
joined them. She proposed that during Maggie Howland's visit the five
girls should have as happy a time together as possible; and as the
weather was perfect the invariable picnics and gipsy teas were
arranged for their benefit.

"You can all make yourselves happy here to-day, my darlings," said
Mrs. Cardew, addressing Cicely and Merry. "To-morrow, when your father
is here, the Tristrams, he and I, and you girls will have a very
pleasant picnic to the Aldersleigh woods. We will arrange it to-day,
for there is nothing your father enjoys more than a whole, long, happy
day in the open air. I will speak to Mrs. Fairlight, and tell her to
have all things in readiness for our picnic."

"Oh mummy, how good! how good!" said Merry, clasping her mother's
hand. Then she added, "Mummy, is it true that Miss Beverley is never
going to teach us any more?"

"I am afraid it is only too true, Merry; but this is holiday-time,
darling; we needn't talk of your education just at present."

"Only, we must be educated--mustn't we, mother?"

"Of course, dearest. Your father will see to that."

Merry ran off to join her sister, and it is not too much to say that
the whole of that glorious day was one of unalloyed pleasure. The
Tristram girls were always delightful to the Cardew girls, but now
that they were accompanied by Maggie Howland there was a great
addition to their charm. Nevertheless, Maggie, with her purpose full
in view, with her heart beating a little more quickly than usual when
she heard that Mr. Cardew had gone to London, religiously avoided the
subject of the life at Aylmer House. She felt, somehow, that she had
done her part. A great deal of her own future depended on these two
girls coming to Aylmer House. She would make use of them--large use of
them--at school. She was fond of Molly and Belle; but they were poor.
Maggie herself was poor. She wanted to have rich friends. The Cardews
were rich. By their means she would defeat her enemy, Aneta Lysle, and
establish herself not only in the school but with regard to her future
life. Maggie felt that she could make herself indispensable to Cicely
and Merry. Oh yes, they would certainly go to Aylmer House in
September. She need not worry herself any further, therefore, with
regard to that matter. Little would they guess how much she had really
done toward this desirable goal, and how fortunate circumstances had
been in aiding her to the accomplishment of her desire. It was enough
for Maggie that they were certainly going. She could, therefore, give
herself up to enjoyment.

With Maggie Howland enjoyment meant a very different thing from what
it does to the average English girl. She enjoyed herself with all her
heart and soul, without one single reservation. To see her face at
such moments was to behold pure sunshine; to hear her voice was to
listen to the very essence of laughter and happiness. She had a
marvelous power of telling stories, and when she was happy she told
them with such verve that all people within earshot hung on her words.
Then she could improvise, and dance, and take off almost any
character; in short, she was the life of every party who admitted her
within their circle.

Meanwhile a rather tired and rather sad man found himself, very much
against his will, in London. He said to himself, "This wonderful Mrs.
Ward will not be at Aylmer House now. These are the holidays, and she
will be probably miles away. I will go to see her. Yes, but she won't
be in; that alone will clinch the matter. But first I will pay a visit
to Lucia Lysle; she said she would be in London--she told my dear wife
so. But Lucia is so erratic, it is most improbable that she either
will be at home."

Mr. Cardew drove first of all to Lady Lysle's house in Hans Place. He
asked if she was within, and, very much to his annoyance, the servant
replied in the affirmative. He entered Lady Lysle's drawing-room
feeling rather silly. The first person he saw there was a tall, slim,
lovely girl, whom he did not recognize at first, but who knew him and
ran up to him and introduced herself as Aneta.

"Why, my dear," he said, "how are you? How you have grown!"

"How is dear Cousin Sylvia, and how are Cicely and Merry?" asked
Aneta. "Oh, I am very well indeed, Mr. Cardew; I don't suppose anybody
could be anything but well who was lucky enough to be at Aylmer
House."

"Mrs. Ward's school?" said Mr. Cardew, feeling rather shy and almost
self-conscious.

"Of course. Don't you know Mrs. Ward, Mr. Cardew?"

"No, my dear, I don't."

"It's the most marvelous school in the world," said Aneta with
enthusiasm. "I do wish you would send Cicely and Merry there. They
would have a good time."

"Is your aunt in?" said Mr. Cardew, a little restlessly.

"Oh yes; she'll be down in a minute."

Lady Lysle now hurried into the room.

"How do you do, Cyril?" she said. "I didn't expect to find you in town
just now. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I am rather anxious to have a chat with you," replied Mr. Cardew.

"Aneta darling, you had better leave us," said her aunt.

The girl went off with a light laugh. "Auntie," she said, "I've just
been telling Mr. Cardew that he ought to send Cicely and Merry to
Aylmer House." She closed the door as she made this parting shot.

"As a matter of fact, I agree with Aneta," said Lady Lysle. "A couple
of years at that splendid school would do the girls no end of good."

Mr. Cardew was silent for a minute. "I may as well confess something
to you, Lucia," he said then.

"What is it, Cyril?"

"I have by no means made up my mind; but we are very much annoyed at
the illness of our daily governess Miss Beverley, and at the girls'
music-master Mr. Bennett removing to London. So I just thought I would
ask you a question or two about this wonderful Mrs. Ward. I don't
suppose for a single moment I should dream of sending the children
there; and, besides, she is not in London now, is she?"

"Yes, she is," replied Lady Lysle. Mr. Cardew felt at that moment that
he hated Mrs. Ward. "She came to see me only last evening. She is
leaving town to-morrow; but if by any chance you would like to go and
see her, and thus judge of the school for yourself--it would commit
you to nothing, of course--she will, I know, be at home all this
morning."

"Dear, dear!" said Mr. Cardew. "How very provoking!"

"What do you mean, Cyril?"

"Nothing, nothing, of course, Lucia. But if, as you say, the school is
so popular, there will be no vacancies, for I think some one told me
that Mrs. Ward only took a limited number of pupils."

"There are two vacancies at the present moment," said Lady Lysle in
her calm voice, "although they are likely to be filled up immediately,
for Mrs. Ward has had many applications; but then she is exceedingly
particular, and will only take girls of high birth and of very
distinguished character."

"Doubtless she has filled up the vacancies by this morning," said Mr.
Cardew, rising with some alacrity. "Well, thank you, Lucia. As I am in
town--came up on business you know--I may as well just have a look at
Aylmer House and Mrs. Ward. It will satisfy my dear wife."

"Why, surely you don't for a minute really intend to send the girls
there?" said Lady Lysle with a superior smile.

"I cannot tell what I may do. When a man is distracted, and when a
valuable daily governess breaks down, and--and--don't question me too
closely, Lucia, and keep our little interview to yourself. As I have
just said, nothing will probably come of this; but I will go and see
the lady just to satisfy myself."

"Aneta will be delighted if you do send the girls to Aylmer House,"
was Lady Lysle's last word.

She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Cardew found himself turning rather
red. He left her, called a hansom, and got into it.

"Of course the vacancies will be filled up," he said to himself as he
was driving in the direction of South Kensington. He further thought,
"Although that good Mrs. Ward is remaining for such an unconscionable
time in town, she will very probably be out this morning. If she is
out that puts an end to everything; but even if she is in, she must
ave filled up her vacancies. Then I shall be able to return to the
Manor with a quiet mind. I'll have done my best, and the thing will be
taken out of my hands. Dear little Merry! I didn't like that
discontent on her sweet face. Ah, well, she can't guess what school is
like. It's not home; but I suppose the educational advantages would be
greater, and a man must sacrifice himself for his children. Odd what
that queer little Miss Howland told me last night: that I was
approaching a deed of self-sacrifice. She's a queer girl, but quite
nice; and Aneta is a charming creature. I could never desire even one
of my own precious girls to look nicer than Aneta does. Well, here I
am. Now, then, what will Fate decide?"

Mr. Cardew sprang from the hansom, desired the man to wait, ran up
some low steps, and rang the bell at the front door of a stately
mansion.

A smiling, very bright-looking maid-servant opened it for him.

"Is Mrs. Ward, within?" questioned Cardew.

"Yes, sir."

"Good heavens!" murmured Cardew under his breath.

"Is she disengaged, and can she give me a few moments of her time?"
continued the much-disappointed gentleman.

"Certainly, sir. Will you come into the drawing-room? What name shall
I say?"

Cardew produced one of his cards.

"Have the goodness to tell your mistress that if she is particularly
engaged I can "--he hesitated--"call another time."

"I will tell her, sir; but Mrs. Ward is not particularly engaged. She
will see you, I am sure, directly."

The girl withdrew, and Cardew sank into a low chair.

He had to wait a few minutes, and during that time had abundant
leisure to look round the beautiful room in which he found himself. It
was so furnished as to resemble a fresh country room. The wall-paper
was white; the pictures were all water-colors, all original, and all
the works of well-known artists. They mostly represented country
scenes, but there were a few admirable portraits of charming girls
just in the heyday of youth and happiness. The floor was of polished
oak and had a large pale-blue drugget in the center, which could be
rolled up at any moment if an impromptu dance was desirable. The large
windows had boxes of flowers outside, which were fresh and well kept,
and had evidently been recently watered, for some sparkling drops
which looked almost like summer rain still glistened on them. The room
itself was also decked with flowers in every available corner, and all
these flowers were fresh and beautifully arranged. They were country
flowers--and of course roses, roses everywhere. There were also great
bowls of mignonette and large glass vases filled with sweet peas.

The air of the room was fresh and full of delicate perfume. Mr. Cardew
had to admit to himself that this was a room in which the most refined
young ladies in the world might sit with pleasure and profit. There
was a shelf for books running round the dado, and the books therein
were good of their kind and richly and handsomely bound. There were no
small tables anywhere. Mr. Cardew was glad of that--he detested small
tables; but there was a harp standing close to the magnificent grand
piano, and several music stands, and a violin case on a chair near
by.

The furniture of the room was covered with a cool, fresh chintz. In
short, it was a charming room, quite different from the rooms at
Meredith Manor, which, of course, were old and magnificent and
stately; but it had a refreshing, wholesome look about it which, in
spite of himself, Mr. Cardew appreciated.

He had just taken in the room and its belongings when the door was
opened and a lady of about thirty-five years of age entered. She was
dressed very simply in a long dress made in a sort of Empire fashion.
The color was pale blue, which suited her calm, fair face, her large,
hazel-brown eyes, and her rich chestnut hair to perfection. She came
forward swiftly.

"I am Mrs. Ward," she said, and held out her hand.

Mr. Cardew considered himself a connoisseur as regards all women, and
he was immediately impressed by a certain quality in that face: a
mingling of sweetness and power, of extreme gentleness and extreme
determination. There was a lofty expression in the eyes, too, and
round the mouth, which further appealed to him; and the hands of the
lady were perfect--they were white, somewhat long, with tapering
fingers and well-kept nails. There was one signet ring on the left
hand, worn as a guard to the wedding-ring--that was all.

Mr. Cardew was a keen observer, and he noted these things at a
glance.

"I have come to talk to you, Mrs. Ward," he said; "and, if you will
forgive me, I should like to be quite frank with you."

"There is nothing I desire better," said Mrs. Ward in her exceedingly
high-bred and sympathetic voice.

That voice reminded Cardew of Maggie Howland, and yet he felt at once
that it was infinitely superior to hers.

"Sit down, won't you, Mr. Cardew?" said Mrs. Ward, and she set him the
example by seating herself in a low chair as she spoke.

"I hope I am not taking up too much of your time," he said; "for, if
so, as I said to your servant, I can call again."

"By no means," said Mrs. Ward; "I have nothing whatever to do this
morning. I am, therefore, quite at your service. You will tell me what
you wish?" she said in that magnetic voice of hers.

"The fact is simply this," he said. "My friend Tristram, who is rector
of Meredith, in Warwickshire, is sending his two daughters to your
school."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward gently. "Molly and Isabel are coming to me next
term."

"I am Tristram's near neighbor," said Mr. Cardew, "I live at Meredith
Manor. At the present moment the Tristram girls have another pupil of
yours staying with them--Miss Howland."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward very quietly.

"Lady Lysle's niece Aneta is also one of your pupils."

"That is true, Mr. Cardew."

"Lady Lysle is my wife's cousin."

Mrs. Ward bowed very slightly.

"I will come to the point now, Mrs. Ward. I am the father of two
little girls. They are of the same age as Molly and Isabel Tristram;
that is, they are both just sixteen. They are twins. They are my only
children. Some day they will be rich, for we have no son, and they
will inherit considerable property." Mrs. Ward looked scarcely
interested at this. "Hitherto," continued Mr. Cardew, "I have stoutly
opposed school-life for my children, and in consequence they have been
brought up at home, and have had the best advantages that could be
obtained for them in a country life. Things went apparently all right
until two or three days ago, when I discovered that my girl--her name
is Meredith; we call her Merry for short--was exceedingly anxious to
change her home-life for school-life. At the same time, our excellent
daily governess and the music-master who taught the children have been
obliged to discontinue their work. The girls are at an age when
education is essential; and, although I _hate_ schools, I have come
here to talk over the possibility of your receiving them."

"Had you delayed coming to me, Mr. Cardew, until this evening I should
have had no vacancy, for at the present moment I have twelve
applications for the two vacancies which are to be filled at Aylmer
House. But do you really wish me to consider the proposal of taking
your girls when you hate school-life for young ladies?"

Mr. Cardew could not help smiling. "Then you are not anxious to have
them?"

"Certainly not, unless you yourself and Mrs. Cardew most earnestly
desire to send them to me. Suppose, before we go any further, that I
take you over the house."

"Thank you," said Mr. Cardew in a tone of relief.

Mrs. Ward rose immediately, and for the next hour the head-mistress
and the owner of Meredith Manor went from one dainty room to another.
They visited the gymnasium; they entered the studio. All the different
properties of the music-room were explained to the interested visitor.
The excellent playground was also inspected.

By-and-by, when Mr. Cardew returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Ward
said, "My number of pupils is limited. You have seen for yourself that
sisters are provided with a room together, and that girls who are not
related have rooms to themselves. The house is well warmed in winter,
and at all seasons of the year I keep it bright and cheerful with
flowers and everything that a judicious expenditure of money can
secure. I have my own special plan for educating my girls. I believe
in personal influence. In short, Mr. Cardew, I am not at all ashamed
to tell you that I believe in my own influence. I have never yet met a
girl whom I could not influence."

"If by any chance my Cicely and Merry come to you," said Mr. Cardew,
"you will find them--I may at least say it--perfect ladies in word and
thought and deed."

Mrs. Ward bowed. "I could receive no others within this
establishment," she said. "If," continued Mrs. Ward, "you decide
to entrust your daughters to me, I will leave no stone unturned to
do my best for them, to educate them in a three-fold capacity:
to induce their minds to work as God meant them to work--without
overtoil, without undue haste, and yet with intelligence and
activity; to give them such exercises as will promote health to
their bodies; and to teach them, above all things, to live for
others, not for themselves. Please, Mr. Cardew, give me no answer
now, but think it over. The vacancies at Aylmer House will
remain at your disposal until four o'clock this afternoon. Will
you send me before that hour a telegram saying 'Yes' or 'No'?"

"I thank you," said Mr. Cardew. He wrung Mrs. Ward's hand and left the
house.

The hall was as spacious and nearly as beautiful as the drawing-room,
and the pretty, bright parlor-maid smiled at the gentleman as he went
out. Mrs. Ward remained for a time alone after her visitor had left.

"I should like to have those girls," she said to herself. "Any girls
related to such a splendid, lofty character as Aneta could not but be
welcome to me. Their poor father, he will feel parting with them; but
I have no doubt that I shall receive them next September at this
house."

The thought had scarcely passed through her mind before there came a
brisk ring at the front door, and Lady Lysle and Aneta were
announced.

"Oh, dear Mrs. Ward!" said Lady Lysle, speaking in her quick,
impulsive manner, "have you seen my dear friend and cousin, Mr.
Cardew?"

"And are the girls coming to the school?" asked Aneta.

"I have seen Mr. Cardew," said Mrs. Ward. "He is a very charming man.
He will decide whether he will send his daughters here or not during
the course of to-day."

"But," said Lady Lysle, "didn't you urge him?"

"No, dear friend; I never urge any one to put a girl in my care. I
should feel myself very wrong in doing so. If Mr. Cardew thinks well
of what he has seen here he may send his daughters to me, but I
certainly did nothing to urge him."

"Oh dear!" said Aneta, "I should so like them to come. You can't
think, Mrs. Ward, what nice people the Cardews are; and the
girls--they do want school-life. Don't they, auntie darling?"

"Such a school as this would do them a world of good," said Lady
Lysle.

"Well, I really hope they will come," said Mrs. Ward; "but I quite
understand their father's objections. They are evidently very precious
treasures, and he has the sort of objection which exists in the minds
of many country gentlemen to sending his girls to school."

"Ah," said Aneta, "but there are schools and schools!"

"The girls will be exceedingly rich," said Lady Lysle. "Their mother
was a Meredith and belonged to an old county family. She inherits vast
wealth _and_ the old family place. Their father is what may be termed
a merchant-prince. By-and-by all the money of the parents will go to
these girls. They are very nice children, but know nothing whatever of
the world. It seems to me a cruel thing that they should be brought up
with no knowledge of the great world where they must eventually
live."

"I hope they will come here," said Mrs. Ward. "Great wealth means
great responsibility. They can make magnificent use of their money. I
should be interested to have them."

"I know you would, my dear friend," said Lady Lysle, "and they are
really quite sweet girls. Now, come, Aneta; we must not keep Mrs. Ward
any longer."

When her visitors had left her Mrs. Ward still remained in the
pleasant drawing-room. She sank into a low chair, folded her hands in
her lap, and remained very still. Although she was only thirty-five
years of age, she had been a widow for over ten years. She had married
when quite a young girl, and had lost her husband and child before she
was five-and-twenty. It was in her generous and noble nature to love
most passionately and all too well. For a time after her terrible
trouble she scarcely know how to bear her grief. Then she took it to
the one place where such sorrow can be borne--namely, to the foot of
the throne of God; and afterwards it occurred to her to devote her
life to the education of others. She was quite well-off, and did not
need to work for her living. But work, to a nature such as hers, was
essential. She also needed the sympathy of others, and the love of
others; and so, aided by her friends, her small but most select school
in South Kensington was started.

From the very first it was a success. It was unlike many other
schools, for the head-mistress had broader and nobler views of life.
She loved all her girls, and they all loved her; but it was impossible
for her not to like some girls more than others, and of all the girls
at present at her school Aneta Lysle was the one she really loved
best. There was also, it is sad to relate, a girl there whom she did
not love, and that girl was Maggie Howland. There was nothing whatever
with regard to Maggie that her mistress could lay hold of. She was
quite aware of the girl's fascination, and of her powerful influence
over her schoolfellows. Nevertheless, she never thought of her without
a sense of discomfort.

Maggie was one of the girls who were educated at Aylmer House for a
very low fee; for Mrs. Ward was quite rich enough and generous enough
to take girls who could not afford her full terms for very much less.
Maggie's fees, therefore, were almost nominal, and no one knew this
fact better than Maggie herself and her mother, Mrs. Howland. None of
her schoolfellows knew, for she learned just what they did, and had
precisely the same advantages. She was treated just like the others.
No one could guess that her circumstances were different. And
certainly Maggie would never tell, but none the less did she in her
heart hate her position.

As a matter of fact, Molly and Isabel Tristram were also coming to the
school on specially low terms; but no one would know this. Maggie,
however, suspected it, and intended, if necessary, to make the fact an
added power over her young friends when they all assembled at Aylmer
House.

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward, half-aloud, half to herself, "I don't quite
trust Maggie Howland. But I cannot possibly dismiss her from the
school. I may win her round to a loftier standard of life, but at
present there is no doubt she has not that high ideal in view which I
think my other girls aim at."

Between three and four o'clock that day Mrs. Ward received a telegram
from Mr. Cardew. It contained the following words:

"After consideration, I have made up my mind to do myself the great
honor of confiding my girls to your care. Their mother and I will
write to you fully in a day or two."

Mrs. Ward smiled when she received the telegram. "I will do my best
for those children," she said to herself.




CHAPTER IX.

THE NEWS.


Mr. Cardew arrived at Meredith Manor very late that evening. The long
and happy day had come to an end. The Tristram girls and Maggie
Howland had returned to the rectory. Cicely and Merry were having a
long, confidential chat together. They were in Merry's bedroom. They
had dismissed their maid. They were talking of the pleasures of the
day, and in particular were discussing the delightful fact that their
beautiful cousin Aneta had wired to say she would be with them in two
days' time.

They had not seen Aneta for some years, but they both remembered her
vividly. Her memory shone out before them both as something specially
dazzling and specially beautiful. Maggie Howland, too, had spoken of
Aneta's beauty. Maggie had been told that Aneta was coming, and Maggie
had expressed pleasure. Whatever Maggie's private feelings may have
been, she was very careful now to express delight at Aneta's
appearance at Meredith Manor.

"What a darling she is!" said Merry. "I doubt very much--I suppose
it's rank heresy to say so, Cicely, but I really greatly doubt whether
I shall ever prefer Aneta to Maggie. What are mere looks, after all,
when one possesses such charm as Maggie has? That seems to me a much
greater gift."

"We need not compare them, need we?" said Cicely.

"Oh, certainly not," said Merry; "but, Cicely darling, doesn't it seem
funny that such a lot of girls who are all to meet in September at
Aylmer House should be practically staying with us at the present
moment?"

"Yes, indeed," said Cicely. "I feel almost as though I belonged to it,
which of course is quite ridiculous, for we shall never by any chance
go there."

"Of course not," said Merry, and she sighed.

After a time Cicely said, "I wonder what father went to town for
to-day."

"Well, we don't know, so where's the use of troubling?" said Merry.

"I asked mother," said Cicely, "why he went to town, and she said she
couldn't tell me; but she got rather red as she spoke."

"Cicely," said Merry after a long pause, "when these glorious holidays
come to an end, and the Aylmer House girls have gone to Aylmer House,
what shall you and I do?"

"Do," said Cicely--"do? I suppose what we've always done. A fresh
governess will be found, and another music-master, and we'll work at
our lessons and do the best we can."

Merry gave a deep sigh.

"We'll never talk French like Belle Tristram," she said, "and we'll
never play so that any one will care to listen to us. We'll never,
never know the world the way the others know it. There seems very
little use in being rich when one can't get education."

It was just at that moment that there came a light tap at the girls'
door. Before they could reply, it was opened and Mrs. Cardew came in.
She looked as though she had been crying; nevertheless, there was a
joyful sort of triumph on her face. She said quickly, "I thought,
somehow, you two naughty children would not be in bed, and I told
father that I'd come up on the chance of finding you. Father has come
back from London, and has something important to tell you. Will you
come down with me at once?"

"Oh mother! mother! what is it?" said Merry in a tone of excitement
which was slightly mingled with awe.

"Your father will tell you, my darling," said Mrs. Cardew.

She put her arm round Merry's slight waist and held Cicely's hand, and
they came down to the great drawing-room where Mr. Cardew was waiting
for them.

He was pacing slowly up and down the room, his hands folded behind his
back. His face was slightly tired, and yet he too wore that odd
expression of mingled triumph and pain which Mrs. Cardew's eyes
expressed.

When the mother and the girls entered the room he at once shut the
door. Mr. Cardew looked first of all at Merry. He held out his hand to
her. "Come to me, little girl," he said.

She flew to him and put her arms round his neck. She kissed him
several times. "Oh dad! dad!" she said, "I know I was downright horrid
and unkind and perfectly dreadful yesterday, and I don't--no, I
_don't_--want to leave you and mother. If I was discontented then, I
am not now."

Merry believed her own words at that moment, for the look on her
father's face had struck to her very heart.

He disengaged her pretty arms very gently, and, still holding her
hand, went up to Cicely, who was clinging to her mother. "I have just
got some news for you both," he said. "You know, of course, that Miss
Beverley cannot teach you any longer?"

"Poor old Beverley," said Cicely; "we are so sorry. But you'll find
another good governess for us, won't you, dad?"

"I am afraid I can't," said Mr. Cardew, "So I sent for you to-night
to tell you that I have broken the resolve which I always meant to
keep."

"You have what?" said Merry.

"I have turned my back on a determination which I made when you were
both very little girls, and to-day I went up to town and saw Mrs.
Ward."

"Oh!" said Merry. She turned white and dropped her father's hand, and,
clasping her own two hands tightly together, gazed at him as though
she would devour his face.

"Well, it's all settled, children," said Mr. Cardew, "and: when
September comes you will go with your friends Molly and Belle to
Aylmer House."

This announcement was received at first in total silence. Then Merry
flew to her father and kissed him a great many times, and Cicely
kissed her mother.

Then Merry said, "We can't talk of it to-night; we can't quite realize
it to-night; but--but--we are glad!"

Then she took Cicely's hand, and they went out of the room. Mr. and
Mrs. Cardew watched them as the little figures approached the door.
Merry opened it, and they both passed out.

"I wonder," said Mr. Cardew, looking at his wife, "if they are going
out of our lives."

"Indeed, no," said Mrs. Cardew; "from what you have told me of Mrs.
Ward, she must be a good woman--one of the best."

"She is one of the very, very best, Sylvia; and I think the very
happiest thing for us both would be to run up to town to-morrow, and
for you to see her for yourself."

"Very well, darling; we will do so," said Mrs. Cardew.




CHAPTER X.

ANETA.


So everything was settled. Cicely and Merry scarcely slept at all that
night. They were too much excited; the news was too wonderful. Now
that their wish was granted, there was pain mingled with their joy. It
seems as though perfect joy must have its modicum of pain to make it
perfect.

But when the next morning dawned the regret of the night before seemed
to have vanished. In the first place, Mr. and Mrs. Cardew had gone
early to London; and the mere fact that their father and mother were
not present was a sort of relief to the excited girls. The picnic need
not be postponed, for Mr. and Mrs. Tristram could act as chaperons on
this auspicious occasion.

They were all to meet at the Manor at eleven o'clock; and, punctual to
the hour, a goodly array of happy young people walked up the avenue
and entered the porch of the old-house. Andrew, devoted to Maggie, was
present. Jack, equally Maggie's slave, was also there. Maggie herself,
looking neat and happy, was helping every one. Molly and Belle, all
in white, and looking as charming as little girls could, were full of
expectation of their long and delightful day.

One wagonette could hold the whole party, and as it drove round to the
front door the boys fiercely took possession of the box-seat, fighting
with the coachman, who said that there would be no room for Miss
Howland to sit between them.

"Well then, Mags, if that is the case," said Peterkins, "you get along
in at once, and take this corner close to me; then, whenever we want,
we can do a bit of whispering."

"You won't whisper more than your share," said Jackdaw. "I've a
frightful lot to say to Mags this morning."

"Hush, boys!" said Maggie; "if you quarrel about me I shall not speak
to either of you."

This threat was so awful that the boys glanced at each other, remained
silent and got quietly into their places. Then the hampers were put on
the floor just under their feet.

Presently Cicely and Merry came out to join the group. They were
wearing pretty pink muslins, with pink sashes to match. Merry's
beautiful dark eyes were very bright. Mr. and Mrs. Tristram inquired
for their host and hostess.

"Oh, I have news for you!" said Merry.

"Yes," said Cicely, "Merry will tell."

"Well, it's Just this," said Merry, almost jerking out her words in
excitement: "Father and mother have been obliged to go rather
unexpectedly to town."

"Why?" said Maggie; then she restrained herself, knowing that it was
not her place to speak.

"They have gone to town," said Merry, scarcely looking at Maggie now,
and endeavoring with all her might and main not to show undue
excitement, "because a great and wonderful thing has happened;
something so unexpected that--that Cicely and I can scarcely believe
it."

Maggie glanced at the sweet little faces. She said to herself, "All
right," and got calmly into the wagonette, where she sat close under
the box-seat which contained those obstreperous young heroes Andrew
and Jack. The others clustered round Merry.

"As I said, I can scarcely believe it," said Merry; "but father has
done the most marvelous thing. Oh Belle! oh Molly! it is too
wonderful! For after all--after all, Cicely and I are to go with you
to Aylmer House in September, and--and--that is why father and mother
have gone to town. Father went up yesterday and saw Mrs. Ward, and
he--he settled it; and father and mother have gone up to-day--both of
them--to see her, and to make final arrangements. And we're to go!
we're to _go_!"

"Hurrah!" cried Molly. Immediately the boys, and Maggie and Belle, and
even Mr. and Mrs. Tristram, took up the glad "Hurrah!"

"Well, children," said Mr. Tristram when the first excitement had
subsided, "I must say I am heartily pleased. This is delightful! I
take some credit to myself for having helped on this most excellent
arrangement."

"No one thanks me for anything," thought Maggie; but she had the
prudence to remain silent.

"We had better start on our picnic now," said Mr. Tristram, and
immediately the whole party climbed into the wagonette. The horses
started; the wheels rolled. They were off.

By-and-by Merry felt her hand taken by Maggie. Maggie just squeezed
that hand, and whispered in that very, very rich and wonderfully
seductive voice of hers, "Oh, I am glad! I am very, very glad!"

Merry felt her heart thrill as Maggie uttered those words. She
answered back, turning her face to her young companion, "To be with
you alone would be happiness enough for me."

"Is it true, Cicely," said Mrs. Tristram at the moment, "that your
cousin, Aneta Lysle, is coming to stay with you?"

"Oh yes; but I had half-forgotten it in all this excitement," said
Cicely. "She will arrive to-morrow.--Maggie, you'll be glad, won't
you?"

"More than delighted," said Maggie.

"It is too wonderful," said Cicely. "Why, it will soon come to pass
that half Mrs. Ward's school will be all together during the holidays.
Fancy, we two, and you two"--she touched one of the Tristram
girls--"and you, Maggie, and then dear Aneta; why, that'll make six.
What a lot we shall have to talk about! Maggie, you and Aneta will be
our two heroines; we shall always be applying to you for
information."

The conversation was here interrupted by Jackdaw, who pinched Maggie
on the arm. "You're not attending to us," he said.

"Nonsense, Jackdaw!"

"Well, stand up for a minute; I want to whisper to you."

Maggie, who never lost a chance of ingratiating herself with any one,
obeyed.

"Jack dear, don't be troublesome," said his mother.

"I am not," said Jackdaw. "She loves it, the duck that she is!"

"Be quick, Jackdaw; it's very difficult for me to keep my hold
standing up," said Maggie.

"How many chocolates can you eat at a pinch?" whispered Jackdaw in her
ear.

"Oh, forty," replied Maggie; "but I should be rather ill afterwards."

"We've got some in our pockets. They're a little bit clammy, but you
don't mind that?"

"I don't want any just now, dear boy; and I'll tell you why. I want
to be really starving hungry when the picnic begins."

"That's a good notion, isn't it?" said Jackdaw.--"I say, Andrew, she
wants to be starving hungry when the picnic begins!"

Maggie resumed her seat, and the boys went on whispering together, and
kicking each other at intervals, and rather upsetting that very stolid
personage, Mr. Charles, the Meredith Manor coachman.

The picnic was a perfect success. When people are very happy there is
no room for discontent in their hearts, and all the members of that
party were in the highest spirits. The Cardew girls had no time yet
for that period of regret which must invariably follow a period of
intense excitement. They had no time yet to realize that they must
part with their father and mother for the greater portion of the
year.

To children so intensely affectionate as Cicely and Merry such a
parting must mean considerable pain. But even the beginning of the
pain did not come to them on that auspicious day, and they returned to
the house after the picnic in the highest good-humor.

Mr. and Mrs. Tristram, however, were wise in their generation; and
although Cicely and Merry begged and implored the whole party to come
to the Manor for supper, they very firmly declined. It is to be
regretted that both Jack and Andrew turned sulky on this occasion.

As the rectory girls and Maggie and the boys and Mr. and Mrs. Tristam
were all going homewards the two girls and Maggie fell behind.

"Isn't this real fun? Isn't it magnificent?" said Molly Tristram.

"It's a very good thing indeed for your friends Cicely and Merry,"
said Maggie. Then she added, "Didn't I tell you, girls, that you would
win your bracelets?"

Belle felt herself changing color.

"We don't want them a bit--we really don't," said Molly.

"Of course we don't want them," said Isabel.

"You'll have them all the same," said Maggie. "They are my present to
you. Surely you won't refuse my present?"

"But such a very rich and handsome present we ought not to accept,"
said Molly.

"Nonsense, girls! I shall be unhappy unless you wear them. When I
return to mother--which, alas! I must do before many days are over--I
shall send you the bracelets."

"I wish you wouldn't, Maggie," said Belle Tristram; "for I am certain
father and mother would not like us to wear jewelry while we are so
young."

"Well, then," said Maggie, "I will give them to you when we all meet
at Aylmer House. You must take them; you know you promised you would.
You will hurt me most frightfully if you don't."

As Molly and Isabel certainly did not wish to hurt Maggie, they
remained silent, and during the rest of the walk the three girls
scarcely spoke. Meanwhile Cicely and Merry entered the Manor House and
waited impatiently for the return of their father and mother.

"We must get everything extra nice for them," said Cicely to her
sister. "I do think it is so wonderfully splendid of them to send us
to school."

The sun had already set, and twilight had come on; but it would be
quite impossible for Mr. and Mrs. Cardew to arrive at the Manor until
about ten o'clock. What, therefore, was the amazement of the girls
when they heard carriage-wheels in the distance!

"Father and mother could not possibly have done their business and
caught the early train," said Merry in some excitement. "Who can be
coming now?"

The next moment their doubts were set at rest, for Aneta Lysle entered
the hall.

"I came to-day after all," she said. "Auntie thought it would be more
convenient. You got my telegram, didn't you?"

These words were uttered while her two cousins, in rapture and
delight, were kissing her.

"No, no," said Merry, "we got no telegram; but, oh, Aneta! we are glad
to see you."

"Here's the telegram on the hall-table," said Aneta, and she took up a
yellow envelope. This was addressed to "Cardew, Meredith Manor." "Yes,
I know this must be from me," said Aneta. "But why didn't you open
it?"

"Well, the fact is," said Cicely, "father and mother were in London,
and the rest of us were out on a picnic. But it doesn't matter a bit;
you've come, and the sooner the better. Oh, it is nice to see you
again! But how tall you are, Neta, and how grown up you look!"

"I am seventeen, remember," said Aneta. "I don't feel grown-up, but
auntie says I look it."

"Oh, come into the light--do," said Merry, "and let's see you! We've
heard so very much of you lately, and we want to look at your darling
face again."

"And I want to look at you both," said Aneta in her affectionate
manner.

The servants had conveyed Miss Lysle's luggage into the house, and now
the three girls, with their arms twined round each other, entered the
same big drawing-room where Mr. Cardew had given his wonderful news of
the night before. There was a blaze of electric light, and this,
judiciously softened with rose-colored silk, was most becoming to all
those who came under its influence. But the strongest glare of light
could not disfigure any one so absolutely beautiful as Aneta Lysle.
Her delicate complexion, the wonderful purity and regularity of her
features, her sweet, tender young mouth, her charming blue eyes, and
her great luxuriance of golden hair made people who looked at her
once long to study that charming face again and yet again.

There was no vanity about this young girl; her manner, her expression,
were simplicity itself. There was a certain nobility about her fine
forehead, and the shape of her head was classical, and showed
undoubted talent. Her clear, musical voice was in itself a charm. Her
young figure was the very personification of grace. Beside her, Cicely
and Merry felt awkward and commonplace; not that they were so, but
very few people could attain to Aneta Lysle's incomparable beauty.

"Well, girls," she said, "you do look sweet, both of you!"

"Oh Neta, what a darling you are!" said Merry, who worshipped beauty,
and had never come across any one so lovely as her cousin. "It's two
years since we met," she continued, "and you have altered, and not
altered. You're more grown-up and more--more stately, but your face is
the same. Whenever we want to think of the angels we think of you too,
Neta."

"That is very sweet of you, darlings; but, indeed, I am far from being
an angel. I am just a very human girl; and, please, if you don't mind,
we won't discuss my looks any more."

Cicely and Merry both save their cousin a thoughtful glance. Then they
said eagerly, "You must come to your room and wash your hands, and get
refreshed for supper, for of course you are starving."

"I shall like to have something to eat," said Aneta. "What room am I
to have, girls?"

"Oh, the white room, next to ours; we arranged it all this morning,"
said Cicely.

"Well, come along at once," said Aneta.

Soon the three girls found themselves in the beautiful bedroom which
had been arranged for Aneta's reception. As soon as ever they got
there Cicely clasped one of her cousin's arms and Merry the other.

"We have news for you--news!" they said.

"Yes?" said Aneta, looking at them with her bright, soft eyes.

"Most wonderful--most extraordinary--most--most beautiful!" said
Merry, speaking almost with passion. "We're going to your school; yes,
to yours--to Aylmer House, in September. Could you have believed it?
Think of father consenting, and just because I felt a little
discontented. Oh, isn't he an angel? Father, of all people, who until
now would not hear of our leaving home! But we're going."

"Well," said Aneta, "I am not greatly surprised, for I happen to know
that your father, Cousin Cyril, came to see auntie yesterday, and
afterwards he went to visit Mrs. Ward, and after his visit we saw Mrs.
Ward; and, although he had not quite made up his mind then whether he
would send you or not, we quite thought he would do so. Yes, this is
splendid. I'll he able to tell you lots about the school; but, after
all, it isn't the school that matters."

"Then what matters, Aneta?"

"It's Mrs. Ward herself," said Aneta; "it's she who makes the whole
thing so perfect. She guides us; she enlightens us. Sometimes I can
scarcely talk of her, my love for her and my passion for her are so
deep."

Cicely and Merry looked thoughtful for a minute.

"I'm ready now to come downstairs," said Aneta; and they went down, to
find supper prepared for them, and the old butler waiting to attend on
his young ladies.

After the meal was over the girls retired to the drawing-room, where
they all three sat by one of the windows waiting for Mr. and Mrs.
Cardew's return.

Merry then said, "It is so funny of you, Aneta, to speak as though the
school was Mrs. Ward."

"But it is," said Aneta.

"Surely, surely," said Merry, "it's the girls too."

"You will be surprised, perhaps, Aneta, to hear," said Cicely, "that
our dear, darling friends--our greatest girl-friends, except yourself
perhaps, and you're a sort of sister--Molly and Isabel Tristram are
also going to Aylmer House in September. They are so nice--you will
like them; and then, of course, there's Maggie Howland, one of the
most charming girls we have come across."

"Whom did you say?" asked Aneta.

"Maggie Howland. She is here."

"In this house?" said Aneta.

"No; she is at the rectory. She is a special friend of Molly and
Isabel. She has been at school with them before in Hanover. You know
her, of course? She is one of the girls at Aylmer House."

"I know her--oh yes, I know her," said Aneta.

"And you like her, you feel her charm, you--you almost worship her,
don't you, Neta?"

Aneta was silent.

"Oh, I know she is considered plain," said Merry, "but there's
something about her which prevents one even considering her features.
She is the most unselfish, most fascinating girl we have ever come
across. You love her, don't you, Neta?"

There had come a curious change over Aneta's face. After a brief pause
she said, "I have no right to say it, but you two are my cousins"----

"Yes, yes! What does this mean?" said Cicely with great eagerness.

"Well, I know you will be faithful and not repeat it to any one; but I
don't love Maggie Howland."

"Oh, Neta!"

"And," continued Aneta, "you; as my cousins, I most earnestly hope,
will not make her your special friend at Aylmer House."

"But we have done so already, Neta. Oh, Neta darling! you are mistaken
in her."

"I say nothing whatever against her," said Aneta, "except that
personally I do not care for her. I should be very glad if I found
that I had misjudged her."

"Then why don't you want us to be friends with her? We are friends
with her."

"I cannot control you, darlings. When you come to school you will see
a variety of girls, and most of them--indeed, all of them--nice, I
think."

"Then why shouldn't we like poor Maggie?"

"You do like her, it seems, already."

"Yes; but you are so mysterious, Neta."

"I cannot say any more; you must forgive me," answered Aneta. "And I
hear the sound of wheels. Your father and mother are coming."

"Yes, yes, the darlings!" said Merry, rushing into the hall to meet
her parents.

Aneta and Cicely followed her example, and there was great excitement
and much talk. Mrs. Cardew was now as anxious that the girls should go
to Aylmer House as though she herself had always wished for such an
arrangement, while Mr. Cardew could not say enough in Mrs. Ward's
praise.

"You agree with me, Aneta," said Mrs. Cardew, "that the school is
quite unique and above the ordinary."

"Mrs. Ward is unique and above the ordinary," was Aneta's reply.

When the girls retired to their own rooms that night, Cicely and Merry
met for a brief moment.

"How funny of Aneta not to like Maggie!" said Merry.

"Well, if I were you, Merry," said Cicely, "I wouldn't talk about it.
I suppose Aneta is prejudiced."

"Yes," said Merry; "but against Maggie, of all people! Well, I, for my
part, will never give her up."

"I suppose," said Cicely, who was more conscientious than her sister,
"that we ought to think something of Aneta's opinion."

"Oh, that's very fine," said Merry; "but we ought to think something,
too, of Molly's opinion, and Belle's opinion. They have known Maggie
longer than Aneta has."

"Yes," replied Cicely; "I forgot that. But isn't Aneta herself
delightful? It's a pure joy to look at her."

"It certainly is," said Merry; "and of course I love her dearly and am
very proud of her; but I confess I did not quite like her when she
spoke in that queer way about dear little Maggie. I, at least, am
absolutely determined that nothing will induce me to give Maggie up."

"Of course we won't give her up," said Cicely. But she spoke with
thought.




CHAPTER XI.

TEN POUNDS.


In perfect summer weather, when the heart is brimful of happiness, and
when a great desire has been unexpectedly fulfilled, what can there
possibly be more delightful than an open-air life? This was what the
girls who belonged to the rectory and the girls who belonged to the
Manor now found. Mr. and Mrs. Cardew and Mr. and Mrs. Tristram could
not do enough for their benefit. Maggie could only stay for one week
longer with her friends; but Aneta had changed her mind with regard to
Belgium, and was to go with the young Cardews to the seaside, and Mrs.
Cardew had asked the Tristram girls to accompany them. She had also
extended her invitation to Maggie, who would have given a great deal
to accept it. She wrote to her mother on the subject. Mrs. Howland
made a brief reply: "You know it is impossible, Maggie. You must come
back to me early next week. I cannot do without you, so say no more
about it."

Maggie was a girl with a really excellent temper, and, recognizing
that her mother had a good reason for not giving her the desired
holiday, made the best of things.

Meanwhile Cicely and Merry watched her carefully. As to Aneta, she was
perfectly cordial with Maggie, not talking to her much, it is true,
but never showing the slightest objection to her society.
Nevertheless, there was, since the arrival of Aneta on the scene, a
strange, undefinable change in the atmosphere. Merry noticed this more
than Cicely. It felt to her electrical, as though there might be a
storm brewing.

On the day before Maggie was to return to London to take up her abode
in her mother's dull house in Shepherd's Bush, a magnificent picnic on
a larger scale even than usual was the order of the hour. Some young
girls of the name of Heathfield who lived a little way off were asked
to Meredith Manor to spend the night, and these girls, who were
exceedingly jolly and bright and lively, were a fresh source of
delight to all those whom they happened to meet. Their names were
Susan and Mary Heathfield. They were older than the Tristrams and the
Cardews, and had, in fact, just left school. Their last year of
school-life had been spent in Paris; they were highly educated, and
had an enviable proficiency in the French tongue.

Mr. and Mrs. Heathfield, the parents of these girls, were also guests
at the Manor, so that the picnic on this last day of Maggie's visit to
the rectory was quite a large one. They drove nearly twenty miles to a
beautiful place not far from Warwick. There the usual picnic
arrangements were made with great satisfaction; dinner was eaten
out-of-doors, and presently there was to be a gipsy-tea. This all the
girls looked forward to, and Andrew and Jack were wild with delight
over the prospect of making the kettle boil. This particular task was
given to them, and very proud they were of the trust reposed in them.

But now, dinner being over, the older people took shelter from the
fierce rays of the sun under the wide-spreading trees, and the young
people moved about in groups or in couples. Merry Cardew found herself
alone with Maggie Howland. Without intending to do so, she had
slightly, very slightly, avoided Maggie during the last day or two;
but Maggie now seized her arm and drew her down a shady glade.

"Come with me, Merry," she said; "I have a lot I want to say to you."

Merry looked at her. "Of course I will come with you, Maggie," she
answered.

"I want just to get quite away from the others," continued Maggie,
"for we shall not meet again until we meet in the autumn at Aylmer
House. You don't know, perhaps--do you, Merry--that you owe the great
joy of coming to that lovely school to me?"

"To you!" said Merry in the utmost amazement.

"Yes," replied Maggie in her calmest tone, "to me."

"Oh, dear Maggie!" replied Merry, "you surely must be mistaken."

"I don't intend to explain myself," said Maggie; "I simply state what
is a fact. You owe your school-life to me. It was I who inserted the
thin end of the wedge beneath your father's fixed resolution that you
were to be educated at home. It was I, in short, who acted the part of
the fairy princess and who pulled those silken reins which brought
about the desire of your heart."

"I don't understand you, Maggie," said Merry in a distressful tone;
"but I suppose," she added, "as you say so, it is the case. Only, I
ought to tell you that what really and truly happened was this"----

"Oh, I know quite well what really and truly happened," interrupted
Maggie. "Let me tell you. I know that there came a certain day when a
little girl who calls herself Merry Cardew was very discontented, and
I know also that kind Mr. Cardew discovered the discontent of his
child. Well, now, who put that discontent into your mind?"

"Why, I am afraid it was you," said Merry, turning pale and then red.

Maggie laughed. "Why, of course it was," she said; "and you suppose I
didn't do it on purpose?"

"But, Maggie, you didn't really mean--you couldn't for a minute
mean--that I was to be miserable at home if father didn't give his
consent?"

"Of course not," said Maggie lightly; "but, you see, I meant him to
give his consent--I meant it all the time. I own that there were
several favoring circumstances; but I want to tell you now, Merry, in
the strictest confidence of course, that from the moment I arrived at
the rectory I determined that you and Cicely were to come with Molly
and Isabel to Aylmer House."

"It was very kind of you, Maggie," said Merry; but she felt a certain
sense of distress which she could not quite account for as she spoke.

"Why do you look so melancholy?" said Maggie, turning and fixing her
queer, narrow eyes on the pretty face of her young companion.

"I am not really melancholy, only I would much rather you had told me
openly at the time that you wished me to come to school."

Maggie gave a faint sigh. "Had I done so, darling," she said, "you
would never have come. You must leave your poor friend Maggie to
manage things in her own way. But now I have something else to talk
about."

They had gone far down the glade, and were completely separated from
their companions.

"Sit down," said Maggie; "it's too hot to walk far even under the
shade of the trees."

They both sat down.

Maggie tossed off her hat. "To-morrow," she said, "you will perhaps be
having another picnic, or, at any rate, the best of good times with
your friends."

"I hope so," replied Merry.

"But I shall be in hot, stifling London, in a little house, in poky
lodgings; to-morrow, at this hour, I shall not be having what you call
a good time."

"But, Maggie, you will be with your mother."

"Yes, poor darling mother! of course."

"Don't you love her very much?" asked Merry.

Maggie flashed round an excited glance at her companion. "Love her?
Yes," she said, "I love her."

"But you must love her tremendously," said Merry--"as much as I love
my mother."

"As a rule all girls love their mothers," said Maggie. "We are not
talking about that now, are we?"

"What do you want to say to me in particular, Maggie?" was Merry's
response.

"This. We shall meet at school on the 20th of September. There will
be, as I have told you already, twenty boarders at Aylmer House. You
will arrive at the school as strangers; so will Molly and Isabel
arrive as strangers; but you will have two friends--Aneta Lysle and
myself. You're very much taken, with your cousin Aneta, are you not?"

"Taken with her?" said Merry. "That seems to me a curious expression.
She is our cousin, and she is beautiful."

"Merry, I must tell you something. At Aylmer House there are two
individuals who lead the school."

"Oh," said Merry, "I thought Mrs. Ward led the school."

"Of course, of course, Mrs. Ward is just splendid; but, you see, you,
poor Merry, know nothing of school-life. School-life is really
controlled--I mean the inner part of it--by the girls themselves. Now,
there are two girls at Aylmer House who control the school: one of
them is your humble servant, Maggie Howland; the other is your cousin,
Aneta Lysle. Aneta does not love me; and, to be frank with you, I hate
her."

Merry found herself turning very red. She remembered Aneta's words on
the night of her arrival.

"She has already told you," said Maggie, "that she doesn't like me."

Merry remained silent.

"Oh, you needn't speak. I know quite well," said Maggie.

Merry felt more and more uncomfortable.

"The petition I have to make to you is this," continued Maggie: "that
at school you will, for a time at least--say for the first month or
so--be _neutral_. I want you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel to belong
neither to Aneta's party nor to mine; and I want you to do this
because--because I have been the person who has got you to Aylmer
House. Just remain neutral for a month. Will you promise me that?"

"I don't understand you. You puzzle me very much indeed," said Merry.

"You will understand fast enough when you get to Aylmer House. I wish
I were not going away; I wish I hadn't to return to mother. I wish I
could go with you all to Scarborough; but I am the last girl on earth
to neglect my duties, and my duty is to be with poor dear mother. You
will understand that what I ask is but reasonable. If four new girls
came to the school, and altogether went over to Aneta's side, where
should I be? What chance should I have? But I do not ask you to come
to my side; I only ask you to be neutral. Merry, will you promise?"

"You distress me more than I can say," replied Merry. "I feel so
completely in the dark. I don't, of course, want to take any side."

"Ah, then you will promise?" said Maggie.

"I don't know what to say."

"Let me present a picture to you," continued Maggie. "There are two
girls; they are not equally equipped for the battle of life. I say
nothing of injustice in the matter; I only state a fact. One of them
is rich and highly born, and endowed with remarkable beauty of face.
That girl is your own cousin, Aneta Lysle. Then there is the other
girl, Maggie Howland, who is ugly."

"Oh no--no!" said Merry affectionately.

"Yes, darling," said Maggie, using her most magnetic voice, "really
ugly."

"Not in my eyes," said Merry.

"She is ugly," repeated Maggie, speaking with great calm;
"and--yes--she is poor. I will tell you as a great secret--I have
never breathed it to a soul yet--that it would be impossible for this
girl to be an inmate of Aylmer House if Mrs. Ward, in the kindness of
her great heart, had not offered her very special terms. You will
never breathe that, Merry, not even to Cicely?"

"Oh, poor Maggie!" said Merry, "are you really--really as poor as
that?"

"Church mice aren't poorer," said Maggie. "But never mind; I have got
something which even your Aneta hasn't got. I have talent, and I have
the power--the power of charming. I want most earnestly to be your
special friend, Merry. I have a very affectionate heart, and I love
you and Cicely and Molly and Isabel more than I can say; but of all
you four girls I love you the best. You come first in my heart; and to
see you at my school turning away from me and going altogether to
Aneta's side would give me agony. There, I can't help it. Forgive me.
I'll be all right in a minute."

Maggie turned her face aside. She had taken out her handkerchief and
was pressing it to her eyes. Real tears had filled them, for her
emotions were genuine enough.

"Don't you think," she said after a pause, "that you, who are so rich
in this world's goods, might be kind and loving to a poor little plain
girl who loves you but who has got very little?"

"Indeed, indeed, I shall always love you, dear Maggie," said Merry.

"Then you will do what I want?"

"I don't like to make promises, and I am so much in the dark; but I
can certainly say this--that, whatever happens, I shall be your friend
at school. I shall look to you to help me in a hundred ways."

"Will you indeed, darling Merry?"

"Of course I shall. I always intended to, and I think Cicely will do
just the same."

"I don't want you to talk to Cicely about this. She doesn't care for
me as much as you do."

"Perhaps not quite," said honest Merry.

"Oh, I am sure--certain of it. Then you will be my friend as I shall
be yours, and when we meet at Aylmer House you will talk of me to
others as your friend?"

"Of course I shall."

"That's what I require. The thought of your friendship when I love you
so passionately makes sunshine in my heart. I sha'n't be miserable at
all to-morrow after what you have said. I shall think of our pleasant
talk under this great oak-tree; I shall recall this lovely, perfect
day. Merry, you have made me very happy!"

"But please understand," said Merry, "that, although I am your friend,
I cannot give up Aneta."

"Certainly not, dear; only, don't take what you call sides. It is
quite reasonable to suppose that girls who have only just come to
school would prefer to be there at first quite free and untrammeled;
and to belong to a certain set immediately trammels you."

"Well, I, for one, will promise--at any rate at first--that I won't
belong to any set," said Merry. "Now, are you satisfied, Maggie?"

"Oh, truly I am! Do let me kiss you, darling."

The girls kissed very affectionately.

Then Maggie said, "Now I am quite happy." After a pause, she continued
as though it were an after-thought, "Of course you won't speak of this
to any one?"

"Unless, perhaps, to Cicely," said Merry.

"No, not even to Cicely; for if you found it hard to understand, she
would find it impossible."

"But," said Merry, "I never had a secret from her in my life. She is
my twin, you know."

"Please, please," said Maggie, "keep this little secret all to
yourself for my sake. Oh, do think how important it is to me, and how
much more you have to be thankful for than I have!"

"If you feel it like that, poor Maggie," said Merry, "I will keep it
as my own secret."

"Then I have nothing further to say." Maggie sprang to her feet.
"There are the boys running to meet us," she said. "I know they'll
want my help in preparing the fire for the gipsy-kettle."

"And I will join the others. There's Susan Heathfield; she is all
alone," said Merry. "But one moment first, please, Maggie. Are you
going to make Molly and Isabel bind themselves by the same promise?"

"Dear me, no!" said Maggie. "They will naturally be my friends without
any effort; but you are the one I want, for you are the one I truly
love."

"Hallo! there you are," called Andrew's voice, "hobnobbing, as usual,
with Merry Cardew."

"I say, Merry," cried Jack, "it is unfair of you to take our Maggie
away on her last day."

The two boys now rushed up.

"I am going to cry bottles-full to-morrow," said Andrew; "and,
although I am a boy, about to be a man, I'm not a bit ashamed of it."

"I'll beat you at that," said Jackdaw, "for I'll cry basins-full."

"Dear me, boys, how horrid of you!" said Maggie. "What on earth good
will crying do to me? And you'll both be so horribly limp and damp
after it."

"Well, come now," said Jackdaw, pulling her by one arm while Peterkin
secured the other.--"You've had your share of her, Merry, and it's our
turn."

Maggie and her devoted satellites went off in the direction where the
bonfire was to be made; and Merry, walking slowly, joined Susan
Heathfield.

Susan was more than two years older than Merry, and on that account
the younger girls looked up to her with a great deal of respect. Up to
the present, however, they had had no confidential talk.

Susan now said, "So you are to be a schoolgirl after all?"

"Yes. Isn't it jolly?" said Merry.

"Oh, it has its pros and cons," replied Susan. "In one sense, there is
no place like school; but in the best sense of all there is no place
like home."

"Were you long at school, Susan?"

"Of course; Mary and I went to a school in Devonshire when we were
quite little girls. I was eleven and Mary ten. Afterwards we were at a
London school, and then we went to Paris. We had an excellent time at
all our schools; but I think the best fun of all was the thought of
the holidays and coming home again."

"That must be delightful," said Merry. "Did you make many friends at
school?"

"Well, of course," said Susan. "But now let me give you a word of
advice, Merry. You are going to a most delightful school, which, alas!
we were not lucky enough to get admitted to, although mother tried
very hard. It may be different at Aylmer House from what it is in the
ordinary school, but I would strongly advise you and Cicely not to
join any clique at school."

"Oh dear, how very queer!" said Merry, and she reddened deeply.

"Why do you look like that?" said Susan.

"Nothing, nothing," said Merry.

Susan was silent for a minute or two. Then she said, "That's a
curious-looking girl."

"What girl?" said Merry indignantly.

"I think you said her name was Howland--Miss Howland."

"She is one of the most delightful girls I know," replied Merry at
once.

"Well, I don't know her, you see, so I can't say. Aneta tells me that
she is a member of your school."

"Yes; and I am so delighted!" said Merry.

Again Susan Heathfield was silent, feeling a little puzzled; but Merry
quickly changed the conversation, for she did not want to have any
more talk with regard to Maggie Howland. Merry, however, had a very
transparent face. Her conversation with her friend had left traces of
anxiety and even slight apprehension on her sweet, open face. Merry
Cardew was oppressed by the first secret of her life, and it is
perhaps to be regretted, or perhaps the reverse, that she found it
almost impossible to keep a secret.

"Well," Cicely said to her as they were hurrying from the shady woods
in the direction of the picnic-tea, "what is wrong with you, Merry?
Have you a headache?"

"Oh no; I am perfectly all right," said Merry, brightening up. "It's
only--well, to say the truth, I am sorry that Maggie is going
to-morrow."

"You are very fond of her, aren't you?" said Cicely.

"Well, yes; that is it, I am," said Merry.

"We'll see plenty of her at school, anyway," said Cicely.

"I wish she were rich," said Merry. "I hate to think of her as poor."

"Is she poor?" asked Cicely.

"Oh yes; she was just telling me, poor darling!"

"I don't understand what it means to be poor," said Cicely. "People
say it is very bad, but somehow I can't take it in."

"Maggie takes it in, at any rate," said Merry. "Think of us to-morrow,
Cicely, having more fun, being out again in the open air, having
pleasant companions all round us, and our beautiful home to go back
to, and our parents, whom we love so dearly; and then, next week, of
the house by the sea, and Aneta and Molly and Isabel our companions."

"Well, of course," said Cicely.

"And then think of poor Maggie," continued Merry. "She'll be shut up
in a musty, fusty London lodging. I can't think how she endures it."

"I don't know what a musty, fusty lodging is," said Cicely; "but she
could have come with us, because mother invited her."

"She can't, because her own mother wants her. Oh dear! I wish we could
have her and her mother too."

"Come on now, Merry, I don't think we ought to ask father and mother
to invite Mrs. Howland."

"Of course not. I quite understand that," replied Merry.
"Nevertheless, I am a little sad about dear Maggie."

Merry's sadness took a practical form. She thought a great deal about
her friend during the rest of that day, although Maggie rather avoided
her. She thought, in particular, of Maggie's poverty, and wondered
what poverty really meant. The poor people--those who were called poor
at Meredith--did not really suffer at all, for it was the bounden duty
of the squire of the Manor to see to all their wants, to provide them
with comfortable houses and nice gardens, and if they were ill to give
them the advice of a good doctor, also to send them nourishing food
from the Manor. But poor people of that sort were quite different from
the Maggie Howland sort. Merry could not imagine any lord of the manor
taking Maggie and Mrs. Howland in hand and providing them with all the
good things of life.

But all of a sudden it darted through her eager, affectionate little
heart that she herself might be lord of the manor to Maggie, and might
help Maggie out of her own abundance. If it were impossible to get
Maggie Howland and her mother both invited to Scarborough, why should
not she, Merry, provide Maggie with means to take her mother from the
fusty, dusty lodgings to another seaside resort?

Merry thought over this for some time, and the more she thought over
it the more enamored she was of the idea. She and Cicely had, of
course, no special means of their own, nor could they have until they
came of age. Nevertheless, they were allowed as pocket-money ten
pounds every quarter. Now, Merry's ten pounds would be due in a week.
She really did not want it. When she got it she spent it mostly on
presents for her friends and little gifts for the villagers; but on
this occasion she might give it all in one lump sum to Maggie Howland.
Surely her father would let her have it? She might give it to Maggie
early to-morrow morning. Maggie would not be too proud to accept it
just as a tiny present.

Merry had as little idea how far ten pounds would go toward the
expenses of a visit to the seaside as she had of what real poverty
meant. But it occurred to her as a delightful way of assuring Maggie
of her friendship to present Maggie with her quarter's pocket-money.

On their way home that evening, therefore, she was only too glad to
find herself by her father's side.

"Well, little girl," he said, "so you're forsaking all your young
companions and wish to sit close to the old dad?"

The old dad, it may be mentioned, was driving home in a mail-phaeton
from the picnic, and Merry found herself perched high up beside him as
he held the reins and guided a pair of thoroughbred horses.

"Well, what is it, little girl?" he said.

"I wonder, father, if you'd be most frightfully kind?"

"What!" he answered, just glancing at her; "that means that you are
discontented again. What more can I do for you, Merry?"

"If I might only have my pocket-money to-night."

"You extravagant child! Your pocket-money! It isn't due for a week."

"But I do want it very specially. Will you advance it to me just this
once, dad?"

"I am not to know why you want it?"

"No, dad darling, you are not to know."

Mr. Cardew considered for a minute.

"I hope you are not going to be a really extravagant woman, Merry," he
said. "To tell the truth, I hate extravagance, although I equally hate
stinginess. You will have no lack of money, child, but money is a
great and wonderful gift and ought to be used to the best of best
advantages. It ought never to be wasted, for there are so many people
who haven't half enough, and those who are rich, my child, ought to
help those who are not rich."

"Yes, darling father," said Merry; "and that is what I should so
awfully like to do."

"Well, I think you have the root of the matter in you," said Mr.
Cardew, "and I, for one, am the last person to pry on my child. Does
Cicely also want her money in advance?"

"Oh no, no! I want it for a very special reason."

"Very well, my little girl. Come to me in the study to-night before
you go to bed, and you shall have your money."

"In sovereigns, please, father?"

"Yes, child, in sovereigns."

"Thank you ever so much, darling."

During the rest of the drive there was no girl happier than Merry
Cardew. Mr. Cardew looked at her once or twice, and wondered what all
this meant. But he was not going to question her.

When they got home he took her away to his study, and, opening a
drawer, took out ten sovereigns.

"I may as well tell you," he said as he put them into her hand, "that
when you go to school I shall raise your pocket-money allowance to
fifteen pounds a quarter. That is quite as large a sum as a girl of
your age ought to have in the year. I do this because I well
understand that at Mrs. Ward's school there will be special
opportunities for you to act in a philanthropic manner."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, father!" said Merry.




CHAPTER XII.

SHEPHERD'S BUSH.


While Merry was in a state of high rejoicing at this simple means of
helping her friend, Maggie Howland herself was not having quite such a
good time. She had been much relieved by her conversation with Merry,
but shortly after the picnic-tea Aneta had come up to her.

"Would you like to walk with me," said Aneta, "as far as the giant
oak? It isn't a great distance from here, and I'll not keep you
long."

"Certainly I will come with you, Aneta," said Maggie; but she felt
uncomfortable, and wondered what it meant.

The two girls set off together. They made a contrast which must have
been discernible to the eyes of all those who saw them: Aneta the very
essence of elegance; Maggie spotlessly neat, but, compared to her
companion, downright plain. Aneta was tall and slim; Maggie was short.
Nevertheless, her figure was her good point, and she made the most of
it by having perfectly fitting clothes. This very fact, however, took
somewhat from her appearance, and gave her the look of a grown-up
girl, whereas she was still only a child.

As soon as ever the girls got out of earshot, Aneta turned to Maggie
and said gravely, "My cousins the Cardews are to join us all at Aylmer
House in September."

Maggie longed to say, "Thank you for nothing," but she never dared to
show rudeness to Aneta. No one had ever been rude to the stately young
lady.

"Yes," she said. Then she added, "I am so glad! Aren't you?"

"For some reasons I am very glad," said Aneta.

"But surely for all, aren't you?"

"Not for all," replied Aneta.

How Maggie longed to give her companion a fierce push, or otherwise
show how she detested her!

"I will tell you why I regret it," said Aneta, turning her calm,
beautiful eyes upon Maggie's face.

"Thank you," said Maggie.

"I regret it, Maggie Howland, because you are at the school."

"How very polite!" said Maggie, turning crimson.

"It is not polite," said Aneta, "and I am sorry that I have to speak
as I do; but it is necessary. We needn't go into particulars; but I
have something to say to you, and please understand that what I say I
mean. You know that when first you came to the school I was as anxious
as any one else to be kind to you, to help you, to be good to you. You
know the reason why I changed my mind. You know what you did. You know
that were Mrs. Ward to have the slightest inkling of what really
occurred you would not remain another hour at Aylmer House. I haven't
told any one what I know; but if you, Maggie, tamper with Cicely and
Merry Cardew, who are my cousins and dear friends--if you win them
over to what you are pleased to call your side of the school--I shall
consider it my duty to tell Mrs. Ward what I have hitherto kept back
from her."

Maggie was trembling very violently.

"You could not be so cruel," she said after a pause.

"I have long thought," continued Aneta, speaking in her calm, gentle
voice, "that I did wrong at the time to keep silent; but you got my
promise, and I kept it."

"Yes, yes," said Maggie, "I got your promise; you wouldn't dare to
break it?"

"You are mistaken," said Aneta. "If the circumstances to which I have
just alluded should arise I would break that promise. Now you
understand?"

"I think you are the meanest, the cruellest--I think you are----There,
I hate you!" said Maggie.

"You have no reason to. I will not interfere with you if you, on your
part, leave those I love alone. Cicely and Merry are coming to the
school because I am there, because my aunt recommends the school,
because it is a good school. Leave off doing wrong, and join us,
Maggie, in what is noble and high; but continue your present course at
your peril. You would do anything for power; you go too far. You have
influenced one or two girls adversely already. I am convinced that
Mrs. Ward does not trust you. If you interfere with Cicely or Merry,
Mrs. Ward will have good reason to dislike you, for I myself shall
open her eyes."

"You will be an informer, a tell-tale?"

"You can call me any names you like, Maggie; I shall simply do what I
consider my duty."

"Oh, but----I hate you!" said Maggie again.

"I am sorry you hate me, for it isn't necessary; and if I saw you in
the least like others I should do all in my power to help you. Now,
will you give me your promise that you won't interfere with Cicely and
Merry?"

"But does this mean--does this mean," said Maggie, who was almost
choking with rage, "that I am to have nothing to do with the
Cardews?"

"You are on no account to draw the Cardews into the circle of your
friends, who are, I am thankful to say, limited. If you do, you know
the consequences, and I am not the sort of girl to go back when I have
firmly made up my mind on a certain point."

Maggie suddenly clutched hold of her companion's arm.

"I am miserable enough already," she said, "and you make my life
unendurable! You don't know what it is to have a mother like mine, and
to be starvingly poor."

"I am very sorry you are poor, Maggie, and I am very sorry for you
with regard to your mother, although I do not think you ought to speak
unkindly of her. But your father was a very good man, and you might
live up to his memory. I saw you and Merry together to-day. Beware how
you try to influence her."

"Oh, I can't stand you!" said Maggie.

"I have said my say. Shall we return to the others?" said Aneta in her
calm voice.

"If she would only get into a rage and we might have a hand-to-hand
fight I should feel better," thought Maggie. But she was seriously
alarmed, for she well remembered something which had happened at
school, which Aneta had discovered, and which, if known, would force
Mrs. Ward to dismiss her from the establishment. Such a course would
spell ruin. Maggie had strong feelings, but she had also self-control;
and by the time the two joined the others her face looked much as
usual.

On the following morning early a little girl ran swiftly from the
Manor to the rectory. Maggie was to leave by the eleven o'clock train.
Merry appeared on the scene soon after nine.

"I want you, Maggie, all quite by yourself," said Merry, speaking with
such excitement that Molly and Belle looked at her in unbounded
amazement.

"You can't keep her long," said Peterkins and Jackdaw, "for it is our
very last day, and Spot-ear and Fanciful want to say good-bye to her.
You can't have the 

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