Title: Meg of the Heather
Author: Garratt, Evelyn R.
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Meg of the Heather" ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: "I DON'T WANT TO BE MARRIED YET, JEM DEAR. I WANT
 TO BE FREE, YOU SEE."]



                                MEG
                          OF THE HEATHER


                                BY
                        EVELYN R. GARRATT

          Author of "Peggy's Wolf," "Irene's Lame Dogs,"
        "Against the World," "Free to Serve," etc., etc.



          R.T.S., 4, Bouverie Street, London, E.C.4.



Contents

CHAP.

    I. THE STORM

   II. THE SINGER

  III. ANGEL

   IV. A DREAM OF LIONS

    V. A CREATURE OF IMPULSE

   VI. FAILURE

  VII. ONE OF SHEILA'S SURPRISES

 VIII. THE DRESSING UP OF MEG

   IX. PETER'S OPINION

    X. GOLDEN CHAINS

   XI. SHEILA IS NOT PLEASED

  XII. MISS GREGSON'S HEART SINKS

 XIII. THE STARS AND THE DARKNESS

  XIV. "THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER"

   XV. REPULSED

  XVI. BROUGHT TO BAY

 XVII. FLIGHT

XVIII. SHEILA'S CONFESSION

  XIX. A CONTRAST

   XX. IN THE DARKNESS

  XXI. THE ROSE THROWN FROM THE TRAIN

 XXII. REMORSE

XXIII. JEM



                          MEG OF THE HEATHER

CHAPTER I

THE STORM

MEG lay face downwards on the heath. Her auburn hair gleamed gold among
the bracken, and her faded green dress mingled well with the pink and
green of her resting place.

She had chosen a comfortable couch on which to rest her tired limbs,
and of this she was fully conscious. She had been walking for hours
without food and her strength was nearly played out; but though tired
and hungry she was exulting in the fact that she was alone.

As she had stood panting for breath after her quick walk, which had
often turned into a run, she had looked all around to make quite sure
that no one was in sight, and on coming to the conclusion that she was
alone on the wide heath she had thrown herself down with a sigh of
relief.

It was good to be alone, her tired limbs resting on the soft grass
and her head buried in her folded arms. The quiet was as balm to her
spirit, and the sweet scent of the heather was better just then than
food. As a tired child creeps into his mother's bosom, so Meg felt
almost a human companionship in mother earth. And the sun in all its
glory poured down its beams on her auburn head and lithe young figure.

How long she lay there, half sleeping, half waking, she did not know;
but suddenly she was aroused to consciousness by a cold shiver which
made her start and sit up. She saw then that the heath was no longer
steeped in sunshine; but that its pink had turned into a deep coppery
colour, and that facing her were masses of dark cloud, edged with a
sulphurous yellow. A low peal of thunder greeted her ears.

She sat up now with her hand clasping her knees, looking with wild
excited eyes towards the dark sky. She was conscious that a fearful
storm was brewing, but the knowledge brought with it no fear; rather
she noticed its approach with exultation. It suited her present mood;
and as she watched the lightning playing around her, she laughed.

Suddenly she heard her name called, and sprang to her feet, looking
about her like a hunted animal. Then a hand was laid on her arm, not
too gently, and she was pulled down again to her place.

"Lie flat girl, or you'll be struck dead. Do you want to make a target
of yourself?"

The look of apprehension on the girl's face disappeared as she obeyed,
and not a moment too soon. A fearful flash, followed instantly by a
peal of thunder struck a tree close by, and a branch fell within a few
yards of her, withered and blackened.

Meg made a movement as if to spring to her feet, but her companion held
her down.

"Lie down," he cried, "lie flat, Meg. We shall be dead in a moment if
you don't heed what I say."

Meg buried her face again feeling a little frightened. They were silent
for some minutes, while they listened to the peals of thunder that
followed the flashes so quickly that they knew the centre of the storm
must be just above them. The rain was pouring down and Meg's companion
divested himself of his rough coat, threw it over the girl, and then
crept a little further away to a spot where he could get more shelter.
He lay and gazed at the head buried amidst the bracken, and in his
heart a tempest was raging, in harmony, with nature's wild mood.

Jem knew that he had come to a crisis in his life. Two ways opened
before him, one meant a life of misery and sordidness for his
companion, the other a possible escape from her present misery. But
this possible way was worse than death for him.

He was a tall young man, with an honest, rough looking face, surmounted
by a head of curly brown hair. His eyes were of the brightest blue,
almost fierce in their brightness. A red handkerchief was knotted round
his throat, and the hat which lay on the ground beside him was battered
and torn. But had you met him you would have looked at his blue eyes
rather than at his shabby clothes. These eyes were bent now on his
companion, and in their expression there lay almost a look of worship.

Neither of them spoke till the storm had worn itself nearly out and
the thunder had rumbled away in the distance. They were both hard at
work, thinking. Meg was shedding tears at the thought that her short
lived freedom had come to an end; while her companion was fighting for
her freedom in his heart. Should he tell her what would set her free?
Should he throw away from his own life the only thing that gave it
happiness? At one moment he made up his mind that he would keep the
girl in ignorance of the truth, at the next the sight of that little
head buried in the bracken made him feel that any sacrifice on his part
was worth making to secure her happiness.

At last he sat up.

"Meg," he said.

The girl did not answer or look at him. She was feeling too miserable
to make the effort, and too tired. Now that the prospect of freedom had
been taken from her, all her strength seemed to have ebbed away, and
she knew she was hungry and deadly weary.

"If I hadn't come just when I did," said the man, "you'd have been in
the place of that tree I take it. You were sitting right in the line. I
saw the flash go over your head. Ain't you glad I saved you, Meg?"

"I don't know," said the girl slowly: "no, I think I'm sorry. I'd as
lief be dead than go back to 'em all. The earth is kind: I don't see
why I should mind lying here for ever: I think I'd like it." She gave a
great sob as she spoke, and buried her head deeper in the bracken.

Her companion was silent for some time, still struggling within
himself; then he said, looking away from the prostrate figure of the
girl.

"There ain't no need as I know of for you to go back at all."

Meg sat up, while a look of incredulity crossed her face.

"But ain't you sent to fetch me?" she asked.

"No; they said you'd come back quick enough when you were hungry. I
came on my own account."

"Oh, Jem, why did you come?" she asked reproachfully. "I want to be
lost to 'em. I don't want ever to go back. Hunger won't drive me. I'm
hungry now, but I'd starve, rather than that. I hate 'em, mother and
father and all," Meg's voice rang out with passion and pain. "If I
can't get as far as Minton," she added, "I'll just go to sleep in the
heather and not wake up."

"Are you very hungry, Meg?"

"Yes," said the girl bluntly.

"You've had no breakfast?"

"No, I started as soon as there was a streak of light in the sky, and
I've been walking ever since. What's the time?"

"It's getting on for six o'clock. If you don't make haste the sun will
set and you won't get to Minton before dark."

The girl turned and gazed at her companion with a look of surprise.

"You seem to want me to go," she said.

Jem did not answer. He looked away from her towards the western sky.
The dark clouds had disappeared and the setting sun was shedding its
radiance once more over the heath. Meg noticed almost unconsciously how
it lighted up Jem's face.

She moved a little nearer to her companion.

"Jem, I don't understand. Why have you followed me if you weren't sent
to bring me back?"

"I came to tell you that as far as I can see there ain't no call for
you to go back at all if you've not a mind to. They can't complain or
compel you."

"Not father or mother?" exclaimed the girl.

"No. They ain't got no right to; they haven't had a right all this time
to keep you. You can leave 'em straight away if you've a mind to."

"But," persisted the girl, "there's mother."

"No there ain't. She's no mother of yours. She's my aunt, worse luck,
but she ain't your mother, and uncle ain't your father. You don't
belong to 'em by right and no one could compel you to go to 'em. They
know that right enough."

The girl looked dazed.

"She ain't my mother?" she said, "nor that man my father? But then who
am I? Where is my mother?"

"That I can't tell you. You're a child of a friend of Aunt's, but I
don't know who. She didn't want you, so let Aunt have you. That's all I
know."

The girl leant forward eagerly, looking up into her companion's face.

"Look at me, Jem. Look at me and say that you ain't tellin' me a lie."

The man turned and looked at her. His eyes blazed as only blue eyes can.

"Have I ever told you a lie?" he asked, "and do you think I'd be likely
to tell you this one?"

"How long have you known this?" asked Meg, breathing quickly.

"For a year come this October."

The girl sprang up clenching her hands.

"You knew it and yet never told me?" she cried. "Then you've acted a
lie for nearly a year and you've never given a hand to set me free,
though you have known how I have longed for it. You call yourself my
friend, and yet you've let me live the life of a dog all these years. I
call it—"

But while Meg was searching the depths of her brain for a suitable
word—a word in which to express all the scorn that she felt for her
companion, he had risen, and now stood towering above her and looking
down upon her with a dangerous expression in his eyes.

"You don't know what you're saying," he said sternly. "You don't know
what it means to me to tell you even now. It's just the killin' of me.
But you don't know and don't care. Do you think it means nothin' to me
to help to set you free? When I can't come along of you to see you're
safe and happy. You'll have no one to look after you and the world's a
wicked place."

The look of indignation on the girl's face was giving way to one of
tender surprise.

"I didn't know you liked me so well," she said, "or that you'd mind me
goin' so much."

He rammed his hands deep; into his pockets and stood looking at her
with the reflection of the sunset full on his face. He looked ruddy and
strong and good.

"If it wasn't for Steve we'd go away together," he said gravely, "and
we'd be married in the first church we came across, and then you'd
always have someone to look after you. But I can't leave Steve."

A look of amusement crossed the girl's face and a little laugh escaped
her; but it was cut short at the sight of a fierce flash from the blue
eyes confronting her. To marry Jem was not her idea of freedom, and
was the last thing she wanted to contemplate, but at the sight of the
expression which lay in the blue eyes she said meekly—

"I don't think I want to be married yet. Jem dear. I want to be free,
you see."

"You should be free."

"You say so now, but in a year or two you'd think differently I take
it. I daresay father said that kind of thing to mother when he went
courtin' her, but he don't care a hang for her now, and leads her a
pretty life."

"He ain't your father," said Jem roughly, "and don't you be a comparin'
me to that brute. Let me look at your arm. Was that him?"

The girl held out her arm and his eyes fastened on an ugly scar just
above the wrist. "The brute," he exclaimed savagely, "he shall pay for
that."

"What's the use," said Meg. "He was angry with me because I said I'd
never sing at the 'Cart and Horse' again. Nothin' vexes father like the
thought of losin' money. But it ain't worth bein' angry about, and if
I'm to be free what does it matter?"

"He shall pay for it," repeated Jem fiercely. Then after a pause he
said in a gentler tone of voice, "You'll take your freedom then, Meg?"

"Yes, I'll take it. But you've been ever so kind to me and I shall miss
you badly. Why don't you make up your mind to leave 'em all and get
good work."

"It's Steve. I can't leave the poor little chap to aunt's care. They'd
starve him if I wasn't there to see. They grumble as it is at the milk
he has to have. And when they move on they'll never give a thought to
him, or think if he's fit for a tramp. They ought always to put him in
the van, but they don't think ought about him. No, I can't leave him
yet."

"How much longer will they stay on Boxley Common?" asked the girl.

"I heard 'em talkin' of leavin' this mornin'. They've stayed there
longer than in most places, as that pit is convenient at night, but now
if you don't come back they'll leave sure enough. I saw this mornin'
when they found you'd gone that they were a bit uneasy, they were
afraid you might complain of 'em to the police. And now if you don't
come back they'll be off. But what do you mean to do?"

"I mean to be free. I shall go towards Minton this evening and beg a
night's lodging and some food, and if I can I'll work my way to London.
I can sing in the streets and earn enough to keep myself."

Jem looked at her anxiously.

"I hope you'll never sing again in a public house," he said.

"I shall sing in the streets," said Meg evasively, "and when I go to
London I shall see Bostock."

The lad's eyes glared.

"Not to be with the wild beasts?"

"Yes, why not? I'd be a deal happier with them than with father and
mother in that van; it only wants courage, Jem, and I ain't afeared."

Jem paced up and down in front of his companion to work off his
feelings.

"I shan't let you go," he said.

Meg laughed, showing a pretty row of little teeth.

"It'll be fun," she answered. "I'd love to hear 'em growl. It would be
excitin' and worth livin' for to tame a lion. You have to stroke their
paws through the bars first." She watched her companion's face and
laughed again. "I heard all about Bostock's advertisement in the 'Cart
and Horse.' I could earn seven pounds a week at Bostock's."

"You shan't do it," growled Jem.

"I'd love it," answered Meg. "I don't think I should be a bit scared.
And then I'd want you to come and look at me sittin' among 'em all when
my training was done. You'd like that wouldn't you? You'd be proud to
have known me I guess."

But the girl had gone too far. Jem caught hold of her wrist, holding it
in his iron grasp.

"If I thought you meant it," he said fiercely, "I'd take you back this
moment to the van. You'd best take care how you talk to me."

Meg laughed up into his face.

"I'm afraid they'd never take me. Why, what do you think they'd say to
me if I went to 'em like this," she added looking down at her dress.
"I'm not fine lady enough for them London folks. I fear there ain't
much chance for me."

But he still held her wrist, and stood looking down upon her with his
bright blue eyes.

"Promise me," he said, and his voice had a ring of tenderness in it
which touched the heart of his companion. "Promise me that you won't be
up to tricks, but will take care of yourself. Promise me now."

"Of course I shall," said Meg. "Don't you be afeared. I'm not a fool.
And I'll remember you, dear; I'll never forget you, and when little
Steve is dead and you leave 'em, marry you right enough."

He dropped her arm then, and without another look left her standing
alone among the bracken and heather.

Meg felt a lump rise in her throat, as she watched him out of sight.
Then she looked down at his hat which he had left behind him and which
lay at her feet.

She took it up and examined the battered crown with a tender little
smile hovering on her lips. Then with a laugh she stuck it on her head
and ran towards Minton and freedom.



CHAPTER II

THE SINGER

IT was dark when Meg first caught sight of the lights of Minton. The
fact that she was free had so buoyed her up, that till she looked on
the distant town she had not realized her hunger or weariness. But now
that she knew she was within a mile or two of her destination she felt
as if she could walk no further; and sinking down on the grass that
edged the roadside she fell asleep.

She was well used to sleeping under the stars, but on awaking at the
sound of a passing cart, she sat up suddenly, and experienced for
almost the first time in her life a sensation of fear. She had dreamt
that she heard the tap—tap—of the wooden leg of the man who for years
she had supposed to be her father—and that she was hiding in the dark
ditch to escape him. She longed now for Jem's protecting presence. A
terrible sense of loneliness oppressed her, due no doubt to her tired
and hungry condition. Then she realized that it was imperative for her
to get some money before she could either satisfy her hunger or procure
a night's lodging.

Jem's hat had fallen off her head and it took some little time to
find it in the dark; but she would not on any account have left it
behind her, and when she found it she held it tight, feeling it almost
a protection. Anyhow it filled her with comforting thoughts as she
trudged along towards Minton. She was sure that Jem would not forget
her and would somehow or other find out where she was. She had a
strange kind of feeling about him. So long as he was in the world she
felt she could not come to much harm without his knowing it and coming
to her help.

About a mile from Minton Meg found she was passing some large white
gates. They were open, and looking up the avenue she caught sight of a
brightly lighted house. This might be her chance of earning money, she
thought, so made her way towards it.

The blinds were not drawn, and the girl stood fascinated with what she
saw.

A dinner party was in progress, Meg leaned against a tree watching
eagerly all that went on.

The table was lighted by shaded candles, which cast a soft glow over
the white cloth and gleaming silver and glass. Silver dishes were being
handed round, and Meg, hungry and tired, could have wept with longing
and weariness as she compared her lot, out in the dark, with that of
the guests who apparently had more than enough of this world's good
things. But she knew she must not give way to tears or her chance of
earning food would be diminished.

The conversation round the dinner table suddenly stopped, as there
floated into the room the air of "The Last Rose of Summer," sung in a
rich contralto voice.

"What's that?" asked the host in a very vexed tone of voice. "Some
beggar no doubt." Then turning to the butler he added, "Send her away,
we don't want vagabonds about the premises."

"Oh don't," cried a girl, leaning forward to try to get a glimpse of
the singer, "she has the most lovely voice. I thought you had arranged
it on purpose to give us a treat."

"It's a rich contralto," said one of the guests. "She ought to be given
a chance of being trained."

The host beckoned the butler to his side, while his guests were
commenting one to another about the singer.

"Give her two shillings and send her away," he said in a low voice.

Dessert being now on the table, Dent, the butler, went to follow out
his master's injunctions, but being a musical man, he was bent on
hearing more of that wonderful voice that he had listened to as he had
handed round the fruit.

He soon discovered the girl in the dark.

"The master he don't like no beggars about," he said in not too gentle
a voice, "so I advise you to be off my girl. Come now are you one of a
clan?"

"No, I'm by myself," answered Meg. "But if you'd be so good as to give
me a glass of milk I'd pay you right well. I'll sing six songs straight
off and you'd be lucky to hear 'em," she added with spirit, "I wouldn't
do it if it wasn't that I'm just beat with tiredness and hunger."

Meg was looking up at Dent with a pair of eyes that made him feel, he
told the servants afterwards, and that, together with her promise of
singing and her very evident sincerity, worked on his feelings to such
an extent, that he slipped his master's Florin into his pocket and led
the way round to the back of the house. Then opening the kitchen door
he introduced the girl with a flourish.

"This young lady wants some milk, and you'll be pleased to give it to
her post haste, Mrs. Brown, or you'll lose the chance of your life."

The cook looked round quickly.

"Come now what are you up to with your tricks," she said sharply,
"we don't want no beggars here. Look out, girl," she added, as Meg
bewildered, was on the point of obeying Dent's invitation to enter,
"you'll bring a lot of mud in I'll be bound; a pretty muddle I'll be in
to-morrow. And to choose to-night of all nights when I'm so busy and
don't know which way to turn."

But Dent would not be denied. He knew Mrs. Brown, and was in no way
abashed by her protest.

"Sit down, my girl," he said pointing to a chair by the door, "and," he
added turning to the cook, "if you've got a mother's heart you'll give
her something to eat and drink, she's fit to drop."

"I'll pay you right well by singing to you," said Meg as she dropped
into a chair, "only I can't do nothin' till I have a drink and food,
I'm fairly beat."

"Where have you come from?" inquired Mrs. Brown, in a softened tone of
voice.

"All the way from Boxley Common," she said, "and I haven't had a mite
of food since the sun rose this mornin'."

"Poor dear," said the cook, her pity aroused, "I'll give you a bowl of
soup; that's what I'll do."

Meg rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. The warmth of
the kitchen and the smell of the cooking was almost too much for her,
but she revived on drinking the hot soup and looked up smiling at Mrs.
Brown.

"I'll pay well for this," she said.

"Tut, tut, my dear. We don't want payment. You ain't fit to sing."

"Yes, I shall be all right in a moment, and when he comes back,"
nodding her head towards the inner door through which the butler had
vanished, "I'll begin."

"Dent's gone with the coffee," said the cook, "and won't be here for a
few minutes."

"I feel a lot better," said Meg, "and shall be able to sing fine. I'm
making my way towards London to see Bostock," she added.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, leaning both hands on the
kitchen table, and surveying the girl with amazement. "What do your
father and mother say to that I should like to know?"

"They don't say nothin' for I've got none."

Mrs. Brown had a kind heart within her somewhat portly body, and looked
with concern at her picturesque visitor.

"Come now, my dear," she said, "take my advice and don't do any such
thing. London isn't the place for such as you. I'll speak to the
mistress about you if you like and see if she can't do ought to help
you."

Meg sprang up from her seat, snatching up Jem's hat which had fallen on
the floor by her side.

"You'll do no such thing," she said quickly, "if you do I guess I'll
have to leave you without payin' you for my food, though it would go
against me after your kindness. But I won't have the help of anybody. I
ain't bound to a single soul."

Mrs. Brown, taken aback by the excitability of her guest, tried to
soothe her, promising to do nothing without her leave, and at last on
the entrance of the other servants, who had been told by Dent that if
they wanted to have a treat he advised them to go without fail to the
kitchen, she sat down again and looked with interest at those who were
to form her audience.

Dent, who took the credit to himself of giving his fellow servants this
treat, placed chairs in a row, and acted as Master of the Ceremonies.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, looking from the row of maids to
the young footman who stood by the door, "we are now about to listen
to the finest voice that I've heard for a long time; and as I reckon
myself to be a good judge of music and to know a fine voice when I hear
it, having for years sung in the cathedral choir at Chichester, I can
guarantee that a treat lies before you. This young lady will now be
good enough to perform."

Meg rose, a smile lighting up her face as she looked around on her
audience. She did not know what shyness was, and was so used to
having her voice praised that she was not afraid of her hearers being
disappointed.

"I'll sing fine," she said, "and will do what I can to pay for my
good food; and I'm mighty thankful to Mr. Dent and Mrs. Brown for
their kindness to me. I'll begin I think with a comic song to make
you laugh." And in a moment the girl had sprung up on to the chair
behind her and with a great deal of action sang through several songs,
eliciting shouts of laughter from her audience.

Dent alone was disappointed. He was listening impatiently for the
wonderful music that he had heard in her voice as she had sung in the
dark of the garden. But he had not to wait long; the laughter had
scarcely died away before the girl's whole expression of face changed,
as she broke into the plaintive air of "Auld Robin Gray."

The pathos in the voice enchained the audience. They sat listening with
rapt attention, and when the last verse was arrived at Mrs. Brown could
bear it no longer but boldly took out her handkerchief and wiped her
tears away.

At the close Dent looked round at the audience with a triumphant smile
on his lips. He had not been wrong in his estimation of the fine
quality of his protégé's voice; she had reduced Mrs. Brown to tears;
that was a conquest in itself.

Meg left no time for an encore, but at once began, "The Last Rose
of Summer." When this was finished the servants' delight could be
contained no longer, they begged for it once more, and when the girl
had stepped off her improvised platform, Dent rose to formally propose
a vote of thanks.

Meanwhile Meg was quite unconscious of sundry winks and signs from
Mrs. Brown, as one of the younger servants, after leaving the kitchen,
returned holding a tidy hat behind her back till she had an opportunity
of changing it with the old battered one that lay on the floor. It
was only as Meg turned round to go that she saw what had happened,
but instead of the delight that the cook and her fellow servant had
been anticipating, the angry colour rushed into the girl's face as she
exclaimed—

"Where's my hat?"

"My dear," explained the cook, "don't say nothing about it. We don't
want no thanks. I've had that nice hat in my box for a long time to
send to my niece in the shires, but you may have it and welcome."

Dent, who was mysteriously whispering to the servants as he went round
collecting a few coins from them to add to his master's florin, did
not see the distress on the girl's face, but Mrs. Brown did, and was
puzzled.

"What is it, my dear?" she asked. "Don't you like it?"

"It was Jem's hat," murmured Meg. "I'd a deal rather have it than a new
one, though it's mighty kind of you to think of givin' it to me."

"Jem's hat?"

"Yes, my pal Jem. I wouldn't lose it for all the world. You see," she
added looking up at Mrs. Brown with something like tears in her eyes.
"It's just all I've got."

"Is this young man your brother? I thought you was alone in the world?"
said the cook.

"No, he's not my brother. He's my pal," answered the girl.

Mrs. Brown put her hand on Meg's shoulder. "Then take my advice, my
girl, and don't have nought to do with him. I expect he's a worthless
young man, isn't he?"

"He's the best man in the world," said the girl. "If it hadn't been
for Jem I guess I should be dead by this time." Then seeing her
questioner's perplexed face she added, "You don't understand, but it's
all right. Don't you be afeared for me."

When a moment or two afterwards Dent placed five shillings in her hand,
two of which he explained came from his master, Meg coloured.

"I don't think, it fair," she said looking down at the silver. "I've
not sung as well as all that. You've paid me too high."

"Not a bit of it," said Dent. "You ought to make your fortune with that
voice of yours, my girl."

Meg looked up with a laugh.

"It's wonderful kind of you all," she said, "and if ever you come to
London to see Bostock's wild beasts, I'll ask that you shall come in to
see me among the lions without paying a penny."

With a grateful smile she took up the old battered hat which had been
returned to her, and made her way out into the dark garden. She felt
happier for all the kindness that had been shown to her, and decided to
stay somewhere near till the morning. So, hunting about for a place in
which to sleep, she came upon a summer house, in which she lay down.

The hard floor was not comfortable, but Meg was not used to comfort,
and her thoughts so engrossed her that she scarcely noticed the
hardness. She had had an exciting day, and felt encouraged by her
experience in the kitchen of the house close by. Jem had said the world
was a wicked place; but, thought Meg, perhaps he was ignorant of the
fact that there were many kind people in it notwithstanding, and if she
had fared so well the first day why need she fear? With five shillings
in her pocket, which to the girl, who had never possessed a penny of
her own, seemed untold riches, she could face her future.

Then her thoughts Hew to the motherly face of Mrs. Brown, and she
sighed. The care and kindness of the cook had created a longing in
the heart of the singer. What must it be to have a mother! A real
mother! Not like the false one that all these years she had believed
to be hers. Where was her mother? And who was she? Meg's large eyes
stared up into the dark sky which she could see from the summer house,
spangled over with stars, and she sighed again. Her soul was athirst
for something—someone—she knew not what. She was as:—

   "An infant crying in the night:
    An infant crying for the light:
    And with no language but a cry."

Meg awoke to find the sun streaming in upon her, and started up,
fearful lest she should be discovered in the summer house. She gained
the road without being seen. She need not have feared. It was only four
o'clock and the world was still asleep.

The sense of freedom seemed to give her wings, and she walked the mile
that lay between her and Minton in so short a time that she arrived
before anyone was astir. It was to walk down the quiet streets and to
see every door closed against her. It struck her as almost a city of
the dead. The delightful sense of freedom died for a time within her,
and she felt desperately lonely. She stood in the middle of the High
Street looking first one way and then another, hesitatingly, and was
almost afraid of the sound of her own footsteps.

Then she turned and fled back the way she had come, not resting till
she had found a gate leading into a field where she could sit and wait
for the sound of human life. She felt happier in the field, and the
birds were amazingly tame. Not accustomed to being disturbed at that
early hour by man, they came close to where she was sitting, and the
girl was thankful for their company.

She decided that as she had enough money to carry her on for some time,
she would only stay to get food at Minton, and then set out for the
next town on the way to London. For the more she thought of Bostock's
wild beasts and his advertisement for girls to train, of which she had
heard in the public house where she had sung, the keener she became to
apply for the post, and the more impatient of any delay.



CHAPTER III

ANGEL

MISS GREGSON dropped her knitting on to her knee and surveyed her
former pupil critically as she stood leaning against the window. What
a picture the girl made! The back of her head was particularly pretty,
as little curls lay at the nape of her neck and shone with streaks of
gold. She was slim and tall and graceful in all her movements.

"How pretty she is!" sighed her companion. "But how unstable!"

Miss Gregson had been sent for when Mr. Dennison, Sheila's uncle, had
died, and knowing, and loving the girl she had hastened to Friars Court
to find her former pupil full of tears and regrets that, during her
uncle's lifetime she had not thought more of him and of his comfort.

She reproached herself with sobs for having indulged so much in her
own pleasures and interests to the exclusion of his; and had been
so absorbed in them that she had not noticed how much her uncle was
failing in health till a week before he died.

Once aroused, however, she had thrown up all her engagements and had
devoted herself to him. She was so depressed and unlike herself for the
first week or two after his death, that Miss Gregson had hoped that the
sharp lesson she had had was about to change her former pupil's whole
view of life and duty, and was gratified when Sheila asked her to stay
on with her and act as her chaperon.

During the weeks that followed Miss Gregson had looked in vain for
her hopes to be realized. No sooner had the girl entered into her
inheritance, for Mr. Dennison had left the whole of his property to
her, than she regained her usual high spirits, and began to propound to
her harried companion all kinds of wild and impossible schemes. Happily
she tired of the thought of them before she had time to carry them out;
but many a time her long-suffering chaperon felt her heart sink at some
of the proposals. As now she sat gazing at the girl, who stood looking
out of the window with a somewhat plaintive expression of face, Miss
Gregson was taken aback by her companion suddenly turning round upon
her, her eyes full of mischief and raillery.

"No," she said, "I shall never tire of you, you are so delightfully
quaint."

"Quaint, my dear?" questioned Miss Gregson, taking up her knitting
again.

"Yes, quaint. You would never guess the real reason that prompted me to
ask you to stay on with me. It was your homoeopathic box that did it."

Miss Gregson looked up perplexed.

"You were delicious over that," continued Sheila. "Don't you remember
one day when I was a child, Farmer Smith's bull ran at us, and after we
had scrambled over the gate you made me sit down by the roadside, and
taking your little box out of your pocket, insisted on us both taking
ignatia to quiet our nerves? How I laughed over that afterwards."

Miss Gregson flushed and gave a forced laugh. She was not pleased, but
would not let Sheila know this on any account.

"I do hope you still have that box, with the rows and rows of pilules.
I'm sure you'll want it while you live with me. I am quite conscious
that I am at times surprising, and that it would never do for a person
with really weak nerves to act as my chaperon. Besides, those little
pilules give me infinite amusement. Do you still believe in them? I
hope you do."

Sheila had left the window and had sunk into an armchair, where she sat
studying her companion's face with eyes full of laughter.

Miss Gregson looked up at the girl with a magnanimous smile. She felt
vexed with her, but was not going to show it.

"I shall certainly not offer any more of them to you," she said, "as
you laugh at them. But yes; I still have faith in them and always
shall."

"Oh, how quaint you are! I shall certainly never tire of you,
particularly as you still believe in those pilules." Then after a
moment's pause the girl continued: "I really don't think I can call you
Miss Gregson any longer; it is so formal. What is your Christian name;
let me see, is it Maria?"

"Why do you want to know? You are not thinking I hope of calling me by
it? I certainly should not approve of that."

"I shouldn't dare!" laughed Sheila. "You surprise me so by putting your
foot down suddenly that I feel I really can't take liberties with you.
But you have not told me your name. Am I right, is it Maria?"

"Maria? No, it's Angelina."

Sheila was on the point of giving a little shriek of laughter at the
information. The name seemed so incongruous, but she stopped herself in
time.

"Then I shall call you Miss Angel," she said, "or rather Angel without
the Miss. You can't possibly think I am taking a liberty in calling you
Angel. No one could. Indeed you ought to be flattered," she added, as
her companion made a sound of remonstrance. "Besides you are an angel.
You've been one to me anyhow."

"My dear, don't talk nonsense. I greatly prefer my surname."

"But I don't. It tires me to say Miss Gregson every time I want to call
your attention. You are Angel from henceforth, and you mustn't mind,
for it is really a great compliment."

Miss Gregson knew it was no use to expostulate, so resigned herself to
her fate, fervently hoping that her erratic little friend would forget
it. But in this she was disappointed.



CHAPTER IV

A DREAM OF LIONS

MEG was getting weary with her long tramp to London. Her first day
had been her best. She had not met with such kindness or good fortune
again, and as she made her way through towns and villages, only
gathering just enough pennies by her singing, to provide her with a
night's lodging and food, she began to wonder if she would ever reach
London and stroke the paws of lions.

She had to walk for miles along country roads which, as far as earning
money was concerned, was mere waste of time. And when she arrived at a
town or village, so anxious was she to get to the end of her journey,
that she stayed as short a time as possible and only waited to earn
enough for the day.

She had now been on the tramp for a fortnight, and her boots were none
the better for her hard walking. Every now and then, too, as she crept
into some outhouse and lay down to sleep, the Autumn air struck chill,
and she wondered, if Bostock refused to employ her, how she could
manage to keep herself through the cold winter.

But the girl was naturally courageous, and she would not indulge often
in these depressing thoughts. She tried to imagine herself sitting in
the cage of lions, whip in hand, quelling the beasts with her eyes,
surrounded by a crowd of admirers, among whom was Jem, and then leaving
her work on a Saturday night with seven pounds in her pocket; for that
was the sum promised to the successful candidate for training. She
would then buy Jem a respectable warm coat and a hat with a proper
crown, to say nothing of bright blue and red kerchiefs for his neck;
and little Steve should be provided with plenty of luxuries and a
comfortable lodging away from his Aunt and Uncle.

Meg would tramp for miles with a smile on her lips as she pictured
those golden days of her dreams, and it was only when she was tired
and hungry, and the realities of her life forced the dreams into the
background, that she lost heart.

Sometimes a fear crossed her lest Jem should never find her. He was the
one person in the whole world who cared whether she was dead or alive,
and the bare possibility of their never meeting again had brought tears
more than once into the eyes of the girl. But it was only when she was
very tired that this possibility crossed her mind. For her faith in him
was so firm, and her belief that he would look for her till he found
her, so strong, that as a rule, she looked forward without doubting to
meeting him in better circumstances.

Once, after a longer tramp than usual, when she had spent her last
penny and yet felt, as she neared a village, that she had not the
strength to earn one, she came to a little church, the door of which
was open, and peeping in, the quiet and calm of the place suggested
rest of which she was sorely in need. It was empty and the girl for the
first time in her life crossed the threshold of a church.

She sank down on the first bench and looked about her wonderingly. Meg
knew little more than a heathen; she knew that there was a God, whose
name she had often heard taken in vain; and that was all. But she had
a thirsty soul and often felt that there was some great and beautiful
secret, known to many, of which she was ignorant. Night after night,
as she lay sleeping under the stars, she would look up at the sky with
a great wonder at what she saw, and with a yearning after something
intangible. She had once spoken to Jem about her thoughts and he had
suddenly looked down upon her with a bright smile, as if about to
speak. Apparently however he could find no words in which to answer her.

Meg looked around the little church with interest; then crossing her
arms on the back of the bench she dropped her head on them and fell
fast asleep.

Suddenly she awoke to find that she was not alone. Several people
were kneeling in front of her and a clergyman from the reading desk
was saying the Confession, accompanied by the soft murmur of the
congregation.

   "'We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep.'"

At the words Meg buried her head again in her arms. "Lost Sheep!" That
just seemed to describe her isolated condition. She sat sobbing till
the close of the service, when she slipped out before the rest of the
congregation.

Ten minutes afterwards she was singing in the village street to a crowd
of children who stared at her open mouthed. Several men who had been
working in the fields passed her on their way home, and more than one
stayed to listen. One who was the worse for drink pushed his way into
the crowd, calling out some rude remark to her. The hot blood rushed
into the girl's face and she longed for Jem's strong arm to teach the
brute a lesson. She stopped singing abruptly, and turned away, taking
refuge in a kind woman's cottage.

This was the first of several disagreeable experiences that the girl
passed through, and she found to her dismay that they had such an
effect upon her that her courage began to dwindle. She grew nervous
of tramping the lonely lanes, specially when it was dark, and even
the thought of Bostock's beasts could not induce her to continue her
journey after sunset, unless it was positively necessary to do so. If
she could not find someone to take her in for the night she would look
about her for a hay-rick or barn; anything was better, however rough
the accommodation, than walking by herself along the lonely roads.

At times her tramp to London became almost a nightmare. It never seemed
to grow nearer. She had had no idea that the distance was so great.
She wondered sometimes if she would not give it up. But if she did,
what then? The only thing for which she lived would be taken away from
her. No one would care if she lay down in the road and died. No one
was expecting her or wanted her, except Jem, and he was further away
every day. If she was robbed of the thought of Bostock's wild beasts,
she would be bereft of the one thing that made life worth living. No!
She would not give up hope! She must persevere, and surely a time would
come when she would be sitting calm and smiling among the lions, and
would go home with seven pounds in her pocket!



CHAPTER V

A CREATURE OF IMPULSE

"THEY are coming," exclaimed Sheila as she glanced quickly over the
letter in her hand.

The sun was shining into the breakfast room at Friars Court through the
open windows. It was a long low room with beams across the ceiling,
and panelled walls; and there was no nicer room in the house on a
sunny morning. The French windows were wide open and from them could
be seen the trees in the Park beyond the garden, and the hills in the
background.

Sheila stood reading her letter with the morning sun shining on her
pretty hair.

"Who are coming?" questioned Miss Gregson, as the girl looked up at her
with a pleased smile.

"My six children. I read in some paper that there were hundreds of poor
children in want of a change into the country from the very poorest of
poor homes in London, and I wrote at once to enquire about them. The
Society is so grateful and is sending down six on Monday. I am to have
them for a fortnight. I only hope the weather will last for that time.
Just fancy! A house full of children. Won't it be fun?"

"What a nice idea," said Miss Gregson. "When did you think of it?" Her
mind flew to all the difficulties of the plan, but she was so pleased
that Sheila should have thought of putting joy into the heart of six
little children that she was determined to say nothing to discourage
her.

"I only thought of it yesterday, and wired to the Society telling them
to write by last night's post. I always believe in acting at once.
Don't you?"

"I suppose they will send someone with the children to look after
them," said Miss Gregson.

"No, that will be the fun. I mean to do everything for them myself,
bathing them and putting them to bed included. If you do a thing at all
I believe in doing it thoroughly. It would quite spoil it if there was
a worker sent down with them."

Miss Gregson's heart sank. She knew how it would end. Sheila would be
tired of them before the first week was out.

"Where are you going to put them? Is there not a large empty room which
you could fit up with beds?"

"Yes. But I mean to give them the very best of everything. The girls
I shall put in the West room, which I have just had papered with the
rose pattern. It looks out on the rose garden you remember, and the
boys shall be in the East gallery. There are several beds in the attics
which can be brought down for them. You see I have thought it all out,
Angel dear."

Sheila was now pouring out the coffee, and Miss Gregson had gone to
the sideboard. She was aghast at the girl's arrangements, but she gave
herself time to think over what to say by asking—

"Eggs and bacon or fish, my dear?"

"Is there nothing else? Jane is getting lazy. She gives us the same
dishes every day. I'll have fish I think." Then she added, "I don't
think I have looked forward to anything so much in my life. I shall
tell Peter. He will be astonished that I have thought of anything so
nice and useful."

She rose from the table as she spoke to fetch the fish Miss Gregson was
helping, and put her arm round her chaperon impulsively.

"How glad I am that you are not a prude like that horrid old woman
that came when you left me to go to your mother. She would very much
have disapproved of my plan and would have placed all kinds of damping
difficulties in its way. But I know you'll be just as interested in
those children as I am, and won't mind a little noise in the house. I
mean to give them such a good time. I'm desperately hungry," she added,
as she took her seat at the table again. "It's the excitement."

"I think if I were you," mildly suggested Miss Gregson, "that I would
have that long room furnished for them rather than the West room that
you have just done up. You know they will be coming from very dirty
homes and it will be scarcely fair to your visitors who come after
them."

"The visitors must put up with that," answered Sheila calmly. "Of
course the room will be thoroughly turned out and scrubbed when the
children have gone; and just think what it will be to them to wake up
in the morning and find themselves surrounded with roses! Roses nodding
in at the window at them and roses on the walls. Oh, Angel dear, I do
bless my Uncle for leaving me this place, and plenty of money with
which to enjoy it. I had no idea how nice it would be."

Miss Gregson looked at the happy flushed face of her companion. How
could she damp her enthusiasm by bringing forward its many drawbacks.
The girl was full of delightful impulses, if only they would grow into
good actions and last at least for a while.

"My dear, I think the plan is charming; and with a little forethought
it may be made to work well, but it will need a lot of planning."

"Planning! forethought!" exclaimed Sheila impatiently, "I have planned
everything I assure you. They are to come by the two o'clock train on
Monday."

"Someone of course will bring them," said Miss Gregson. "I suppose she
will at least stay the night?"

"No one will bring them. They are to be put under charge of the guard,
and to come by a fast train that does not stop anywhere. I felt it
would be so much better, you see, for them to have to depend upon me at
once rather than on someone they know."

Miss Gregson sighed, and found before the first day of the visit
was over that her sighs were justified. She was so exhausted after
two or three hours of the company of the children, that she took
the opportunity of slipping away to have a few minutes rest on the
drawing-room sofa.

It was too late to expect callers, but nevertheless her sleep was
disturbed by the entrance of an elderly cousin of Sheila's who came in
and out of the house as he liked, and was welcomed wherever he went, as
his life was spent in doing kindnesses. If anyone was in trouble, or
in difficulties it was always Peter Fortescue who came to the rescue,
and with his kind and fatherly manner and comforting smile inspired
confidence. To Sheila he was father and brother in one, and she really
leaned on his advice, though she was of such an independent nature
that she would have confessed this to no one. Sheila amused Peter, but
at the same time he more often shook his head over her vagaries, and
never hesitated to tell her the truth. He sympathised greatly with Miss
Gregson and pitied her.

Although he had disturbed her needed sleep the latter was thankful to
see him.

"Where is Sheila?" he asked after shaking hands.

"In the garden. She has six poor little children from London for a
fortnight! And with no one but ourselves to look after them. We have
had a terrible afternoon, Mr. Fortescue."

Miss Gregson was flushed and tired.

"You look dead beat! An influx of six children to amuse and control is
no laughing matter. I suppose they are difficult to manage?"

"They were almost dumb with wonder the first hour, but unhappily this
soon wore off. They do not know the meaning of obedience. When I said
it was time to go to bed they rebelled. They wanted to see the horses
again, they said, and nothing would quiet them but to take them to the
stables. How we are to survive a fortnight of this kind of thing I
can't think."

"What are they doing now?"

"Sheila is telling them a story in the summer house, hoping to quiet
them."

Peter rose.

"I'll go and find these rebels," he said smiling. "I wish my dear
little cousin would ask my advice before she undertakes this kind of
thing. But," he added with a laugh, "she is not fond of advice from me
or anyone, else! I don't suppose she asked yours, did she?"

"Oh dear, no! That is the last thing she would do. She is a girl
of such noble impulses, it is a pity that she acts on them without
counting the cost."

"I daresay at this present moment she is enjoying it all hugely."

"She is perfectly happy; and you'll find her radiant. But to-morrow!
Well there is no use looking forward, is there?"

"None whatever. I'll go and see how things are going."

Mr. Fortescue found the little party in the summer house and stood
watching without being seen for a few minutes. Sheila was surrounded
with the six children, who sat on the floor at her feet. Both Sheila
and her audience were so engrossed that they did not notice Peter's
approach.

Though he utterly disapproved of the plan, he could not help thinking
what a pretty picture it made, and had Sheila been a girl who was
ready to take the consequences of her own actions, and would persevere
to the end, Mr. Fortescue could not think of a happier way in which
to spend some of her large fortune, than to bring happiness into the
lives of the poor little children that were listening to her story so
attentively. But alas! her cousin knew Sheila too well to hope for a
moment that Sheila would do her duty to them. The work would of course
devolve on the poor tired woman on the drawing-room sofa.

Suddenly a small boy caught sight of the intruder.

He rose and made a dash at him and tried to kick him.

"Go away," he cried, "we don't want you."

Peter took hold of his arm and made him face him.

"You are a nice young man to behave like this," he said with a laugh.
"You'll have to learn manners while you are here."

"Tommy, what do you mean by kicking that gentleman," remonstrated
Sheila. "Sit down and be a good boy."

Tommy put out his tongue at her.

The girl flushed.

"You must all go to bed," she said. "And oh, Peter, do go, there's a
dear. They were as good as gold till you came."

He turned away with a laugh, and made his way to the drawing-room to
talk over the matter again with Miss Gregson, and to assure her that he
was ready to help if needed, reminding her that as he lived only a few
minutes' walk from the Park gates he could easily come at any moment
of the day or night. He laughed as he said this, but poor Miss Gregson
could only sigh at the possible prospect of things coming to such a
pass that they would have to send for him at night!

Soon the sound of hurrying feet were heard and Sheila flew into the
room demanding the help of Miss Gregson.

"You simply must come," she said catching hold of her arm. "They are
all in rebellion and the smallest girl is crying for her mother. That
wretched little Tommy is slaughtering all the dahlia heads with Peter's
stick which he left behind him."

Miss Gregson looked appealingly at Peter.

"Can I be of any service?" he asked.

"I'm afraid you'll only make them worse," answered Sheila. "It would be
better for Miss Gregson to come as they know her."

Peter therefore stood by the door opening into the garden, so as to be
ready for any emergency. He was thoroughly amused, and wondered how
poor frail Miss Gregson would be able to get the refractory children to
bed.

He had not to wait long before he heard footsteps, and caught sight of
Miss Gregson, very red in the face, with a kicking child in her arms.
In a moment Peter was by her side.

"Come, my boy, none of this nonsense," he said, signing to Miss Gregson
to put him down. "A man never kicks a lady? You want to be a man don't
you?"

Peter's voice was stern, and the child somewhat awed left off
screaming, and stood with his fingers in his mouth surveying him.

Mr. Fortescue returned the look gravely and silently. There is nothing
much more powerful than the human eye to quell rebellion in the young.
The child suddenly hid his face in Miss Gregson's skirts.

"Now," said Peter quietly, "you will go to bed at once like a good boy.
Good-night." Jemmy followed Miss Gregson closely, tripping up in her
dress. The quiet voice and grave eyes had done their work, and Miss
Gregson and the housemaid between them undressed and bathed the child
without any more trouble, and Jemmy for the first time in his life
lying between lovely white sheets, soon fell asleep.



CHAPTER VI

FAILURE

MISS GREGSON never forgot the week that followed, neither indeed did a
single member of the household.

Jane the housemaid gave warning. It was too much for her nerves, she
declared.

Finding that they were not the docile little children that she had
expected, Sheila soon gave up the idea of bathing them and putting
them to bed herself, and had relinquished that duty to Jane; and the
housemaid could scarcely stand the pinches and kicks that the children
gave her, or the water they threw at her as she bathed them. They were
utterly uncontrollable. As for the pretty paper in the West bedroom,
the children had not been there two days before Jane discovered pencil
marks on the wall by the window, and the names of the little visitors
scratched on the white paint of the shutters.

James, the gardener, lost all patience with the boys; not only were
the heads of his dahlias violently knocked off, but the green house
was invaded by the rebels, and in trying to reach the grapes a window
was broken and branches torn down. He confided to Jane that, if Miss
Dennison was going to fill her house with such little vagabonds, he
would follow her example and leave.

As for the cook! She "felt fit to cry to see the waste," she informed
her fellow servants. The children wouldn't eat the nice hot broth she
made for them, or the rice puddings which were good and wholesome, and
the plates came down again and again only just touched. If there was
jam or pastry they ate it fast enough. She called it "right wicked" to
indulge them like this. They'd go home worse than they came; "but there
now," she added, "Miss Dennison don't understand children and she means
well by them."

Miss Gregson was still more unhappy at the failure of the girl's plan;
for she knew it would not be long before she would lose patience and
interest in the work, and of what would happen then, her chaperon had
no conception.

Sheila was getting to look worried and bored. There had been one or two
days when the children had been good, but these were generally followed
by times of rebellion and misconduct, during which the girl plainly
lost heart, and gradually she left the care of them to others.

One afternoon she suddenly informed Miss Gregson that she had quite
forgotten an engagement she had made with a friend in a neighbouring
village. She was so sorry but she could not put it off.

"You won't mind, will you, Angel clear, taking care of the children for
an hour or two," she said. "One is in duty bound to keep appointments
if possible, and Clara would be bitterly disappointed if I did not go."

"I will do my best," said Miss Gregson, "but you must forgive any
catastrophe which may happen in your absence."

"You can manage them better than I can," said Sheila, "I'm not a bit
afraid." So after luncheon she ordered the cart, and was only too
thankful to get out of sight and sound of the children for a time.

Miss Gregson, left to her own resources, determined to strike out a new
line for herself. She had a large table placed in the empty room at
the top of the house, collected pencils and paper, and after letting
the children have a good run in the garden, during which time they did
as much mischief as they could manage, scattering mould on the nicely
kept paths, and pulling up flowers which they thought to be weeds, Miss
Gregson seated them round the table and gave them a drawing lesson.

For a time they were interested in what they were doing, though their
poor teacher's head ached with the noise which she was quite powerless
to stop. But before very long Tommy snatched Dick's pencil from him
and received a great thump on his back in return. A free fight ensued.
Dick, the eldest of the three boys, punched the delinquent's head,
when he immediately set up a howl, the rest of the children crying in
chorus. Jemmy was pushed down on to the floor, and it was all that Miss
Gregson could do to extricate him from the fighting boys.

But what alarmed her more than anything else were the bad words that
flew from one little mouth to another. She rang the bell violently; and
was thankful to see the panting Jane standing at the door. Jane saw in
a moment how matters stood. The tumblers of water had been knocked off
the table and broken to pieces. Two of the boys were rolling on the
floor kicking and hitting one another, while the three little girls
stood looking on, sobbing at the sight of the broken glasses and torn
drawings. Miss Gregson had Jemmy on her lap, drying his tears with her
pocket handkerchief.

Jane managed to separate the fighting, struggling boys, administering
at the same time sundry slaps on the miscreants.

"Hadn't they better go out into the garden, M'am?" she asked.

"Yes I think so," was the answer.

But Miss Gregson knew that unless someone was with them to mount guard
further mischief would be done. Jane, who was a good-natured girl,
volunteered to take them down and to see after them, and Angel, quite
unstrung, was only too thankful. She went to her room and lay down on
the sofa, saying she would not be disturbed till Miss Dennison returned
for tea.

A soft knock awakened her. Sheila opened the door. She looked at the
prostrate figure on the sofa with remorse, saying—

"Jane tells me you are quite overcome with the naughtiness of the
children. I ought never to have left you. And certainly I should not
have been so long away. I am so sorry."

Miss Gregson smiled. Sheila looked so truly penitent that though her
chaperon agreed with her remarks she had not the heart to tell her so.

"I have had a nice rest," she said, "but the children surpassed
themselves. I wonder, my dear, if you could not get someone in from the
village to look after them for the last week."

The girl planted herself on the end of the sofa and surveyed her
companion with grave eyes.

"I wonder on the other hand," she said, "if it would be perfectly
horrible of me to send them away at once. I don't feel as if I can
endure them another day."

"My dear," exclaimed Miss Gregson. "Just think what a terrible
disappointment it would be to them all."

"But just think on the other hand what a terrible time we shall have
with them! If only they were nicer children! They are little horrors."

"What can you expect from their bringing up? We should have thought of
this before. How can children from homes where they probably only hear
bad words and see drunken brawls, behave decently? And I must own I had
quite a shock this afternoon. I have never heard such language! It was
frightful."

"Oh, I know. They swear like grown up people. It's horrid."

"Poor little things! I feel we must do something to help them before
they go away. I long to have a talk with them, but it takes all one's
strength to keep them tolerably occupied. There seems no time to talk
about better things. It must be done before they leave."

"Then it must be done to-night," said Sheila, "for I feel to be in a
regular nightmare, and really I can hardly bear the sight of them. Do
you suppose there are many such wicked children in the world? I have
been appalled at the things they say."

"We can't let them go back without telling them of the Good Shepherd,"
said Miss Gregson softly.

"You are an angel," said Sheila, holding out her hand affectionately
to her old governess. "You are only thinking of the children, and I am
only thinking of myself. But you can understand how very humiliating it
is to fail in this way. I hate to think of Peter knowing about it."

Miss Gregson took the proffered hand in her own.

"Tell me," said Sheila, "why it is I so often fail? This is the worst
failure I have had. Why don't things go right?"

"I think, my dear, you did not count the cost before you invited these
children, and did not make proper provision for them."

"Count the cost!"

"I mean you acted on the impulse of the moment and never thought what
it would involve. The impulse was good, but it does not do to act on
impulse alone. You wanted to do a real kindness, but I doubt as a
matter of fact if it has proved anything of the sort. The children
will go back the worse rather than the better, as far as I can see,
for their visit. You see you consulted no one; and you are quite
ignorant of the poor of London, and have no idea how much supervision
these children really need if any good is to be done. I hope I am not
discouraging you?"

"I feel fearfully discouraged, all the more as every word you say is
true. I am afraid I am a creature of impulse. I wonder if I shall ever
do anything that is worth doing. I know too that I have worn everyone
out. I suppose you know Jane, nice Jane, has given warning."

"Yes, I know."

"And as for you, you are quite prostrate with it all, poor dear. I've
been simply horrid not to take you into account. I don't seem to give
pleasure to anyone."

"You can't say that, so long as I am with you," said Miss Gregson
patting the girl's hand.

"I'm afraid," said Sheila, "that you don't think I really ought to send
those children away."

"No, I don't. But it is no use keeping them if we do not make some
effort to make them better than when they came. I should advise you to
get in some nice woman who is used to children, to take the charge of
them while they are here. That will set us free to do what we can to
influence them aright."

"Oh, you must not expect me to do that," said Sheila, "it is quite
beyond me. Besides I want doing good to myself. But you, dear Angel,
will be able to talk to the children. I should like you to. But you
look dreadfully tired. I reproach myself very much. However," she added
suddenly with an amused twinkle in her eyes, "you have your dear little
pilules to keep you company. Did you remember to take one after every
shock you had, and was it ignatia this time or Bella Donna?" and with
this she rose laughing, and danced out of the room.

"Will the child ever steady down!" sighed Miss Gregson.



CHAPTER VII

ONE OF SHEILA'S SURPRISES

BUT Miss Gregson did not at all agree with Sheila in her opinion of the
children. To her they were not "little horrors" but lost lambs, for
whom the Good Shepherd of the sheep was seeking, and during the last
week of their stay at the Court she did what she could to tell them of
the Friend Who loved them.

Sheila took now but small notice of her young guests. She had secured
a nice woman from the village to look after them, one who knew how to
manage, having had children of her awn, and except for occasional games
Sheila saw little of them. She was tired, she informed Miss Gregson;
and they had utterly disappointed her by their rude and ungrateful
behaviour.

But Miss Gregson saw to it that the poor children had a thoroughly good
time, and that they enjoyed their last few days in the country.

As for Jemmy, he had stolen into her heart, and every evening she would
tuck him up in his little bed and give him a kiss.

"You're like mother, you are," he said one day after she had given him
his good-night kiss. "I'd just as soon stay on here as go back to her.
You'd do as well, and you're never drunk."

Miss Gregson was somewhat startled at the remark. She wondered wherein
the likeness lay.

"Do you love your mother, Jemmy?" she asked, looking down upon the
little pale face that rested amidst the white pillows.

"Yes, I love her well enough at times," he answered. "She kisses me at
night when she's sober, but she's just awful when she drinks. Are you
ever like that?"

"Like what, my dear?"

"Why, drunk of course. You've never given me any cuffs like mother when
she's in the drink. I had to go to the hospital once because she hit me
in the eye. Are you ever like that?"

The grave eyes looked earnestly up into the face bending over him,
while an overwhelming pity took possession of Miss Gregson, for the
little boy who evidently looked upon drinking mothers as an ordinary
fact of life.

After assuring him that she was never the worse for drink, she tried
to lead his thoughts into a happier groove before she left, and as she
told him a story of a little boy who grew up to be a useful strong man,
Jemmy's eyelids gradually closed in sleep.

Then Miss Gregson did what she felt was perhaps the surest way of
helping the little lad—she knelt by his bed and prayed to the Good
Shepherd.

Sheila was thankful when the last morning came, and the children were
packed off to London with arms full of presents, cakes, and good things
to take home. This part of the proceedings she really enjoyed. She had
spent a great deal of time over the choice of these presents in the
neighbouring town, the day before they left, and returned home in a
state of excitement with the parcels at the bottom of the cart.

When the children had gone and Miss Gregson had said goodbye to Jemmy
with tears in her eyes, Sheila stood at the window of the library
looking out into the garden, playing with the cord of the blind,
absently.

"I almost wish those children had never come," she said to Miss Gregson
who was knitting. "When they were here I longed to get rid of them, and
now that they have gone it seems rather dull. Why is it that one always
feels a little flat when anyone leaves, although one may not care for
them a bit!"

"It is partly the quiet no doubt," said Miss Gregson.

"Nothing ever satisfies me," said Sheila, "and everything is
disappointing. I looked forward to having those children, and to making
them happy, more than anything I can remember; and yet when they came
I passed them over very quickly to you, poor Angel. I don't know what
I should do without you! You really are an angel. You never grumble
at anything. I fancy sometimes that dear old Peter thinks I treat you
rather badly, I am selfish. Well, Walter, what is it?" for the butler
had made his appearance.

"It's a young girl, M'am, who is asking if you will be good enough to
allow her to sing to you. She's a tramp I take it, but looks so bad and
pale that I hadn't the heart to send her away."

"Where is she?"

"At the front door, M'am."

"I'll come," said Sheila.

Arrived at the door she found the girl seated in the hall looking
tired and ill, and the butler, who evidently did not like to leave her
unwatched under the circumstances, mounting guard over her.

"You can go, Walter," said Sheila and then turned to look at the girl.

Meg was leaning her head against the wall. Her eyes were closed. Her
lovely auburn hair was uncovered, for Jem's hat had come quite to an
end, and had to be left regretfully in a ditch. Sheila stood looking at
the girl and was struck by her beauty, and still more by the intense
weariness depicted on her face.

Meg's soft brown eyes gradually opened and she looked up and smiled.

"If you'll be so good as to let me rest a bit I'll sing to you, Miss,"
she said. "But till I sat down I didn't know I was so dead beat. I'm
just-played-out," then her head drooped and Sheila was only just in
time to catch her before she fell.

Her head was on Sheila's lap so that the latter could only call for
assistance and was thankful to see Miss Gregson hurrying towards her.

"Oh, Angel, I believe she's dying," she cried, "do get some brandy or
something to restore her."

Walter and Elsie the maid who had hurried to her help now ran off for
restoratives.

"Carry her up to the West room," said Sheila on their return.

"It's being scrubbed out, M'am," said Elsie, "and disinfected."

"Disinfected! What rubbish! Whose idea was that? I never gave orders
for it to be done."

"My dear, I thought it would be advisable," said Miss Gregson, thinking
to herself that Sheila's ignorance of the laws of hygiene was appalling.

"Well, if she cannot go there she must be taken into the blue room,"
said Sheila a little annoyed.

Miss Gregson interposed.

"Is that wise? It opens out of your own room, and you know nothing
about this girl. For all you know she may be one of a gang."

Sheila ignored this remark.

"To the blue room, Walter," she said, adding, "she's come to my very
door and I'm not going to turn her out."

It was on the tip of Miss Gregson's tongue to remark that no one had
suggested such a thing, but she wisely refrained; she knew that it
would be of no avail to advise further caution of any kind, or to
remind Sheila that there were other rooms more suitable for this poor
stranger.

Miss Gregson and Sheila followed Walter and Elsie as they carried Meg
upstairs and deposited her on the sofa.

Sheila leant over the girl, fanning her.

"Just about my age, Angel," she said, "and I have everything I want,
and she nothing."

The pity and emotion displayed on Sheila's face greatly pleased her old
friend, who had never known her to be so touched before by another's
sorrows.

Meg took some little time to recover from her swoon, and when she at
last opened her eyes she was too tired to speak, and was only conscious
that she lay on a comfortable couch by the window, through which came
the song of birds, and that a girl of about her own age was kneeling by
her side. She wondered vaguely if this was dying. If so she was glad to
die.

When the doctor, for whom Sheila had sent, arrived, he informed her
that the girl was half starved—and that a warm bath, food, and rest
were what she was chiefly in need of.

"Is this another of your hobbies, Miss Dennison?" he said as he left
the room. "I have heard of the children. How did that go off?"

"They only left this morning," said Sheila evasively. "I hope you do
not hold the same view as Miss Gregson, and think I ought not to take
this girl in without knowing more of her." Sheila looked at the doctor
half reproachfully.

"It is very charitable of you to harbour her," he said. "But you must
remember that there are many frauds about. It would be a pity to be
taken in yourself."

"A worse pity to let her starve!" said the girl hotly.

"Of course you must not let her starve. But there is moderation in all
things, and there is a medium course surely. However, I have no doubt
that this poor girl will reward you by her gratitude. She does not look
like a fraud, and she would certainly have died if no one had taken
pity on her."

Sheila held out her hand impulsively to the doctor while a rich colour
suffused her face.

"There," she said, "you have already given me my reward. To think that
my action has perhaps saved a girl from death! Do you really think
that?"

"I didn't mean that she would have died at once. But such privation
must eventually end that way. Even if you are deceived in her," he
added warmly, for the girl's enthusiasm had touched him, "you will know
you have done the kindest thing you could."

Sheila ran upstairs, two at a time, delighted. At last she had done
something that might be considered worth doing. Her eyes were bright
with excitement. And to increase her happiness the girl whom she
had apparently rescued from death was sweet to look upon and most
interesting.

The next day or two passed quickly in tending Meg, for Sheila would let
no one look after her but herself. Then she informed Miss Gregson of
her intention regarding the newcomer.

Miss Gregson and Sheila had just finished dinner and were lingering
over dessert when the bomb fell.

"I have determined to keep Meg altogether," Sheila announced.

"Altogether, my dear! Have you told her so?"

Miss Gregson remembered how soon the girl's enthusiasm with regard to
the children and her other hobbies had passed away; with what ardour
they had been ridden for a time, and how complete the collapses had
been! She trembled for the poor girl who lay upstairs in the blue room.

"Yes, I have told her so and you should have just seen her face."

"No doubt she is delighted," said Miss Gregson, a little pink flush
rising on her cheeks. "You will have her trained I suppose under Elsie.
She might possibly be made into a good lady's maid or housemaid."

"No such thing," said Sheila triumphantly. "My plan is much more
interesting than that. I am going to train her myself and to turn her
into a lady."

Miss Gregson dropped the nut crackers and stared.

Sheila laughed. She had been prepared for this and was enjoying herself
to the full.

"You always say I am surprising," she said, "but you never thought I
should be quite so surprising did you? Don't you think, dear Angel,
that you ought to take a little ignatia? I am really worse than the
bull. I see it in your face."

Miss Gregson ignored the remark about her medicine.

"You certainly take my breath away," she said as she lifted the nut
crackers again.

"I knew I should," said the girl gleefully. "I am full of plans. I
shall treat her just like a sister. She shall have everything that I
have, and in the first place she shall have some of my nice dresses to
wear. Oh, how I shall enjoy dressing her up! Think of her hair! How
magnificent it will look. And though her skin is of course very much
tanned I don't know that she will look any the less pretty for that.
Besides it will soon improve. You know the doctor told me distinctly
that I have saved her from death. That very fact binds us together with
a wonderful link. I'm quite sure I shall love her."

Miss Gregson leaned back in her chair and contemplated the girl's eager
face. She could not but admire the generous feeling that had prompted
the strange resolution on Sheila's part, but for all that she pitied
the poor girl who was to be the recipient of her charity. Knowing
Sheila as she did, she did not for a moment suppose that her enthusiasm
would last.

The day would surely come when she would turn to her old friend, as
she had lately done, and ask her to get her out of the difficulty. The
auburn hair and long eyelashes would not charm for ever.

And what was more, the poor girl, who had lived for years without a
single advantage, would soon show a want of refinement, and give way to
little habits of speech or roughness of voice, which, though they might
amuse Sheila for a time would assuredly offend her good taste before
long. Miss Gregson felt that for the sake of the poor pretty girl who
lay upstairs in the blue room, she must at least raise her voice in
remonstrance for once.

"My dear," she said, "I am afraid you are making a fatal mistake. Is it
unalterable?"

"Mistake! Fatal!" exclaimed Sheila, turning her surprised eyes on her
companion. "What can you mean? Surely if I like to adopt a girl I may
do so. And by the bye she is not nearly as old as I am. I thought she
was nineteen, I find she is only sixteen. I am so glad, as of course it
will make it easier for me to train her. Why, don't you see, that it
will be simply lovely to have a sister? I have longed for one."

"But you cannot expect a girl who has been on the tramp all her life to
be fit company for one who has been born and bred in the lap of luxury."

"But that is just the thing which makes it so delightful. It would not
be the faintest pleasure to me to adopt a girl who has had the same
good things as myself. Everything will be a treat to Meg. You should
just hear how she speaks even about the little blue room. It is to her
a kind of heaven. Now, Angel dear, do like my plan. You really must
sympathise with me, I am full of it."

While this conversation was going on, Meg lay in the blue room thinking
hard. At first when she found herself awakening, on the morning after
her arrival, in a comfortable bed surrounded with every care and
luxury, a feeling of great thankfulness overwhelmed her; and when
she discovered that the one who had encompassed her about with such
good things was a girl not much older than herself, she felt happy
and at ease. But when, after confiding her history to Sheila, the
latter broached the subject about which her mind was full, Meg drew
back. Her love of freedom was too great to allow her to fall in at
once with the wonderful suggestion that had been made to her. She was
taken so by surprise that her lips were tied for some time. It meant
turning her back on all for which she had been striving. She had looked
forward too long to Bostock's wild beasts to wish to give them up in
a moment, and she felt sure that Jem would never find her under such
novel circumstances. Besides, already she began to thirst for the open
air. Though it had seemed wonderful at first to be housed in such a
comfortable room and to rest her weary limbs on such a soft bed, she
was already beginning to pant for the open air and for freedom.

When Sheila had propounded her astonishing plan the warm colour had
suffused Meg's face and neck, which her companion had interpreted to
mean extreme pleasure; but it was fear, more than anything else; fear,
lest her plan of finding Bostock should be frustrated, and fear lest
she should lose her freedom.

At the same time she was conscious of the extreme kindness of the
proposal, which made the difficulty of refusing the offer ten times
worse. After such kindness showered upon her, how could she refuse?
So great was her perplexity that the idea of running away when strong
enough crossed her mind, but was banished almost as soon as thought of,
as the girl was no coward.

While Sheila was discussing her plan with Miss Gregson at the dinner
table, Meg lay thinking, in great distress of mind. She sat up in
bed panting at the very idea of living within four walls instead of
under the blue sky and shining stars. When Sheila, full of spirits and
satisfaction at having given Miss Gregson a shock of surprise, ran
upstairs, she found her patient leaning out of the window.

"Meg! Meg! what are you doing? You were not to get up the doctor said
till to-morrow. Get back to bed again."

Meg panted.

"I want the air," she said. "I want to lie under the stars again. I
ain't used to walls, Miss, they fairly choke me. Let me sleep under the
sky to-night."

"Indeed you will do no such thing," said Sheila authoritatively,
conscious of her superiority of age, "I want you to get well as soon as
ever you can."

Meg turned round after giving a hungry look at the sky. She knew it
would be ungrateful to do anything but obey. But her eyes were sad.
Sheila tucked her up again and then sat down on the bed.

"To-morrow," she said, "we'll have such fun. The doctor will let you
get up and you shall wear one of my pretty dresses, and Elsie shall do
up your hair like mine is done. Then I shall take you into the garden
and show you what your new home is like."

"The garden is lovely, ain't it?" said Meg, trying to appear interested.

"Yes, quite lovely. But you must not say 'ain't it', Meg. You are to be
my sister you know, and will have to try and talk like I do. We never
say 'ain't it.'

"I think I'd best be gone," murmured Meg.

"That I'm quite determined about," said Sheila. "I'll give you lessons
every day and explain just what you may say and may not say, and you'll
pick it up very quickly. Your tone of voice is quite sweet. It's only
just your expressions that need altering. Your voice is musical you
know. I expect it is because you sing. I want to hear you sing so much."

Meg turned her face away and tears trickled down her cheeks. She felt
desperately lonely. If only Jem knew where she was! Every word that
Sheila uttered seemed to make her feel more lonely, though she was
aware that her hostess meant to be kind.

"I want to lie under the stars," she murmured.

"You are much better in this comfortable bed," said Sheila.

"Is every window open?" asked the girl, sitting up with a wild look in
her eyes.

"No, I'll open them all quite wide. There! now you can see a lot of the
sky can't you?"

"Yes, that's better," said Meg, lying down again.

"I think you are tired," said Sheila, "so I'll go away. Try and go to
sleep, Meg, and dream of to-morrow. I feel so excited about it that I
don't believe I can sleep a wink. Good-night, dear." Sheila bent down
to kiss her.

It was the first kiss that Meg had ever received in her life. It
suddenly dawned upon her in a flash that her loneliness was passed. Why
should she cry? She had found a friend.



CHAPTER VIII

THE DRESSING UP OF MEG

THE dressing up of Meg was a business entirely after Sheila's heart.
She brought out all her pretty gowns and held them up in front of her
protégé to try their effect. It was not difficult to suit her. As dress
after dress was tried on, Sheila exclaimed in astonishment at the
extraordinary difference they made in the girl's appearance. As far as
looks went she was satisfactory.

She was delighted too at the admiration which her pretty clothes
excited in her protégé.

"My!" Meg would cry. "Ain't that just lovely!"

The tone of voice and the words spoken were so incongruous with the
dress and whole appearance of the speaker that it was all that Sheila
could do to keep her countenance. Her great aim however at present,
was to make her feel at home in her new surroundings, and to avoid
frightening her, so that expressions which were decidedly startling
were allowed to pass without comment; and with the optimism of youth
Sheila felt sure that she could in time cure Meg of all her dreadful
colloquialism if she devoted herself to her with this aim in view.

Meg was quite unconscious of the extraordinary effect her language,
combined with pretty clothes, produced on her companion. She was
beginning to feel at home with her, and talked as naturally as she
would have talked with Jem. It never struck her that different clothing
to that which she had been used, would necessitate a change of
vocabulary on her part, meaning great difficulty and an immense amount
of perseverance. Had she at this time realized what it would entail she
would have escaped at her first opportunity from Friars Court. Her love
of absolute freedom would have impelled this action on her part.

It was altogether an easier matter to improve her appearance than
her voice and grammar. For the girl had a charming figure, upright
and lithesome. Her movements were free and graceful. She swept about
in Sheila's long evening dresses as they were tried on one after
the other, laughing merrily as she caught sight of herself in the
pier-glass. When she laughed, her companion thought her lovely; her
expression was full of childish glee.

Few people could boast moreover of such glorious hair, and Elsie wound
it round her head in such a becoming way that the effect astonished its
possessor.

When the dress for the evening had been decided upon and the maid had
gone, Meg stood for some time surveying herself before the glass.
She could hardly believe that the girl who looked her in the eyes
was herself. She had never seen herself before, and what she saw now
astonished her. She had no idea that she was so beautiful. She placed
herself in different attitudes to see the effect, clasping her hands
behind her back, and over her head, then danced before her silent
audience. The excited colour spread over her face.

Sheila, who had left the room for a few minutes, returned to find her
laughing joyfully at her reflection in the glass.

"Ain't I lovely," she cried. "If only Jem would come along and see me
dressed up fine like this he'd be fairly stemm'd." Meg looked down
admiringly at the long clinging soft black skirt.

Sheila laughed.

"Who is Jem?" she asked, thinking to herself that the girl looked
almost regal.

"Jem's my pal. You'll see him soon I guess as he'll be looking for me
till he finds me, that's to say when Steve dies; he won't think of
leaving Steve till he dies, poor little chap."

This news took Sheila's breath away for a moment, she felt alarmed.

"But he didn't know, did he, where you were going when you left?" she
asked.

"Oh yes, he did. He knew right enough I was going to London, though of
course he didn't know no more than I did what places I should have to
pass through."

"I doubt if he'll ever find you, Meg," said Sheila, devoutly hoping
that this young man would not turn up.

"He'll come right enough," answered the girl with decision. "When Jem
says a thing he does it, and he's ever so fond of me. He'll find his
way somehow I reckon."

"Anyhow, he would scarcely recognise you now," said Sheila laughing.

Meg's face fell, it was a new idea.

"I think I'd best go back to my old clothes," she said, looking at the
same time regretfully at her lovely dress.

"You can't," said her companion gleefully, "they're burnt."

Meg, who was surveying herself somewhat regretfully in the long glass,
turned round suddenly upon her companion.

"Burnt!" she exclaimed fiercely. "How dare you burn my clothes? You
shouldn't ought to have done it!"

The girl felt she had been trapped. Her ships had been burnt behind
her. How could she ever return to her old life now, however much she
wished to! Besides which she felt her clothes to be a part of her old
familiar life—almost her friends—and the only property she possessed in
the world, the very sight of the faded green skirt would have reminded
her of the heather and bracken and the blue eyes of Jem. Her eyes
filled with tears, but they were tears of rage.

As for Sheila she was undergoing a new experience. She had not been
reproved since she was a child, her uncle having spoilt her hopelessly;
so to be called to book by this pretty beggar maid, diverted her
immensely, and would have done so more had it not been for the angry
flash of the brown eyes confronting her.

"You surely can't mind losing your old clothes, Meg, as you have such
lovely ones in their place. I never thought you would want to see them
again. I thought they would remind you of those sad times you have told
me about."

"But they were mine," said the girl with a passionate ring in her
voice. "You had no right to put 'em away without asking me. They didn't
belong to you."

"I'm so sorry," said Sheila really distressed. "I wish I hadn't done
it. I never thought you'd mind."

Meg made no answer, but the fact that her old clothes had been
consigned to the flames took away the pleasure for a time of the new
ones. However it was not long before she recovered, and that evening
she spent trying all the easy chairs and sofas in the drawing-room, and
looking curiously at the various bits of china and pictures.

It all seemed wonderful to her. She sometimes almost wondered if she
were still living in the same world, or if it was the beginning of
heaven. Sheila was so kind and interested in her that she could not but
be happy.

That night after saying good-night to Meg, Sheila went into Miss
Gregson's room to see her before going to bed.

"She's quite fascinating," pronounced the girl, "and how lovely she
looked in my black dress. And you can't think what a character she is.
She was tolerably quiet while you were in the room, but you should just
hear her when we are alone. She is the quaintest creature."

"She is certainly very pretty," said Miss Gregson, but she was so
certain that this fancy of Sheila's would not last, that her tone of
voice was not enthusiastic enough for her companion.

"I don't believe you approve of my plan of keeping her," said Sheila.

"I think it a doubtful experiment."

"But then every experiment is more or less doubtful, and if one was
always hesitating nothing would be done. However, I'm quite certain it
will succeed. If I have patience, Meg will soon get out of her tricks
of speech. I mean to devote myself to her."

"I don't quite understand why you object to having her properly trained
under Elsie. That would be doing something that might turn out to be a
real advantage to the girl."

"But that would be so ordinary. It's just what everyone else might do.
I can't move in a groove, I never could. Besides I love experimenting."

"But one must consider the good of the subject upon which one
experiments," said Miss Gregson.

"That's just what I am doing. What could be better for Meg than to be
treated as my sister? When once she learns to speak properly I mean to
take her about with me, and she shall share all my pleasures with me.
What could be happier?"

Miss Gregson was silent a moment then she said—

"I like to think that our Heavenly Father places us in just the
position of life in which we can best serve Him, and make the best of
our lives. I very much doubt if it is a happy thing for a girl to be
taken out of her station."

"It depends I should say on who gives her the lift up, and if she is
adaptable to circumstances."

"Not altogether. I wonder if it will really end in her happiness.
That girl is at present perfectly free and fearless. She has a strong
personality, and is just at the age when she is most easily influenced.
If she adapts herself too readily to the new world in which you are
about to place her, there is a chance of her being conformed to it, and
of it robbing her of her sincerity and unaffectedness."

"Oh, you dear old pessimist! I won't wait to hear any more of your
doleful prophecies," said Sheila laughing. "I only hope Peter will be
more hopeful. Anyhow, whatever anybody says I am bent on trying to turn
that pretty little tramp into a lovely lady. And I shall do it!" And
with a nod of determination Sheila left the room.



CHAPTER IX

PETER'S OPINION

WHO on earth was that?

Peter Fortescue had come to see Sheila after having been away for three
weeks, and as he made his way towards some chairs he saw placed on the
lawn, he had come face to face with a stranger.

What a lovely girl! He had never seen such a wealth of auburn hair or
such expressive eyes as she turned towards him. He was perfectly sure
too that she was wearing one of Sheila's dresses.

Where had this new friend of Sheila's sprung from?

Peter lifted his hat and asked if she could tell him where Miss
Dennison could be found. The answer, or rather the words in which the
answer was given, gave him a shock. It neither matched the face nor the
frock. What did it mean? This must be due to some freak of his young
cousin—some preposterous freak.

He turned in search of her and on entering the hall caught sight of
Sheila flying down the stairs to meet him.

"I've got such a surprise for you," she exclaimed. "Have you seen her?"

"I suppose your surprise is sitting at this moment in the garden, isn't
she?" said Peter.

"Don't you think her lovely? And did you notice her hair? Come," she
added, "I want to tell you all about it."

Sheila led the way into the library where she told her story.

"You are not half so interested in it as I thought you would be,"
said the girl, when somewhat out of breath she came to an end of her
explanation, "or is it that you don't approve. You might say something."

"You have not given me time to speak," said Peter laughing. "We can't
both talk at once."

"How disagreeable you are! I've been longing to tell you, and you make
no comment whatever."

"Do you want me to say what I really think about it? Yes? Very well
then; I wish you had consulted me before you made any definite plan
about keeping this girl. The plan is fraught with difficulties, and in
fact is quite impossible."

"But what difficulties are there? I could understand your view if Meg
was not a really nice girl, but she is sweet, and so ready to learn.
She is a most apt pupil."

"Then you have, I suppose, constituted yourself as her teacher?"

"Yes, why not? You laugh, Peter, but I can do rather more than you
imagine when I put my mind to it. I mean to turn her out a lady."

"My dear child, ladies are not turned out."

"Well then I mean to help her to grow into a lady, is that better? She
is trying hard to copy me, and it is quite touching to see what pains
she takes in speaking. But come, I want you to talk to her," she added,
as she led the way into the garden.

"By the by," said Peter, "has this young woman relations or friends who
are likely to demand her?"

"I'll tell you about that another time," said Sheila as they came in
sight of Meg.

The girl rose at the sound of their voices. She was wearing a tweed
coat and skirt and white blouse, and as she stood under the chestnut
tree, her auburn hair gleaming in the sunshine, Peter could not but
confess to himself that she was extraordinarily pretty. There was no
timidity about her; she looked him straight in the face with fearless
eyes.

"You've chosen a lovely spot for your chair," said Peter.

"Yes," answered Meg, "it's just lovely. Them flowers are gorgeous in
that bed there, I've seen none like 'em. The heather and the bracken is
all I know about, you see."

"Then you know about something very beautiful," answered Peter. "There
is nothing more lovely than heather and bracken. Even this garden does
not come up to a Scotch moor."

"Yes," said Meg simply, "when the sun shines on it or the clouds pass
over it, turning it all colours, the heather is just beautiful."

Sheila stood by delighted at the impression that she was convinced Meg
was making on Peter. She was pleased too as she noticed that the girl
was taking special pains to speak softly. Sheila had talked a great
deal to her about her voice, and her words were evidently taking effect.

So anxious was Sheila to hear Peter's opinion of her protégé that she
would not allow him to stay too long talking with her.

"I have a lot to talk over with you," she said after a few minutes
conversation. "Come and see the new beds I have had arranged by the
lake." Then when they were out of earshot she asked, "Well? didn't I
describe her correctly? Don't you think she is lovely?"

"Yes. But I don't approve of the plan any more than I did."

"Don't approve! Why, what is wrong with her?"

"Nothing. She strikes one as a thoroughly nice young woman, but I
think it is the most cruel thing you can do for her, to rob her of her
freedom and to keep her here."

Sheila stood still, confronting Peter with an expression of deep
indignation in her eyes.

"Cruel? What on earth do you mean? I'm doing the kindest thing I
possibly can. I'm treating her like a sister. She is to share my
pleasures and all that I have. I can't understand what you mean."

"I'll tell you what I mean. When I was a boy we brought from Wales a
little dog to which I took a great fancy, it belonged to a woman who
lived on the mountains, and the dog had lived a thoroughly free life. I
took it to London; we were living there at the time. The dog could only
be taken for walks at stated times and its whole manner of life was
changed. What do you think was the consequence? It drooped and died."

"That has nothing in the world to do with the question," said Sheila
crossly.

"On the contrary. That girl taken out of her proper environment will
suffer. She is a girl of the heather, and is not intended for your
world and its ways. I consider it is cruel kindness on your part to
make the experiment."

"Then I won't talk to you any more," said Sheila crossly, "I hate
pessimistic people. I consider it very wrong of you not to try and
encourage me in this good work. You are just like Miss Gregson. She
throws cold water on the whole thing. You had better go and groan over
it together. You are much more suited to her company than to mine."



CHAPTER X

GOLDEN CHAINS

MEG soon grew to like the luxury of living in a comfortable house and
among people who really cared for her.

At first she had felt stifled by the soft carpets, rich curtains, and
closed doors; and there were times when she had had to run out into the
garden and breathe the pure air of heaven to satisfy the cravings of
her nature.

Sheila began to understand these sudden movements on the part of her
protégé. As the Autumn drew to a close and winter set in, bringing
with it warm fires and closed windows and doors, she noticed that the
girl grew restless, and often when in the act of reading to her, Meg
would spring up, catching her breath. "I must have air," she would say,
and before there was time to answer she would have left the room and
escaped into the garden. Then Sheila who had forgotten the necessity
of air for her protégé would fling open all the windows in the hope of
tempting her back again.

But those sudden movements on the part of Meg became less frequent, and
the girl gradually got reconciled to all the comforts of the house, and
to really like its luxuries. Her past life began to seem a long way
off, and as every day she grew to love Sheila more, even the thought
of Jem was thrown into the background, and she strove as hard as she
could to do Sheila credit, and to drop all that was out of place in the
behaviour and conversation of a gentlewoman.

Sheila had been right in assuring Peter that the girl was
extraordinarily quick to adapt herself to her environment. Miss Gregson
was touched again and again to see how Meg studied her friend's
behaviour and attitudes, and copied them. She was her ideal in
everything.

Miss Gregson herself was greatly loved by the girl for taking such
pains with her education, for Sheila soon tired of teaching reading
and writing, and passed her over to her kind old friend who was glad
of this piece of work; it gave her the opportunity of teaching Meg
more than mere earthly knowledge. Gradually she taught the girl to
understand that there was One above Who rules our lives, and that
"Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down
from the Father of Lights, with Whom is no variableness, neither shadow
of turning."

"You must remember, my dear child," she would say, "that change is our
portion here, as you have indeed found, change in our lives and in our
friends; but supposing everything should change and every person we
know and love cease to care for us, we still have God, Who changes not."

Miss Gregson could never forget when talking to her eager pupil, now so
happy and contented with the good things which were being showered upon
her, that the day might not be far distant when Sheila, notwithstanding
all her good intentions, might tire of her new hobby, and she
determined to do all she could to prepare the girl for that day should
it ever come, so that Meg should not be anchorless or rudderless when
the storms of life swept over her.

Meg proved herself an adept pupil as far as reading, writing, and
arithmetic were concerned. Moreover, because she wanted to do credit to
Sheila, she spent hours over her lessons and took immense pains with
her voice and grammar.

At the close of her first year at Friars Court few would have imagined
had they seen and heard the girl for the first time, what had been her
origin, or under what circumstances she had come to live at the Court.
It was only when she was entirely off her guard that she would relapse
into her old way of speaking, and use the expressions to which Sheila
so objected.

Meanwhile Meg was growing more and more accustomed to her new life, and
thought as rarely as she could of the old. In fact her past seemed to
her a kind of nightmare. She could hardly believe that she was the same
girl who used to tramp the lanes footsore and weary, and be thankful if
she had a bed of clean straw to sleep upon. At times she would dream
that she was back again in the van enduring all the hardships and rough
treatment of those days, dreading to hear the tap, tap of the wooden
leg of her 'father,' and the oath that would be flung at her if she
had earned no money by her singing. She would wake trembling, to find
herself lying in her little white bed with the scent of lavender around
her, and the roses nodding in at the window.

There were other times, however, in which the longing for freedom
took possession of her, and these times occurred as a rule after some
mark of Sheila's disapproval had been evident, for at the close of
the second year, Meg was conscious that her friend was not as easy to
please as formerly. Any slight trip in the matter of words or manner on
her part quickly called down the wrath of her patroness.

Meg did not know that as the newness of the situation wore off, Sheila
found it difficult to be patient with her mistakes, neither did she
know that the very fact of her showing so plainly her love and devotion
had the effect of irritating her friend. Meg supposed the irritation
that would sometimes arise was due to her own stupidity in not more
quickly adapting herself to circumstances, and determined to make still
greater efforts to please.

But the very efforts had the opposite effect, for they made her
unnaturally careful in her pronunciation and manner, and this Sheila
felt at times unbearable. Meg did not know that the only way to keep
her friend's affection was never to show signs of weakness or to knock
under to her. Sheila had to be dealt with as a nettle, which unless
grasped fearlessly, stings. Her protégé's very anxiety to please or
rather not to offend, provoked her; in plain words she was growing
tired of her newest hobby.

Her change of front towards Meg had the effect at times of making the
latter pant for freedom. The effort to please robbed her of the ability
to live her own life and to be herself. She felt tied and bound, and
yet she would not for the world have obtained freedom if it would mean
leaving Friars Court. She could not contemplate that for a moment. The
longer that she was there the more passionately she grew to love it
and all that it meant. But for all that, she felt at times like a bird
beating its wings against the bars of its golden cage. And yet had the
cage been opened she would not have flown away.

One morning in the early summer Meg came down to breakfast looking
rather sad. She did not enter much into the conversation, and when
she had finished breakfast she sat looking out into the garden with a
wistful expression of face.

Sheila was in very good spirits, talking over with Miss Gregson a
garden party that she meant to give soon. She was going to procure a
band from London, but the chief item of the programme was to be a song
from Meg. Sheila had given her singing lessons, and the girl's voice
had grown both in power and sweetness. No one but Miss Gregson had ever
heard her sing; not even Peter, as Sheila was bent on giving him a
surprise.

She was vexed at Peter's very sparse praise of her protégé.

She could hardly get him to talk about Meg, and took his silence to
mean that he had not forgiven her for adopting the girl without asking
his advice. She felt sure he had expected some terrible consequences,
and perhaps was annoyed that his pessimistic prognostications had not
come to pass. No harm whatever had happened from her action. It had all
turned out as she had hoped it would, and Peter must be aware of this,
she thought to herself, but manlike would be slow in acknowledging
that an unusual proceeding on the part of a woman had turned out so
thoroughly satisfactory.

She was triumphant at the thought of the surprise she was bent upon
giving. Peter was musical, and would at once acknowledge that Meg's
voice was as good as any professional's.

Meg took no part in the discussion that was going on between her
companions. She sat gazing out of the window wistfully.

Suddenly Sheila became aware that the girl was not listening. "What are
you thinking of?" she asked.

Meg started.

"I've had a dream," she said colouring.

"A dream? Let's hear it. Was it anything very tragic?"

"It was about Jem," faltered the girl.

"Jem? Who's Jem?" Sheila had quite forgotten that Meg had told her on
first arriving about this friend of hers.

"He was my pal—I mean," she added hastily, "my friend."

Sheila coloured with vexation at the unlucky word that had slipped out
so naturally from Meg's lips, notwithstanding all her lectures; but she
did not interrupt the girl, as she was anxious to hear what the dream
was about.

"I was in the cage with Bostock's lions," continued Meg, still looking
away from her companions, "when I caught sight of a face that I knew.
It was Jem's face."

"Well?" questioned Sheila. She was feeling irritated with the girl for
recalling those old days. She wanted them to be forgotten. But she was
curious also as to the end of the dream. "Well?" she asked.

But Meg's tears began to fall, and knowing how Sheila disliked want of
self-control she left the room.

Miss Gregson rose to follow her.

"Don't go," said Sheila irritably. "I can't think why she should be so
stupid as to mind a dream about those horrid people. They are nothing
to her now and never will be. Besides, she ought to have learnt by this
time to control herself. If I have told her once I have told her a
dozen times that she must never show her feelings in that way."

But Miss Gregson, though she considered Sheila's wishes at the time,
before long found an opportunity to knock at Meg's door. The girl was
sitting by the table, her face hidden in her folded arms. She looked up
as Miss Gregson came in.

"What is it, my dear, that is troubling you?" she asked.

"It's Jem," she sobbed.

"What about Jem?"

Meg sat up drying her tears.

"I was in the cage all among Bostock's beasts," she explained gazing
at her companion with sad eyes, "and I looked up and saw Jem. He was
trying to tear down the bars of the cage and calling out to me, but I
wouldn't listen or look at him again. I didn't want to see him, you
see." Meg hid her face again and shook with sobs.

"My dear child you must remember it was only a dream," said Miss
Gregson kindly. She put her hand on the bowed head and gave it a kind
little pat.

"But," sobbed the girl, "if Jem came now and I heard him call to me I'm
not quite sure that I'd go.''

"But I don't suppose Jem is ever likely to come, and if he did I'm not
at all sure that it would not be right for you to run away from him."

Meg raised her head and looked at her companion.

"You don't know Jem," she said softly, "nor how good he was to me."

No, Miss Gregson did not know Jem, but she knew enough of the world to
believe that no event could probably be worse for the girl before her
than to find her old companion and chum. She did not suppose that he
was unlike other tramps. But she kept her thoughts to herself.

"Well, dear child, I think you had better put your dream quite out of
your head, and get something to occupy your mind at once," and with a
kind smile she left the room.

But Meg could not so easily forget her dream. All through the day she
kept asking herself the question, "Do I love Jem less just because I
have now so much more? Could I possibly share the old life again with
him? the hardships, the squalor, the hunger? And yet Jem was my best
and only friend in those days, and if it had not been for him I should
never have lived to have the good things that I now have." The question
worried and harassed her, and took away from the pleasure of motoring,
in the afternoon, to a place twenty miles away which was famed for its
ruined castle and lovely view, an expedition to which she had looked
forward eagerly.

"If you think of that young man any more," said Sheila severely, after
some time of silence, "I shall turn back. You are most uninteresting
this afternoon."

So the girl had to pull herself together and banish thoughts of Jem and
his voice calling her.



CHAPTER XI

SHEILA IS NOT PLEASED

MEG was sitting under the chestnut tree preparing her lesson for Miss
Gregson. A tempting array of cakes and biscuits were on the table
before her, and Walter, the butler, was simply waiting for the return
of Sheila and Miss Gregson, who had driven into the town to shop and to
change the library books, to bring up the hot buttered toast and tea.

Meg was dressed in white, with a bunch of carnations at her waist.
Her auburn hair, picturesquely arranged at the back of her head, was
shining in the sunlight which came in patches through the leaves of the
tree.

She was so engrossed with her occupation that she did not see Peter
Fortescue approaching with a friend. They were close to her before she
looked up with a start to find them. Peter introduced his friend as Mr.
Poynter, and sat down by Meg's side.

"Now what were you so engrossed with I wonder so that our approach made
no impression upon you?" he asked.

Meg coloured. She was conscious that there were very few girls of her
age who would be occupied with such a simple lesson book; but though
she did not want Peter's friend to know what she was about, she was on
too intimate terms with Peter himself to mind, so put the book into his
hands with a little laugh.

Peter saw at a glance what it was, and smiled back.

"Where is Sheila?" he asked.

"She has gone to Elminster with Miss Gregson. I am expecting them back
every minute." Then she looked doubtfully at Peter. "Do you think it
would be right to have up tea before she comes? Or had we better wait?"

Meg never lost her anxiety to please her friend and to do the right
thing. Though Sheila was only three years older than herself and was
constantly telling her she must behave as if she belonged to the house,
the girl felt in awe of her benefactor and was not certain of her
approval if she attempted to do the natural thing at all times. So she
looked hesitatingly at Peter.

"Yes," he said, "let us have tea without waiting. It is long past five,
and my friend here is thirsty. Go and tell Walter."

Mr. Poynter wondered who the pretty girl could be. Peter had forgotten
to mention her to him, and her beauty had taken him by surprise. He
was still more surprised at a certain diffidence of manner that seemed
unnatural under the circumstances.

During the few minutes that they were left alone his wonder increased.
He could find no point of union whatever with the girl by his side. Meg
knew nothing of the world save that which she had seen while tramping
the lanes in company with Jem's uncle and aunt, and what she had learnt
during her two years at Friars Court, so that it seemed to Mr. Poynter
impossible to find a subject on which they could meet. Where could this
pretty girl have been educated, he wondered, or had she just emerged
from a convent?

They were both relieved when Peter made his appearance again. But even
then the conversation somehow flagged. Peter was anxious not to talk of
matters about which Meg knew nothing, and yet the kind of conversation
that as a rule he took part in with the girl was not such that would
interest his friend. He knew at once from the hopelessly perplexed
expression on Meg's face when they had got beyond her depth, or were
using words which had no meaning for her. So to keep up appearances,
and not to leave her out in the conversation, he would turn towards her
asking for her opinion, and when she hesitated, he would supply the
answer himself.

When Walter arrived with the tea, Meg looked at Peter hesitatingly.

"Had you better pour out or shall I?" she asked.

"You, by all means. You may be sure that I should make a muddle of it."

Mr. Poynter was amazed to notice with what nervousness the girl
performed her duty. So engaged was she over it that she listened no
more to the conversation, and Peter felt it was safe to indulge in a
subject in which he knew she would not be able to join. It turned on
the question as to which was the strongest factor in life, heredity or
environment. Suddenly Mr. Poynter turned round to the girl with the
question—

"Don't you agree with me that environment has a greater influence than
heredity?"

Meg coloured. She had no idea what the word environment meant. She
looked across at Peter, who smiled at her encouragingly.

"Don't answer that question," he said laughing. "He wants to get you
on his side, and then there will be two against one, that would not be
fair, would it? Come now you are forgetting, and are actually giving me
sugar? You ought to remember after what occurred at the picnic."

Meg looked her gratitude. She knew Peter had understood her appeal
for help and had got her purposely out of a difficulty. That was
like Peter. She had noticed that trait in him a hundred times. He
never liked to see anyone placed in an awkward position. Many a time
indeed he had come to her rescue when Sheila had felt it her duty to
administer a snub. But the question Mr. Poynter had asked had made her
nervous, and she nearly upset a teacup which she was handing across to
him, but which Peter rescued in time.

They were laughing over the averted catastrophe when Sheila and Miss
Gregson drove up to the house.

The former looked in astonishment at the group round the tea-table and
was not too pleased with what she saw. Peter had just discovered that
some tea had fallen on Meg's pretty dress and was drying it with his
pocket handkerchief amidst a good deal of laughter.

"What is Meg doing?" exclaimed Sheila to Miss Gregson. "She might at
least have waited to have tea till I returned. She is evidently acting
the hostess to Peter and a stranger."

Sheila quite forgot that she had many a time tried to impress upon Meg
that she was to consider herself, and to act, as her sister, and now
that the girl had obeyed her she was not altogether pleased.

Meg, just because she loved her so much, was at once conscious that
Sheila was displeased with her as she walked across the lawn towards
the group by the table. Her gaiety fled. Had she done wrong in having
up tea? Ought she to have waited? Or perhaps Peter after all should
have poured out. Of course being what she was she had no right to take
Sheila's place. The girl was perplexed and uncomfortable.

Peter introduced his friend to Sheila.

"I've heard of you," she said, "and Peter promised that the next time
you were at Nettlebrook he would bring you over." Then she looked at
Peter. "I'm glad you have had tea. Is it cold? Miss Gregson and I are
dying for it." She ignored Meg altogether.

"I think I heard that Walter was to bring some fresh tea when you
arrived, did I not?" said Peter looking towards Meg who had not as yet
learnt to hide her feelings and was sitting in a dejected attitude next
to Mr. Poynter. "We've not transgressed I hope in having it up before
you arrived, Sheila? But it is, you know, long past five, and Poynter
and I walked over from Nettlebrook and were impatient."

"Long passed five?" exclaimed Sheila. "I had no idea it was so late. I
am thankful that you did not wait. Ah here it is," then she looked at
Meg with a smile. "Pour it out please as you are near the teapot."

Peter noticed how Meg's whole expression of face changed. Once more she
was sunning herself in Sheila's smiles.

When after tea Sheila took Mr. Poynter to see the gardens, Meg sat down
by Peter and sighed.

"Oh! I feel so dreadfully ignorant. What does heredity and environment
mean?

"Heredity means the transmission or passing of characteristics of
parents to their children, and environment means surroundings. But you
need not feel uncomfortable about it. Poynter had no idea that you
failed to answer because you did not know what the words meant."

"But I feel so ignorant! I'm afraid I shall never be able to take my
place in Sheila's world as she hopes. Sometimes at meals when Miss
Gregson and she are talking I don't know what they mean by the things
they say."

"I hope you ask when you don't know? That is the only way to learn."

"I don't like to ask. It's a trouble to people if I do. I'm ignorant
you see about so many things. I've had hardly any schooling, as we were
continually on the move. I want to know such a lot of things." Then she
added after a pause, "What I want to know more than anything else, is
about God. Why is it that no one mentions Him?"

"Sometimes it is from cowardice."

"From cowardice! But how do you mean? If God is really what Miss
Gregson tells me He is, He is King of Kings. Why should people be
ashamed of mentioning Him?"

"It does seem strange certainly when one comes to think of it. But I
suppose it arises from the fact that in the world people are considered
somewhat peculiar who bring the subject of religion forward, and it is
always difficult to swim against the stream. I suppose, however, if one
runs it to its source, it is because there is so little true faith. If
people really believed in a God Who is the King of Kings they would
find no difficulty in mentioning His name. But one must remember too
that many a man is conscious that his life is not what it should be,
that he feels that he has no right to talk of God before others for
fear of bringing dishonour on His name."

Peter was silent for a moment then added, "I suppose one should also
take into account the difference of temperament. Some naturally speak
of things nearest to their hearts, while others are so reserved that
they feel their tongues tied when perhaps they are wishing to speak.
If a man really believes in God and loves Him and makes it his aim to
serve Him, God stands for more in his life than anything or anybody,
and if he is naturally reserved, he feels as if he cannot speak of his
faith, because it means so much to him."

"Does God mean all that to you?" asked Meg softly.

"Yes. I try to think that God stands for all that in my life."

"I am glad. You are the second person that I have met here who believes
in God. Does Sheila?"

"Surely, why should you doubt it?"

"Because she never mentions Him. And yet she talks about everyone else
she cares about."

Peter was silent. Meg's words had set him thinking. It was the first
time in his life that he had had this kind of conversation. Had anyone
else ventured to talk about the secrets of his soul to him he would
have shut him up at once. But Meg's simplicity, together with her
evident longing to know something about God, had been the means of
opening his mouth, and he was astonished to find how natural it had
been to talk to her on the subject, about which he had spoken to no
one since his confirmation, when he had learnt through the lips of his
vicar what God might be to him.

His reverie was broken in upon by Meg saying—

"I'm so glad I am getting to know a little more. I used to look up at
the stars at night and wonder all kinds of things, why I was I, and
what we were all here for. And I wondered if anything was beyond the
stars, and if the God, whose name I sometimes heard spoken in oaths,
was really anywhere. But I can't explain: do you understand what I
mean? I think Jem did, but he could only feel; I guess he could not
talk."

"Yes, I think I understand," answered Peter. Then after a pause he
asked, "Who was Jem?"

"Part of my old life; he was my very best friend. I know I once
mentioned God to him and he smiled at me. He could not say his thoughts
out aloud you know. He was slow in thinking and speaking. But I think
now, that God may have meant to Jem what He means to you. Although of
course he was not clever like you are, and would not have known so
much."

"Cleverness has nothing to do with the matter," said Peter.

"Hasn't it? I'm glad of that, for I feel to know nothing. Do I make a
very great many mistakes when I talk?" she added. "I want to pay Sheila
back for all she has done for me, by learning quickly what I ought to
know. Do tell me. Am I very unlike other girls in my behaviour or talk?"

"I think you are wonderful," said Peter. "Of course you make mistakes
sometimes, but they are becoming fewer and fewer."

"I'm so glad to think that. You see I have Sheila to copy, and that is
everything. I would do anything in the world for her—anything. When I
think of what she has done for me and the life she has saved me from, I
seem to want to do something great for her."

Meg's eyes were shining, as she bent forward eagerly to look at Peter.

"What can those two be talking about," thought Sheila as she suddenly
came in sight of them. For the second time this afternoon she was not
pleased. Meg seemed to her to be getting a little uppish. Had all the
luxury and good things that she had showered upon her begun to spoil
her? Anyhow Sheila was determined to put an end to that absorbing
conversation and so wafted Peter off to another part of the garden,
leaving Meg to entertain his friend as best she could.

"Well, how do you like Poynter?" asked Peter. "He was very anxious to
see you."

"He is quite nice. You must bring him over again if he stays long
enough. Will he be here next month?"

"No, he has to go next week."

"What a pity, as he could have come to my party and have heard the
singer who is to make her debut on that day."

"What party and what singer? I've heard nothing about it."

"No I have only just decided. Now, Peter, I want you to keep a secret
and to do all you can to help me. I've been longing to tell you about
my plan."

"Who is the singer and when is the concert to be?"

"On the twelfth of July. Now don't say you cannot come."

"That is the very day I am due at Plymouth."

"You mustn't go, that's all. You must put off your engagement whatever
it is."

"Why didn't you consult me before you fixed the date if you wanted me
to come?"

"I never wait for that kind of thing. Why, you know, Peter, I always
act on the spur of the moment; it is not in me to wait; and I have been
writing all the invitations this morning."

"I suppose then I shall have to give up Plymouth," said Peter with one
of his kind smiles.

"Of course you will, for I can't really change my day for that. I've
written already to engage the band, and my singer has booked the day.
You can't get a great singer to change her day just because one of the
audience wishes to go to Plymouth, can you?" Sheila laughed contentedly
now that she had won her point.

"And who is the singer?"

"Will you promise me to keep a secret? It is Meg. I have, as you know,
been giving her lessons and she is to make her debut at my garden
party. You don't seem half as surprised as I thought you would be."

Peter smiled.

"There! that's what I can't stand. You never will be taken by surprise.
It's most provoking of you. And if you smile at me again I shall
scream."

Peter laughed.

"What do you want me to do? I'll try to fall in with your wishes."

"Now don't be exasperating. I want you to say something. If you like
my plan say so. If you don't tell me why. Only I really can't stand
another wordless smile."

"I wonder why you object to my smile?"

"Because your smile so often covers your disapproval. I have found that
out. I would a hundred times rather that you spoke and let out."

"I like to think before I speak. My opinions are not formed like yours,
at motor speed. All the time, though it may be difficult for you to
believe, I am going through the pros and cons of the situation."

"Well, and what is your conclusion?"

"In the first place I should like to know what Meg thinks of the plan.
Does she approve?"

"Very much so; she is used to singing before people and has not an atom
of fear."

"Before people! Yes, but what people? Her audience at your garden party
will be scarcely of the same class as those to whom she was used to.
Does she realise what it will mean?"

"Yes, and really Meg is very nice. She assures me that even if she did
object she would make an effort for my sake. You see she is very fond
of me and knows she owes everything to me."

"Still I don't think she should be asked to make too great an effort;
however, from what you say she will not feel it to be an effort at all.
But are you sure that she is fitted for such an audience?"

"Fitted! Why, Peter, she has a glorious voice. And think of the lessons
I have given her. Of course she is fitted. You really must leave that
to me."

"You have not taken her to any parties as yet have you?"

"No. I waited till she was ready for it. People only know that I have
had a girl with me for the last two years, they know very little about
her. And I want her to be a surprise."

"You don't suppose, do you, that the circumstances of your adoption of
her is not known? My dear child we cannot live in this world without
our actions being criticised. Everyone knows about Meg, you may be
sure."

"Well, that will be all the more exciting. When they see her they will
never think that she is the one they have heard about. She really can
quite pass for a lady couldn't she?"

"Quite, as far as her looks go. And it certainly is wonderful how she
has copied you and adapted herself to her new environment. But let me
give you a hint my dear girl. Don't overawe her. That will give her
away at once. Even if she makes mistakes at your party take no notice
of them. Let her be natural; a person never shines if she is wondering
all the time if she is doing the right thing. You have no idea what
your approval means to Meg. She must forget you if she is to be a
success at your party."

"Must she?" said Sheila doubtfully.

"Yes, I am sure of it. I have been watching her this afternoon and have
been quite struck by the difference in her when you are near. When you
are away she is perfectly natural."

"I wonder if you are right," said Sheila ponderingly. "I've noticed
lately that she is more diffident than she used to be. It somehow
provokes me. Perhaps I nag at her too much."

"Don't nag, and don't try and tame her too much. Remember she is a girl
of the heather, a kind of wild bird. You have put her into a golden
cage, but don't take away all her freedom."

"But she makes such mistakes. I have to try and teach her the ways of
my world if she is to be treated as my sister."

Peter shook his head.

"Well anyhow," he said, "don't try and make her like yourself.
Imitations are always uninteresting and generally bad."



CHAPTER XII

MISS GREGSON'S HEART SINKS

"I hope I was not wrong in having up tea before you came home this
afternoon," said Meg, "Mr. Fortescue and his friend were just awful
hungry."

Her companion hastily put her hands over her pretty little ears,
exclaiming—

"Awful hungry! Oh Meg, how can you say such things! It is better not to
talk at all than to make such fearful mistakes."

"I'm sorry," said Meg miserably.

"I wonder how you have been talking to Mr. Fortescue and his friend,"
continued Sheila severely, "and, by the bye, you must try and not look
quite so eager during your conversations. It's scarcely the thing to
show your feelings in the way that you do. People of the world in which
you now live, do their utmost to hide emotion. When a girl looks with
such extraordinary animation into the face of her companion as you were
doing this afternoon, it attracts attention and makes one wonder what
the conversation is about. What were you talking about?"

Meg was silent. If it had not been Sheila who was questioning her she
would have been angry, but anger with Sheila was quite out of the
question. Had not she done everything in the world for her? But for all
that the girl was silent for a moment; not because she did not wish her
companion to know what her conversation with Peter had been about, but
because she found it difficult to explain herself.

They were sitting in the garden after dinner with their books, but
neither of them had made much progress in their reading as both were
busy with their thoughts. Sheila had forgotten her vexation with her
protégé and was going over in her mind her conversation with Peter,
when Meg interrupted her train of thought by her question. Now however
that her companion had reminded her of the events of the afternoon her
old feeling of vexation returned.

"I was telling Mr. Fortescue how ignorant I felt," said Meg.

"I almost think that you had better make those kind of confessions to
me," said Sheila coldly. "We don't want to be constantly reminding
people of our mistakes. The great thing, Meg, is to try with all your
power to improve. Now at this concert that I am giving next month, do
try and remember that it is far better to be silent than to forget your
grammar and to use those terrible expressions."

Meg, who two years ago had been wishing to tame lions, was entirely
shorn of her strength by the young girl beside her. She was conscious
that in Sheila's presence she had no courage. A look of reproach or
anger from her benefactor, though only a girl of twenty-one, was more
appalling to her than the roar of a lion. She sometimes wondered at
herself, as she remembered how in the old days the only thing she was
in the least afraid of was her supposed father's stick, and even then
she would never confess or show her fear. Now however the fear of
disappointing her friend was so great that she lived a life of dread;
and every day the feeling of nervousness increased.

When Sheila had first taken her up and showered gifts upon her Meg was
much less afraid of her benefactress than she was now, and consequently
was more natural in her behaviour. Everything she did then pleased
her friend, who would constantly praise her for her efforts to break
herself of little habits and expressions that belonged to her old
life. Now Sheila seldom praised, and had grown much more critical;
consequently her protégé had become nervous, and made many more
mistakes than formerly.

As Sheila took up her book to read her companion followed her example,
but both girls' thoughts were engaged with one another. Sheila was
thinking how tiresome Meg was growing, and Meg was wondering what she
had done to make Sheila speak and look so coldly at her. Did not she
like her talking to Peter? Perhaps it was not the correct thing to do.
The girl wished she knew more of the world and its ways: she was afraid
that through ignorance she made endless mistakes, which must vex her
friend who had done so much for her. It seemed to Meg that there was
really no such thing as freedom in Sheila's world. There were evidently
so many rules and regulations, about which she knew nothing, which
could not fail to rob a person of her individuality. If only she might
be herself and act without fear of making some terrible mistake.

The girl let her book fall on her knee and looked around at the lovely
garden, feeling it for the moment to be a prison. Her old longing for
freedom took possession of her. What would she not give to be out on
the wide heath able to live her own life without let or hindrance! The
scent of the heather and bracken seemed to be wafted to her. She closed
her eyes in the hope of being better able to realise it, but instead of
the wide heath there came the sound of the tap, tap of her 'father's'
wooden leg, and she looked up quickly with a sense of gratitude that
she was at Friars Court, protected from all the misery and evils that
had surrounded her old life. And, after all, how she loved the place.
What could she have been dreaming about to think for a moment that the
heath was preferable. Meg looked gratefully at Sheila. She fancied she
saw her shiver.

She rose at once to fetch a shawl. When she appeared with it over her
arm, her friend looked up with an annoyed expression on her face.

"I knew you had gone for that, but I am not in the least cold. Who
could be on such an evening? I wish you would not watch my every
movement, Meg, in the way you do. It quite gets on my nerves." She
ended her sentence with a slight laugh, but it did not hide the fact
that she did not appreciate the attention that had been paid her.

Meg looked contrite, and felt miserable. What could she have done to
make Sheila in this mood? The girl sat down again feeling depressed,
then suddenly she wondered why she should not ask outright what her
offence had been.

"I know I've vexed you," she said, leaning forward with her hands
clasped on her knees, and looking remorsefully at Sheila. "I expect I
didn't do the right thing this afternoon. I don't suppose I ought to
have had up tea before you came home."

"You were perfectly right. You could not have done anything else as
Peter and Mr. Poynter had had that long walk, and it was so late. If it
had been earlier of course you should have waited for me."

"Then I don't think I ought to have stayed and talked to Mr. Fortescue.
Was it not the proper thing to do?"

Sheila flushed up angrily. Really, Meg was getting on her nerves. "What
nonsense," she said shortly. "The natural thing is always the right
thing to do."

The tears welled up into Meg's eyes but they did not fall.

Sheila rose and walked away leaving Meg looking sadly after her.

A sudden fear knocked at the girl's heart.

Was Sheila growing tired of her, did she want her to leave Friars
Court? The very suspicion of such a thing was paralyzing. She sat quite
still for a few minutes as if she had been struck.

That night Miss Gregson, who was sitting by her bedroom window reading
before preparing for bed, heard a knock, and the door opened to admit
Sheila, who, throwing herself on the sofa with her hands clasped behind
her head exclaimed—

"Angel dear, I do hope you are not tired, for I simply must have a talk
with you."

Miss Gregson shut up her book and looked towards her visitor. There
had been a time in her life when she had had hopes of being an artist
and had indulged in absorbing dreams of her pictures hanging on the
line at the Royal Academy. These dreams had gradually vanished like
many another hope of her young days; but she still had great delight in
beauty and was quick to see it when it came in her way. As she looked
at Sheila she longed for her paint brush. The girl was wearing a soft
pink silk, draped with ninon, low at the neck, on which gleamed a
diamond pendant. She looked the picture of worldly prosperity, and Miss
Gregson wondered what caused the shadow that lay in her eyes. She was
soon to learn.

"Angel dear, prepare for a shock. You know I always surprise you, but
I'm afraid this time it will be more than a surprise." Then she added,
while the shadow was displaced by a merry twinkle, "Have you your
Homoeopathic box at hand? I know you will need it."

"My dear, what is the matter?" asked Miss Gregson, ignoring the last
remark.

"Well I've come to the conclusion that I am the most unsatisfactory
person in the world. What am I to do?"

Miss Gregson was somewhat of the same opinion, but all the time the
girl was talking she could not help thinking what a lovely creature she
was.

"Do help me, Angel," pleaded Sheila.

"I can't unless you enlighten me a little more."

"But I don't know that I wish to; you rather like me I know, and if I
let out how horrid I am, you will never care for me again. But you know
I am horrid."

"Well, we'll take that for granted," said Miss Gregson laughing. "What
next?"

"I simply can't tell you till I see the Homoeopathic box by your side.
Where is it?"

"Don't you think you had better get this confession off your mind?"
said Miss Gregson, leading her companion's thoughts away from her
medicine box.

"What you say reminds me of my conversation with Meg. Don't you agree
with me that it is scarcely the thing for a girl like her to confide in
a man like Peter? I find she has been confessing her ignorance to him.
I'm not sure that Meg is not spoiling. Have you noticed any signs of
it?"

"No, I can't say that I have. She always strikes me as a most sweet
girl. Of course she makes mistakes both in regard to behaviour and
conversation, but what can you expect? It is almost pitiable to see how
hard she tries to do and say the right thing."

"Shall I confess something? Do you know, Angel she is getting on my
nerves. What on earth am I to do?"

Miss Gregson nearly groaned aloud. What she had dreaded had come to
pass! She felt it her duty for once to speak severely. She must do it
even at the risk of losing her comfortable berth. Perhaps it would
result in her also getting on Sheila's nerves! But for the poor child's
sake she must risk it.

She took off her spectacles and wiping them put them on again
before she spoke. It was amazing that that scrap of humanity lying
so comfortably on the sofa, and looking sadly into her face, had
nevertheless the power of making this elderly woman's heart beat so
fast, that if she could have done so without being seen, she would have
stretched out her hand for the Homoeopathic box and have taken one of
her little pilules to quiet her nerves. This comfort was, however,
denied her, by Sheila's presence. She felt the girl's really anxious
gaze as she awaited for her verdict.

"Isn't it very despicable of me?" asked Sheila.

"I scarcely like to tell you what I really think," said Miss Gregson
slowly, "for fear lest it may seem rude."

Sheila laughed.

"Oh dear! how quaint you are!" she cried. "Of course, I shan't mind
whatever you like to say. You may tell me I'm a brute, or use any
strong language you like. It will be refreshing, for as you know I
never do get the truth about myself, and it is quite amusing when I
hear it from your lips. Peter sometimes begins to lecture but I won't
have it from him."

"Well then," said Miss Gregson quietly, "the truth is that you must
make every effort to get rid of this feeling about Meg. It would be a
sheer act of cruelty to send her out into the world again after all you
have taught her to like and to depend upon. I could never for a moment
believe you would be capable of such a thing."

There was a slight flush on Miss Gregson's face as she spoke these
strong words, but this was the only sign that could be detected that
her heart was beating and that she felt agitated. Sheila watching her
from the sofa did not notice the flush, and had no idea of the tumult
her words had aroused in the heart of her companion. Had she imagined
for a moment that her old governess found it difficult to reprove her,
it would have been fatal. Miss Gregson's influence lay a great deal in
the fact that her former pupil deemed her quite impervious to her own
moods; she was the one person who dared to tell her the truth about
herself.

"You really are original," she said laughing. "You just say what you
think, regardless of consequences. That is why I like you so much and
don't tire of you. You know, Angel, you are quite as surprising in your
way as I am. I had no idea that anyone could think so badly of me if
I acted as my feelings prompt me at this moment. You use very strong
language. But do you really think it would be so wicked of me to change
my way of acting towards Meg, and to advise her to try and find her own
living? I mean, of course, after the concert. You see I have given her
thoroughly good singing lessons. Don't you think she might teach?"

"Teach after only a year's lessons! My dear, you are dreaming. Who
would go to her for lessons considering all the first rate teachers
there are in the world."

Sheila sighed, and knitted her brows.

"I'm afraid I've got into a muddle," she said.

Then the two relapsed for a few minutes into silence. Miss Gregson,
relieved that her words had not offended, took off her spectacles, and
seeing that the girl's eyes were closed, opened the little black box at
her side, and selecting a bottle from the many that lay in neat rows,
took a dose. When, however, she had accomplished her desire she looked
round to find Sheila's laughing eyes fastened upon her.

"Ah! you can't hide it from me!" she said. "I knew I was going to
give you a terrible shock, and that you would want the support of
your little friends. But I won't tease you as I want you to answer a
question that has been weighing on my mind for the last few weeks. How
is it that everyone with whom I have to do becomes so tame? You are the
only exception."

"Take Meg for instance. When she first came I was attracted to her
partly because she was so different to other girls. Do you remember
how she almost insisted upon sleeping in the garden, and then
authoritatively said she must have more air and I had to fly at her
bidding to open the window. She was full of surprises in those days. I
never knew what she would say or do next. She provided me with a lot of
excitement."

"But now she is quite tame! and cringes to me. All her strong
delightful personality has dwindled away. She looks scared if I move,
and watches me like a cat watches a mouse, or rather like a mouse
watches a cat. What is it in me that has changed her?"

"You see, Sheila, my dear," said Miss Gregson, "you are one of those
people who entirely dominate others unless they have the courage to
defy you. But it would not have done for Meg to defy you. Besides,
unfortunately for you both, she is so devoted to you that she does not
wish to."

"Then I wish she was not so fond of me. What can I do to cure her?
If only she would stand up to me I should like her much better. But
she, like the rest of the world, entirely gives into me. I suppose I
ought to be going to bed," she added as she rose. "I believe you are
right, and I suppose I must make the best of it, as it seems to be my
own fault. I must have patience, and anyhow she'll be an addition to
my party. I know she is a really nice girl, but oh! for a little more
spirit."

"Then you must see that you don't depress her," said Miss Gregson.

"Well then you really must tell her, that if she looks at me and
watches me, anticipating my every want with those anxious eyes of hers,
that I shall go mad. I can't stand it. Tell her to be her own natural
self."

"That's just what you won't let her be, dear."

Sheila laid her hands on Miss Gregson's shoulder and looked down at her
laughing.

"I shall never get tired of you, so long as you don't eat humble pie
before me. You are a dear," and to her old friend's surprise, the girl
bent down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. As she disappeared out
of the door, she turned round saying, "I am sure my kiss gave you
another shock, by the surprise I read in your eyes. My advice is that
you should take ignatia at once."



CHAPTER XIII

THE STARS AND THE DARKNESS

Miss GREGSON'S heart yearned over Meg.

After Sheila had left her room she sat a long time by the open window,
thinking of the girl whose happiness as far as this world and its
comforts were concerned, hung on such a slender thread.

Much as she cared for Sheila her thoughts were entirely now filled with
Meg. Was she to be thrown on the world again? Was it to be her lot to
fight and struggle and perhaps to fail after all?

The night was very warm and the garden still. Suddenly as she looked
into its comparative darkness she caught sight of a shadowy figure
crossing the lawn underneath her window.

For a moment her heart beat, but looking more steadily she recognized
Meg's walk. She knew the girl's love of the stars, and that she often
stayed out at night until the house was locked up, but consulting her
watch she saw it was past twelve o'clock and Meg ought to be in bed.

Miss Gregson was a nervous woman, but where duty was concerned her
nerves were allowed no place, anyhow they seldom got the better of her
on such occasions. To-night it was her evident duty to follow Meg and
persuade her to go to bed. Throwing a shawl over her shoulders she made
her way down the dark staircase, candle in hand.

She found the garden door unbolted, so setting the candle on a table by
its side she stepped on to the terrace.

Standing on the top of the steps she looked around her, but she could
catch no sight of Meg. This was not to be wondered at, as there were
many green walks branching out from the middle path that ran as far as
the gate into the wood.

It was not really a dark night, and she was able to see for some
distance dimly, but the garden struck her as very still and lonely as
she stood hesitating on the terrace. Nevertheless she must face those
long lonely grass paths.

It was sometime before she caught sight of Meg sitting upon a garden
seat, her arms flung round the back and her face hidden in them. She
looked the picture of depression. She was still wearing her white
evening dress and had no wrap of any kind over her.

Miss Gregson, afraid of startling the girl, called her name from a
distance. To hear her own voice in that still garden sent a shiver into
her heart.

Meg looked up at the sound, then let her head drop again on to her arms.

"My dear, you will catch cold," said Miss Gregson drawing near. "Do you
know that it is past twelve?"

"I don't care if it is," answered the girl passionately, "let me be, I
say. It ain't no business of yours that I can see." Meg had raised her
head and sat looking defiantly at her companion.

Miss Gregson could hardly believe her ears. This was being natural with
a vengeance! She had never heard the girl speak in so common a tone of
voice before. She might have been talking to one of her acquaintances
of old. But though it gave the good woman a shock, she knew that the
fact of Meg taking no pains whatever either with her manner, tone of
voice, or grammar, meant that she was in the deepest dejection, so deep
that she did not care what anyone thought of her. Miss Gregson sat down
by her side.

Then Meg whose head had sunk again after her words of passion, looked
up.

"I don't advise you to come near me. I ain't fit for the company and
friends of Sheila," she said, glaring fiercely at her companion. "I
tell you I don't want to be fit either. I'm tired of it all. I'm going
back to Jem and the rest of them."

"My dear child we can't spare you," said Miss Gregson laying her hand
on Meg's arm.

The soft voice and kind words melted the girl's anger. She began to sob
violently.

"What are you unhappy about?" asked Miss Gregson.

Meg sat up, wiping her eyes with her lace pocket handkerchief which
seemed somehow so incongruous with the speaker.

She stuffed it into her mouth to prevent her sobs being heard, a habit
of hers which was very distasteful to Sheila who had reproved her for
it more than once.

Then dropping her handkerchief she started up, throwing her arms over
her head in a wild way that nevertheless, Miss Gregson could not help
noticing, became her. She stood up before her, tall, and strong, but
the picture of despair.

"If I only knew where to go to I'd go right away," she said.

"Has anything happened to make you so sad?" asked Miss Gregson.

"Yes, it has been happening for days and days. Sheila don't love me as
she used to do. I can never please her or do anything right, and try
and try as I may, it ain't no good. I worry about it till it makes me
nearly mad. I couldn't stop in to-night. I wanted the stars and the
darkness, and I wanted to feel once more what it would be like to be
without somewhere to go to at night. I just had to come."

The girl sat down again by Miss Gregson's side and covered her face
with her hands.

"Is there anything else troubling you?"

"That's enough ain't it?" said Meg, forgetting her manners again in her
distress. "I can't stop here if Sheila don't want me to, and I just
can't go back to my old life. I can't, I can't."

"Whatever happens, God will take care of you," said Miss Gregson. "Wait
patiently for Him. You need not worry, dear child."

"Mr. Fortescue believes all that. I wish I was sure of it," sighed the
girl.

"We seem quite alone in this quiet still garden, Meg, but if we had
eyes to see we should find that the place is peopled with angels, and
we know that God is here."

Meg was silent, only an occasional sob making her quiver.

"There lived only a few years ago," continued her companion, "a good
man of the name of George Macdonald, who used to think a great deal
about life and its mysteries. Listen now while I repeat some words of
his that always strike me as being specially beautiful—"

   "So lies my journey—on into the dark,
    Without my will I find myself alive,
    And must go forward. Is it God that draws
    Magnetic all the souls unto their home,
    Travelling, they know not how, but unto God?
    It matters little what may come to me
    Of outward circumstance, and hunger, thirst,
    Social condition, yea, or love or hate;
    But what shall I be, fifty summers hence?
    My life, my being, all that meaneth me,
    Goes darkling forward into something—what?
    O God Thou knowest. It is not my care.
    If Thou wert less than truth, or less than love,
    It were a fearful thing to be and grow
    We know not what. My God, take care of me.
    Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love
    Pervading and inspiring me, Thy child."

    "Unfolding the ideal man in me!
    Which being greater far than I have grown.
    I cannot comprehend. I am Thine, not mine
    One day completed unto Thine intent,
    I shall be able to discourse with Thee;
    For thy idea, gifted with a self,
    Must be of one with the mind where it sprang,
    And fit to talk with Thee about Thy thoughts.
    Lead me, O Father, holding by Thy hand;
    I ask not whither, for it must be on.
    This road will lead me to the hills I think;
    And there I am in safety and at home."

Miss Gregson repeated the words in a soft voice as if afraid of waking
the birds and flowers with which they were surrounded. As she ended a
rustle in the bushes made her start. But Meg, accustomed to all night
sounds, did not stir. Though the thoughts expressed were somewhat
beyond her, the words, "My God take care of me," impressed themselves
on her mind. She was glad to have heard them and they comforted her.

Miss Gregson shivered as a night hawk cried out in the darkness and a
slight breeze swept past them.

"You will come in now, my dear child," she said, as she rose.

As they parted outside her bedroom door, Meg threw her arms around her
friend, then ran hastily into her room.



CHAPTER XIV

"THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER"

THE day of the concert arrived all too soon for Meg, who would have
liked a little more time in which to perfect her songs, but as she
awoke with the sun streaming in upon her she sprang up with a strong
feeling of exhilaration.

She was not afraid of disappointing her audience, being fully conscious
that her voice was far above the average, and that it would give real
pleasure to those who listened. She had no conceit in her composition;
she simply recognised the truth, that she had been given a remarkably
beautiful voice, and was grateful.

On coming down to breakfast Sheila was struck by the happy expression
of the girl's face.

"I believe that you are really looking forward to the ordeal," she said
laughing.

"Yes, I am," said Meg simply. "I mean to give 'em a treat."

The smile on Sheila's face faded.

"You'll spoil it all if you talk like that," she said.

"What did I say?"

"Didn't you know that you said 'give 'em?' You must be very careful not
to get excited to-day or you will make no end of mistakes."

Meg felt as if a wet blanket had been thrown over her, but she soon
recovered her spirits as the sun was shining and the birds singing, and
moreover she heard in the distance the sound of hammering which told
her that men were already engaged in putting up the platform on the
lawn.

After breakfast she ran out to see how they were getting on. Two men
were engaged on the work; one man's face she knew well as he was often
employed in various jobs about the Court; the other, whose back was
turned towards her, was a stranger; but something in his build produced
a curious sensation of shock in the girl. The head and shoulders were
so remarkably like those of Jem.

She was within only a few feet of the platform and had asked the man
facing her when it would be finished, when she noticed his companion
who did not raise his head.

Meg hastily made up her mind that though the likeness was remarkable it
could not possibly be Jem, or he would have turned round at the sound
of her voice. Nevertheless she was glad to escape into the house again,
as the likeness took away her breath and gave her a strange sensation
of fear.

As Meg turned away the man whom she had noticed looked round and
watched her. His bright blue eyes in a moment took in every item of her
dress, and the fact that the sun was shining on her lovely hair turning
its auburn to gold. Had it not been for her hair and indeed for her
atmosphere, which was unmistakable to the man who loved her as his own
soul, he would scarcely have recognised her, for her voice had changed
and her way of speaking, not to mention the extraordinary difference
that clothes make.

Meg was in a white cotton frock, so white and clean it looked to Jem,
that it had almost the same effect upon him that the sight of angels
wings might have had. He straightened himself when he discovered that
her head was turned away, and gazed wonderingly after her.

"Thank God," he cried in his heart, but the man by his side only saw
the wonder displayed on his fellow worker's face.

"She's a beauty, ain't she?" he said following Jem's example and
watching Meg's hasty retreat to the house. "They do say as how Miss
Dennison picked her out of the gutter; but that's all moonshine. She's
a queen if ever there was one."

But Jem did not hear his companion's words. He was transfixed.

At last he had his reward. Ever since his little brother Steve had died
he had been searching for Meg, getting odd jobs in this town and that
while he made enquiries. He had been in Elminster for a fortnight, and
some gossip he had overheard about the singer at the concert to be held
at Friars Court raised his hopes, and finding that the carpenter for
whom he was doing odd jobs was engaged to put a platform in the garden,
he had been rejoiced at being told that he was wanted to help one of
the workmen at Friars Court.

As he bent over his work his ears were straining all the time to
hear a footfall that he might recognise, and as after two or three
hours he heard a girl's voice and then the sound of footsteps on the
gravel path, his heart beat to suffocation. He could not mistake
that footstep, though when the question as to the time of finishing
the platform had been put to his fellow workman, he would not have
recognised the voice. On hearing the retreating footsteps he had raised
himself, and seeing Meg and learning from her whole appearance that she
was apparently well, happy, and evidently cared for, he thanked God.

It was this that he meant to satisfy himself about. He could not rest
till he knew she was in good hands, Many a time since he had bidden her
goodbye on the heath, he had blamed himself for letting the girl run
such a risk as to tramp to London alone, even though it meant freedom
for her. At night he would lie awake wondering where she was, if she
had managed to reach London without mishap, or if she had changed her
mind and had found a home nearer at hand. Was she starving, or dying of
cold?

He could hardly bear his thoughts at these times, and when poor little
Steve had breathed his last, without a word Jem left his uncle and
aunt, and went in search of Meg, paying his way by doing odd jobs,
generally in the way of carpentering, for which he had a natural talent.

He had traced her from place to place and had arrived at Elminster
meaning to stay only a few days. But a chance word had changed his
mind, and he got work at a carpenter's shop, the owner of which
happened at that moment to be in great need of men.

And now his search had been rewarded. He had found Meg, and had
satisfied himself that she was well and happy—was that to be the end?

As Jem turned back to his work, his next move filled his mind. He had
never thought what the result to himself would be should he find Meg in
comfortable circumstances. It was a new situation; it would have to be
thought out. But he made up his mind quickly on one point; he would not
let Meg know of his proximity until he had settled what steps he should
next take. He would wait and see.

But that one glimpse of the girl convinced him that during the two
years of separation, Meg had travelled far ahead of him. She was no
longer a girl to take care of, but a woman to serve. He felt her to be
so far above him, that he could, hardly imagine himself touching her
hand, or talking in the least freely to her. The knowledge brought pain
with it.

As he put his tools into his bag and made his way, in company with his
companion, out of the Court, a great depression took hold of him. He
felt as if he had buried someone—his hope, on which he had lived ever
since that day of the thunder storm on the heath, lay dead. He had lost
"Meg of the heather" for good, and in her place had found a queen; one
whom he might reverence and serve, but could never possess as his own.

       *       *       *       *       *       *

Sheila was not satisfied with the platform. She insisted on some small
alteration being done and Jem was sent over again from Elminster to do
it. He arrived only about an hour before the concert began.

Meg and Sheila were dressing and he caught no sight of either one or
the other. But knowing that Meg was to sing, after finishing his work,
he lingered about the lanes outside the Court in the hope of hearing
once more the voice which he had loved of old.

As he noticed the carriages and motor cars that continually passed
him on their way to the party, the pain that was gnawing at his heart
became almost unendurable. This then was Meg's world! These her
friends! How could he ever hope for a return of the intimacy which had,
in the old days, existed between them. He paced up and down the road
outside the park trying to work off his feelings; then the strains of a
band attracted him and leaping over a hedge he found himself in a small
plantation from which he could obtain a distant view of the platform on
the lawn. His eyes searched the crowd in vain for Meg. He felt sure she
was not there or he would have seen her at once.

Suddenly he caught sight of a lonely figure moving slowly across the
grass.

Meg wore a pale sea green dress made of a soft clinging material and a
broad brimmed black hat trimmed with ostrich feathers.

She was walking slowly, for remembering Sheila's words that it would
be better for her to be silent than to talk ungrammatically, she had
avoided the guests as much as possible, and did not wish to mingle with
them till the time for singing had arrived. But Mademoiselle Margot,
the violinist, whom Sheila had secured for the afternoon, had finished
her solo and Meg knew that her time had come.

As she drew near she looked at the audience before her; but her heart
did not fail her in the least. She knew she was about to surprise them
and was happy in that knowledge. There was hardly a familiar face
among them, for Sheila had kept her somewhat close, not wishing her
protégé to mix with others till her manner and voice were such that
her own action in adopting her would be vindicated in the face of the
world, for she was aware that in some quarters her action had been
unfavourably criticised, and she intended that the concert should be a
triumph.

The only face that Meg recognized among the audience was that of Peter
Fortescue, who came forward at the sight of her and handed her on to
the platform. His kind smile was encouraging.

"I mean to sing ever so well," she said in a soft voice, "just to pay
back Sheila for all her goodness to me."

"That's right. We are expecting great things. Are you nervous?"

"No, I'm not nervous, I'm going to sing fine."

She was quite unconscious that she had relapsed into her old way of
speaking. Happily Sheila who was to play her accompaniments was not
within earshot.

Meg stood with her eyes raised to the sky and her hands clasped behind
her for she knew her song by heart. No one seeing her for the first
time could possibly have guessed that only two years ago she was
sleeping under hedges, and was thankful if she could find a resting
place in a barn or on straw.

Peter wondered if, when she opened her mouth to sing, her origin would
be betrayed. He felt nervous for her and for Sheila, who, he saw was
rather pale as she took her place at the piano. But the first few notes
dissipated his fears; the tone was pure as a bird's, full and rich; and
the singer, he was aware, was thinking entirely of the music so that
the audience did not alarm her.

People looked at one another with amazement.

The fact that the singer at Sheila's party was to be none other than
the girl who had been a tramp but two years ago had leaked out, and the
audience were in a state of amused expectation as they waited for her.
But when they caught sight of her moving slowly towards them, they came
to the conclusion that the news they had heard could have no foundation
whatever. This lovely girl in the pale sea green dress could certainly
never have been a tramp; and as the first notes escaped her lips they
sat in astonished silence. Such a voice had not been heard for many
years round about Friars Court. Where could she have come from?

Sheila flushed with pleasure as her eyes caught Peter's. That he was
pleased and surprised she saw at once, also that the audience was
entranced.

Meg's song over she took refuge in the drawing-room. She was afraid
of talking after Sheila's advice to be silent, but she felt strangely
excited. She had pleased her friend and had surpassed herself. That
her singing had given supreme satisfaction she could not doubt, and
that this audience had appreciated her voice quite as much if not more
than her former audiences used to do, she was well aware. She had been
thankful too to find that even when she stood up before the fashionably
dressed crowd, she was no more nervous than when she had stood on
the chair in the kitchen that day, which now seemed so long ago. The
feeling of elation of which she was conscious was not born of conceit,
but simply of delight that she had satisfied those for whom she cared.
Sheila and Peter were pleased, that was all that signified.

It seemed to her that only a few minutes had passed when Peter came to
the drawing-room window telling her that they were waiting for another
song.

"They are impatient to hear you again," he said smiling, "and so am I.
I never expected anything like this."

"I'm glad," said Meg, her eyes shining.

She was hardly aware of the clapping that heralded her approach, so
delighted was she at the reception Sheila herself gave her; it excited
her so, that for the first moment her voice trembled as she began
her song, but before many bars were sung, she forgot Sheila and her
audience and was conscious of nothing save the music which she was
making and which delighted her soul.

A murmur of applause broke on her ear as the last notes trembled on the
air.

Sheila had prepared a song for an encore, and Meg was nothing loath to
sing it. But even then those listening were not satisfied, and the girl
without thought and forgetful for the moment of Sheila, broke out into
"The Last Rose of Summer."

It was a song that she had not sung since her tramping days. After
the first moment of surprise that the singer should have chosen an
unaccompanied song the audience sat spellbound; for the extreme pathos
and sympathy displayed in the voice touched them to an unusual degree.

Meg threw out her notes with all the force and feeling of which she was
capable, quite unconscious of the fact of Sheila sitting idle at the
piano with a slight frown of annoyance puckering her forehead.

As for the audience they scarcely missed the accompanist after the
first moment or two, their attention being entirely riveted on the
lovely girl standing before them singing her heart out.

They were entranced.

Then suddenly they became aware of a look of intense and sudden fear
crossing the face of the singer, as her voice faltered.

"It's a case of stage fright," whispered a man to a girl sitting next
to him. "She'll recover in a moment."

But Meg stood panic stricken, as she watched a young man vaulting the
wire fence that divided the trees from the garden and making his way
hastily towards her, his fierce blue eyes blazing in the sunshine and
his tanned face radiant.

Before the audience had had time to recover from their surprise the
song had suddenly ceased and the singer had fled.

Peter, who could not bear to see any living creature in pain, waited
for a moment to see if Sheila was following Meg, and finding that she
evidently had not thought of doing so, and, in fact, was trying to do
what she could to make excuses for her to her guests, he went after the
girl himself.

He found her sobbing on the library sofa.

"What is it?" he asked kindly. "Are you feeling faint?"

But Meg was too overcome to answer. Her face was hidden in the cushion
as she tried hard to stifle her sobs.

"You sang so wonderfully well," said Peter. "You needn't mind in the
least breaking down over 'The Last Rose of Summer.' Everyone will
understand."

"Sheila won't," sobbed Meg almost incoherently.

"Of course she will. Your beautiful singing at the beginning ought to
more than make up for it."

"I wish I'd never sung it," sobbed the girl passionately. "It brought
Jem."

Peter looked mystified and began to wonder if the excitement had been
too much for the poor girl's brain.

"I advise you to think no more about it," he said, "and to rest here
till all the people have gone. I'll tell Elsie to bring you some tea."

Meg looked up again from the sofa cushion and shivered.

"I'm afraid," she said.

"Afraid? What of? No one will hurt you. You are unstrung that is all
that is wrong. Tea will set you right."

"No," cried the girl, "I've done a wicked thing. I've been a coward; I,
who longed to tame lions!" and she broke out afresh into sobs.

Peter thought of asking the country doctor who happened to be one of
the guests to come and see the girl. He was more than afraid that her
brain was affected; but instead he took a chair and sat down by her
side.

"Come, tell me what is troubling you," he said quietly.

"It's just my dream come true. I've been ungrateful and horrid and have
turned my back on my best friend. But it gave me such a start to see
him." And then between her sobs Meg told Peter of the shock she had had
in the morning, and of the realization of her suspicions while she was
singing her song.

Peter was quite at a loss how to act. Was the girl dreaming? Or was it
true, and if true what was to be done?

"I'll send Elsie here with some tea," he said.

Meg sprang from her seat.

"I can't stay here alone," she cried. "Jem may find me and I'm just
ashamed to meet him. I'll go to my room."

Peter went in search of Sheila and of Miss Gregson; but the former was
too put out with Meg to listen to his story, and Miss Gregson was not
to be found; so he decided to wait till the morning to talk the matter
over.



CHAPTER XV

REPULSED

JEM had been listening to Meg with rapt attention as she sang her
songs. He could hardly believe that the girl standing so quietly on
the platform dressed in that green shimmering dress, and surrounded by
all the rank and fashion of the neighbourhood, was the same with whom
he had sat out the storm and to whom he had spoken of marriage on the
heath two years ago.

He remembered her soft laugh as he had mentioned the subject that day,
and how quickly she had stifled it on seeing it hurt him. But if she
laughed then, when he had all to give her and she had nothing, what
would she do now?

It was during the intervals that these bitter thoughts crowded across
his mind. While the girl was actually singing he could think of nothing
but her and her song.

He loved her so that he wondered that she did not feel him even right
away on the platform. Had Meg looked at him as he was looking at her
he knew she would be conscious of the fact. Perhaps if he looked long
enough her eyes might be drawn towards him.

When her first song was finished and she had disappeared, the time
dragged. So long were the minutes, that he began to wonder if she were
going to sing again or if his chance of watching her was over. He could
hardly bear the thought of this. How he was to endure the fact that
she was at Friars Court, within a mile or two of the town in which he
lived, without seeing her or speaking to her, he did not know. But as
these thoughts coursed through his mind he heard a loud clapping and
once more Meg stood before him. Her eyes were shining and a happy smile
played about her lips.

Jem groaned. He had imagined that to see her happy and cared for, would
satisfy him, but he had deceived himself. As he stood and looked at
her, he felt he could not do without her—and he groaned, as he became
aware that she could never be part of his life again. She did not want
him. Had he had a suspicion that she was in difficulty or need he would
have taken no time in making her aware of his presence, but that happy
smile and those shining eyes were a death knell to his hopes: for he
loved her too much to disturb her in any way, or to come between her
and happiness. If Meg became aware of his proximity he knew her well
enough to be sure that she would welcome him. But to make himself known
to her would put her in an awkward position and perhaps disturb her
peaceful existence. He was not going to be such a brute as to run a
chance of doing this. So he listened hungrily to her singing and drank
in every expression of her face.

Suddenly the song stopped and a loud clapping told him that others
beside him knew how to appreciate her voice. His heart beat. Was this
to be the last of it? Was he to hear her voice no more?

But even before there was time to answer the question she had broken
out into "The Last Rose of Summer." Jem stood entranced.

Then it seemed to him that Meg looked straight into his eyes over the
heads of the people. Surely she had recognised him and was singing
directly to him and for him. It seemed like a call. Forgetful that he
was trespassing, forgetful of all his surroundings and of the grand
folk that sat in groups before the platform, he pushed through the
undergrowth, breaking branches on his way, vaulted the fence and made
for the platform.

Then he stopped still as if he had been struck. Was she—could she be
running away from him? Could it be true that Meg did not wish to see
him; did not want to remember her old life; preferred to drop her old
friend? Was it possible that he was nothing to her now?

He stood rooted to the spot. Then he saw a man servant coming towards
him. It was doubtless to inform him that he was trespassing.

He would not wait to be told that. He turned away, stumbling blindly
towards the road.

       *       *       *       *       *       *

Sheila stood and looked at the empty chairs and laughed bitterly. The
day that was to celebrate her triumph had closed in disappointment. Meg
had behaved shockingly. She had had no business to sing "The Last Rose
of Summer" without consulting her; and as for her final denouement! She
had acted like a common schoolgirl.

Sheila had not been near her since she had disgraced herself by
springing off the platform, so she had no idea as to the cause of her
extraordinary action. But whatever it was it only proved that it was
quite impossible to inculcate proper behaviour into a girl who had
spent her life among hedges and ditches. Well, Meg had had her chance
and had not profited by it. She had thoroughly disappointed the one who
had given it to her, and it seemed to Sheila that now there was nothing
more to be done.

"Of course everyone will laugh at my failure," she thought bitterly.
"It's most provoking. However, it will be an excuse for sending Meg
away. I am quite tired of her companionship. She will have to look out
for herself and get her living the best way she can."

Meg did not come down to dinner, and Sheila took no pains to find
out the cause. No doubt she was ashamed of herself, she thought, and
dreaded meeting her after such unwarrantable behaviour.



CHAPTER XVI

BROUGHT TO BAY

MEG woke up the next morning with a bad headache, and a feeling of
misery.

She had not seen Sheila since the concert, and dreaded the thought
of doing so. But what weighed on her mind still more was her conduct
towards Jem. It was no use trying to excuse herself with the
remembrance that she had been taken by surprise and had had no time
to make up her mind how to act. She knew in her heart that what she
had done when off her guard proved her state of mind, and it was the
thought of her ingratitude, that depressed her with a sense of shame.

She could not forget the expression of his bright blue eyes and his
eager radiant face as he had hurried towards her. She had not seen
such an expression on any face since she had last seen him. No one
had looked at her with such love ever since she had come to live at
Friars Court, and yet she had turned away from him! She had turned away
because she could not face the hardships that would have to be faced if
she put in her lot with Jem. How could she marry him now that she had
learnt what it meant to live in comfort and luxury?

Then her thoughts flew to Sheila. It was somewhat consoling to feel so
sure that had she welcomed Jem, Sheila would not easily have forgiven
her, and would then have had a right to think that all the advantages
she had given her had been ruthlessly thrown away. What would be the
use of the love of books and music, and all the other good things she
had learnt to appreciate, if she decided to marry Jem, and put in her
lot with him? Yet Meg knew that nothing else would satisfy him if once
they met as friends.

And surely her friend would accuse her of ingratitude if she
deliberately chose life with Jem. She was glad to remember this; for
her whole soul clung to Friars Court. Her world was filled with Sheila,
Peter, and Miss Gregson. Jem had become an outsider, only to be thought
of with tender pity and gratitude.

Meg sat by her open window waiting for the breakfast gong to sound,
with eyes that feasted passionately on the garden below. Now that there
had come a chance of her losing it, Friars Court and its occupants had
become doubly precious.

Sheila's love had disappointed her; but her own love for Sheila had
grown rather than diminished, and she would not for the world have
displeased her benefactor. But though the girl came to this decision,
she did not hide from herself that her action had been despicable, or
imagine that Jem would ever forgive it; neither could she endure to
think of his radiant smile being quenched. She tried to forget all that.

The garden was bathed in sunshine; the hum of the bees as they
fluttered among the flowers reached her ears, and the scent of the
roses that climbed around her window was wafted in upon her. She had
never quite realized how sweet the place was till this morning, nor how
deeply seated in her heart was her affection for it. No, she could not
leave! It would kill her. She was thankful to remember that in obeying
her own wishes she would be pleasing the one to whom she owed all she
possessed.

The gong sounded, and Meg made her way to the breakfast room with a
beating heart, as she knew she deserved Sheila's displeasure. She had
of course spoilt the concert to which her friend had been looking
forward, and possibly had debarred herself from ever again helping her
by her voice.

Besides, Sheila had constantly told her that self-control was
absolutely necessary to exhibit in the society among which she now
found herself, and what must she think of her now that she had so
completely forgotten the admonition in the presence of the many guests.

Sheila was reading letters by the window: she barely noticed Meg except
to say good-morning coldly.

But the girl did not resent this, nor was she surprised. This had for
long been her friend's way of showing her disapproval. Meg felt she
deserved it, and took her seat at the table opposite Miss Gregson
feeling in disgrace. She was somewhat cheered by the latter's kind
smile.

Miss Gregson had knocked at her door the night before, meaning to give
her a word of sympathy; but Meg was in bed and as she supposed asleep.
The girl had recognised the footstep but had felt too depressed and
weary to make any effort, so had not opened her eyes. Now however she
was grateful for the smile she received across the breakfast table.

Meg did not know that her kind friend's heart was yearning over her.
For Miss Gregson felt quite sure of the result of yesterday's action,
and that Sheila was probably planning to get rid of Meg.

Miss Gregson was coming to the decision that if Sheila parted with
Meg, she herself would make a home for her. She knew it would mean
the loss of much worldly comfort and ease; but Meg and she might find
some work together, and she had her hardly earned savings to fall back
upon. Anyhow she was determined that if Sheila was bent on carrying out
the inhuman proposition which she had hinted to her, she would not be
silent on the matter; and if she remained obdurate she would herself
give up her post; sorry though she would be to leave the pupil, who,
notwithstanding all her faults, was dear to her. Meg ate her breakfast,
quite unconscious that plans concerning her were filling the minds of
both her companions.

After breakfast Sheila put on her gardening gloves and taking her
basket and scissors passed out into the garden. Meg was about to follow
when Miss Gregson called her back. The girl noticed that there was a
pink flush on her face and that her eyes were bright. "My dear I would
not go out into the garden just yet if I were you; Sheila is, as you
see, feeling annoyed. Let her have time to work it off." The eagerness
of the voice was born of the desire to delay what she knew was coming.
Something might happen to prevent the catastrophe. Mr. Fortescue might
call and give advice. Meg must, for as long as possible, be saved from
meeting her fate.

The girl looked up in surprise.

"I want to explain," she said, "and to tell her how sorry I am. When
she knows what made me so silly I think she will not be vexed but
pleased."

"Pleased?"

"Yes. I think I did what Sheila would have wanted me to do."

Miss Gregson put her hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Explain to me first," she said. "Did you lose your nerve?"

"Yes. But not about singing. I wasn't a bit frightened of the people or
that my voice would not please. It was something quite different. It
was to do with Jem."

Miss Gregson was mystified.

"My dear, how could it have been to do with Jem. I don't understand."

The girl's eyes filled with tears.

"I scarcely like to tell you," she said, "it was so hateful of me. And
yet I don't know that you would have advised me to do anything else. I
remember you once told me you thought it might be right of me to run
away from him."

"You are talking enigmas. That young man you told me about could not
possibly have been at the concert. You are dreaming, my dear."

Miss Gregson began to wonder if the strain of the concert had been too
much for the girl.

"Jem was there," said Meg; "he was standing in among the trees of the
plantation all the time, but I never saw him till I sang 'The Last Rose
of Summer.' I wish, oh how I wish I had never sung it; I shall never
sing it again as long as I live."

"Are you sure you didn't imagine you saw him?" inquired Miss Gregson
with concern.

"No. I know it was Jem, and when he came towards me I ran away: it was
hateful, hateful of me; and yet I just believe that I'd do it right
over again. I don't want Jem. I couldn't leave you all."

Sheila's voice was heard calling in the garden.

"I must go," said Meg hurriedly. "But I feel sure Sheila will
understand and forgive when she knows. She would never let me have
anything to do with Jem—I know she wouldn't." Miss Gregson watched the
girl hastily making her way into the garden and sighed.

"What have you and Miss Gregson been talking about?" said Sheila, as
Meg came in sight, "I'm surprised that you have not already apologized
for your conduct yesterday. I suppose you are aware that you spoilt my
party."

"I've been longing to tell you how sorry I am, and to explain."

"Explain? I don't think an explanation is needed. It was stupid
self-consciousness of course on your part, and you never thought of
my disappointment or vexation. You have humiliated me before all my
friends; and then instead of coming to express your sorrow to me last
night, you went quietly to bed as if nothing had happened."

"I felt too miserable last night to tell you what happened."

"Nonsense," said Sheila irritably, "nothing happened. It was mere loss
of self-control on your part. Your conduct only proves to me that
environment is not as powerful as I imagined. I'm utterly disappointed
in you. Indeed I could never have thought you capable of repaying
my kindness in this way. You have made me ridiculous before all my
friends."

"I don't understand," said Meg slowly.

"I daresay not. It was foolish of me ever to dream for a moment that
the effect of all those years before I knew you could be washed out
like writing off a slate."

Meg stared at Sheila. What did she mean, she wondered; was she going to
send her away? The girl felt too stunned at the thought to speak.

It was as if in a nightmare that she heard Sheila's next words.

"Well, have you nothing to say?"

Jem was forgotten in the awful suspicion that Sheila wanted to get rid
of her. The girl's lips were white as she stammered out the question
the answer to which meant so much to her.

"Do you want me to go?" she asked faintly.

"Well, I can't say that I see much good in you staying much longer,"
said Sheila, turning away so as not to face those large pathetic eyes
that were fastened on her face. "I don't mean you need go at once. You
can stay a month to look round and to make your plans, and happily I
have put you in the way of earning your living. You ought to be able to
give singing lessons by this time."

For a moment there was silence, then Meg of the Heather forgot all her
efforts to please Sheila, and was once more the untamed wild creature
of the hedges and ditches.

"I ain't fit for all your grand friends, I reckon," she cried, while
she clenched her hands together in the anguish of her discovery, "and
you're going to throw me over just as you throw them weeds into the
basket. That's what I call bein' a fine friend. You that promised I'd
be your sister! I ain't good enough or grand enough. Well, I ain't
surprised," she added with a sob, "that's what I've done to Jem, and
it's all through your fine promises. If it hadn't been for you I say, I
should be happy sleepin' under the stars; you've been my undoin', and I
won't thank you," then with a sob Meg turned and fled, leaving Sheila
rooted to the spot with astonishment.

Meg did not come home for lunch. Miss Gregson's heart sank.

"Do you know where Meg is?" she asked.

"No. I had to speak sharply to her this morning and I suppose she is
sulking. There is something of the lion in that girl. Do you know,
Angel, that she has a most violent temper? I've done the deed," added
Sheila with a faint smile. "You mustn't blame me. I really can't stand
her any longer."

"Do you mean you have told her to go?" Miss Gregson folded up her
dinner napkin as she spoke and avoided Sheila's eyes. She was afraid
lest her own should express too truthfully the feeling the news had
aroused in her.

"Yes. But I've given her a month, in which to make her plans. But after
the wild manner in which she turned upon me I shall shorten the time to
a week. She isn't safe to have about the house. Now, Angel, why don't
you let out, I'm quite expecting an explosion from you."

But Miss Gregson did not rise to the occasion. Neither did she smile.

"How do you think the child is to live?" she asked quietly.

"I'm quite happy about that. No one can accuse me of sending her out
into the world unprepared. Even you must acknowledge after hearing her
sing at the concert, that I have fitted her for her future work. She
will be able to give singing lessons, and of course I shall make her a
present of money before she leaves."

Miss Gregson was silent.

Sheila laughed.

"I see you disapprove of me utterly. I'm a wretch, you think."

Then her companion put on her spectacles and faced her.

"I must tell you the truth at all costs," she said quietly, "and that
is that I cannot think how anyone calling herself a Christian could
possibly do such a cruel thing as you contemplate doing. It would have
been far better to have left her as you found her, to have sent her
to the hospital when she was taken ill on your doorstep, and when she
recovered to have tried to set her up in some good business. But to
take the poor girl out of her proper station of life, to shower gifts
upon her, to teach her to grow dependent on comforts and luxuries—quite
unnecessary luxuries—and then to cast her adrift is to my mind the most
un-Christian cruel thing you could possibly do."

"But then I don't profess to be a Christian, you see," said Sheila.

Miss Gregson looked straight at her former pupil. All fear of her, all
nervousness in speaking to her, had fled. She was too aghast at the
prospect held out for Meg to fear.

"You are ignorant my dear," she said firmly, "and do not perhaps know
the terrible dangers that are likely to befall a lovely girl like Meg,
who has no one to protect her. I do know, and I feel so strongly about
it that rather than let that poor child wander out into the world alone
I shall resign my post here. She and I will fight the world together.
I shall not let her be bereft of friends, particularly as I happen to
know what I suppose she has already told you, that that young man whom
she has mentioned more than once is hanging about here."

Sheila flushed. She had never contemplated for a moment the effect of
her action. That Miss Gregson should leave her was a blow that she had
not anticipated.

"What young man?" she asked.

"Did not she tell you? Yes, but surely she explained to you the reason
of her sudden flight from the platform."

"She told me nothing," said Sheila. She was flushed and cross and was
determined that Miss Gregson should not keep to her threat of leaving,
so resolved not to vex her by showing her anger.

"Told you nothing! But how strange! I thought she was going to explain
all to you. It was the sight of that tiresome young man of the name of
Jem, that scared her and robbed her suddenly of her nerves."

"I don't believe it," said Sheila knitting her brow. "You may say what
you like, but Meg is terribly deep."

"You are mistaken. Walter has been telling me," continued Miss Gregson,
"that the young man who came and helped the carpenter in the morning
appeared at the concert in the afternoon, and just as Meg was running
away he caught sight of him standing quite still and stupid behind the
guests. Walter's opinion is that the man was drunk. He hardly seemed to
understand him when he warned him off the premises."

Sheila flushed again. She was glad now that she had not hurried Meg
away quickly. A month would allow her full time to make arrangements,
and she herself would look out for pupils for her in a neighbouring
town. Sheila felt happier. She looked up at Miss Gregson with a smile.

"You've been rather hard on me," she said, "but I'll forgive you! You
are the only person in the world from whom I could bear such plain
speaking. And of course, dear Angel, you must not talk again of leaving
me. Just think how demoralised I should get if I had no one to reprove
me now and again. You are quite necessary to me if I am to keep within
bounds," and with a light laugh she walked away.

But Miss Gregson did not move. She sat lost in deep thought, and her
face was grave. Then she rose and went upstairs to her room.



CHAPTER XVII

FLIGHT

MEG lay on her bed staring out into the darkness.

She had seen no one since her conversation with Sheila, having asked
for her meals to be brought up into her room on the plea of a headache.
Later, Miss Gregson had knocked at her door and had turned the handle
to find it locked. Meg hoped she would think that she was asleep. She
had carefully locked also the door between her room and Sheila's. All
she wanted was to be left alone to think.

And now, after some hours of lonely thought, she lay staring up into
the dark sky spangled with stars. The darkness frightened her. It
brought back to her mind some of her former experiences before she had
come to Friars Court. She remembered the drunken man who had put a
stop to her singing one day. She recalled the coarse jokes and rowdy
laughter that she had heard in the public houses. She shivered as in
memory she once more tramped through the lonely lanes or hunted for a
safe place in which to pass the night. She had hoped all that dreadful
life was passed for ever; but now it loomed before her again as a
possibility and she was more lonely now than she had ever been in her
life, for she no longer had Jem's love and protection in the background
of her mind.

Although Sheila had given her a month in which to arrange her plans,
Meg had no intention whatever of staying a day longer at Friars Court.
She was only waiting for the sun to rise to start out alone once more
in the world. She had already packed her few things in a bag, taking
only what was positively necessary.

She had five pounds in her purse, and with that and the few necessary
clothes, she meant to leave for ever the house in which she had been
sheltered so comfortably for two years. She had made no plans, and
could think of none. Her only hope was in her voice. But how to set
about making a living by her voice she did not know.

Of one thing she was resolved. She would rather die than go again on
the tramp. She must get a cheap room somewhere, and after the five
pounds had been spent, unless she was fortunate enough to have found
pupils, she must starve. But as she lay staring out into the darkness
she shivered—and was afraid.

If only she had not behaved so badly to Jem she would have felt that
there was at least someone in the world who cared whether she was dead
or alive. But how could she expect him to love her any longer now that
by her action at the concert she had refused to have anything to do
with him. At the thought Meg turned her face to her pillow and cried.
If only she had Jem's love in the background she would have felt less
lonely.

Then her thoughts turned to Sheila, and in the darkness her eyes
blazed. She did not know how she could ever forgive her heartlessness.

Meg tossed on her bed feeling utterly miserable. She began to long for
the dawn, yet when it came she looked around her, almost dazed with
grief at the thought that at last the time had arrived for her to take
the inevitable step and leave Friars Court for ever.

She rose and put a few remaining things in her bag, after which she
opened the wardrobe to select the plainest and most useful dress she
possessed. She chose a tweed coat and skirt, and before she closed
the cupboard she glanced for the last time at the lovely dresses that
Sheila had given her, smoothing them tenderly with her hand. She
wondered who would wear them now.

Then she unlocked her jewel case, and put away the locket and bangle
that she had worn the day before. They were marks of Sheila's former
love for her. She did not want to see them again and was determined to
take away nothing but what was absolutely necessary. No one should be
able to say that she had decamped with everything on which she could
lay her hands. Perhaps Sheila would suspect her now of behaving in this
kind of manner. She would give her no opportunity of so doing.

The hat was the difficulty. She could not find one quite suitable for
the kind of life which she knew would now have to be hers. But at last
she decided upon a shady white straw trimmed with a blue scarf.

Then she went to the door of Sheila's room and listened. As she stood
there the bitter unforgiving thoughts subsided. She remembered how the
girl had befriended her. How she had taken her in, though a complete
stranger, and showered gifts upon her. She remembered, too, when she
was feeling like a caged bird and longed for the freedom of the fields,
how Sheila's kiss had changed everything, how she had shared her
pleasures with her, and given her beautiful clothing and every comfort.

Meg stood weeping by the locked door, longing to open it and to beg
forgiveness for her harsh words of the day before, but she knew full
well that she would not be welcome, so turned away, and taking up her
small bag, noiselessly stole downstairs.

The house looked ghostly in the light of dawn, and its quietness made
the girl shiver. She unbolted the door into the garden shutting it
softly after her.

Once in the garden she lingered. A slight morning mist lay about the
distance, and the grass was glittering with dew at her feet. The
silence was absolute, till suddenly a lonely bird awoke and sang. In a
moment its song was answered by another, and before a minute had passed
there was a happy chorus of birds congratulating one another on a new
morning.

Meg, standing there in the dewy dawn, sighed. Even the birds spoke of
friendship and love. They all seemed to have a comrade to answer to
their call, while she had no one. The tears fell fast.

Then she turned once more to give a parting look at the only home she
had ever known. The drawing-room and library windows were shuttered,
but above them were the windows of her own room and Sheila's, wide
open. She could catch sight of a picture of the Good Shepherd that hung
over her bed and about which she had asked many a question of Miss
Gregson when she had first arrived at Friars Court. It was the picture
of the Shepherd reaching down to save a little lamb that was standing
on a dangerous cliff. Meg loved it. Suddenly remembering that she was
in full view of Sheila should anything cause her to awake and look out
of her window, the girl moved on making her way to the wood.

By going through the wood she could avoid the few houses that formed
the village, and the path by the field took her within a short distance
of the railway station at Elminster.

The only destination she could think of was London.

She remembered how London in the old days contained for her all that at
that time seemed to make life worth living for, but it held for her now
no hope of any kind.

Finding that she was much too early for the train Meg sat down in a
field within ten minutes' walk of the station. She was feeling tired,
as besides having had no sleep she had had no breakfast, and now that
she had become accustomed to regular and good meals she felt the want
of food. She remembered how often she used to sit and rest in fields
and under hedges in the days that seemed so long ago, and contrasted
her feelings now with what they were then.

Her future looked grey and hopeless. She wished she could cut out of
her life the two last years, which had robbed her of spring, and had
made it impossible for her to find happiness in nature as of yore. She
had loved then the scent of the heather and bracken, the song of the
birds, the little flowers that grew by the wayside. They had all added
to the almost wild joy that she had felt as she had marched towards
Minton on the day of the thunder storm. Now she could do nothing but
look back and sigh. The present and the future were equally dark to
her; and the birds and sunshine had no power to raise her spirits.

She was thankful when she found it was time to go to the station. She
wanted to get out of reach of all that had contributed to her happiness
in the days that were now past recall, and was glad that no one whose
face she knew was apparently travelling by the early train for London.
In the third class carriage in which she travelled her only companion
was a young widow dressed in rusty black, with her little boy.

The woman had a nice, plain, kind face.

The boy grew restless during the journey, and his mother failing to
quiet him, looked anxiously at her companion, who was sitting with
closed eyes in her corner of the carriage. She hoped he was not
annoying her.

The woman looked long at the lovely face surrounded with the auburn
hair, and wondered what made it wear such a sad expression. To the poor
widow in her rusty black Meg looked as if she had much of this world's
goods. Her dress was made of an expensive tweed, though it was plain
and neat; and the boots below it were of good leather and were a pretty
shape. What could such a girl have to make her sad?

The woman looked down at her own black dress worn in memory of her
husband who had died three years before, comparing her lot with that of
the girl with closed eyes in the corner, and could not but wonder how
it was that apparently she, a widow, and with a child to support, was
happier than this well-dressed young lady.

Presently, as her little boy brushed unceremoniously past Meg, causing
her to open her eyes, the woman ventured on a remark.

"I hope my little boy don't annoy you, Miss," she said. "He do get so
restless travelling. I can't keep him quiet no how."

"I don't mind him," said Meg wearily. "Have you come far?"

"Just the other side of Elminster. I've been to see my father and
mother," she added. "I've not seen them for six years and of course
they've never seen my boy. May I make so bold Miss as to ask if you're
going all the way to London?"

"Yes. I'm going to London," said Meg. "What kind of a place is it? I've
never been there."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the woman. "Why I've lived in London
ever since I first went to service. I expect you'll have a good time.
There's no end to see, what with pictures and cinemas and the like. I
expect you've friends coming to meet you at the station, Miss."

"No. I've no one coming," said Meg.

The woman looked at her.

"I'm afraid you're in trouble," she said softly, for Meg had closed her
eyes and was again leaning her head against the back of the carriage.

Meg did not answer at first but kept her head turned away from her
questioner.

"I know what trouble is," said the woman. "I lost my husband three
years ago, and my little girl ten days after him. I didn't think I'd
ever get over it; but God helped me through."

"But you've got a father and mother," said Meg, turning dreary eyes
towards her. "I've no one."

"To think of that!" ejaculated the woman. "Poor dear! Have you lost
them all?"

"Yes," said Meg.

"All dead?"

"No. They are none of them dead. But they are as good as dead to me."

"Have you gone and done something very bad my dear?" asked the woman
with concern.

"No. But I've lost them all. And I've not a friend in the world that
cares whether I'm dead or alive."

"Come, come," expostulated the woman, "I'm sure you're making a
mistake. You're running away from them all I'll be bound. A young lady
like you isn't likely to have no friends. Take my word for it your
friends are all longing for you to go back to them."

Meg laughed bitterly, and remained silent, so silent that her companion
thought that she did not wish to talk; but as they neared London she
could not refrain from asking another question.

"What are you going to do when you get to London, Miss?"

"I don't know."

"Don't know where you're going! But that ain't safe. There 're wicked
people about that takes advantage of a girl like you. Beg your pardon,
Miss, I ought to have said young lady."

"No," said Meg hastily, "I'm no lady. I tried to be one and failed.
That's just my trouble. I ought never to have tried."

The woman was silent. She began to wonder what sad story was connected
with the sweet looking girl opposite to her.

They were nearing London. Meg looked out on the backs of the houses
that they passed, and grew frightened.

"Is this London?" she asked fearfully.

"We are getting near. Ain't there a lot of houses?"

"It's dreadful."

"You'll soon get used to it. I wish I knew of some nice rooms to tell
you of. You oughtn't to be alone. If it wasn't that I have such a poor
place I would ask you to come along of me. But it ain't fit for such as
you."

"It's very kind of you," said Meg. "But I shall make my way somehow. I
shall be all right."

Yet when she emerged from the train and stood among the crowd on the
platform at Paddington station she felt in a maze of fear. Where to go
or what to do she did not know. She was utterly bewildered.

The little widow had said goodbye to her with a kind shake of the hand,
wishing her good luck, and now the girl felt absolutely alone. She
hesitated as to what to do next.

Suddenly a well-dressed woman came up to her and asked her if she was
waiting for anyone and if she could be of any service to her, she
supposed she was looking for friends.

Looking at the face of the woman Meg shrank back instinctively, and
moved away.

But the woman was insistent.

"If there is anything that I can do for you," she said, "I'll be glad
to do it. I can tell you of comfortable lodgings and reasonable. It
isn't fit for young ladies to be alone in London, and I make a practice
of meeting the trains so that no girl whose friends fail to meet her
need find herself alone."

Meg stood bewildered. The woman seemed kind, but her instinct told
Meg to have nothing to do with her. However, being quite at a loss as
to what to do, she was just about to accept the proffered help, when
she felt her arm touched, and on looking round saw the little widow
standing by her side.

"If you don't mind my poor place," she said looking anxiously at the
girl, "you're welcome to come home with me." Then taking her arm she
gave it a little pull.

Meg took the hint.

"I shall be glad to come," she answered and hurried away.

"Oh, my dear, my dear," cried the widow, "I'm just thankful that I
thought of turning back and seeing after you. Anyway, though I'm poor,
I'm respectable and will do my best for you. I'm thankful that you
didn't go with that dreadful woman. You don't know the wickedness of
cities. Keep close to me, my dear. We'll take this bus and we'll be
home in a quarter of an hour. You won't mind it being poor will you?
It's a deal better to be poor than to be wicked."

Meg, pale with her experience, sat thankfully in the motor bus by the
widow, and wondered if she would ever get out of London again. Already
she hated it. Why did people stare in the way they did? It frightened
her so that she sat as close to her friend as possible and wondered if
she would ever venture into the streets alone.

A quarter of an hour afterwards she was standing in the little room
belonging to the widow, looking out on a dingy street crowded with the
poorest of the poor. They were over a small greengrocer shop, and in
the street below there were stalls piled with vegetables, fruit, fish
and other eatables. The smell of these provisions ascended through the
open window and made Meg turn sick, but she was thankful to be safe,
and full of gratitude to the good woman who had given up her own little
bedroom for her.

"I can put a shake-down on the floor easily in the next room," she
said cheerfully, when Meg expostulated, "and Tommy won't know the
difference. I'm more accustomed to roughing, I take it, than you are.
To-morrow perhaps we may find something more comfortable for you. But
anyway, my dear, you won't come to no harm here."

Meg stood looking down at the hurrying crowd. There were dirty lace
curtains hanging before the window and a sickly geranium in a little
red pot on the sill.

Everything in the room looked grey with dirt to Meg's eyes. She glanced
around comparing it with the room with the white paper covered with
roses at Friars Court, and thought of the smell of lavender that she
had delighted in when she lay in bed her first night there.

Then her thoughts flew to the still garden in which she had stood only
this morning, with her feet on the dewy grass and the birds singing to
one another. What a contrast?

As Meg stood looking down into the narrow grey street she could see
nothing but sadness and dreariness in the faces of the passers-by. The
cries of the hawkers ascended into her ears and the rumble of omnibuses
and cabs. Oh why had she come to London? Why had she not been content
to roam the sweet lanes once more, to sleep out under the stars, even
though that meant weariness and sometimes hunger. Anything was better
than this. To find herself in a barn or under a hedge would seem
paradise compared to this close breathless atmosphere, this hot summer
air laden with the scent of stale vegetables, fish, and refuse of all
kinds.

She looked round for a chair on which to sit, and found there was only
one in the room, and that broken and moreover in want of a washing. Meg
did not know what London smuts could do, nor that her kind friend was a
constant scrubber and prided herself on her cleanliness.

It was only after they had sat down to a dinner of stew and potatoes
that a ray of hope entered the girl's heart.

She told Mrs. Webb, for that was the widow's name, her story, and
mentioned the fact that the only way in which she could hope to make a
living was by her voice; singing at concerts or giving lessons.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Mrs. Webb after hearing all that the
girl had to say, "I'll go straight round to our clergyman and tell him
that I've a rare singer along of me that 'ud be pleased to sing at the
next Parish concert, and just ask his advice. I expect you'd get pupils
when they've heard you, and you wouldn't mind singing for nothing would
you now, if it was to lead to that."

The thought put a little hope into Meg, till, as she lay in her small
hard bed at night, she suddenly remembered that there was no one to
care if she sang well or not at the concert. Then tired out she fell
asleep, and dreamt that she heard Sheila's voice saying eagerly—

"You won't disappoint me, Meg dear, will you?"



CHAPTER XVIII

SHEILA'S CONFESSION

To send for Peter was Sheila's first thought when she heard to her
dismay that Meg had fled from Friars Court. Her heart had almost
stopped beating when the news was brought to her. The look on Miss
Gregson's face as they met at breakfast was one of deep anxiety and
distress.

"Something must be done at once," she said in a firmer tone than that
in which she usually spoke to Sheila.

"Of course something must be done," said Sheila irritably, "I have sent
for Peter."

Miss Gregson gave a sigh of relief. Mr. Fortescue would tell them what
to do. What a mercy that Sheila had sent for him so quickly. She felt
sure too that their friend would hasten to their help; that was his
way when anyone was in trouble. Miss Gregson blessed him in her heart.
Even now she saw the good man hurrying up the avenue towards the house;
he had lost no time; and the expression of his face as he came into
the room satisfied her that he was as convinced of the gravity of the
occasion quite as much as she was.

Sheila started up from the breakfast table and faced Peter with a look
of apprehension. Her conscience was smiting her and she dreaded having
to confess to her cousin, whose heart overflowed with kindness, the
cause of Meg's disappearance. What would he think of her?

"Is it true," he asked, "has Meg really run off?"

"Yes, this morning before breakfast. Walter found the side door
unlocked. She must have gone very early."

Peter looked gravely at the distressed face before him.

"What made her go?" he asked.

"She was upset I think," said Sheila breathlessly. "What happened at
the concert disconcerted her."

"But of course you did all you could to ease her mind. I know she
was afraid you would be vexed, but I assured her that she need not
fear. Something more must be at the back of this flight. I suppose it
couldn't have anything to do with that young man."

Sheila was silent and rather white.

"It's most mysterious," added Peter, "as she had no wish to see
anything at all of him and was so devoted to you. It is much more
likely that she was unhappy about something connected with you. Had you
been scolding her?" he asked the question with a half-smile.

"Yes. But she could not have been so silly as to feel it so much as to
run away. I was vexed with her and told her so."

"I am sure your scolding could not have been severe."

"Yes it was. You see I was very cross with her. I felt her conduct was
disgraceful and I told her so."

Peter looked grave.

"You don't mean that seriously do you?"

The gravity of his face had the effect of making Sheila excuse herself
quickly.

"Yes I do," she said. "You must confess that Meg was very extraordinary
at the concert. I was really obliged to speak to her."

"But not in such a way as to hurt her."

"I didn't of course mean to hurt her. But it made me hurry to say a
thing that I had been intending to say for a long time."

"What was that?"

"That I felt that it was time for her to earn her own living." Then as
Sheila saw a strange expression pass across Peter's face she hastened
to say, "I gave her a whole month in which to find work, and you can't
accuse me of not doing all I could to train her to support herself. I
don't see, Peter, why you should look like that."

"Were you tired of your plaything?" he asked quietly.

"Dreadfully," said Sheila. "You know, Peter, that I have always told
you that some people get on my nerves and Meg is one of them. I see you
think me horrid but I can't help it."

She was looking at her cousin eagerly, not understanding his expression
of face, and hoping that he would not judge her harshly. His extreme
quiet deceived her; perhaps he did not think so badly of her as she
feared.

"And you told her to go?"

"In a month's time," said Sheila, breathing a little quickly, for Peter
was looking at her so strangely. All the softness had gone out of his
face. She felt she was standing before a judge, instead of talking to
one of whom she had always imagined she could turn round her little
finger.

At her answer he moved away towards the window.

Sheila followed him laying a hand on his arm.

"Do you think me quite horrid?" she asked.

"What steps have you taken to find her?" was his answer.

"We have looked everywhere in the garden and park and I have sent
Walter to Elminster to find out all he can. But he has come back
baffled."

"Has she no friends at all?" asked Peter. "Except that young man? Did
she ever talk of anyone to you to whom she may have gone?"

"No, I'm afraid she has no friends," said Sheila, and her own assertion
added to the shame she was beginning to feel at her action. "I was
afraid," she added, "that you would not approve of what I have done."

"Approve of what? Of sending a friendless girl adrift in the world? A
girl who would have laid down her life for you, and whom you taught to
love all that you enjoy? You are right. You could scarcely expect me to
approve of that."

"Oh, Peter!" Sheila looked at him reproachfully. He had never spoken so
severely to her nor looked so stern. She burst into tears.

He took no notice of her tears.

"Every step must be taken to find her," he said shortly, "and to place
her in a place of safety. It is terrible to think of a girl like that
alone in the world, and," he added, as he turned to look at Sheila, "it
is sad indeed to think that she is placed in this condition by one who
has all the good things of life around her. I am disappointed in you,
Sheila. But I must go and see what can be done."

Peter ordered his cart and drove at once to the carpenter's shop and
asked for the address of the young man who had put up the platform at
the Court for the concert.

"What kind of a man is he?" asked Peter.

"All right I think, Sir. I have no fault to find with him, except that
he is a bit dreamy sometimes. He came home from Friars Court the day
before yesterday, saying that he wished to end his engagement with me
as soon as possible. I asked him on what ground, and he had nothing to
say for himself. I told him, however, he must stay anyhow till to-day
as I was depending on him. He's a good workman."

After getting Jem's address from the carpenter Peter drove to a street
in the centre of Elminster, and throwing the reins to his man made his
way into a dark court in one of the houses of which he had been told
Jem had his lodgings.

As he was about to knock at the door it opened and the man he was
looking for appeared. Jem fell back a pace or two at the sight of his
visitor, then his eyes flashed dangerously.

"Do you live here?" asked Peter. "If so, may I come in?"

Jem turned round without a word, leading the way up some dark rickety
stairs. At the top he turned a handle and Peter found himself in a
room low and comfortless. Only bare furniture could he see, and the
furniture did not exactly match with the man who used it, who looked at
his visitor with a pair of honest though fierce eyes.

It was some time before Peter could make Jem understand the drift
of his words. The man seemed dazed when he told him of Meg's
disappearance. But when once he took in that she had fled from Friars
Court he sprang from his seat in agitation and took up his cap, which
he had flung on the table.

"Do I know where she is?" he said roughly and fiercely in answer to
Peter's question. "Am I likely to? Meg don't want no more of me. I've
made sure of that. It ain't likely that after what she did at that
house she'd come and look me up. But for all that I shan't leave off
looking after her. Now she's left the Court I'm her only friend, and
if I don't see after her, no one will." Then he leant his hands on the
table and looked Peter fiercely in the face.

"I'd just like to know though why she left. If anyone was unkind to her
I'd wish to repay them."

"It was a surprise to everyone at the Court," answered Peter. "And she
left no word of explanation. That's why I came to you. I knew you were
her friend."

"You knew it? How did you know it?" demanded Jem roughly.

"Because she told me," said Peter quietly, watching the effect of his
words on the face of the man before him.

Jem's mouth worked as he tried to keep down his emotion. Then Meg still
looked upon him as her friend. He breathed quickly.

"I'll seek her till I find her," he murmured in a low voice, "and if
luck don't come my way I'll die seeking her."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Peter gravely. "You took her by
surprise the other day. But my belief is that she depends upon you more
than on any human being, though perhaps she hardly knows it herself
just at present. I also mean to search for her."

"You?"

"Yes, I. The young lady she lived with is my cousin, and for her sake I
don't mean to leave any stone unturned. My cousin is very unhappy about
it all."

But the words instead of comforting his hearer had the opposite effect.
He sank down in his chair and looked hopelessly at Peter.

"Then it must be me after all," he groaned. "If you've all been kind
nought must have driven her away but the sight of me. She's afeard of
me. I might have known how it would be."

"You make a mistake; she didn't leave because of you. I can't explain,
and we're only wasting time and words, but I'm going to the station
now and shall interview the station master, and you'd better come with
me in time to catch the next train if we find she has one to London or
elsewhere by rail."

Jem rammed his hand into his pocket and brought out a few silver
pieces. Then after counting them he put them back and looked across at
Peter.

"I can't go by rail," he said, "I must tramp it. No," he added as he
saw Peter take out his purse, "I won't be beholden to any man. I'll
tramp it. I've tramped many a mile already looking for Meg and I'll do
it again. It ain't no hardship to me."

"No, but it is losing time. Think what harm your friend may get into
while you are tramping day after day. For her sake, and I will add for
all of our sakes, you must allow me to pay your expenses. I can't go
myself to-day, but it is your bounden duty to do so. And remember you
are bound to apply to me for more when you run short."

This put another complexion on the matter. Peter waited while Jem
gathered together his few belongings into his small bag, and then
the two drove to the station and on finding from the station master
that Meg had gone off to London by the early train that morning, Jem
determined to follow by the next and was soon on his way.

Peter drove home wondering what would be the end of it all. He was
satisfied that Meg's friend was an honest, trustworthy young man, whose
love would make him leave no stone unturned to find the lost girl. But
his own heart was sad, and he paced up and down the terrace of the
garden for hours that night thinking of Sheila and wondering how he
could help her to be what he had believed her capable of being.



CHAPTER XIX

A CONTRAST

MEG awoke the next morning to the sound of dripping rain. She had
been dreaming of Friars Court, and had thought she was in the garden
listening to the birds. When she awoke she was listening to the rain.
Instead of the sun streaming in, making the white wall gleam and shine,
the dirty white curtains before her window were blowing on to her bed,
and she could see nothing but grey wherever she looked.

A church clock chimed seven, but she was in no hurry to rise although
she heard the little widow bustling about in the adjoining room which
served for a parlour and kitchen, and last night for a bedroom also,
for herself and her boy.

Sounds from the street found their way up through the open window, and
the smell of herrings which Mrs. Webb was preparing as a surprise for
breakfast, was mingled with the unsavoury atmosphere below.

Meg turned her face to the wall and wept. She wished she could die.
There was nothing to look forward to, no work to take up her time, no
books with which to beguile the hours away, and the knowledge that the
only money she possessed in the world had already somewhat dwindled in
her pocket during the journey, was troubling her mind. Well, when that
was finished she would have to die. That was all.

The cheery voice of the little widow interrupted her sad thoughts.

"My dear, the breakfast is nearly cooked, and I have to be out at my
work in half-an-hour's time. I've brought you some hot water. You're
used to that I'll be bound."

"I've a mind to stop in bed," said Meg.

Mrs. Webb looked at her visitor aghast.

"Stop in bed! Ain't you well?"

"Oh yes, I'm well enough I suppose," said Meg drearily. "But I don't
see any use in getting up. I haven't got anything to do."

"You've got your work to find," said Mrs. Webb briskly. "It don't do no
good to lie and fret. I take it you're just fretting, and that ain't
right nor wise. Come, my dear, take my advice and get up. I've ever
such a nice herring for you. You want food I guess."

"Very well, I'll get up," said Meg.

When she had dressed and taken her seat at the breakfast table she
noticed for the first time that Mrs. Webb had got on her bonnet.

"You're not going out are you?" she asked.

"Why, to be sure I am. I shouldn't get along in this world if I wasn't
in good work. And you'll be busy too I take it before you've had time
to turn round. What do you mean to do, my dear?"

Meg looked hopeless.

"I can't think. I'm not fitted for service. I only wish I was. But
I don't know the commonest things. I can only sing, and I should be
frightened to sing in London streets now. My courage is all gone. I
shouldn't have had a fear two years ago."

"It'll come back," said Mrs. Webb, cheerfully. "But I tell you what. I
wonder if you'd mind giving your room a scrub to-day? It ought to have
been done, but this last week I've been away. I'd be ever so grateful
if you would."

"I'll do the best I can," said Meg. "But I must look for another room
too. I can't let you sleep to-night in here."

"Tut, tut, my dear. Don't you worry about that. And, by the bye, I've
got good news. The lady upstairs is leaving I hear, so you can get a
room in this house if you've a mind to. It would be nicer for you than
to be among strangers."

Meg felt thankful. She had been dreading finding a room for herself and
clung to this woman who had befriended her as her one safeguard against
all the horrors of London.

So when Mrs. Webb had left, leaving Willie in her charge, Meg set to
work to scrub, but never having been taught housework of any kind she
found it wearisome and difficult, and moreover grudged working in this
way as she was wearing her one and only dress.

Mrs. Webb came home to find the floor of the bedroom wringing wet and
with little chance of its drying in the damp weather.

"You've used too much water," she said. "It'll take long to dry I fear.
But you don't know no better, poor dear, so don't worry."

"I only wish I'd been taught useful things," sighed Meg, "besides
reading and writing. I was only taught to sing."

"Aye, it's a pity," answered Mrs. Webb. "I don't hold with all that
they teach in the schools neither. The piano I believe, and drawing and
such like; what have we got to do with them things. What the children
want to learn is to scrub and dust and sew. I don't hold with the
edication now-a-days."

"Anyhow I can read," said Meg. "I could teach Willie his letters if you
like."

"That would be real kind of you. But my dear you mustn't sit at home
all day. Willie can go along with you and show you the shops in Oxford
Street and Regent Street. He knows the way well enough. And this
evening I mean to go to our Rector and tell him about your voice."

But though Mrs. Webb managed to get the Rector's sympathy for Meg
without any difficulty, and he arranged for her to sing at the next
parish meeting, Meg could not fulfil her engagement.

The confinement, close air, and poor food had upset her, and she lay
sick for many a day greatly to the poor little widow's concern.

Meg had moved into her own room, having bought a few bits of furniture,
and had made it as bright as she could with a pot or two of flowers
in the window and a clean curtain, and she kept her window wide open
day and night; but the summer was an unusually hot one and the girl
drooped before she had been a week in London. One morning as Mrs. Webb
came back from her work expecting to find Meg with Willie, she found
he had seen nothing of her, and on knocking and getting no answer she
opened the door to find the girl in bed in a state of high fever. Mrs.
Webb was not aware that Meg, fearing that her money would come to an
end before she had earned any with which to replace it, had been living
on next to nothing; so that when she was attacked by fever she had no
strength to resist it.

The girl was moaning and tossing from side to side.

"You ain't well, my dear," said Mrs. Webb.

"It's my head," groaned Meg. "It's so terrible hot. Can you give me a
drink of water?"

"Surely, and I'll send for the doctor right away."

"No, don't send for the doctor. I ain't got no money to pay him. And it
don't matter. I want to die. Just leave me."

"I'll get an order for the parish doctor," said Mrs. Webb. "And don't
talk so foolish about dying. You're not going to die. Not a bit of it."

Meg groaned.

"I wish I could. I wish I could," she sighed. "No one wants me. No one
would care if I died."

"That ain't true my dear. I guess that young man you told me about,
your Jem as you call him, would be mighty put about to find you dead.
Men don't forget like that."

"Yes they do. Jem has a right to forget because I turned my back upon
him. They've all forgotten. Sheila and Miss Gregson and the lot of
them. I want to die."

"You'll be better by and bye," said Mrs. Webb, putting a kind though
hot hand on the girl's forehead. "And anyway God hasn't forgot you."

"Hasn't He? How do you know? I've prayed many a time 'O God, take care
of me,' and look at me now."

"And ain't He answered your prayer?" said Mrs. Webb. "How about that
wicked woman that tried to get hold of you? If it hadn't been that I
had been sent by that very train where would you be now? Wasn't it God
that took care of you then?"

"Yes, I suppose He's given me you," said Meg, the tears coursing down
her face. "I'm afraid I've been ever so ungrateful talking like this,
you've been more than kind; and you're the only friend I have in the
world."

"Come, come, my dear. Don't worry over it, there's a dear. It won't do
you no good to cry. I'll go for the parish doctor and see what he says
about you."

By the time Mrs. Webb had returned, delirium had set in and Meg was
talking softly and hurriedly to herself.

"I'd do anything to please you," she whispered, turning her head
restlessly from side to side, "and I'll try hard to talk grammar.
It ain't because I don't try. Oh! hark, that's the night hawk. Miss
Gregson do go away and leave me, I ain't fit for fine company. Jem!
Jem! Jem!"

When the doctor came, he ordered Meg off to the Infirmary.



CHAPTER XX

IN THE DARKNESS

WHEN Meg awoke to consciousness she looked about her in consternation.
She was in a large ward containing many other beds, and as she looked
with startled eyes around, it gradually dawned upon her that she was
in the Infirmary. From the sunshine, brightness and comfort of Friars
Court to the Infirmary. Meg turned her face to the wall and wept. The
iron had entered into her soul, she wished she could die.

She felt she was forgotten and absolutely alone. The pain at her heart
was so fierce and strong that it was almost unendurable. She could
scarcely trust herself to think of Sheila. She felt that had it not
been for her she might still have been comparatively happy, tramping
the lanes and sleeping under the stars.

What had been the good of taking her up in the way she had done and
then casting her off? Meg wished she had never seen her; that she had
never entered Friars Court, that Miss Gregson and Mr. Fortescue had
never crossed her path. What good had it been? It had only made her
discontented with her own life and unprepared for the struggle that she
had now to face.

And what had been the good of Sheila's apparent love and kindness? It
had not been worth having, it was nothing to be compared with Jem's
love for her, the love she had spurned and turned her back upon.

Tormented with these thoughts Meg tossed about too depressed to look
again at her surroundings. Then she heard a faint sound coming from the
bed next to her own. She turned to listen and look.

An old woman lay gazing at her as she murmured words that arrested
Meg's attention.

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be
no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any
more pain: for the former things are passed away."

The voice was very weak, and the owner of it very old, but the patient
lay looking at Meg with a pair of sweet calm eyes. The gray hair was
brushed smoothly over the forehead, and the whole aspect of the woman
spoke of peace and content.

Meg looked away from her to the other occupants of the ward. At the
opposite corner lay a woman who constantly burst out into idiotic
laughter. No one took any notice of her.

Across the ward was a little group of women chattering. They were
all more or less in a state of convalescence, and their voices were
loud and coarse. Meg occasionally caught the sound of oaths and foul
language. She stopped her ears not to hear.

But the woman lying so still and peaceful by her side seemed quite
oblivious of all her sad surroundings. Had she been in a palace she
could scarcely have looked more contented. She kept repeating the words
of comfort, looking at Meg all the time.

"Why are you so happy?" asked Meg.

The old woman looked dazed for a moment. Then she murmured, "Neither
shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

After that, Meg did not venture to speak to her again. The woman was
evidently past making any kind of mental effort, but she kept repeating
the same words, and smiling at the girl.

Meg was feeling too sad to return the smile. She lay and stared at her
fellow sufferer, wondering how she could possibly be so peaceful in
such surroundings. She envied her.

In the morning the bed was empty.

For some days after the death of the old woman, Meg lay in a kind of
stupor; then one morning she awoke to the full perception of what was
going on around her. The darkest hour of her life had arrived.

A fierce rebellion took possession of her. Looking around at the faces
of her companions in misfortune, she could see nothing but marks
of sin, reckless despair, or sullen indifference, and now that the
restraining influence of the old saint had been removed, Meg took no
pains to shut her ears to the profane and foul language that abounded.

She had tried not to listen so long as the old woman had lain and
smiled at her from the next bed, but now she sat up and laughed
fiercely. She felt a bitter inclination to join with these others as
the oaths were flung about with violence; a reckless spirit seemed to
take possession of her, and the language, instead of making her shrink
away in horror chimed in with her present mood. Meg had come to the
turning point of her life. The crisis was at hand. She was on the verge
of disaster; standing on the very brink of the road that leads to hell.
She could see nothing before her but sin, darkness, and despair.

She flung her arms above her head and laughed, a mirthless bitter
laugh, so bitter that a woman who now lay in the next bed to her
turned round and stared. But the girl offered no explanation of her
action. Instead she gazed up into the sky, which she could see from the
opposite window, with wild angry eyes.

When night came she tossed from side to side full of misery, then lay
wide eyed still gazing up into the sky.

A star had fixed her attention. Her eyes were riveted upon it, and
against her will she found her thoughts wandering into the garden at
Friars Court, and she stood once more on the dewy grass in the morning
sunshine, looking up at her bedroom window from which she could catch
a sight of the picture of the Good Shepherd rescuing the lamb. It
brought to her mind the voice of Miss Gregson as she had explained the
picture to her on her first arrival at the Court. She remembered how
she had listened with interest, and then had forgotten all about it in
the delightful excitement of her life. She was unconscious of the need
of a Saviour. Now all had changed for her. She felt as if in a dark
pit; without hope. Her need was great. She was conscious that she was
standing on the edge of a precipice, and the faintest push would mean
death and darkness to her.

She groaned, stretching out her hands over the coverlet as if groping
for something.

Then out of the depth she cried, and something wonderful happened.

The same experience has been undergone by many a soul that has lain in
darkness and the shadow of death.

It happened to Musgrave Reade, the atheist, at "the height of his
rebellion against God"; to Max Muller, Professor of Comparative
Philology at Oxford, as after many years of prejudice and neglect of
the New Testament, he opened it again. It happened to St. Paul as he
rode on his way to Damascus, breathing out threatenings and slaughter
against the disciples of the Lord.

So as Meg lay looking up into the starry sky with despairing eyes, a
"still small voice" spoke to her, and in the darkness, she listened.

From that moment life was changed, for she had found a Friend and a
Saviour.



CHAPTER XXI

THE ROSE THROWN FROM THE TRAIN

No one came to meet Meg when, having recovered from her illness, she
left the Union. She knew that Mrs. Webb could not do so on account of
her work, so was not disappointed. But she was surprised to find how
pleased she felt as she drew near the unsavoury street in which Mrs.
Webb's rooms were located.

She looked up at the window of the room in which she had slept on first
arriving in London. How she had hated the room that day! Now the one
above it stood for home, and she thought of it with tenderness.

Meg was still feeling weak, and walked slowly up the stairs, pausing
at Mrs. Webb's door. She knew that her kind friend would not be at
home, but Willie would in all probability be there. She opened the
door gently. Willie was playing with a broken toy on the floor and
recognising his visitor he jumped up and threw his arms round her.

Meg clasped him close. She felt she had come to her own folk. "Oh
Willie, I am glad to see you," she said. Her voice trembled with
emotion, as she recognized that this was the first home coming that she
had ever had in her life.

Willie tugged her towards a chair and then seated himself on her knee.

"I've two secrets to tell you," he said in a loud whisper. "Would you
like to hear them?"

"Ever so much," said Meg with shining eyes.

He threw his arms round her neck, nearly throttling her in his anxiety
to whisper right into her ear.

"We're going to have sausages to our dinner," he said, "and mother, she
say you're to have it along with us. She's got them for you."

"Oh, how nice!" said Meg, but she was thinking of the sensation of
having the child's arms around her, not of the sausages.

"Ain't you fond of sausages? I am, and mother she got 'em on purpose
for you. You ain't had 'em I guess where you've been."

"I'm ever so fond of sausages," said Meg.

"It's part of my birthday treat come before the day," continued Willie.

"When is your birthday, Willie?"

"It's to-morrow that ever is, and I've got another just lovely secret
for you. You like my secrets don't you?"

"I love them."

"Well then, bend your ear down as no one must hear this one as it's
just lovely. Where do you think we're going to-morrow, me and you and
mother?"

"I don't know, I can't guess."

"You'd never guess if you sat up all night. It's ever so far away.
Miles and miles and miles. Where do you think it is?"

"I can't imagine. Tell me."

"Why it's on to a heath. It's to be my birthday treat you know. What,
ain't you glad?" Willie looked amazed as he saw tears falling down
Meg's face.

"I'm so glad that I don't know what to do," said Meg sobbing.

"But you're crying." The boy put up his little hand to wipe away the
tears. "I thought you'd just be thinking it lovely. Mother said you
would."

"And so I do, Willie," said Meg laughing hysterically. "I'm just
delighted. It's because I'm so happy that I'm crying. People do
sometimes you know."

"I don't think you really like it," said the child, slipping off her
knee and surveying her dejectedly.

"I like it more than anything you can think of," said Meg, wiping
away her tears. "I'm a bit tired I suppose, that's all, dear. But oh,
Willie, I'm glad it's your birthday to-morrow."

A great sob escaped her. To think of being again in the country! Of
lying out on the heath under the sun! Of drinking in the sweet pure
air! It seemed almost too good to be true. But she tried for the sake
of her little companion to restrain her inclination to sob out loud
again, and instead looked up laughing. Willie was reassured. He knelt,
resting his elbows on her knee and looking up into her face.

"Mother, she say she'll take off my shoes and stockings and let me run
about on the grass without 'em. Won't that be fine. You'll do it too
won't you?"

"I shouldn't wonder if I did. I shouldn't wonder at anything," said Meg
laughing.

"And we're going to take our food along of us and sit out on the grass
and eat it. Won't that be fun? I expect you've never done such a thing
before, have you?"

"It'll be lovely," said Meg anxious not to clamp the child's pleasure
by telling him she had eaten her dinner out of doors scores of times.

"And we shall go in the train first. I've once been in a train before,
when I went to see my Granny. And then I've another secret, but that
ain't till to-morrow. Mother says I'm not to tell you that."

When Mrs. Webb came home she found Meg on the floor playing with Willie
and his broken toys, looking perfectly happy and contented. It quite
surprised her. And she also noticed that Meg's eyes were bright and
full of courage and hope. She looked a different creature to what she
had been before her illness.

"I'm ever so glad to be at home," she said.

"It's a poor home, my dear, I'm thinking. But with your fine voice you
won't be here long I take it. I've been talking to folks about you and
I've been telling the lady for whom I work, and she means to try and
help you to get pupils. You won't be long with us I guess."

"I shan't leave you," said Meg. "This is my home, the first I've ever
had. It's mine you see, and I can be myself."

Mrs. Webb, though pleased that the girl seemed so contented, did not
understand it. Considering that only six weeks had passed since she
was living in the lap of luxury, it was strange that she did not seem
to dread the privations before her. She would have been still more
perplexed if she had been able to read the thoughts that were flitting
through Meg's brain.

For the girl was recognizing the fact that once more she was free, free
to live her own life without let or hindrance; free to be herself and
not obliged to copy another. And behind this knowledge was the fact
that SOMEONE cared; that she possessed a Friend Who would never cast
her off and that in trying to please Him, instead of losing her own
personality, He would help her to perfect and ennoble it. In fact she
was tasting for the first time the liberty of Christ's service: Whose
service is perfect freedom.

Not that Meg could possibly have put her vague thoughts and feelings
into words. Had she been asked what had happened to make her look at
life so differently and with such hope and courage, she would probably
have answered in the common parlance of the London factory girl, "I've
turned," and perhaps no words could have expressed or explained better
her present position.

Her face was turned towards the light, and consequently a different
view of life had presented itself.

The glory of the Radiant City was transfiguring the landscape, and it
was only behind her that the darkness of despair lay.

Even her thoughts about Sheila had changed. Bitterness had now no place
in her heart.

"She made a mistake, that's all," she would say to herself. "She didn't
mean to hurt or harm me, and she was wonderful good to me." And Meg
began to think that she saw now why she had been brought so low. Had
she lived on at Friars Court, possibly she would never have recognized
her need of the Great Friend because the lesser friend was engaging all
her thoughts.

Looking at Meg, Mrs. Webb began to wonder if to-morrow's excursion
might not prove too much for her strength, but when the morning broke
and the sun shone down in its glory, she felt that a day in the
country would be just the thing for the girl. And she saw that Meg was
anticipating it greatly.

"My lady when I asked if she could let me off to-day seemed as anxious
as I that we should go. I was telling her about you, Meg. And now
Willie just you run into Mrs. Green's and get that secret I told you
about. There's a good boy."

The secret proved to be a lovely red rose which he handed with pride to
Meg.

"It's Mrs. Green that's given it to me," he said, "and told me I might
give it to you. She's mighty pleased to hear you're back, she say, and
I'm to tell you it's the last rose of summer."

"How kind," said Meg. "But where did she get this rose? It's just a
beauty."

"Her uncle he's a gardener and came to see her yesterday. It comes from
the country, and mother says you must wear it as it's my birthday."

Mrs. Webb made Meg take her arm to the station and told Willie to walk
the other side of her so the girl found herself well-guarded on both
sides. She felt delightfully happy.

       *       *       *       *       *       *

Jem was feeling discouraged and anxious. He had been seeking for Meg
for six weeks and without any result.

He had been fortunate in getting odd jobs to do in which his days
were employed, but his evenings were spent in search. Many a time he
thought he had a clue, always to be disappointed, and as the days
passed he grew more and more anxious. London struck him as a place
full of pitfalls, and the thought of Meg alone and uncared for, almost
paralyzed him at times with fear. He was growing thin and pale, and was
often so tired with his efforts that he could not sleep.

He had obtained a job in one of the suburbs of London to which he went
daily by train, and the day on which Mrs. Webb took Meg and Willie into
the country, found him at the same station but on another platform to
the one from which the train for Hampstead Heath started.

He was leaning against the corner of a smoking carriage looking weary
and despondent, lazily watching a train that was slowly moving out of
the station. The train was so close to the one in which he sat that he
could have shaken hands with the people in the carriages which were
passing him.

Suddenly he became aware that coming towards him was a carriage out of
the window of which leant a head of auburn hair.

The head was uncovered, for Meg, having a headache, had thrown off her
hat. As Jem caught sight of her she was leaning far out with her eyes
fastened on him.

The carriages were nearly opposite now. They both stared at one another
as if dazed, then Jem sprang to his feet and tried to wrench open the
door. He must get to her; there would be just time in which to spring
on to the foot rail for the train was moving very slowly. But the door
being locked resisted all his efforts. The veins on his temple stood
out like cords, as he was conscious that the speed of the train was
increasing. Then something hit his shoulder and fell at his feet and
the next moment a curve in the line took Meg out of his sight.

Jem dropped into his seat gasping, and took out his pocket handkerchief
to wipe his forehead. His disappointment was so bitter that he could
only groan. Then suddenly his foot touched something and on looking
down he caught sight of a deep red rose. The expression of his whole
face changed, as he realized from whom the rose must have come and
gradually it dawned upon him that the girl who had looked at him with
such startled eyes from the moving train was Meg of the heather rather
than Meg of Friars Court. There had been none of the queenly dignity
he had noticed on the day of the concert, which had seemed to put her
at such a distance from him as she had stood on the platform dressed
in her shimmering green dress. The head of hair that leant out of the
window was a little rumpled, and the look of the eyes had been eager
and excited. Jem, as he remembered these things, could have shouted
for joy. Supposing that Mr. Fortescue had been right and Meg after all
loved him still! But no, he must put that wild idea out of his mind;
the possibility of being a second time disappointed was unbearable; he
would not build his hopes so high.

But it was something to know that Meg did not repulse him, had leaned
out of the carriage window towards him instead of hiding from his
sight, that she had evidently forgiven him his mad action on the day
of the concert. It was everything too to know that she was alive and
apparently happy. He picked up the rose and stuck it into his button
hole, with the resolve that it should stay there till Meg herself
replaced it with another, for the sight of the girl had filled him with
fresh courage and a firmer resolve to look for her till he found her.

Meanwhile Meg, after throwing the rose, looked round at Mrs. Webb with
love light in her eyes.

"It was Jem," she said in an awed tone of voice.

Mrs. Webb had been watching the extraordinary conduct of her companion
with astonishment. It had been quite a shock to her, and she was
experiencing a keen sense of disappointment. To think that such a nice
respectable girl should so lose her sense of what was right and proper
as to throw a rose in at a carriage window to a strange young man. Mrs.
Webb's sense of propriety was outraged.

At Meg's words however she began to wonder if the poor girl was going
daft.

"My dear, you shouldn't do such things," she said.

"It was Jem," repeated Meg, a wonderful smile radiating her face, "and
he didn't scorn me."

"Sit down," urged Mrs. Webb, "you're fairly done that's what it is. I
ought never to have let you come. Sit down and be quiet there's a good
girl. You ain't well."

Meg laughed joyously.

"Not well! Oh, what nonsense! Why I'm feeling better than I've felt for
weeks. Don't you understand that I've just seen Jem? and I gave him my
rose. You don't mind, Willie, do you?"

But Willie looked up with a face red with anger. As Meg caught his hand
intending to give him a kiss to make up to him for her action he pushed
her away.

"You've given away my rose," he cried, "the rose I gived to you this
morning. She shouldn't have done it, should she mother."

"I'm sorry," said Meg laughing, "but I couldn't help it. When you're a
man you'll understand. Come give me a kiss and make it up."

But Willie would not be reconciled, he gave her a kick instead. The
kick hurt the girl, but she scarcely felt it, her mind was full of the
joy of seeing Jem again.

Mrs. Webb began to think that after all perhaps Meg might be speaking
the truth.

"Are you sure it was Jem?" she asked doubtfully.

"Sure! How could I make a mistake? And he's forgiven me. I believe he's
looking for me, and if so he'll find me. He found me last time."

The rest of the day passed like a dream to Meg. She lay out on the
heath in the sunshine with a heart full of happiness.

"Jem will find me," she kept thinking, "and he's forgiven me."



CHAPTER XXII

REMORSE

MISS GREGSON'S knitting was a source of real comfort to her during this
time.

It soothed her troubled mind, for not only did the thought of Meg
sadden her, but also Sheila's extraordinary callousness.

While Mr. Fortescue was leaving no stone unturned in his efforts to
get a clue to Meg's whereabouts, Sheila threw herself into every kind
of gaiety, in apparent complete forgetfulness of her cruel behaviour
towards her protégé. Miss Gregson watched her employer with surprise
and concern. It would have consoled her to know that the girl passed
many a restless miserable night, shedding tears of remorse when no one
could see her. Her pride forbade her showing any anxiety before others,
being determined that she would give them no excuse for thinking that
she considered herself to blame in the matter.

But in the presence of her cousin Peter Fortescue, her pride had no
place. He had not hidden from her what he thought of her conduct; and
had told her plainly that he felt ashamed to think that one of his own
family could have acted in the way she had done. More than once the
girl had been reduced to tears before him.

He told her that he blamed himself and everyone who had had to do with
her, in giving way to her fancies and combining together to spoil
her. They ought to have seen to it too, that she did not live in such
culpable ignorance of the world of sin and sorrow around her. They had
hidden sad facts, instead of enlightening her in such a way as to help
her to feel for and sympathise with the misery of her fellow creatures.
But this did not, he explained, exonerate Sheila in the least from the
severest blame for her heartless conduct.

Sheila had never before seen the stern side of her cousin's character.
She had always looked upon "dear old Peter," as she called him as the
incarnation of gentleness and kindness. From her childhood she had
been accustomed to run to him in her childish sorrows, knowing that
however naughty she had been he would dry her tears and make her smile
again. He had never failed her yet. And the girl was aware, that though
Peter was showing this strange stern side of his character, he was
not failing her now. She always respected those who dared to tell her
the truth about herself, and Peter was pitiless in the way he held up
before her her conduct towards Meg. Her conscience was now beginning to
work, making her realise that the picture her cousin drew of her was a
true one. It depressed her dreadfully.

Miss Gregson, as she sat one day in the drawing-room knitting and
thinking, saw Sheila enter and sink down into one of the large
comfortable armchairs with a book in her hand.

The girl was looking depressed and unlike herself.

For a long time she read silently, the distressed pucker of her
forehead showing that it was not the usual novel in which she was so
engrossed but some book that evidently surprised and worried her.

Miss Gregson watched furtively. At last noticing very evident emotion
depicted on Sheila's face she said:

"What is that book, my dear, that you are so interested in?"

Sheila held it up for her to see the title.

"It's rather a sad book isn't it?" remarked Miss Gregson. She had not
read it, but the title proved to her that it depicted life among the
poor in its darkest colours.

"Yes, it's a dreadful book, full of horrors and misery."

"Then why read it?"

"Because you see, Angel," said the girl letting it drop on to her
knee, "I've been living in a false world. Peter says I ought to know
something of the life of those less favoured than I am. I expect he's
quite right. I haven't known and I haven't cared. If I had," she added,
her voice trembling, "things would have been different."

"What things, and how different?"

Sheila was silent, biting her lips. She was trying to keep down the
bitter tears remorse was causing. She did not want Angel to know how
terribly guilty she felt herself to be. After a moment in which she
recovered herself, she said in a low voice:—

"I'm thinking about poor Meg."

"Ah!" said Miss Gregson, a feeling of thankfulness taking possession of
her.

"I've been kept in ignorance of things I ought to have known," said
the girl bitterly. "Peter says at my age it's disgraceful that I am so
ignorant of the sufferings and sorrows of my sisters, as he calls them,
and advised me to get hold of some literature on the subject so as to
get enlightened. I found this in the library. Why have you never tried
to tell me that I was living in a false world?" she demanded.

"My dear, I have tried, but you always—"

"Oh yes, I know," interrupted Sheila, "I wouldn't listen to anything
that wasn't pleasant. It isn't your fault, poor Angel. It's because
I've been so abominably self-engrossed and selfish." Then after a
pause, she added, "If we don't find Meg I don't know what I shall do. I
can't sleep at night for thinking of her."

"Mr. Fortescue is leaving no stone unturned," said Miss Gregson.

"I know, but it may be too late. Poor Meg may be dead by this time. I
saw Peter this morning and he tells me the man Jem spends all his spare
time looking for her. He has not yet given up hope. I can't tell you
how many letters Peter has written. If I find her I shall try and do
all I can to make her life happy. That is to say if she will let me. If
not, perhaps I could help her through you or Peter. He said something
about the possibility of getting the man back as estate carpenter or
something of that sort. Jem assures him he would never receive charity.
Peter has taken a fancy to him, and hopes if Meg is found she will
reward his faithfulness by marrying him. But oh, Angel, if she is lost
for good," added Sheila, unable to restrain her sense of wrong doing
any more, "I think I shall die of remorse."

Miss Gregson knew Sheila well enough to know that this mood would pass,
but she had a firm hope that she had learnt her lesson, and that,
besides reading sad books about the state of the world, she would turn
to the only One Who could teach her to do the best for that corner of
it in which He had placed her. Till she knew what it was, like Mary, to
sit at His feet and learn to be meek and lowly, Miss Gregson had little
hope of her feeling permanent sympathy for her sisters' sorrows and
sufferings.



CHAPTER XXIII

JEM

MEG awoke the morning following the expedition to Hampstead Heath, full
of courage. She knew she must set to work without fail, or the very few
shillings that remained of her five pounds would be exhausted.

"I mean to go and see the Rector," she informed Mrs. Webb who had come
up to her room to give her a look before starting off to her work.

"If you like to wait till the evening I'll go round with you," Mrs.
Webb answered. But Meg longed to set to work at once, and moreover did
not feel any fear at interviewing the Rector.

So ten o'clock found her in his study.

It was a large room, the walls of which were lined with books. In the
centre stood a writing table at which Mr. Wentworth was sitting. He
laid down his pen as the servant opened the door to admit Meg. His
visitor corresponded curiously in appearance with the description he
had just received of a girl for whom search was being made.

Mr. Wentworth had heard of Meg from Mrs. Webb, but had not been told
her story and was not prepared for the lovely girl who now sat gravely
before him. Before he asked her why she was anxious to see him he
turned over several letters that lay on his desk and placed one before
him.

If the details tallied he would have the delight of being the means of
setting his friend's heart at rest.

As Meg told him her story, with reservations, however, she noticed that
his attention often seemed to be wandering to the letter before him.
She was somewhat discouraged; on the other hand his manner was so kind
and sympathetic when he turned towards her that she told him more than
she had intended. At the close he looked up with a smile.

"And now what do you want me to do for you?" he asked.

"Mrs. Webb tells me you sometimes have parish concerts. I was wondering
if you would let me sing. Perhaps in that way I might get pupils."

"And what songs can you sing?"

The Rector had pushed the letter, that had engaged his attention, on
one side, and now sat with his elbow on the table resting his head on
his hand and looking kindly at the girl.

Meg gave an exclamation of dismay.

"I've just remembered that I left all my songs at Friars Court," she
said colouring with vexation, "so I can only sing unaccompanied. That
wouldn't do, would it?" She looked at him anxiously.

"Why not?"

"I don't suppose they would care for unaccompanied songs."

"Could you sing 'The Last Rose of Summer?'" he asked with a smile.

Meg could not interpret the smile. There was almost a look of mischief
in it.

She flushed.

"I'd a deal rather not," she stammered.

"Rather not? But it is one of my favourite songs. I wonder now why you
dislike it."

"I don't dislike it, but I made up my mind I'd never sing it again. You
see I told you it brought Jem to me, and I turned my back on him. I
couldn't sing it again. I hate the song."

"And if it brought him again would you still hate it?"

"How could I?" said Meg quietly. There was a tone in her voice which
Mr. Wentworth noticed and interpreted.

He rose.

"Well then I don't see why you need mind singing it," he said holding
out his hand to her. "I should like much to hear it again. I have
not heard it for years and it does not signify in the least that you
will have to sing it unaccompanied. I have a Temperance meeting in my
schoolroom to-morrow night. Come and sing 'The Last Rose of Summer' to
please me."

Meg had not gone many minutes before Mr. Wentworth, taking his hat from
a peg in the hall prepared to go to a Committee Meeting at which he was
due at half past ten o'clock. On the way to the vestry he stopped at a
post office.

He smiled as he wrote the following telegram.

"'The Last Rose of Summer' will be sung in my schoolroom to-morrow at
eight o'clock." He was never so happy as when he knew he was making
others so. The telegram was to Peter Fortescue and was addressed to the
London Hotel where he was staying.

       *       *       *       *       *       *

Meg was feeling nervous as she put on her hat and prepared to go to the
schoolroom. All her courage seemed to have forsaken her.

When Mrs. Webb had looked in on her early in the morning she found the
girl pacing up and down in trepidation.

"I can't do it," she exclaimed to her friend. "I don't believe a note
will come to-night. I can't think why I am so frightened."

"It's because you ain't strong yet. That's what it is, my dear; you
should have taken my advice and not tried to sing yet awhile."

"I wish I had," said Meg looking at Mrs. Webb with distressed eyes.
"I don't think I shall get through. It's so funny, as I wasn't a bit
nervous when I sang to the grand company at Friars Court."

"Well, you must just do the best you can. You see you've promised and
it would never do to draw back now. And you might practice a bit on
Willie and me when I come home to tea. It would give you courage."

"If only I hadn't promised to sing 'The Last Rose of Summer,'" sighed
the girl.

"Don't you worry my dear. That's my advice. It don't do no good to
worry," and Mrs. Webb hurried away leaving Meg in a state of miserable
excitement.

And now she stood before the looking-glass arranging her hair under her
hat.

She was sorry that she had nothing better to put on for the occasion
than her tweed coat and skirt, for these, having been drenched with
showers more than once and worn at all times, began to look somewhat
shabby, and her hat was certainly the worse for wear. But these were
minor matters. It was the nervous fright in which she found herself
that was her chief trouble.

She had sung over her song to Mrs. Webb and to Willie, but finding that
her voice was rather weak had not ventured to sing it more than once
and felt terribly out of practice. However, she knew that there was
now no drawing back, so set out for the schoolroom at a quarter before
eight o'clock. Mrs. Webb was on one side of her and Willie on the
other. His mother was allowing him, for a treat, to stop up late so as
to hear Meg sing, and the boy was full of excitement.

Arrived at the schoolroom they found it filling fast, and on the
platform Meg saw the Rector in conversation with one or two of those
who were going to take part.

There was to be a reading as well as music, and a short address on
Temperance.

When Mr. Wentworth caught sight of Meg he came to meet her and showed
her to a seat just below the platform, where she could have Mrs. Webb
and Willie by her side.

As the evening wore on the girl grew accustomed to her surroundings.
The audience was not a formidable one; in fact she looked around her
rather disappointed, as there seemed few in the room who could possibly
afford singing lessons, so that she feared, as far as her future was
concerned, the meeting might not be much of a help. But this fact,
though it was disappointing, helped to restore her nerve. It was
pleasant to know that she could give pleasure. So when at last Mr.
Wentworth called upon her to sing, she was relieved to find that she
was not so fearful as she had expected to be.

Perhaps it was a good thing that she did not catch sight of the
chairman's face as she began. He had opened a little door at the back
of the platform and had smiled at someone whom he evidently found
there. He left it open and returned to his seat with a face full of
delight.

Since Meg had last sung she had passed through deep waters. She had
known what it was to feel absolutely alone and forsaken, to experience
darkness and the shadow of death; she had as it were had a look into
Hell. It was impossible that these experiences should not affect her
singing. When last she had sung the "Last Rose of Summer" she was
living in the midst of comfort and luxury; and though the pathos in her
voice had affected people to a marked degree, it was nothing to the
emotion that was stirring in the heart of one present this evening.

Hidden from view on the other side of the door, leading off the
platform, sat a young man, a rather rough looking man with a pair of
bright blue eyes, a red handkerchief tied round his throat, and a faded
rose in his buttonhole. As Meg's pure voice, rich, and full of feeling
was wafted towards him, he bowed his head on his hands and sobbed.

The audience inside the room were also full of appreciation. Many of
those present were mothers with babies in their arms, who had been
looking forward to a good cry or a good laugh this evening, they cared
little which, so long as their emotions were stirred. And they were not
disappointed. It was the look of the singer almost as much as her voice
that stirred them. Mrs. Webb boldly took her handkerchief out of her
pocket and cried, and Willie, not knowing what it was all about, and
seeing the tears on his mother's face, set up a howl.

"I must take him out," said his mother to Meg as the latter, having
finished her song, came back to her seat. "You won't mind coming home
alone, will you? He's sleepy, poor little man, that's what it is."

The meeting over Meg rose to go, but the Rector asked her to stay for a
moment, while he shook hands with his flock, as he wanted to speak to
her.

Meg was a little disappointed when after the last person had
disappeared, and the Rector returned to her, that he said nothing about
singing lessons, but simply thanked her for her help, adding with a
smile, "particularly for putting your feelings on one side and singing
my favourite song." Then he told her that she would be saved several
steps if she left by the door behind the platform. "God bless you,"
he said. To Meg those three words seemed to mean much, as the tone in
which they were spoken was that of a prayer, and took off the edge
of disappointment at nothing being said about the possibility of her
getting pupils.

"Perhaps he doesn't think I sing well enough," she thought as she
mounted the platform and passed through the door into the lobby; then
she paused breathless, for at the outer door stood Jem.

Without a word Jem placed her hand on his arm, and piloted her out from
among the crowd that was lingering around the door.

"Don't you be afeard," he said quietly, "I've learnt my lesson. I'm not
worthy to black your boots; I know that well enough by this time. But
I'm going to take care of you for all that."

"Jem dear," murmured Meg, while the tears filled her eyes, "Jem dear."

It was all she could say; words had deserted her. The sight of the
bright blue eyes that had met hers, had unnerved her completely, and
the wonderful feeling of being cared for again, and protected, robbed
her of ordinary powers of speech.

"Just tell me where to take you," he said again, "and I'll see you safe
home. I'm here to take care of you, not to worry you."

"Jem!"

"I see you're a bit upset. Don't try to talk. I don't want no words.
It's done me a sight of good just to know you're on the earth still and
to have heard you sing again. But tell me where to take you."

"Jem, let me speak. I'm just ashamed."

"Ashamed? You've no call to be. There's them that think a lot of you
and they wouldn't do that if there was ought to be ashamed of. But you
ain't the one for me that's what it was. Don't you now go and talk ill
of yourself. I was a bold fool to think for a moment that I'd got any
right to you, or could be anything more than one just to take care of
you. You were only an ignorant girl when you gave me that promise on
the heath, mind that Meg, and I was a brute to think of keeping you to
it. No, don't try to talk. You're upset and I don't want to frighten
you again. Just tell me though, are we going the right way?"

But what did it matter to Meg what way they were going. Jem was with
her. "Oh, Jem, if you'd just listen and let me tell you how sorry I am,
and how I'd like to cut that day of the concert right out of my life."

"Out of your life! Why it did me a sight of good. It just brought me
to my senses. How I could ever have thought of it I can't tell. Are we
going right?"

They had been walking fast and far; quite unconscious of the direction
in which they were tending. It was raining, and neither Meg nor Jem
had an umbrella; but love was warming their hearts, and they were
unconscious of the wetting they were getting. Love when at its height
takes small heed of such matters.

"Yes," said Meg with a soft laugh, "any way is right to-night. You're
just wonderful, Jem."

Then it suddenly struck Jem that he was scarcely acting the part of
protector, as he felt the cold rain beating about his face.

"I must take you home," he said with determination in his voice. "It
would be poor love on my part if I let you catch cold the first time
we've met. But tell me where to go."

They walked silently home after this. Meg's hand had stolen into his
and he held it with a feeling of rapture. What did it mean? He was too
overwhelmed to question, still more to talk of other matters. She had
given him her hand. His heart beat wildly. At the door of the house in
which Meg had her room, they stopped.

"Jem," said Meg.

He still had hold of her hand and did not speak.

She stood looking up into his face and could not misunderstand the love
light in his eyes.

"It's just the other way," said Meg. "It's I that's not half good
enough for you. I think I was mad that day, dear."

Jem let her hand fall.

"Take care what you say," he said hoarsely, "take care! If you say a
word more than you mean I guess it'll drive me mad this time. I've
lived through a lot since that day but I can't do so again."

They were standing in the lobby at the foot of the stairs. It was dark
and uninviting. The rain was dripping off one of the pipes that ran
outside the house. The smell of the fish and stale vegetables still
lingered about, but the two who stood there were unconscious of their
surroundings.

"Jem, if you'll have me I'm ready," said Meg softly. "I'm ready
whenever you can take me to Church. I won't disappoint you this time."

Jem trembled and leant against the wall.

"Be careful, Meg, be careful," he implored, "if you say it again I'll
be bound to keep you to it. Don't say a word more than you mean."

Meg stretched out her hands to him. He held them fast.

"It was 'The Last Rose of Summer' that brought you again," she said,
laughing quietly, though tears were raining down her face, "and I'll
give you a rose to wear at our wedding."



THE END.



W. JOLLY AND SONS, LTD., ABERDEEN.





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